‘Meryfeld’s proposition sounded intriguing,’ he explained, when he saw Bartholomew’s reaction to his presence. ‘I struggled to read my astrological charts last night, and may have made an error when I calculated the Mayor’s horoscope. A bright lamp would be very useful.’
‘It is not so much the lamp as the fuel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We need a mixture that will burn steadily – one that does not require too many exotic ingredients or the cost will be prohibitive.’
‘Not for me,’ said Rougham smugly. ‘I make a respectable living from medicine, and so do Gyseburne and Meryfeld. You are the only one who lets the poor dictate his income.’
‘I plan to devote more time to the poor in future,’ announced Gyseburne. He shrugged when the others stared at him. ‘It will be good for my soul, and God will take it into account when I die.’
‘Yes – dealing with the indigent is a lot safer than doing a pilgrimage,’ said Meryfeld. His face clouded for a moment. ‘I was robbed and almost killed en route to Canterbury.’
‘I have been to Canterbury, too,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Although I had no trouble with brigands, thank the good Lord. Here is the signaculum I bought there. It contains real Becket water.’
He showed them a tiny bottle filled with a pinkish liquid, attached to his hat by means of a silver wire. With a flourish, Meryfeld presented his, which was almost identical, but in gold, and which he wore pinned to his cloak. Bartholomew was somewhat ashamed to realise that he had seen the badges on many previous occasions, but had never thought to question their meaning.
‘I am not risking it again,’ said Meryfeld with a shudder. ‘Of course, there will be no need for penitential journeys if I accept a few pro bono cases from Bartholomew.’
Gyseburne gave the grimace that passed as a smile. ‘I am glad, because it is unfair that he sees all the poor, while we tend the rich. We should share the burden.’
‘Well, I do not think I shall oblige, if it is all the same to you,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘My soul is not in need of any such disagreeable sacrifices.’
Loath to waste time listening to whose soul needed what – and afraid someone might conclude that he, who did so much charity work, might own one that was especially tainted – Bartholomew turned the conversation back to the lamp. The four medici spent a few moments discussing the benefits their invention would bring, then turned to the practical business of experimentation. Gyseburne had brought some brimstone, Bartholomew a bag of charcoal, Meryfeld some pitch, and Rougham provided a sticky kind of oil that he said burned well.
They opened the window when the stench became too much, then were compelled to take their research into the garden when Rougham claimed he felt sick. Bartholomew began to wonder whether they were wise to meddle with substances none of them really understood, but the venture had captured his imagination, and he was intrigued by it. He was also enjoying himself – he was beginning to like his new colleagues, while Rougham seemed less abrasive in their company.
He was about to ignite their latest concoction when he saw a movement over the wall that divided Meryfeld’s house from the property next door.
‘Perhaps we should do this elsewhere,’ he said uneasily, realising that four physicians standing around a reeking cauldron was exactly the kind of spectacle that would attract Dickon.
‘Unfortunately, that is impracticable,’ said Rougham. ‘If we go to Michaelhouse or Gonville Hall, we will be pestered by students. And Gyseburne has no garden.’
‘But Dickon Tulyet is watching,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I would not like him to copy what we are doing, and hurt himself.’
‘I would,’ said Meryfeld fervently. ‘He lobs rotten apples at me when I walk among my trees, and his language is disgusting. When I complained, Sheriff Tulyet did not believe me.’
‘The boy is not his,’ said Rougham, matter-of-factly. ‘It is common knowledge that the Devil sired Dickon one night, when his father was out.’
‘Mistress Tulyet would not have gone along with that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling compelled to defend the honour of his friend’s wife, although he did not care what people thought about Dickon.
‘I find it strange that Dickon is so large, but his father is so small,’ said Gyseburne. ‘So I am inclined to believe that there is something diabolical about the lad.’
‘Now, now,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘He is only a child.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Rougham, tossing something into the pot.
‘Watch what you are doing!’ cried Gyseburne, as there was a sudden flare of light. Then the flames caught the potion in the pot, and there was a dull thump.
The next thing Bartholomew knew was that he was lying on his back. At first, he thought he had turned deaf, because everything sounded as though it was underwater, but then there was a peculiar pop and it cleared. Immediately, Dickon’s braying laughter played about his ears. He eased himself up on one elbow and saw his colleagues also beginning to pick themselves up.
‘I do not think that was the right ratio of brimstone to pitch,’ said Gyseburne in something of an understatement, as they approached the pot and peered cautiously inside it.
‘No,’ agreed Meryfeld. ‘But the light it produced was very bright – I still cannot see properly – so we are working along the right track.’
Bartholomew started to laugh when he saw the soot that covered Rougham’s face. Rougham regarded him in surprise, but then Meryfeld began to chuckle, too.
‘You think this is funny?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘We might have been killed. Worse yet, our failure was witnessed by that horrible child, and the tale will be all over Cambridge tomorrow.’
‘No one will believe him,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew suspected Rougham was right to be concerned: such a tale was likely to be popular, whether it was true or not.
‘I should have paid more attention to the alchemy classes I took in Paris,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Because then I might have been able to prevent that unedifying little episode. Rougham is right: we might have been killed.’
‘Did you study with Nicole Oresme?’ asked Bartholomew, referring to that city’s most celebrated natural philosopher. He knew Gyseburne had attended the University in Oxford, but not that he had been to Paris, too, He was pleased: it was another thing they had in common.
‘I might have done,’ said Gyseburne shortly. Evidently not of a mind to discuss mutual acquaintances, he indicated the sticky mess that covered the pot. ‘Now what shall we do?’
‘We need to reduce the amount of brimstone,’ said Meryfeld. ‘But not tonight. We are all tired, and weariness might be dangerous while dealing with potent substances. But we have made some headway, and I am pleased with our progress. Moreover, we have learned three important lessons.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘First, we definitely need to conduct these tests outside, and second, we should experiment with smaller amounts of the stuff. But what is the third?’
‘That we are all as mad as March hares,’ said Meryfeld with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Let us hope we are not taken to Stourbridge Hospital as lunatics!’
The following day was the Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham, and because it was Thelnetham’s turn to recite the dawn offices – and St Gilbert had founded his Order – Michaelhouse found itself subjected to a much longer service than usual. Michael complained bitterly about hunger pangs, then grumbled about the quality of the food presented at breakfast. He slipped away when the meal had finished, and when Bartholomew saw him in the hall a little later he was wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.