As security was clearly a low priority for Walter, Bartholomew went to see if Cynric would guard the College until Stasy and Hawick no longer posed a threat. The spiteful pair would certainly know about Walter’s relaxed attitude to his duties, and he did not want to make it easy for them, should they attempt to exact revenge for their expulsion.
Cynric was in the kitchen with Agatha. Bartholomew was not surprised to be informed that the laundress had not left it since the heatwave had begun – being stone-built and low, it was the coolest part of the College, and thus a very comfortable place to be.
‘Do not worry, boy,’ said Cynric, pleased his skills were needed. ‘They will not get in, I promise. And we should be on our guard, given all the curses they mutter. Margery is going to be very busy on our behalf as long as they are at large.’
‘They had better not have cursed me,’ declared Agatha belligerently. ‘If they have, I shall trounce them with a ladle. Where are they now, Cynric?’
‘In the shop they rented in Shoemaker Row,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘They worked on it all night, and opened this morning as medici. I reminded them that they never got their degrees, but they said they do not need one to practise medicine.’
‘They do not,’ sighed Bartholomew, aware that anyone could declare himself a healer, regardless of education, knowledge or skill. He had asked for the profession to be regulated, but neither the University nor the town thought it necessary. ‘As long as they do no obvious harm, and do not annoy the apothecaries and barber-surgeons, they can do what they like.’
‘They will not do it for long,’ predicted Cynric darkly. ‘The Devil will want to gather two such dedicated servants to his bosom before they have second thoughts and become Christians again.’
‘My nephew Robin came late last night,’ said Agatha, who was related to half the town; Robin was a sergeant at the castle. ‘He told me that Stasy has invented a remedy for the flux and will start selling it today.’ She glared accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘But you said nothing will cure it, other than time and boiled barley water.’
‘If every remedy was required to work, no medicus or apothecary would ever be able to prescribe one again,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘Ergo, Stasy and Hawick will claim what they like, and blame any lack of success on the patient’s stars or abnormal humours, just like all the other charlatans. All I hope is that whatever they have concocted is harmless.’
‘We shall find out soon enough,’ said Agatha. ‘Because Robin told me that they sent a pot to Beadle Meadowman. They feel sorry for him, because he has been ill for so long, and you have failed to mend him.’
Bartholomew decided to visit the beadle immediately, lest the remedy contained something to make him worse.
‘Here,’ said Cynric, tossing Bartholomew a tiny packet. ‘If Stasy and Hawick come for you with evil intent, throw this in their faces. Margery says it will stop them dead.’
Bartholomew tried to hand it back. ‘I cannot be seen deploying magic powders. I do not want to follow Stasy and Hawick in being expelled from the University.’
‘You will not be part of it for much longer anyway,’ said Cynric carelessly. ‘But it is not a magic powder – she knows you are frightened of those – it is fine-ground pepper. She says it will sting their eyes and stop them from bothering you.’
Bartholomew poured some into his hand, and saw the book-bearer was right; it was just pepper. ‘I still cannot accept it. It is far too expensive for–’
‘She likes you,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘And she does not like them. Take it, boy. It may save your life, should they launch an attack and I am not there to protect you.’
‘He is right,’ said Agatha. ‘Take it and be grateful that such an important lady thinks so highly of you. The poor Chancellor was thrown off the bridge to his death, and we do not want the same thing happening to you.’
‘You think Stasy and Hawick killed Aynton?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘I would not put it past them,’ replied Agatha. ‘They are malicious, greedy and callous.’
‘There are rumours that another scholar killed Aynton,’ put in Cynric. ‘Master Donwich or Narcissus Narboro, for example, who want to be Chancellor themselves.’
‘Narboro!’ spat Agatha. ‘I felt sorry for Lucy when he spurned her, but now I think she is the luckiest woman alive. Can you imagine what it would be like married to him? She would never get the chance to check herself in the mirror, because he would hog it all day.’
‘Perhaps you should throw pepper in his eyes,’ suggested Cynric. ‘Being blind for a while would give him the opportunity to think about something other than his hair.’
‘He made a terrible fuss about falling down a dye-pit yesterday,’ chuckled Agatha. ‘So much that Robin says Chaumbre was forced to fill it in at once – the man he hired worked all night. Of course, now Chaumbre has done one, he will forget about the others. Personally, I think he hopes to store his dye-balls there again one day.’
‘I do not like those holes,’ said Cynric, and shuddered. ‘They look like something Satan might have dug with his claws.’
Bartholomew left when book-bearer and laundress began a sharp disagreement about whether the Devil would use his nice sharp talons for such menial work, or ask familiars like Stasy and Hawick to get a spade out.
It was still dark when Bartholomew arrived at Meadowman’s house. The beadle was no better, and as it had been more than a week since the illness had started, he was beginning to look thin and haggard, with lines of pain around his mouth. Bartholomew inspected the boiled barley water – from a batch flavoured with honey and camomile – that he had sent the previous day, and saw that very little, if any, had been drunk.
‘Your students came at dawn,’ Meadowman whispered. ‘They told me you were cursed and could never make me well. They left me that.’
He nodded to an expensive-looking phial on the windowsill. Bartholomew picked it up and smelt it warily. All he could identify was mint, although he knew there were very dangerous substances that would take more than a sniff to detect.
‘Have you taken any of it?’ he asked uneasily.
‘A tiny sip,’ admitted Meadowman. ‘I know I should have resisted, given that they are sorcerers, but I have been ill for so long that I yielded to temptation.’
At that moment, Isnard arrived, full of mucus and unpleasant snorting noises. His eyes were bloodshot and when he spoke, his voice was an octave lower than normal.
‘I met your students – the warlocks – on my way home from the Griffin last night,’ he growled. ‘It was hot, so they recommended a cooling dip in the Mill Pond. It sounded like a good idea, and I only remembered once I was in that I cannot swim.’
‘Ale will kill you one day, Isnard,’ said Meadowman. ‘You might have drowned.’
‘I nearly did,’ said Isnard. ‘Luckily, Master Gayton from Peterhouse fished me out. I swallowed half the Mill Pond before he arrived, so if you notice it is emptier this morning …’
‘Other than your cold, how do you feel?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the myriad diseases which lurked in that foul body of water. ‘Any nausea or sickness?’
‘No, but this ague is killing me. I do not even have the energy to pull my ferry, and had to hire some of the Marian Singers to do it for me. Are you sure you do not have a remedy hidden away somewhere, Doctor? I will pay whatever you ask.’
‘I wish I did,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘But no one does, including Stasy and Hawick, so if they offer to sell you one, do not buy it.’