‘It was in a terrible state before the battle,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the devastation wrought by the Prince of Wales’s troops. ‘Crops and villages burnt, livestock slaughtered. I do not blame the peasants for declining to pay these ransoms. Why should they, when these nobles taxed them in order to raise troops for defence, but then failed to protect them?’
‘That is a recklessly seditious remark, Matt,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Although Northwood said much the same. Incidentally, have you heard the rumour that his death is connected to Sawtre’s – that all five dead scholars were struck down because they went against the wishes of their College, hostel or convent by supporting the University’s new library?’
‘Yes, but there is no evidence to say it is true.’
‘There is also a tale that says God is the culprit,’ Tulyet went on, ‘although I do not believe it myself. However, it is a notion that is gaining credence in many quarters.’
‘I have heard that the Devil might be responsible, too.’ Bartholomew smiled. ‘There cannot be many instances where God and Satan are credited with the same deed. But how did you build your ribauldequin if you have never seen one and people refused to advise you? No, do not tell me! Riborowe! He has an unhealthy fascination with the infernal things.’
‘Yes, he does, thankfully, or I would have been floundering. Langelee and Chancellor Tynkell were helpful, too, and so was Walkelate.’
‘Walkelate?’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But he is an architect.’
‘Precisely. And architects build things. He was able to take the others’ sketches and convert them into working plans. Would you like to see the finished article? It is quite impressive.’
‘No, thank you!’ Bartholomew shuddered. ‘If I never set eyes on one of those vile creations again, it will be too soon.’
Bartholomew was called to Batayl Hostel before he could return to Michaelhouse, but was not sorry that the summons meant he would miss the midday meal. His innards were still tender, despite Julitta’s tonic, and nothing at College was likely to tempt him – the recent tax demand meant that Michaelhouse was in an especially lean phase, so Langelee had ordered the cooks to make meals as unappetising as possible in the hope that his scholars would eat less, and thus save him money.
Batayl was a small, shabby building, comprising a single room in which Coslaye, Browne and their eight students ate, slept, taught and relaxed. There was a tiny yard at the back that contained a reeking latrine, and any cooking was either done at the hearth, or taken to the communal ovens in the Market Square.
‘Sorry, Matt,’ said Michael, who was waiting outside for him. ‘I came to ask my questions, but when I saw the state of its residents … well, suffice to say that I sent for you, and will leave my investigation until they are feeling better.’
When Bartholomew entered Batayl, he was immediately assailed by the reek of cheap candles, burnt fat and unwashed feet, an odour he had come to associate with the poorer kind of hostel. He was taken aback to see that one wall had been given a garish mural, sure it had not been there the last time he had visited.
‘It is the Battle of Poitiers,’ explained Coslaye, hands on his stomach as he lay on a pallet. Several lads were curled in groaning misery around him, while the rest were outside, vying for a place in the latrines. ‘Most of the action took place near a wood, which you can see at the bottom. The English warriors are the ones with haloes, and the French have horns, tails and forked tongues.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, staggered by the amount of blood that had been depicted.
‘It is Principal Coslaye’s handiwork,’ said Browne, his voice dripping disapproval. ‘He did it when he was recovering from the surgery you performed on his head.’
‘It is very … colourful,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Coslaye was waiting for a compliment, although the truth was that the whole thing was ridiculously gruesome. In one section, headless French knights were still busily doing battle with the angelic English, their limbs operated by the demons that sat on their shoulders.
‘It was either this, or a picture of Satan being welcomed at the Carmelite Priory,’ elaborated Coslaye. ‘I opted for Poitiers when I learned that red paint is cheaper than all the white I would have needed for their habits.’
‘I see.’ Bartholomew changed the subject, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute that was none of his concern. ‘What happened here? Did you drink bad water? Or eat tainted food?’
‘No, we have been poisoned,’ declared Coslaye. ‘By the Carmelites. They slipped a toxin into the stew we all ate. Well, Browne did not have any, because he does not like French food.’ He indicated a handsome student who was older than the others. ‘Pepin did the cooking today, you see, and he is French.’
‘Is he?’ Bartholomew was unable to stop himself from glancing at the mural.
‘Yes, but he is not the same as his countrymen,’ whispered Coslaye confidentially. ‘He is a decent soul, whereas the rest of them are villains. We do not think of him as foreign.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Pepin could endure such bigotry. He turned his thoughts back to medicine, and looked at Browne. ‘What did you eat?’
‘A bit of bread and cheese,’ replied Browne. ‘But I am poisoned, too, because I feel sick.’
‘That is because you are in a stuffy room with a lot of vomiting men,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Go outside, and you will feel better.’
‘You want me out of the way so you can chant spells without me hearing,’ said Browne accusingly, although he went to stand by the open door. ‘You know how I deplore your association with Lucifer.’
‘Bartholomew has no association with Lucifer,’ snapped Coslaye irritably. ‘You talk nonsense, man – and in front of our students, too. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘What was in this meal you shared?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, eager to identify the cause of the problem so he could escape. The smelly hostel was no place to linger, and he had no wish to spend time with the antagonistic Browne, either.
‘It was a recipe from my home in Angoulême,’ supplied Pepin in such perfectly unaccented French that it could only be his mother tongue. ‘It contained–’
‘Angoulême?’ blurted Bartholomew before he could stop himself. ‘That is near Poitiers.’
‘Actually, it is some distance away,’ countered Pepin, shooting an uneasy glance at Coslaye. ‘And the roads are poor, so it is impossible to ride from one to the other in less than three days.’
Bartholomew knew he was lying: he had done it in half a day, on foot. But he said nothing, already regretting having made the observation in the first place.
Coslaye regarded Pepin suspiciously. ‘If you were in the area, did you see the battle fought?’
‘No, of course not,’ replied Pepin, swallowing hard. ‘I am a scholar, not a warrior.’
‘So is Bartholomew, but he still joined in,’ jibed Browne. ‘And it is not something to be proud of, either. Civilised men should know better than to slaughter each other like savages.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Coslaye. ‘It was a great day for England, and I wish I had been there. I am envious of you, Bartholomew. I am envious of Riborowe of the Carmelites, too, and Holm the surgeon, although he contradicts himself when he describes the action, and his account does not tally with others I have heard. Ergo, I am disinclined to believe he took part.’
‘You should not be listening to battle stories at all,’ muttered Browne. He did not speak loudly enough for Coslaye to hear, although Pepin nodded heartfelt agreement. ‘It is unseemly.’
‘Are you sure you were not at the battle, Pepin?’ Coslaye asked, turning his fierce gaze on the student again. ‘We shall not expel you, if you were. I only want to know out of interest.’