Bartholomew shook his head. 'There is no need for leeches, and I do not need to read your stars to understand the nature of your… affliction.' He rose to take his leave.
'Wait!' Nathaniel, with a burst of energy that made him wince, grabbed Bartholomew's arm. 'Oswald Stanmore told me you were the best physician irr Cambridge. Is watered ale and wet cloths all that you prescribe? How do you know about the state of my humours?'
Bartholomew felt a flash of impatience. 'Of course, I could spend the afternoon consulting charts and learning of your humours. But at the end of the day, my advice to you would be the same: drink lots and apply a cool cloth to soothe your head. Time will heal the rest.'
Nathaniel half rose from his bed. 'But that is not enough! What kind of physician are you that you choose not to use the tools of your trade?'
'An honest one, Master Nathaniel,' retorted Bartholomew.
"I do not seek to charge you for services you do not need.'
'But how do you know?' argued Nathaniel. 'And I feel the need for leeches.'
'Then I cannot help you,' said Bartholomew, turning to leave.
'Then I will send for Master Colet,' said Nathaniel.
'He knows his leeches. You need not tend to me again.'
Bartholomew left, biting his tongue to prevent himself from telling Nathaniel he was a fool. As he clattered down Nathaniel's fine staircase, he heard the merchant ordering a servant to fetch Colet. Clenching his fists in frustration, he wondered whether he should have complied with Nathaniel's request- applied leeches to his arm to remove the excess of humours, and read his stars to see what other treatment they might suggest. But the man only had a hangover! Why should Bartholomew waste his time applying treatments that were unnecessary?
And why should Nathaniel pay for them? As he walked home, his frustration and anger subsided. Once again, he had lost the chance of a wealthy patient because he tried to give him what he knew was best, rather than what the patient expected. Sir John had been wise when he encouraged Bartholomew to work among the poor — they seldom questioned his skills, even if they did not always follow his advice.
Bartholomew stopped at the kitchen for something to drink, and by the time he had limped to the orchard, Aelfrith was already waiting. It was pleasant in the shade of the trees, with the rich scent of ripe apples. Bartholomew made his way to the ancient tree-trunk that lay against the wall, and had been used by countless students to study in solitude or to enjoy a nap in the sun.
"I have made sure that we are the only ones here,'
Aelfrith said. "I want no one to overhear us.'
Bartholomew watched him warily, Michael's warnings ringing in his ears. Aelfrith took a deep breath.
'There is an evil loose in the College,' he said, 'and we must try to stamp it out.'
'What is the evil, and how do we stamp it out?'
Bartholomew asked. 'And why all the secrecy?'
Aelfrith looked hard into Bartholomew's eyes, as if searching for something. "I do not want to tell you what I am about to,' he said. 'Until last night I would have said you were better not knowing. But now things have changed, and I have been instructed to tell you for your own good.'
He paused and squinted up into the leafy branches of the apple trees, as if his mind was wrestling with itself. 'There is an evil afoot that threatens not only the College, but the whole University, and perhaps even all England,' he blurted out. Bartholomew studied him. He was deeply agitated about something, and perspiration beaded on his face. 'Satan is trying to destroy us.'
'Oh come, Father,' said Bartholomew, his patience beginning to wane. 'Surely you did not bring me here to tell me that. You sound just like Augustus!'
Aelfrith's head whipped round to look at him.
'Exactly,' he whispered. 'Augustus saw, but his wits were gone, and he was unable to keep his secret. Look what happened to him!'
'What happened to him, Father?' asked Bartholomew.
He had spoken to no one about his suspicions that Augustus had been murdered. Perhaps now he would hear them confirmed.
'Augustus was taken by the Devil,' Aelfrith said in a whisper. Bartholomew tried not to show his irritation.
He personally concurred with Michael that the only devils to exist were those within man himself, and he had considered Aelfrith beyond common superstitions about devils and demons.
'Is that all?' asked Bartholomew, beginning to rise.
Aelfrith tugged him back down. 'No, that is not all,' he said coldly. 'You must be patient. This is most difficult for me.' He clasped his hands together, and muttered some prayer, trying hard to compose himself.
Bartholomew picked up a fallen apple from the ground and began to eat it. It was sharp, and not quite ripe.
'It is a complex story, so you must be patient. You must remember that I am telling you this because it may be necessary for your own safety, and not because I wish to entertain you.'
Bartholomew nodded, intrigued, despite himself.
'A little more than a year ago, the master of King's Hall died. You probably remember. He is said to have hanged himself, although the official story is that he fell down the stairs and broke his neck.'
Bartholomew remembered the incident well, and had heard the rumours that his death had been suicide.
Had that been true, then the Master of King's Hall would not have been buried in consecrated ground, as with Sir John. But he had died in the privacy of his own College, and his scholars had been able to hide the manner of his death from outside eyes. So he had been laid to rest in a fine alabaster tomb in All Saints' Church. Sir John had chosen a public place for his suicide, and, however much the Fellows wished the details of his death silenced, it had become public knowledge within a few hours.
'Within a few weeks, two more Fellows of King's Hall died, of summer ague. These three deaths disturbed the scholars of King's Hall, but a new Master was elected, and life returned to normal. About the same time, one of the Deans at Peterhouse was found dead in the fish-ponds.
He was thought to have fallen in and drowned while in his cups.'
Bartholomew wondered where all this was leading.
Aelfrith continued, 'The Dean was a close friend, a Franciscan like myself. He did not like alcoholic beverages; he said they clouded his thoughts. I do not believe that he would have ever allowed himself to become drunk enough to drown in a fish-pond! A few days after the Dean, two Fellows at Clare lay dead from eating bad food.'
Bartholomew recalled the two deaths at Clare. He had been called to help by Gregory Colet, the teacher of medicine at Rudde's Hostel, who had been a guest of the Master of Clare that night. He and Colet had been mystified by the case. The two Fellows had eaten some oysters sent by the grateful parent of a successful student. Others, including Colet, had eaten the oysters, too, and although some complained of sickness, only the two young men had died. Colet and Bartholomew had stood by helplessly, and had watched them die.
'For several months there were no further deaths, but then, a few weeks ago, the Hall of Valence Marie, founded this most recent year, lost two Fellows to summer ague. Now, I know as well as you do that deaths from accidents and agues are not infrequent in Cambridge.
But add these deaths to our four at Michaelhouse, and we have an unnaturally high figure: twelve in the Colleges in the last year.'
'So what exactly are you telling me?' Bartholomew asked, the unease that he had experienced in Augustus's room the previous night returning.
'That not all these deaths were natural, and that some of them are connected.'
The feeling of unease intensified. 'But why?'
'Not everyone wants the University to flourish,'
Aelfrith said. 'There are those who wish to control it, or to stamp it out altogether. You know what happened to the University at Stamford in 1334.