‘The flux always comes in summer,’ she went on, ‘but it is much worse this year. I am rushed off my feet with demands for help.’
Bartholomew glanced up at a brassy sun in a harsh blue sky, and wondered when he had last seen even a wisp of cloud. ‘What do you prescribe for it?’ he asked, his voice muffled by the cloth.
‘Boiled barley water,’ came the surprising response. ‘It washes out the poisons, see. Of course, mine comes complete with incantations to make it more effective – to God and to the older deities, as it is difficult to know who to trust on this matter. I also add a bit of liquorice and mint to make it palatable.’
‘That is a good idea,’ said Bartholomew approvingly, then added hastily for clarification, ‘Flavouring the water, I mean.’
She smiled smugly. ‘Yes, you should not try spells; you are not qualified for it. You might want to warn those students of yours against it, too – Stasy and Hawick. They think they will compete with me when they set up business here, but they are sadly mistaken.’
‘I imagine they are more interested in competing with me,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘But they know no spells, so do not worry on that score. Magical incantations are not part of the University’s medical curriculum.’
‘You may not have taught them any, but they certainly think they have learned some on their own account,’ countered Margery. ‘They are vile boys, and I am surprised you took them on in the first place.’
Bartholomew was not about to confide that they had been foisted on him against his will by a former Master, because the College had been strapped for cash at the time, and they had agreed to pay their tuition fees up front. He turned off the towpath into Water Lane, unable to stand the stink of the river any longer.
‘There is Richard Narboro,’ said Margery, pointing a gnarled finger at a scholar who strutted along ahead of them. She sniggered. ‘Have you heard about him and Lucy Brampton? You know Lucy – she is the one organising your wedding.’
‘She certainly is,’ muttered Bartholomew, and before he could add that he had heard the story about her several times already, Margery began to regale him with it anyway.
‘Ten years ago, Narboro offered to marry her. Her family agreed, so a contract was drawn up. Then he went off to work for the King, but promised to wed her when he got back at the end of the month. The rogue stayed gone for more than a decade. He arrived home a few weeks ago, took one look at her, and called the betrothal off.’
‘I wonder when it will rain,’ said Bartholomew in an effort to change the subject; he disliked gossip. Unfortunately, Margery declined to be sidetracked.
‘He claimed he did not like what the delay had done to her teeth, and announced his intention to remain a scholar instead. And scholars cannot wed, as you know. So poor Lucy spent ten years waiting for him, and now it is too late for her to snag someone else.’
‘You cannot know that,’ objected Bartholomew, feeling obliged to defend her – she was Matilde’s friend after all. ‘She looks much younger than her forty summers, and her teeth are not the worst I have ever seen.’
‘Her fangs are not the real problem,’ averred Margery in conspiratorial tones. ‘Her brother is: Junior Proctor Brampton plans to sue Narboro for breach of promise, and no one wants to marry into a litigious family, lest they become victims of a lawsuit, too.’
‘I hardly think–’
‘Doubtless that is why she is planning your wedding,’ Margery forged on. ‘Because she was deprived of her own. Of course, I have seen her smiling at other men, so she has not given up hope, even if everyone else knows her situation is hopeless. Narboro’s rejection of her was cruel, and I am surprised she has not come to me for a spell to punish him.’
‘She is not that kind of–’
‘I heard this morning that Narboro wants to be Chancellor,’ interrupted Margery, and cackled her amusement. ‘As if he could defeat Brother Michael! However, just to make sure nothing goes awry, I have put hexes on all three of the good brother’s opponents.’
‘Please do not tell anyone else that,’ begged Bartholomew, thinking that Michael’s chances of victory might be damaged if it became known that he had acquired the active support of a witch.
‘I will not,’ she promised. ‘I know how scholars fear matters they do not understand, poor lambs. But just look at that foolish Narboro! He barely has two pennies to rub together, yet he still attires himself like a baron. He will not be able to dress with such extravagance when Lucy’s brother has finished with him.’
‘I doubt Brampton will persist once he learns Narboro has nothing to give him.’
‘You are wrong – the lawsuit is not about money, it is about revenge. Brampton is wealthy, and will use his fortune to crush a man who insulted his family’s honour. To him, destroying Narboro is more important than Lucy’s future happiness.’
Bartholomew looked at Narboro. As a Fellow of Peterhouse, he was obliged to wear its uniform tabard, but as these garments were rather shapeless, he had altered his to show off his trim figure. He had also dispensed with the hat that went with it, allowing him to flaunt his beautiful golden curls. He held something in his hand, and constantly glanced down at it.
‘His mirror,’ cackled Margery, watching in amusement. ‘He is never without it, because he likes to be able to see himself at all times.’
There was a building with a new window at the corner of the lane, and Bartholomew watched as Narboro admired his reflection as he passed. He was so delighted by what he saw that he failed to watch where he was putting his feet, and he stumbled over a pothole.
‘He is so vain!’ chuckled Margery. ‘His Peterhouse colleagues call him Narcissus Narboro, after a famous Greek person who loved himself so much that he died.’
‘Greek mythology,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It did not actually happen.’
‘Well, it might happen here,’ averred Margery, when Narboro tripped a second time. ‘He will break his neck unless he stops admiring himself.’
The midday meal was over by the time Bartholomew reached Michaelhouse, so his students had saved him some bread and cheese. He forgot to eat them in the excitement of teaching De motu thoracis et pulmonis that afternoon, although his students were less than thrilled about sitting in a stifling hot hall to learn Galen’s pontifications on the movements of the chest and lungs. Then it was time for supper, followed by more patients, so it was well past eight o’clock by the time the physician finally repaired to the conclave.
The conclave was a pleasant room off the hall. It was the undisputed domain of the Master and his Fellows, and was where they gathered each evening to read, chat and prepare the next day’s classes. Michaelhouse currently had five Fellows – Bartholomew, William and Clippesby, who had been there for years, and Aungel and Zoone, who were more recent appointments.
When Bartholomew arrived, the others were already there, and the atmosphere was one of convivial relaxation. He slumped wearily at the table and opened his copy of Galen’s De ptisana. It was about the virtues of barley water, which he felt should be revisited now it was his chief weapon against the flux.
‘You should relent, Matthew,’ admonished William, who was trying to remove a nasty stain on his habit that had been there for weeks. ‘It is unfair to drive your lads so hard when the rest of us are winding down.’