'Still nothing,' he informed his colleagues. 'But I have alerted the porters to watch both gates for Augustus, and we will continue our search for the rest of the day if necessary. The man must be found. The Bishop will be here this evening, and I will turn this miserable business over to him, as is my duty. Doubtless he will want to see us all when he arrives.'
Bartholomew was glad to leave the hall and go out into the fresh air. It was not yet noon, but the sun was already scorching. He leaned against the wall for a minute, enjoying the warmth on his face, with his eyes closed. The air in the courtyard felt still and humid, and Bartholomew was acutely aware of the stench from the ditches west of the College. He thought of one of his patients, Tom Pike, who lived down by the wharves on the river and had a lung disease. This weather would make life unbearable for him. The smells and the insects were always worse by the river and the King's Ditch than elsewhere in the town. He wondered if bad smells and foul air were responsible for the spread of the plague that was ravaging Europe.
He saw the commoners, Jocelyn of Ripon and d'Evene the Frenchman, coming out of the hall together and hailed them over.
'Are you better now?' he asked, looking closely at the rings under their eyes and the way they winced at the brightness of the sun.
'My head aches something rotten,' grumbled Jocelyn.
'Master Swynford told me the wine may have been tampered with, and I can tell you, Doctor Bartholomew, that it would come as no surprise to me if it were. I have not had a hangover like this since I was ten years old!'
Bartholomew could well believe it of this rough man who drank so much. D'Evene coughed cautiously. 'That is the last time I drink French wine,' he said, a weak attempt at a joke.
'Do you recall which jug of wine it was that contained the drug?' asked Bartholomew.
Jocelyn looked at him in disbelief. 'Of course I do not!' he said. 'Do you think I would have drunk it if I thought it had been poisoned?'
Bartholomew smiled, acknowledging the absurdity of his question. D'Evene interrupted. "I remember,' he said. "I have a natural aversion to wine — it brings on blinding headaches — so I avoid it whenever possible, and drink ale instead. Last night, a good while after you Fellows left, the commoners were all together enjoying the atmosphere, the food, the drink, when poor Montfitchet started to complain about feeling ill.
We ignored him until he really was sick, which made us all begin to question the states of our own stomachs. We decided to leave, and went across to our room together.
When we were there, before going to sleep, someone said it would be right and proper to toast Master Wilson and his new role with his best wine. Montfitchet and I declined the wine, but everyone else said we were being churlish, and that we should drink Master Wilson's health with his fine red wine. I had consumed a good deal of ale by then, and so I allowed myself to accept when I should have declined. So did Montfitchet. I have no idea how the wine came from the hall to our dormitory, but it was there.'
Jocelyn looked at him. 'Yes, by God!' he said. 'The wine in the jug. I poured it out. It was my idea to drink the Master's health. I do not recall how it arrived in our room. It was just there, and I saw it was fairly distributed among the lot of us.'
'When did you start to feel the effects?'
'It is difficult to say,' d'Evene replied, with a shrug.
'Perhaps half an hour? The older folks had already dropped off to sleep, but Jerome, Roger Alyngton, Jocelyn and I were still chatting. We were already merry, and I do not think any of us felt that the sudden soporific feeling was anything more than too much strong drink.
Although perhaps poor Montfitchet felt different.'
Bartholomew spoke to Alyngton, Father Jerome, and two of the old men. None of them could add to d'Evene's story, although all claimed to have gone back to the dormitory together.
Bartholomew sat again, resting his back against the pale apricot stone, his head tipped back and his eyes closed against the brightness of the sun. A shadow fell across him, and he squinted up.
'We must talk, Matthew, but not here. Meet me shortly, in the orchard.' Aelfrith, after a furtive glance round, glided off towards his room.
'Give me a hand up, Brother,' Bartholomew said to Michael, emerging last from the hall, his jaws still working on a scrap of food. Michael extended a hand and pulled. Bartholomew was momentarily taken aback by the strength of Michael's arm. He had always imagined the large monk to be flabby and weak, but Bartholomew was hauled to his feet with effortless ease.
"I am away to Barnwell Priory this afternoon,'
Michael said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'Want to come? We could stop off at St Radegund's on the way.' He gave a most unmonklike leer. Had Abigny told everyone of Bartholomew's interest in his sister?
"I cannot, Brother. I am going to talk to Aelfrith.'
Michael gave him an odd glance. 'What about?'
'This business about Augustus, I suppose,' said Bartholomew. 'Do you believe me, Michael? Do you think Augustus was dead last night?'
'Oh, yes,' said Michael fervently, 'Augustuswas dead.
I saw you do your usual checks, and I saw him myself.
Look, Matt,' he said suddenly, seizing Bartholomew's wrist with a clammy hand, 'you must be cautious.' He glanced about him, as furtive as Aelfrith had been. "I do not understand what is going on, but I am afraid.
Afraid for me and afraid for you.'
'Afraid of what?' asked Bartholomew in a hushed voice.
"I do not know,' said Michael, exasperated, tightening his grip on Bartholomew's arm. 'Perhaps it is the work of the Devil. Augustus thought so, and now his body has disappeared.'
'Come now, Brother,' said Bartholomew reasonably.
'You cannot believe that. You have always told me that the only Devil is man himself. And what do you mean about Augustus and the Devil?'
Michael shook his head. "I do not know. He spoke of it just before he died.'
'When exactly?'
Michael shook his head again and released Bartholomew's arm. "I do not remember. But you must be cautious. Go to meet Aelfrith, but remember what I say.'
He scurried off and disappeared into the dark doorway of his staircase. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully. What was bothering Michael? What was going on in the College?
4
When Bartholomew returned to his room, there was a message from one of the wealthy cloth merchants in Milne Street asking him to visit. Bartholomew glanced up at the sun, trying to estimate whether he had sufficient time before he was due to meet Aelfrith. He hesitated for a moment, but then set off, swinging his heavy bag of potions and instruments over his shoulder, aware that he should walk slowly to avoid straining his knee. Since the merchant had never asked for him before, Bartholomew imagined that his brother-in-law must have recommended him.
He found the house, a rambling building gleaming under fresh whitewash, and knocked at the door. A servant directed him up the stairs and into a sumptuous room hung with cloth of blue and gold. There was even glass in the windows, and the sun filtered through it to make patterns on the wooden floor. Bartholomew introduced himself, and sat on the bed to listen to his new patient's problem. It did not take him long to discover that if Nathaniel the Fleming had been more abstemious with Master Wilson's wine at the Michaelhouse feast the night before, he would not have been lying in his bed complaining of pains in his head and stomach cramps. Bartholomew listened gravely to Nathaniel's list of ailments, and prescribed large quantities of watered ale and a cold compress for his head. Nathaniel looked aghast.
'But you have not consulted my stars. And should you not leech me?'