‘I wish Gosse would go back to Clare,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘He blames me for the death of this servant, even though I was not the one who knifed him.’
‘You should rest,’ said Bartholomew kindly. Talking about the incident was agitating Wynewyk, and he would not sleep if his mind was full of worry.
‘Thank God for Paxtone,’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘He saved my life. I never thought much of him until recently, but he is a decent soul.’
‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although he was surprised to hear Wynewyk say so – Wynewyk rarely fraternised with men from other foundations, because he believed it created issues of loyalty. Many academics agreed, and confined their circle of acquaintances to within their own College or hostel. But Bartholomew did not see any problem, and had a number of friends outside Michaelhouse, Paxtone among them.
Wynewyk seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘You are astonished I should befriend anyone from King’s Hall. But Paxtone and its Warden, Powys, are erudite men. I like them.’
Bartholomew let him talk, and gradually Wynewyk’s eyes began to close. The physician waited until his colleague’s breathing became slow and even, then crept from the room.
There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, which told Bartholomew it would not be long before the bell rang to summon Michaelhouse scholars to their dawn devotions. He was tired, though, and the prospect of even a short nap was appealing, so he walked to his chamber, and began the tortuous business of stepping over sleeping students in the dark. There were seven of them, most pleasant, intelligent lads determined to become good physicians. Risleye had wanted to join them, eager to share his teacher’s chamber rather than be farmed out elsewhere, but the others had united to keep him out. Bartholomew thought they probably could have squeezed him in, but had not objected too loudly when Risleye had been told to lodge with one of the other masters.
He reached his bed and lay down, but the moment he closed his eyes, Tesdale began to whimper, caught in a nightmare. He knew from experience – Tesdale had bad dreams most nights – that waking caused the lad distress, and that the episodes usually ended of their own accord anyway. However, the noise was not conducive to falling asleep, so Bartholomew decided to put the time to good use by reading instead. He could not do it in his chamber, lest the light disturbed those who were managing to sleep through Tesdale’s moans, so he went to the library. This was a corner in the main hall that comprised a few shelves and three lockable chests. The tomes were either chained to the wall, or secured inside the boxes, depending on their value and popularity; books were expensive, and no foundation could afford to lose them to light-fingered scholars.
He began to read De proprietatibus rerum by Bartholomaeus Angelicus, refreshing his memory of the text he was going to teach that day. It was not long before he became engrossed, and when the bell rang to wake the scholars for morning mass, he was surprised to find the time had passed so quickly. Reluctantly, he closed the book, and walked down the stairs and into the yard.
It was another cold, gloomy day, with clouds thick and heavy overhead. It was windy, too, and autumn leaves swirled around until they made soggy piles in corners. He breathed in deeply, relishing the clean scent of damp vegetation. He whipped around in alarm when he heard a sound close behind him, but it was only Cynric. The Welshman prided himself on his stealth, and was always sneaking up on people with the clear intention of making them jump out of their skin.
‘I saw that woman – Joan – and your sister in the Market Square yesterday,’ the book-bearer said. The expression on his dark face was sombre. ‘It does not seem right that she should be walking and laughing one moment, then dead the next. Do you think someone cursed her?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, struggling for patience. Cynric always looked for supernatural explanations to matters he did not understand, and while the physician was used to it after so many years, he still found it exasperating. ‘She swallowed pennyroyal. That is what killed her.’
‘Mother Coton said Joan wanted rid of the child,’ Cynric went on. ‘But in the Market Square yesterday, she seemed all eager for motherhood – she was choosing ribbons, and making enough show about it to gather an audience.’ He shook his head, as if the ways of the world were a mystery to him.
‘Did you see her buy anything other than ribbon?’ asked Bartholomew, idly wondering how she had come by the pennyroyal. The apothecaries would not have sold it to her – the Church was not very understanding of merchants who let women buy the means to destroy their unborn children.
Cynric raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘A rich woman in a market? Of course I saw her buying other things, boy! And she paid me to carry them all to your sister’s house, so I know for a fact that there were a lot of them. But she went nowhere near an apothecary, if that is what you are really asking. Are you going to church dressed like that, by the way?’
In the growing light, Bartholomew saw his clothes were bloodstained from kneeling next to Joan. He needed to change. He hurried to his room, smiling greetings to his colleagues as he passed. They nodded back, some grumbling about the rain, others more intent on discussing a debate on Blood Relics that was due to take place the following week.
He ducked into his chamber – stepping over Tesdale, who was always the last up – and quickly donned fresh clothes. His hat had blown into a puddle the previous day, and he had forgotten to take it to the laundry, so it was still filthy. Annoyed with himself, he slapped it against the desk a few times, to beat off the worst of the muck, then jammed it on his head, hoping no one would notice its sorry state. Once he had given his boots a quick rub with the cuff of his shirt, he was ready.
There were still a few moments left before Master Langelee would lead the College in procession to St Michael’s Church for morning prayers, so he unlocked the door to the cupboard-like room where he kept his medical equipment, to check the progress of a goose-grease salve he was making. It was thickening nicely, and would soon be ready.
He was about to leave when a ring-mark on the workbench caught his eye. He frowned, because he had spent some time polishing it the day before – hygiene was important when making substances that were to be ingested, and he was always scrupulous about it. He supposed one of his students must have spilled something, then neglected to clean it up. However, his list of potential culprits was short; some of the ingredients he kept in the room were dangerous, so only the most senior pupils were allowed access. And, after a jape involving an ‘exploding’ book the previous week, only Risleye and Tesdale were currently permitted inside – the rest were banned until they had proved themselves mature enough to be trusted.
He bent to inspect the mark more closely, then jerked back in alarm when he caught the distinctive aroma of poppy juice. He stared at it in horror. It was one of the substances no student was allowed to use without his supervision, placed on a high shelf that was off-limits to all and sealed in a container marked with a warning cross of red ink. He looked up at the shelf, and was uneasy to note that someone had been fiddling there: the pots had been moved so their labels no longer faced the front.
He stood on a stool and began to hunt for the poppy juice. When he found it, he opened the jar and looked inside. It was about half full. He was relieved – if Risleye or Tesdale had included some in a remedy they had prepared, then they had not taken very much. Of course, he would have to speak to them about using it at all; it was far too dangerous to be doled out by lads who were not yet qualified.
He began to replace the jars in their proper order, but there was an ominous gap. Bemused, he searched the other shelves, but it did not take long to confirm his suspicions: the pennyroyal was gone.