‘We should go back to Bene’t before you take a chill,’ said Simeon, unfastening his cloak and draping it around Bartholomew’s shoulders. ‘Come on. A brisk walk should warm you.’
He led the way at a cracking pace along the High Street to Bene’t College. Osmun answered his hammering, furious because the new porter Walter was nowhere to be found.
‘I will wring his neck when I find him,’ Osmun vowed, his face a dark mask of fury. ‘He was paid a week in advance, and he still owes us two nights. I will kill him!’
Bartholomew made a mental note to tell Walter to repay the outstanding sum unless he wanted Osmun to claim it back in blood and broken bones. Simeon shot the enraged porter a cool glance of dislike before taking Bartholomew across the courtyard to where Michael and Heltisle waited in the hall.
‘Caumpes escaped, then?’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew’s wet clothes. His evident disappointment was tempered by amusement that the physician had once again muddied himself in the King’s Ditch, although he could scarcely reveal to Simeon that it was Bartholomew who had overheard his conversation with Heytesbury earlier that day.
‘It was the fault of those soldiers,’ muttered Simeon angrily. ‘It was like trying to rouse the dead. They were so agonisingly sluggish – putting on their helmets and buckling their swords before they would leave the comfort of their little guardhouse – that by the time they reached the bridge, all we could see was Caumpes rounding the corner on his way to freedom. I will have words with the Sheriff about that band of worthless ne’er-do-wells.’
‘I do not believe this,’ said Heltisle miserably. ‘I have known Caumpes for years. He has never struck me as a murderer. And now he has fled, and will continue to damage my poor College from afar.’
‘No,’ said Simeon. ‘Caumpes will not harm Bene’t because it was his devotion to it that led him into all this in the first place. And anyway, we will catch him sooner or later.’
He placed a stool near the fire for Bartholomew, whose clothes began to steam, and handed him a cup of mulled wine. The physician took a hearty mouthful, and then felt his stomach rebel at its powerful flavour, which even copious amounts of sugar and cloves could not disguise. Thinking it impolite to spit it on Bene’t’s fine floor, or even in the fire, he forced himself to swallow, flinching as the wine eased its fiery way down to his stomach. Simeon smiled at his reaction, as though it was a prank he had played before. Bartholomew did not find it amusing, however, and glanced at Michael, wondering whether he, too, had recognised the acidic, tarry taste of Widow’s Wine.
The monk nodded to his unspoken question. ‘It is the same foul brew that incapacitated most of Michaelhouse on the night that Runham was elected Master.’
Simeon’s eyes grew round with wry astonishment. ‘You used Widow’s Wine to celebrate Runham’s election? After all your claims about the fine cellars that Michaelhouse keeps? That, my dear Senior Proctor, is the most flagrant example of hypocrisy I have ever encountered!’
‘It was not just any Widow’s Wine,’ said Michael. ‘It was stronger – more potent.’
‘I did not think there was anything in Christendom stronger than Widow’s Wine,’ said Simeon, laughing openly. ‘The Duke’s cooks use it for sluicing the slop drains.’
‘This tastes strong and potent to me,’ said Bartholomew, setting it down on the hearth and declining to drink any more.
‘Exactly,’ said Michael softly. ‘While I do not make a habit of imbibing Widow’s Wine, if it can be avoided, I am familiar with its flavour. The one served at Michaelhouse that night was more concentrated than any I have tasted before – rather like this one, in fact.’
Simeon seemed about to object to the implied accusation, but Heltisle shook himself from his gloomy reverie and replied instead.
‘So that is what happened to it,’ he said morosely. ‘Two hogsheads of the stuff went missing from our cellars nine or ten days ago. I wondered where they had gone – even students would have to be desperate to steal that for their revelries.’
‘Apprentices seem to like it well enough,’ said Michael.
Heltisle shook his head. ‘Not this brew. You are right – it is stronger than usual. I order it that way because it is good for preserving fruit from the orchard. We do not usually drink it, though – except on rare occasions when we need something powerful to warm us.’
‘Like now,’ said Simeon, still smiling. ‘You can see how it drives out the chill.’
‘We usually disguise the flavour with sugar and cloves,’ continued Heltisle. ‘We would never drink it raw.’
‘Caumpes must have taken it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He just admitted to being one of the two men who tampered with the scaffolding at Michaelhouse. He must have stolen this horrible brew from Bene’t and smuggled it in to be used at our feast, so that everyone would be too drunk to notice what he was doing.’
‘What was he doing?’ asked Simeon.
‘We do not know,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘Late on the night that Runham was elected, Matt and I encountered two people leaving Michaelhouse who were clearly up to no good. When we challenged them, they ran. We wondered from the start whether strong wine had been deliberately provided, in order to allow some dark deed to be done with no witnesses.’
Simeon gestured to Bartholomew’s cup. ‘Are you telling me that everyone in Michaelhouse drank this stuff – that no one did what any human being with a sense of taste would do, and decline it?’
Michael scrambled to prevent Michaelhouse from gaining the reputation of a community of drunkards who would down anything as long as it was in a goblet. ‘You must understand that our minds were concerned with more important matters. We had just elected Runham as Master.’
‘And you had the audacity to pretend to be a man who knew his wines when you came to visit us earlier?’ said Simeon, regarding Michael askance. ‘Yet you drank Master Heltisle’s pickling agent without demur? I can believe that of Ralph de Langelee, but I expected more of you, Brother.’
‘Of course. I had forgotten Langelee was a familiar of yours,’ said Michael.
‘Hardly that,’ said Simeon distastefully. ‘But we have known each other for a long time, and he invited me to Michaelhouse last Sunday to take a cup of wine in his chamber, although he certainly did not give me Widow’s Wine. I would have objected most strenuously.’
‘Is that all you were there for?’ asked Michael. ‘Wine and some none too intelligent conversation?’
‘Yes,’ said Simeon, genuinely surprised by the question. ‘Why else would I be there?’
‘The end of your visit coincided with some collapsing scaffolding,’ said Michael pointedly.
‘I heard about that,’ replied Simeon. ‘But I can assure you that it had nothing to do with me.’
‘Caumpes has just admitted to doing that,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Simeon and Osmun’s visit was no more than a coincidence.’
‘If you think I would sully my hands by tampering with timber, nails and other dirty objects, then you have been drinking too much Widow’s Wine,’ said Simeon.
‘I do not make a habit of drinking the stuff,’ Michael objected stiffly.
‘We can debate wines another time,’ said Bartholomew, sitting as close to the fire as he could. ‘What we need to discuss is what to do about Caumpes.’
‘There is nothing we can do tonight,’ said Simeon practically. ‘We will search for him tomorrow. He will not be far. He has lived in this town all his life, and he will not know where else to go.’