‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the question – and by the notion that the staid Paxtone should be considered inspired. ‘It would be impossible not to, because his theories are cornerstones of traditional medicine.’
‘Then I must come to hear you some time. I am sure you will be equally good.’
Bartholomew frowned as Shropham fussed around him, ensuring his cloak was hung up neatly and that he was satisfied with the state of the fire. The lawyer was so determined that Paxtone’s guest should sit in the chair by the hearth that he gave him a rather enthusiastic shove that saw him topple into it. Bartholomew winced when something dug into his leg.
‘Is it yours?’ asked Shropham, watching him pull a small knife from under his thigh. ‘It fell out of your bag as you sat?’
‘As I was pushed,’ muttered Bartholomew. Shropham’s obsequiousness was grating on his nerves. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be gracious. ‘It looks like one of mine, but it is actually Paxtone’s. We both use these plain steel blades, because they are easy to clean.’
‘Perhaps he left it there to sharpen it – pointing north, so it will hone itself.’ Shropham took it from him and set in on a shelf. ‘Is this true north, do you think?’
‘Move it to the left a little.’ Bartholomew had all but forgotten the curious debate Paxtone had been airing with his colleagues earlier that day, and experienced an acute stab of grief when he recalled Wynewyk’s amusement. He swallowed hard, and pursued the subject of knives in an effort to push the memory from his mind. ‘Paxtone and I buy them from the same forge. They are the perfect size for delicate surgery and–’
‘Paxtone would never demean himself by doing surgery,’ interrupted Shropham indignantly. Then he blushed when he saw he had been insulting, and began to gabble in an effort to make amends. ‘Not that surgery is degrading, of course, but he uses his blades for more lofty purposes.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew innocently. The question was a little wicked, because Paxtone was forced into ‘surgery’ because Robin of Grantchester was no longer available to do it for him. It was likely therefore that the King’s Hall physician did use his knives for cautery.
Shropham swallowed uneasily. ‘Such as peeling fruit and paring his nails. Not sharpening quills, of course, because I do that for him.’
‘Really? And what do his students do, while you perform these lowly tasks?’ Bartholomew had not meant to sound rude, but the words were out before he could stop them. And he genuinely wanted an answer, bemused as to why a scholar of Shropham’s seniority should act as servant to his equals.
But Shropham did not take the question amiss. ‘I would not trust that rabble to see to his needs. And it is a great pleasure to serve a fine man like Paxtone.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better not pursue the subject any further. It was too bewildering, and he had had a long and distressing day.
‘He will not be long,’ said Shropham, leaning forward to pat a cushion into place. ‘Here is a psalter to occupy you while you wait. Unless you would rather I kept you company? There is nothing more important than ensuring Paxtone’s acquaintances are properly looked after.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Paxtone had acquired himself a jealous lover. But Paxtone had always seemed rather asexual, and on the few occasions when he had mentioned a preference, it was usually for Yolande de Blaston. ‘I will read, thank you.’
Shropham bowed his way out of the room, and his footsteps clattered down the stairs.
‘Christ!’ breathed Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He is stranger than Clippesby!’
Bartholomew listened to Paxtone’s lecture through the door for a while, but it was a basic one, delivered at a very early stage in his students’ studies, and he knew he would learn nothing from it. He was not in the mood for perusing psalters, either, so he went to the books in Paxtone’s private library, intending to read what Galen had written about nuts – and about men who laughed themselves to death.
The tomes were stored in a wall-cupboard, and Bartholomew had been told in the past that he could browse through them whenever he liked. He opened the door and began to read the titles, impressed by the extent of his friend’s collection: books were hideously expensive.
He grabbed Galen’s On Temperament, but could not find what he wanted to know, so he started to look for Aristotle instead, knowing the philosopher had addressed a number of curious medical questions. He did not recall laughter or nuts being among them, but it had been some time since he had studied the texts carefully, and he did not trust his memory.
He found the book he wanted and started to tug it out, but a small bag in front of it fell to the floor. There was a skittering sound as several pebbles rolled out. With a sigh, he knelt to retrieve them. They were some sort of white crystal, and he supposed they were a mineral deemed to possess a particular healing property. He had always been sceptical of such claims – for example that rubies could protect a person from plague – and assumed most sensible physicians thought the same. Of course, Paxtone was not always sensible where medicine was concerned.
‘What are you doing?’
The sound of his colleague’s voice so close behind him made Bartholomew jump. He had not noticed that Paxtone had stopped teaching and had come to see what was going on.
‘Looking for Aristotle,’ explained Bartholomew, slipping the last of the stones inside the bag.
‘I see,’ said Paxtone flatly, taking it from him and replacing it on the shelf. He bent to lock the cupboard with a key that hung on a string around his neck. ‘And did you find it?’
‘Yes – but I might look in Avicenna, if I cannot find what I want in Aristotle,’ replied Bartholomew, somewhat puzzled by his friend’s frosty manner.
‘Then let me know when you need it.’ Paxtone gave a pained smile. ‘I shall not be long now.’
Bartholomew could only suppose Paxtone had been dabbling in something of which he was slightly ashamed – perhaps a foray into folk medicine – and wanted to keep the matter quiet. But he did not dwell on the matter for long, because his mind was too full of Wynewyk.
He sat in the chair, and opened the Aristotle, but could find no mention of nuts, although there was a good deal about humour being good for the health. There was, however, nothing to suggest that it might bring about death, unless in delirium. Bartholomew frowned as he considered the notion. Had Wynewyk been delirious?
‘They have gone at last,’ said Paxtone, coming to flop into the seat opposite. ‘They are full of questions, and I thought I would never prise them out. How is Risleye? Is he settling in with you?’
Bartholomew wondered why he should ask, given that the relationship between master and pupil had been acrimonious enough for both to want a transfer. ‘He seems to have made himself at home,’ he replied cautiously, unwilling to admit that he was finding the young man ‘unteachable’, too.
‘He is a good boy, who learns quickly,’ said Paxtone with a smile. ‘He will be no trouble.’
‘He must have been trouble, or you would not have asked me to take him on.’
Paxtone waved an airy hand. ‘He is young and opinionated, while I am old and opinionated. It was not a good combination. Did Shropham offer you any wine?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am sure he would have done, had I hinted that I was thirsty.’