‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But patients summon me at all hours, and–’
‘Drink!’ ordered Kendale, flicking his fingers at an alebellied lad, who brought another jug of claret to the hearth. Kendale swallowed two brimming cups in quick succession, and indicated that the student was to pour him a third.
‘Easy,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Too much wine is not good after the shock of a wound.’
Kendale sneered. ‘I am from the north. We can drink as much as we like without it having the slightest effect on us. Why do you think we win so many battles?’
Bartholomew was not entirely sure how these two claims fitted together. ‘I see,’ he hedged.
‘My family’s history is peppered with glorious victories,’ Kendale went on. His students gave another cheer, and he grinned at them. ‘Indeed, we all have warrior blood running in our veins, which is why we can drink any mere College man into a state of oblivion.’
‘I am sure you can,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he and Valence would not be expected to meet the challenge. He changed the subject hastily. ‘What percentage of brimstone to pitch did you use when you lit up St Mary the Great? You see, I would like a lamp that burns with a constant light. It would be useful for situations like these, where it is difficult to see what–’
‘You could not see properly?’ demanded Kendale. ‘No wonder it hurt!’
‘I did not mean–’ began Bartholomew, realising he would have to watch what he said.
‘Drink up,’ interrupted Neyll. ‘Or is our claret not fine enough for you?’
‘It is very nice,’ said Bartholomew, taking another gulp. Someone had refilled his cup again, and he wondered whether they intended to keep him there all night. ‘Now, about the light–’
‘No,’ said Kendale firmly. ‘Why should I tell you how to create something that might make you rich? I would be better inventing such a lamp myself.’
‘Do it, then,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘It would have all manner of useful applications.’
‘No,’ said Kendale again. ‘I have better things to do. Such as besting arrogant Colleges.’
There was yet another cheer from the students, and Kendale raised his goblet in a sloppy salute. Cups were drained and slammed down on tables, and the ale-bellied student began filling them again. Bartholomew tried to snatch his away, but his fingers were now clumsy and he was too late. He glanced at Valence and saw him glare defiantly at Neyll before downing the contents of his beaker in a single swallow. Neyll did the same, then reached for the jug.
‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, loath to spend the rest of the night dealing with cases of excessive intoxication, especially as he was now far from sober himself. ‘You have been more than generous, Principal Kendale, but it is time for us to go home.’
‘Yes, give us our fee, and we will be gone,’ slurred Valence. ‘A shilling.’
Bartholomew winced. Payment had been a long way from his mind, and he wished it had been a long way from Valence’s, too. It was not the time for issuing demands for cash.
‘A shilling?’ demanded the ale-paunched student. ‘That is brazen robbery!’
‘It is non-negotiable, Gib,’ stated Valence, trying to stand and failing. He slumped into Neyll, who slopped wine on the floor. ‘You should have asked for a quotation before we started if you intended to bargain with us.’
‘Bartholomew is a surgeon, not a builder,’ snapped Gib. ‘You do not haggle with surgeons.’
‘He is a physician,’ declared Valence hotly. He hiccuped. ‘Not a surgeon.’
‘If Bartholomew were a physician, he would have prepared my horoscope and inspected my urine,’ said Kendale. ‘But he sutured my wounds. That is surgery. And surgeons are lowly, base creatures, so we shall pay accordingly. One penny.’
‘That is outrageous!’ exploded Valence, trying to stand again. ‘You are cheating–’
‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew, wondering whether Chestre had intended to provoke a quarrel all along. He felt the room tip as he stood, and it was not easy to haul Valence up from the bench and keep him from falling. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Now please excuse us.’
Valence managed a malicious grin. ‘The stitches will need to be removed in a week, Kendale. Do not attempt it yourself, because you will fatally poison your blood and die.’
Neyll moved fast, and snatched Valence away from Bartholomew, to grab him by the throat. Bartholomew tried to interpose himself between them, but Gib blocked his way. Valence gagged as Neyll’s fingers tightened. Bartholomew tried to dodge around Gib, but the lad pushed him hard enough to make him stagger. His medicine bag slipped off his shoulder, scattering its contents across the floor. Then Gib drew a dagger.
‘Stop!’
Kendale had spoken softly, but his voice carried enough authority to make Neyll release Valence and Gib lower his weapon. Valence tottered away, hands to his neck. In the silence that followed, one of the younger students knelt and began shoving phials, pots and dressings back into Bartholomew’s bag. Then he handed it to the physician, and stood back.
‘There,’ said Kendale smoothly. ‘No harm done. But it is very late, and I am tired. Goodnight.’
Bartholomew nodded coolly, seized Valence’s arm and left without another word. His heart hammered in his chest, and he expected at any moment that the Chestre students would attack them en masse. But no one moved, and it was with considerable relief that he stepped into the street outside.
He tried to set a brisk pace towards Michaelhouse, but his legs were like rubber and Valence was weaving all over the place. They reached the College eventually and hammered on the gate, but Walter was evidently doing his rounds, so they were obliged to wait to be let in. Bartholomew sought the support of a wall, and leaned against it, feeling the world ripple and sway unpleasantly around him.
‘That was powerful wine,’ slurred Valence, also aiming for the wall, but missing and slumping to the ground. There was begrudging admiration in his voice. ‘I hate to say something positive about a hostel, but those Chestre boys certainly know how to handle their drink!’
‘That is not necessarily a good thing,’ began Bartholomew. ‘The body’s humours will–’
He tensed when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He tugged Valence into the shadows, afraid Kendale might have changed his mind and had given his louts permission to finish what they had started. But Kendale did not so much as glance at Michaelhouse as he padded past, his students streaming at his heels.
‘I wonder where they are going,’ mused Valence drunkenly, trying to stand. ‘We had better follow them and see.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I do not think so!’
‘But they may mean us harm,’ objected Valence. Unable to walk, he began to crawl along the lane, so Bartholomew was forced to grab a handful of tunic, to stop him. ‘Let me go! I must see!’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We have had enough trouble for one night.’
The following morning was cloudy, but just as cold. There was a dusting of frost, and Michael claimed he might as well have slept outside, given that he had nothing but a sheet for a roof. Bartholomew felt he was in just as bleak a position, because Yffi had removed the window shutters from the ground-floor rooms, and the night had been windy. Bottles had jangled and parchment had rustled all night. He was usually a heavy sleeper, capable of dozing through all but the most frenetic of commotions, but the wine and the fracas at Chestre had left him unsettled, and he found himself waking every few moments.
‘I will show Chestre what happens to ruffians who intimidate members of my College,’ snarled Michael angrily, after the physician described what had happened.