‘He would have felt a brief, piercing pain, then nothing,’ he told the ashen-faced Earl. ‘It would have been over very quickly.’
He left the Earl to grieve in peace, and went to wash his hands in a bucket of clean water. Then he and Michael walked outside, where dusk had fallen. Insects swarmed around the amber light shed by a lantern on a post, and bats flitted among them, feasting. The air was hot, dusty and still, but the town was far from silent. There was a rumpus emanating from the High Street taverns as townsfolk slaked their thirst with ale, while All Saints opposite was holding a service that entailed a lot of tuneless hollering.
‘Is that your choir, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that no other body of ‘musicians’ was equal to creating such an unholy racket.
Michael shook his head. ‘It is practice night, but I cancelled it when Donwich challenged my election. I do not want him accusing me of assembling an army of townsmen to back my bid.’
It was a good point, as the Marian Singers were devoted to the monk, and certainly would object to anyone they thought meant him harm.
‘So who is singing?’ Bartholomew asked, wincing as a particularly strident Gloria began. The tune was Michael’s, although the Latin words were all but unrecognisable.
Before Michael could reply, the gate opened and a cavalcade clattered in. The riders dismounted, beating dust from their clothes and stretching stiff limbs. It was Ufford and Rawby, bringing the vicars-general and their retinue from Ely.
‘Good – all three of them came,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘I was afraid one might stay behind, which would have been problematic if the opinions of the other two were divided. Now we can be sure of getting a decision.’
‘I am amazed they did not just send one,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Donwich’s claim is a nonsense, and anyone with sense can see it. Moreover, having three vicars-general come running lends his challenge more importance than it deserves.’
Michael went to greet them, and Bartholomew followed, raising his eyebrows as yet more horses trotted through the gate. The vicars had brought an impressive train of clerks, chaplains and men of law. Donwich would doubtless be pleased by the fuss he had generated, but Bartholomew thought it was a waste of a lot of people’s time.
The vicars-general were named William Teofle, Thomas Ely and John Tinmouth. Teofle was a tall, patrician Dominican; the other two were short, plump Franciscans.
‘We are glad to be here, Brother,’ Teofle informed Michael warmly. ‘Although I was deeply saddened to hear of Aynton’s death. I have known him for years, and considered him a friend. I hope you have the culprit behind bars.’
‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘But he will not elude us for long, I promise.’
‘Good,’ said Ely briskly. ‘Now, I suggest we begin work straight after our devotions tomorrow morning. Is that acceptable to you?’
‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘I shall inform Donwich that you have arrived.’
‘Ah, your “Anti-Chancellor”,’ said Teofle, running the words around in his mouth as though tasting them. ‘I am not sure an English university has ever had one of those before.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘And I am glad it is his title, not mine.’
Ely slapped more dust from his habit. ‘We were astonished when we heard that Aynton had resigned, leaving you holding the reins. Do you know why he did it?’
‘He said he felt unequal to leading the University into the future,’ explained Michael quietly. ‘We should respect, not condemn, him for recognising his limitations and acting on them.’
‘Ineptitude has never bothered chancellors before,’ said Ely. ‘And he had you to guide him, so I fail to understand why he chose to duck his responsibilities. Shame on him!’
‘I do not envy you spending time with him,’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the Franciscan stalk towards his lodgings, his two companions at his heels. ‘He seems rather sanctimonious.’
‘He does,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘So let us hope that Teofle and Tinmouth are more amenable.’
Chapter 8
The next day was Saturday, and Bartholomew was horrified to emerge into the yard to discover the weather was hotter than ever, even though it was still dark. He wondered if it would kill all the crops, so there would be food shortages and starvation that winter.
On a brighter note, Walter was recovering, which Bartholomew attributed to Agatha, who had forced the porter to drink all the boiled barley water he had been prescribed. Walter was still in some discomfort, but no longer needed to dash to the latrines with distressing haste. He sat in his lodge, his loyal peacock at his side, and when he began to grumble about the students, Bartholomew knew he was feeling better.
Unfortunately, there was an outbreak of flux around the Gilbertine Priory, and Bartholomew arrived to discover that Stasy and Hawick had been there before him, offering a remedy that they claimed would cure it. Desperate and miserable, the sufferers had paid up, although Bartholomew saw a mark on one pot that identified its contents as having been made by Margery Starre. She would be livid when she found out, especially as they had sold it at twice the price she usually charged.
On his way home, Bartholomew stopped to see Meadowman, and was pleased to see colour in the beadle’s face for the first time in days. He was sitting up, listening to Isnard describe the fun had by the Marian Singers in All Saints the previous evening, where they had arrived en masse to help with the St Benedict’s Day celebrations.
‘The congregation was not expecting us,’ Isnard chuckled, and although he was still hoarse, his cold seemed to be retreating. ‘So they had quite a shock.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘Did they mind?’
‘Why would they mind?’ asked Isnard indignantly. ‘Everyone loves the joy and enthusiasm we bring to public events.’
‘Like Doctor Bartholomew’s wedding,’ said Meadowman with a sweet smile, ‘where the choir also plans to make a surprise appearance.’
This was news to Bartholomew, who was sure Matilde would not appreciate such a rabble performing on her special day – and Lucy certainly would not. Isnard scowled at Meadowman, who gaped his dismay when he realised what he had let slip.
‘It is this wretched flux,’ said the beadle defensively. ‘It has robbed me of my wits.’
‘It is not the flux, it is that medicine from Stasy and Hawick,’ said Isnard crossly. ‘You should not have sipped it, especially as they are now going around braying that one gulp cured you instantly. You should shout the truth – that it was the special powder Doctor Bartholomew put in your barley water.’
‘I am not the only one who has given them cause to brag,’ countered Meadowman. ‘Your cold is getting better, and they are taking the credit.’
‘Then they are liars!’ spat Isnard. ‘They did present me with a phial, but I threw it away. I will never trust them again after they almost saw me drowned in the Mill Pond.’
Satisfied that both patients were on the mend, Bartholomew left. He saw Stasy and Hawick on Milne Street, emerging from the house of a wealthy saddler – a man who was friends with Edith, and who Bartholomew had assumed would never annoy her by defecting to another medicus. But he could tell from his old students’ gloating expressions that the saddler had done just that.
‘People have heard about our success with the flux,’ crowed Stasy with the kind of smirk that would make anyone want to slap it off him. ‘Poor Meadowman would be dead by now, were it not for us.’