At that moment, the College bell chimed, telling scholars to assemble in the yard, ready to process to Mass in St Michael’s Church. There was a faint glimmer of light in the east, and he could just make out his book-bearer, Cynric, hauling on the bell-rope.
Cynric had been in his service since Bartholomew had been a student in Oxford, but that was something else that would soon change: Cynric had decided to remain at Michaelhouse when the physician left. The book-bearer had made a good life for himself in the College, and did not want to abandon all he had built over the years. Bartholomew knew exactly how he felt.
Slowly, Michaelhouse came to life. Windows were thrown open, bedding set to air, and footsteps clattered. Bartholomew’s students were the last to rise, grumbling as usual about the ungodly hour. All four had recently passed their disputations, and would graduate at the end of term, which meant they would be presented to the Chancellor as intelligent men of good character, worthy of receiving the coveted degree of bachelor. Then they would be free to practise medicine on their own, although Bartholomew had reservations about them alclass="underline" Islaye was too gentle and Mallett was not gentle enough, but the two who gave cause for the greatest concern were Stasy and Hawick. Neither had a genuine vocation, and had chosen to study medicine because they wanted to be rich.
He glanced at them and saw Stasy grin, making him suspect mischief in the offing. Sure enough, there was a furious screech from the kitchens, where Agatha, technically a laundress but in reality ruler supreme of the College’s domestic affairs, was preparing the scholars’ breakfast.
‘What?’ Stasy asked, all false innocence when Bartholomew raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘It is not my fault the peafowl ate all her raisins.’
‘You had better hope she does not guess you facilitated it,’ said Bartholomew tartly, thinking him a fool to risk getting on the wrong side of the fearsome Agatha. ‘If she does, your life will not be worth living.’
‘Ten days,’ sighed Hawick. ‘Then we shall leave this boring old College for ever. I cannot wait to be free of all its rules. Have we told you our plans yet?’
Bartholomew shook his head warily. It was Stasy who replied.
‘Hawick and I will settle here and earn ourselves a fortune. There are only three physicians and one surgeon for the whole town, so there are plenty of opportunities for two young and talented medici.’
This alarming news made Bartholomew think it was just as well he was giving up teaching, as he might need all his time to repair the mistakes the ambitious but inept duo would make. He had been astonished when they had passed their disputations, and only later had it occurred to him that money might have changed hands – he knew for a fact that their examiner had allowed himself to be bought in the past. Unfortunately, by that time, it was too late to do anything about it.
‘Isnard, the cripple-bargeman, came here last night,’ said Hawick, changing the subject when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘He was ill.’
Most people who visited Bartholomew were, but he was more concerned by the news than he would normally have been, because of an outbreak of summer flux. He had tended a dozen new cases the previous day, all from the parish of St Mary the Less, and Isnard lived nearby.
‘Not the flux,’ said Stasy, reading his mind. ‘He has a head cold, and wants you to cure him. He says he cannot sing with a sore throat.’
Isnard was a member of the Michaelhouse Choir, which had recently changed its name to ‘the Marian Singers’ in a effort to escape a reputation for tuneless bawling.
‘Please do not make him better,’ begged Hawick. ‘He has a voice like a donkey, yet still wants to perform at our graduation ceremony. It will be much nicer without him – without all of the choir, in fact.’
That was certainly true, and as it would be Bartholomew’s last appearance as a University Regent Master, he, too, would be sorry to have it marred by the cacophony that passed as music among the Marian Singers. But Isnard had been his patient for years, and Bartholomew had a soft spot for him, so he would visit him later, and if he could help, he would, despite the unhappy consequences for everyone else’s ears.
When Cynric rang the bell a second time, the scholars hurried into the yard, where the Master was waiting to lead them to church for their morning devotions. The current Master was Brother Michael, not only a celebrated theologian and influential Benedictine, but also the University’s Senior Proctor. Although proctors were technically answerable to the Chancellor, Michael had been in University politics for so long that the Chancellor answered to him, and it was common knowledge that he made all the important decisions.
As soon as the last student was in line, he led the way through the gate and out onto St Michael’s Lane. Even though the sun was not yet up, the streets were already uncomfortably hot, and the scholars’ feet kicked up dust as they went. Bartholomew tried to remember when it had last rained, and supposed it was back in May. Trees and crops wilted, several wells had run dry, and he had never seen the river so low.
Bartholomew was fairly sure that the paucity of water was exacerbating the spread of the flux, as the easiest way to use less of it was by cutting down on basic hygiene – most folk now saw water as too precious a commodity to waste on needless hand-washing. Unfortunately, he stood alone in advocating higher standards of cleanliness, because everyone else thought the flux came from a poisonous miasma that seeped from decomposing vegetation or meat, and thus viewed good sanitation as an irrelevance.
The procession wove through the shadowy graveyard and entered St Michael’s Church, which was a pretty building on the High Street. It had a low, squat tower and an unusually large chancel to accommodate all the College’s students and Fellows; staff and parishioners were relegated to the nave. Inside, Bartholomew inhaled the familiar odour of cool, damp plaster, old wood and cheap incense. When he married, he would have to attend All Saints-in-the-Jewry, which was smaller, shabbier and not nearly so pretty.
It was his turn to assist at the altar, so he took his place and watched Father William riffle through a missal for the readings of the day. The Franciscan had a reputation for being the grubbiest friar in Christendom, and he more than lived up to the description that day. His habit was stiff with ingrained dirt, his hands were filthy, and his hair stood up in oily spikes around an irregularly shaped tonsure.
His other claim to fame was conducting inordinately speedy masses, which the students appreciated, even if the Fellows considered this a dubious skill. He galloped through the Eucharist at an astonishing lick, and had intoned his final prayers while Bartholomew was still fumbling about with the chalice and paten. When the rite was over, Michael led his scholars home again. Bartholomew walked next to William, with the three other Fellows behind, and the students streaming at their heels.
‘I am tired of this heat,’ the Franciscan grumbled, breaking the rule that scholars were to process to and from church in silence. The students began chattering, too, their spirits high with the looming end of term, and the knowledge that they would soon be leaving for the summer vacation, some never to return now that their studies were complete.
Bartholomew agreed. ‘We need rain before the wells run completely dry.’
‘The situation would be less dire if Mayor Morys allowed folk to take their drinking water from the Mill Pond,’ William went on. ‘It is half full, but will he share? No! He forces them to pay for every bucketful. It is brazen robbery.’
‘No one should drink from the Mill Pond,’ said Bartholomew with a fastidious shudder. ‘Although it is better than the river – now Morys keeps the Mill Pond sluices closed, there is almost nothing to wash away all the accumulated sewage and rubbish. It is a filthy grey trickle, yet people still use it for cooking and washing.’