‘I will tell you how to go about it,’ offered Bottisham generously. ‘The law is complex, and there are certain procedures you must follow. But your physician is waiting to tend you, and I should not linger here and make a nuisance of myself. Rest, Isnard. I will pray for you.’
He patted the bargeman’s shoulder, nodded a friendly farewell to Bartholomew and Michael, and squeezed past Quenhyth and Redmeadow to reach the door.
‘I am delighted to see you looking so well,’ said Michael, plumping himself down on Isnard’s single bench with such force that Bartholomew thought it might break. ‘When I heard you had summoned Matt this morning, I assumed you had taken a turn for the worse.’
‘I need something for the itching, Doctor,’ said Isnard sheepishly. ‘I am sorry to drag you from your breakfast, but it could not wait. It is driving me to distraction.’
‘Itching?’ asked Bartholomew, assuming that now Isnard was confined to his bed, he was unable to escape the fleas that flourished in his filthy blankets. Cleansing the house of all the small creatures that bit and sucked blood would be an imposing task, and Bartholomew was not sure it could be done.
‘My foot,’ whispered Isnard hoarsely. ‘It itches something fierce.’
‘Scratch it, then,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. He flexed one of his hands, revealing some lengthy nails. ‘I will do it for you, if you like.’
‘No, the other one,’ said Isnard, still in a whisper, as though he considered it unlucky or dangerous to speak in a normal voice about a limb that was no longer attached.
‘You mean the one that is gone?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How do you know it is itching? I doubt Matt told you what he did with it. He usually declines to share such ghoulish information.’
‘It itches,’ persisted Isnard stubbornly. ‘And I do not mean from the river, or wherever he disposed of it. I mean it itches at the bottom of my leg, where it used to live.’
‘I have heard such complaints before,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Michael was looking around for evidence that Isnard had been drinking. He recalled an archer in France telling him the same thing about an amputated arm. ‘It is not unusual to imagine a limb is still there for some time after it has been removed. And I did not throw it in the river, by the way. People drink from that.’
‘But what can I do about it?’ asked Isnard, distressed. ‘I cannot think about anything other than this itch, and yet I cannot put an end to it. Will it last for the rest of my life? If so, I do not think I can stand it.’ His voice was unsteady.
‘I can dig it up and give it a good scratch, if you like,’ offered Redmeadow, trying hard to be useful. ‘That might cure you.’
‘He needs a purge,’ countered Quenhyth with great conviction. ‘A tincture of linseed fried in fat should put an end to his miseries. Or perhaps mallow leaves stewed in old ale.’
‘It might put an end to him, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want his humours unbalanced by purges. He needs to gain strength from his food, not lose it by vomiting.’
‘A clyster, then,’ said Quenhyth with unseemly relish. ‘I can prepare a potion of green camomile, salt, honey and lard, and you can squirt it into his anus and cleanse his bowels.’
‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Isnard uneasily. ‘My bowels are my own affair, and not for others to explore as they please.’
‘I quite agree,’ interposed Michael, the expression on his face indicating that he found the discussion distasteful. He changed the subject. ‘Why was Bottisham visiting you, Isnard? I did not know the two of you were acquainted.’
‘I regularly haul barges for his College – Gonville,’ replied Isnard. ‘And Master Bottisham has always been kind to me. He came to ask if there was anything I need, but, apart from strong ale, which Doctor Bartholomew says I cannot have, I am well looked after by my neighbours.’
‘I prescribed a clyster for Master Bernarde the miller when he had an aching elbow,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘It worked very well.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did what?’
‘You were out inspecting corpses with Brother Michael,’ said Quenhyth, becoming defensive when he saw his teacher was shocked. ‘What am I supposed to do when a patient comes wanting help? Send him away empty handed?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘And then tell me, so I can visit him myself. You must not dispense medicines to my patients. You are not qualified, and you do not have enough experience to start giving out remedies of your own.’
‘I have been watching you for six months,’ objected Quenhyth, making it sound like a decade. ‘And I am a quick learner. I know more than you give me credit for.’
‘But still not enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will not argue with you. Either you do as I say or you can find yourself another teacher.’
‘I will obey you,’ said Quenhyth in the kind of voice that indicated he considered it an immense favour. ‘But I was only trying to help.’
‘Then go back to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And do not “help” without my permission again.’
‘I do not want him tampering with my personal places, thank you very much,’ said Isnard after Quenhyth had gone. ‘He can take his green camomile and lard and shove them up his own arse.’
‘I am sorry, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot help with your itch, either. I do not know what can be done to alleviate it.’
Isnard sat back with a grimace and folded his arms. ‘Do not worry about that, Doctor. I am already cured. The notion of that boy loose on my bowels has quite put the itch out of my mind.’
CHAPTER 2
‘And there were doucettes and a rose pudding to follow,’ enthused Michael gleefully the following Saturday, as he walked with Bartholomew and Michaelhouse’s Master of Civil Law, John Wynewyk, to the Church of St Mary the Great. ‘Along with more Lombard slices than I have ever seen in one place, although I prefer the almond variety to the date.’
‘We will be late,’ warned Wynewyk, more interested in the debate they were about to engage in than his colleague’s detailed analysis of the repasts he had enjoyed at various academic and religious institutions during the week. ‘I do not want Gonville to win the Disputatio de quodlibet by default, just because we fail to arrive on time.’
‘All right,’ muttered Michael, not pleased to have his culinary reminiscences cut short. ‘I am going as fast as I can. I thought you would be interested in what is eaten at the high tables of other Colleges, since you hold Michaelhouse’s purse strings these days. Gonville keeps a remarkably fine table, and Michaelhouse … well, Michaelhouse does not.’
‘Langelee trusts me to spend our funds sensibly,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘That means peas for pottage and flour for bread, not cream and sugars for custards.’
Although the monk complained constantly that Michaelhouse’s fare was inferior to that of other institutions, and his colleagues had learned to take his grumbles with a grain of salt, Bartholomew thought his gripes were currently justified. For some unaccountable reason the standard of College food had plummeted dramatically during the last two weeks, and even the least discerning scholars had been prompted to comment on it. Bartholomew supposed that Wynewyk had been obliged to use the funds usually earmarked for victuals for some other – doubtless equally deserving – purpose, and just hoped the situation would not be permanent. It was not pleasant to be hungry all the time.
He was about to ask, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them. With the memory of Isnard’s shattered leg fresh in his mind, Bartholomew darted to one side of the road, with his friends not far behind; even the obese Michael could move quickly when life and limb were under threat. A horse galloped past, too fast for a narrow thoroughfare like St Michael’s Lane. It reached the end of the street and its rider wheeled it around, to return at a more sedate trot.