‘Hurry up, Matt, or you will be late.’ It was Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and one of Michaelhouse’s masters of theology. The portly Benedictine was also Bartholomew’s closest friend. That morning, his monastic habit was covered by a handsome fur-lined cloak, his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers, and his lank brown hair was smoothed down around a perfectly round tonsure. He was immaculate, and Bartholomew felt poor and shabby by comparison.
‘My pennyroyal is missing. I know I had some – I used it to treat a festering ulcer a few days ago.’
Michael tugged his cloak around his ample frame, as if he thought it might ward off unpleasant images as well as the cold. ‘Perhaps you finished it,’ he remarked, without much interest.
‘There was some left. I know there was.’
Michael saw his concern and frowned uneasily. ‘It is dangerous? Poisonous?’
‘I lost a patient to pennyroyal last night. Two, if you count her unborn child.’
Michael’s frown deepened as Bartholomew told him what had happened. ‘Are you saying your supply killed this woman? That one of your pupils–’
‘No!’ It was too dreadful a possibility to contemplate. ‘Joan was a visitor, so cannot know my students. It must be coincidence, although…’ Bartholomew trailed off, uncertain what to think.
‘Are you sure it is missing? Perhaps it is simply mislaid.’
‘It has gone,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘I cannot recall exactly how much was left…’
‘Shall I ask Langelee to excuse you from church while you continue to look for it? I suppose I can be prevailed upon to perform your duties. After all, it will only be the fifth time I have assisted at mass since the beginning of term because you have been too busy with patients to do it yourself.’
‘Three physicians are not enough to look after a town the size of Cambridge,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘Especially now Robin of Grantchester has stopped his work as surgeon. Paxtone, Rougham and I are overwhelmed by the number of people wanting help.’
‘Yes, but Paxtone and Rougham have the sense to decline new cases,’ said Michael tartly. ‘You physick anyone who summons you.’
‘What would you have me do? Refuse them and let them suffer?’
Michael sighed. ‘No. But let us hope Valence, Risleye and Tesdale elect to practise here when they graduate next year. Then there will be six physicians. Of course, while Valence will be a boon, the same cannot be said for the other two. Tesdale is too lazy, and Risleye is so lacking in anything resembling human kindness that it would not occur to him to dispense charity.’
Bartholomew nodded, but his attention had returned to his missing medicine. Both Tesdale and Risleye had borrowed the storeroom key from him that week, but neither should have used pennyroyal, so what had happened to it? Had Tesdale taken it for another student jape? Risleye would not have done, because he had no sense of humour. But Bartholomew had been furious the last time his pupils had abused his trust, and he doubted any would risk doing it again. He did not often lose his temper, and he knew his anger had alarmed them.
He followed the monk outside, locking the door behind him and wondering who else might have had occasion to raid his supplies. He knew about the healing properties of pennyroyal – it was good for stomach pains, dropsy and cleaning ulcers – but did it have non-medical applications, too? Cynric had been known to ‘borrow’ materials for cleaning his sword, while Agatha the laundress was willing to try anything in her ongoing war against moths. He supposed the disappearance of the pennyroyal was not necessarily sinister, although the notion that anyone could wander into the storeroom and help himself to whatever he pleased was disturbing.
It was cold and wet in the yard, and his students had taken refuge in the porters’ lodge. The slow-witted Librarian, Rob Deynman, was with them. Deynman had been a medical student himself, until the College had offered him a ‘promotion’ in order to prevent him from practising on an unsuspecting public. They looked around as Bartholomew approached, and he saw they were all grinning, except Risleye whose face was infused with rage.
‘Tell him, sir,’ Risleye cried, outraged. ‘Tell Valence that garden mint should not be given to teething children, because it is a herb of Venus, and so stirs up bodily desires. That is bad for babies.’
‘I said it can be used to remedy colic,’ corrected Valence patiently. ‘I did not say you should feed it to brats in the kind of quantity that will drive them wild with lust.’
His cronies laughed, and Risleye flushed even redder, clenching his fists.
‘I knew a man who ate an entire patch of mint once, in the hope that it would make him lusty,’ said Deynman, ever amiable. ‘He was obliged to remain in the latrine for the next two days, and his wife was deeply vexed.’
The students laughed again, but Bartholomew was not in the mood for levity. ‘Did any of you use concentrated poppy juice in a remedy this week?’ he demanded. ‘Or take any of my pennyroyal?’
‘You told us not to touch the stuff on the top shelf,’ said Risleye virtuously. ‘And I never disobey orders. Tesdale does, though.’
‘All I took this week was some yarrow to treat Dickon Tulyet’s cold,’ said Tesdale, shooting his classmate a weary look. ‘Why? Have you lost some?’
Bartholomew scratched his head. Perhaps the stain on the workbench had been there when he had polished it the day before; he had been preoccupied with all the teaching he was due to do, so his mind had not been wholly on the task in hand. And the pennyroyal? There was no explanation or excuse for that: it had gone, and that was all there was to it.
Once prayers had been said, and breakfast served, eaten and cleared away, Michaelhouse’s masters and their students gathered in the hall for the morning’s lessons. Bartholomew spoke on De proprietatibus rerum, the author of which listed a number of herbs and their uses, and although pennyroyal was on the physician’s mind to begin with, he had all but forgotten about it by the time the noonday bell rang some hours later.
He was hoarse from trying to make himself heard. Wynewyk had declared himself indisposed, so Master Langelee had taken his class instead, and as he knew nothing about law, he had passed the time by talking about local camp-ball ratings instead – he was an avid camp-ball player, and loved nothing more than a vicious scrum in which it was legal to punch people. The ensuing discussion had grown cheerfully rowdy, and Bartholomew had not been the only one struggling to teach over the racket.
Langelee was a burly man, with muscular arms and a thatch of thick hair, who looked more like a warrior than the head of a Cambridge College. Before becoming a scholar, he had worked for the Archbishop of York, and there were details about his previous life that Bartholomew still found unsettling. But his rule was just and fair, and his Fellows were satisfied with his leadership. One of the most astute things he had done was to delegate his financial responsibilities to Wynewyk, who had a good head for figures and an unerring eye for a bargain.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, coming to join the physician and casting a venomous look in the Master’s direction as the students clattered out of the hall. ‘That was tiresome. My theologians were not interested in camp-ball when we started out this morning, but they are gripped by it now. They tell me Langelee’s exposition of leagues and points was far more interesting than Holcot’s Postillae.’
‘No surprise there,’ murmured Bartholomew, collecting the wax tablets his lads had been using, and stacking them in a cupboard.