‘Now what?’ murmured Michael uneasily. ‘I see from his livery that he is from the papal court in Avignon. Why would the Pope send a message to anyone in Cambridge?’
‘Perhaps Innocent the Sixth is dead, and we have another French puppet in his place,’ suggested Bottisham, not without rancour. ‘This schism between Avignon and Rome is a ridiculous state of affairs. It is time the papacy was wrested from French control and returned to Rome, where it belongs.’
Warde agreed. ‘We are at war with the French, and it is not fair that they should exert power over us through the Church in this way.’
‘Which one of you is Chancellor Tynkell?’ asked the messenger in a clear, ringing voice. ‘And Richard Pulham, Acting Master of Gonville Hall?’
The two men stepped forward unwillingly. In an age when it was easy to make accusations of treason and heresy – but far more difficult to prove innocence – no one liked being singled out for special attention from a man like the French Pope.
‘I have news from Avignon,’ said the messenger in a voice that was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the town. Bartholomew sensed he was enjoying himself, with his dramatic entrance and town-crier-like pronouncements. ‘From John Colton, the Master of Gonville Hall, who, as you know, has been engaged on important business in the papal curia.’
‘Hardly!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Colton’s only “important business” has been to further his own career by following Bishop Bateman of Norwich all over the world. When Bateman went to Avignon in the King’s service, there also went Colton. The man is like a leech.’
Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that Michael was in the service of a bishop himself, and might well follow him to Avignon, if he thought it might be worth his while.
‘Colton wishes me to inform you that Bishop Bateman is dead,’ said the messenger. ‘He was murdered – perhaps poisoned – at Avignon on the sixth day of January this year.’
The death of the popular Bishop of Norwich was a significant event in Cambridge, even though the town was officially under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely. People were saddened by the news, especially since Bateman’s demise was rumoured to have been at the hand of an enemy. The scholars of Gonville were especially distressed, because the Bishop had been instrumental in founding their College, and had been generous to them with his time and his money. Bateman would be missed, and most scholars felt the world was a poorer place without him in it.
The atmosphere in the church changed after the announcement, and the excited discussions about whether Michaelhouse or Gonville were better disputants were forgotten as scholars exchanged reminiscences of Bate-man’s gentleness and integrity. Bottisham was affected particularly. His face was grey and sad, and Bartholomew thought he had aged ten years within a few moments.
‘I cannot tell you how much we will miss him,’ he said to Bartholomew. Rougham was nearby, and came to join them. ‘I hope Gonville will not flounder now he is not here to protect us.’
‘I do not see why it should,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Bottisham should think his College so frail. ‘It is well established, with its own endowments and properties to pay for its running. Michaelhouse lost its founder within three years, but we are still here.’
‘However, we are talking about a superior institution when we discuss Gonville,’ interposed Rougham haughtily. ‘Not some run-down place like Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew gaped at him, thinking it was small wonder that so many academic institutions were at each other’s throats if they made a habit of issuing such brazen insults. Unwilling to allow such rudeness to pass unremarked, he addressed Rougham icily. ‘Our theologians are second to none, and Wynewyk is one of the best civil lawyers in the country.’
‘Michaelhouse is a mixture of good and bad,’ said Rougham, his voice equally chilly. ‘Suttone, Kenyngham, Wynewyk, Clippesby – and even the hedonistic Michael – are acceptable. Langelee and William are not. You would be, if you paid more heed to traditional wisdom and less to heretical notions invented by men like Roger Bacon.’
‘I was most interested in Bacon’s analysis of the rate of time-drift at the equinox,’ said Bottisham hastily, hoping to prevent a quarrel. ‘He calculated that the removal of a day from the Julian calendar every one hundred and twenty-five years – rather than the Gregorian adjustment of three days in every four hundred – will hold the equinox steady.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Rougham nastily. ‘And why did Bacon imagine we would be interested in such irrelevant matters?’
‘Probably because you need an accurate calendar to calculate horoscopes,’ retorted Bartholomew, knowing the great store Rougham set by determining courses of treatment based on the alignment of the heavenly bodies – something Bartholomew had long since decided was of little practical value. It felt good to catch the man in an inconsistency.
Bottisham intervened a second time when he saw Rougham’s eyes narrow in anger. ‘Wynewyk tells me you prescribed him an excellent potion containing essence of rhubarb to strengthen his bowels, Bartholomew. I have suffered from a–’
‘I would never allow a patient of mine to consume rhubarb,’ interrupted Rougham disdainfully. ‘It leads the bowels to empty completely and without control. Besides, it is poisonous.’
‘I use the stems, which are safe in small amounts,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Rhubarb is no different from any other commonly used ingredient: a little is beneficial, too much can cause harm. The same is true of lily of the valley, for example, which we all use to ease the heart – but it can stop one dead, if a patient swallows too much.’
‘You should not be discussing dangerous compounds here,’ said Chancellor Tynkell, advancing on them on a waft of bad air. Instinctively, all three scholars took a step backwards. ‘Not with poor Bishop Bateman dead from such a mixture.’
‘We do not know for certain he was poisoned,’ Bottisham pointed out. ‘The messenger said it was rumour, not fact. Still, I am told some poisons are impossible to detect once swallowed, so perhaps someone killed him with one of those.’
‘I suppose you know about such substances?’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew, stepping closer while the physician tried to hold his breath. ‘Which poisons to use in those sorts of circumstances?’
‘I do not,’ replied Bartholomew, feeling as though Tynkell was trying to recruit him for something sinister. A man like the Chancellor had plenty of enemies, and Bartholomew hoped he had not decided that what worked in Avignon would be suitable for use in Cambridge, and intended to employ a personal poisoner on his staff. He was aware that Rougham and Bottisham were eyeing him curiously, puzzled and intrigued by Tynkell’s questions.
‘What kind of poison killed Bateman, do you think?’ pressed Tynkell, his attention still firmly fixed on Bartholomew.
‘I really have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Chancellor would talk about something else. It was clear from the expression on Rougham’s face that he thought Tynkell might have some specific reason for asking his rival physician about such matters, and Bartholomew did not want him to leave with the impression that Michaelhouse men knew all about potions that could kill.
‘Well, think about it, and if anything occurs, let me know,’ said Tynkell, moving towards Michael and Langelee, who were conversing in low, serious voices. Bartholomew took a deep breath of untainted air, then became aware that Rougham and Bottisham were regarding him with distinct unease.
‘It is odd that he should choose to ask you about the nature of Bateman’s death,’ said Rougham bluntly, making it sound like an accusation.