‘No, I was not there,’ said Pepin levelly. ‘I rarely visit Poitiers. It is dirty and smells of onions.’
‘What was in the stew?’ asked Bartholomew, leading the discussion back to medicine. He hoped his incautious remark would not bring trouble to Pepin in the future.
‘It is called tout marron,’ replied Pepin, patently grateful to be talking about something else. ‘And it contained all manner of things – meat left over from Sunday, a bit of fish, some winter vegetables. And a lot of garlic. Garlic works wonders on food past its best.’
‘It might disguise the flavour, but not the impact,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Sunday was five days ago. That is a long time for meat to be stored, especially now the weather is warm.’
‘Times are hard,’ said Browne. ‘We cannot afford to throw food away, no matter what its state of decomposition. We are not rich, like cosseted Fellows in Colleges.’
‘It is cheaper than buying medicines for the consequences,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, writing out a tonic for the apothecary to prepare. He carried enough to soothe one or two roiling stomachs, but nowhere enough to remedy an entire hostel. Batayl would have to purchase its own.
He returned to Michaelhouse just in time to intercept his students, who were on their way out. All had combed their hair and donned their finery in anticipation of an afternoon in the town.
‘We worked hard this morning, sir,’ explained Valence, his senior pupil, defensively. ‘So we thought we would … sit in the garden and continue our studies in a more relaxed atmosphere.’
‘Very relaxed,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly. ‘You do not have a single scroll among you.’
Valence flushed, caught out. ‘But the other Fellows are letting their lads study alone for the rest of the day! You are the only one who insists on holding classes.’
‘Perhaps they are satisfied with their pupils’ progress,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you still have much to learn. Can you tell me how to make an infusion of lily of the valley?’
‘I imagine you boil it up,’ replied Valence sullenly. ‘Or pound it into a pulp.’
‘For which ailments can it be used?’ asked Bartholomew, unimpressed.
‘Spots,’ suggested another lad. ‘Colic, fevers and consumption. And warts and broken limbs.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘If all that were true, medical herbaria would never need grow anything else. But these are basic questions, and you should know the answers.’
‘All right,’ said Valence, throwing up his hands in defeat. ‘You win, sir. Shall I read about lily of the valley to the others, or will you do it?’
Supposing he could concede to their desire to be outside, Bartholomew took them to the orchard. It was pleasant, sitting under the fresh green leaves, with bees buzzing in the long grass and birds twittering above their heads. He read until the bell rang to announce the end of the day’s teaching, and was wholly mystified when his students made an immediate and unanimous bid for freedom.
While he had been busy, patients had sent word that they needed to see him, so he spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening visiting. His customers included Isnard, who had been punched during a brawl at the King’s Head; Prior Etone, whose chilblains were paining him; and finally Chancellor Tynkell, who had worked himself into a state.
‘I am agitated to the point of nausea,’ Tynkell announced, when Bartholomew reached the Chancellor’s office in St Mary the Great. ‘I wish I had never started this library business. The strain is too great.’
‘Why should it distress you now?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching into his bag for a remedy to soothe ragged nerves. ‘By this time next week, the building will be open. You are past the worst.’
‘Walkelate has been splendid,’ agreed Tynkell miserably. ‘I did not think he would succeed in time, but he has worked extremely hard. But it is the inaugural ceremony I am worried about now. Opinionated men from Batayl, King’s Hall, Gonville and the Carmelite Priory will make a fuss and spoil it. I asked Brother Michael if we could ban them from the festivities, but he said no.’
‘Did he explain why?’
‘Because barring the Colleges and convents would leave the hostels, and the scholars enrolled in those cannot always be guaranteed to behave, either.’
‘Why do you need a ceremony? Why not just unlock the door and let people in?’
‘Because Dunning wants one. Besides, I am hoping it will encourage donations of books.’
Bartholomew had no answers for him. ‘Are you really retiring next year?’ he asked instead.
Tynkell nodded. ‘Yes. I am tired of being Michael’s lackey. Everyone knows he runs the University anyway, so he can have himself elected properly. He is not very pleased, but it is time I put my foot down.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I shall pursue my private studies. Why do you think I want a Common Library? I am not a member of a wealthy College, and it was the only way I could get access to all the books I shall want to read.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the selfish admission.
‘And I want to be remembered for something other than being Michael’s puppet, too,’ Tynkell went on. He swallowed the draught Bartholomew handed him, then released a gusty sigh. ‘Thank you. And thank you for having the courage to vote for my library. It cannot have been easy to stand against Michael. I know I would not have done it, had I been in your shoes.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘He is not such a dragon when you come to know him.’
‘But I do know him. And he is a dragon – a great big fat one with heavy bones.’
It was late evening by the time Bartholomew returned to the College. The students were in the hall, some revising for their examinations but most enjoying the opportunity to relax with their friends. He made for the conclave, the pleasant chamber at the far end of the hall that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows; students and servants were not permitted inside.
‘Where are Langelee and Ayera?’ he asked, taking a seat at the table and pouring himself a cup of wine that had been watered to a pale pink. All the other Fellows were there.
‘Who knows,’ replied Thelnetham, patting a bright yellow scarf in place around his neck. He primped and fluffed even more when he realised that William was watching, clearly intending to antagonise the incendiary Franciscan. ‘They said they were going out, but declined to mention where.’
‘Langelee would never confide in you,’ scoffed William. ‘He thinks you are a peacock.’
‘That is a compliment compared to what he said about you,’ Thelnetham flashed back. ‘But I shall not repeat it in public. Obscenities offend my delicate sensibilities.’
And then a quarrel was in progress. Suttone took William’s side, not because he liked the friar, but because he disliked the Gilbertine. Clippesby sat in a corner, and gave his entire concentration to the animal he was cradling. Bartholomew frowned when he saw it was the rat.
‘I had a wasted day, just as I predicted,’ said Michael, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the acrimonious babble. ‘Although I did successfully quell a spat between Ovyng Hostel and Peterhouse over the Common Library. Of course, arguments over that place are so common these days that it is hardly worth mentioning them.’
‘You learned nothing to help us with our enquiries?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Not a thing. Let us hope we have better luck tomorrow.’
Chapter 6
Bartholomew slept unusually well, and woke, wholly refreshed, just before dawn. He rose, washed in the bowl of water that Cynric had left for him, and rummaged in his chest for a clean shirt. Then he spent a few moments in the library, preparing the texts he wanted his students to read that day. It was a Saturday, so lessons would end early, but there was still a good deal that could be accomplished in the few hours available.