That day, he was summoned to the home of a woman with an excess of choler in the stomach, and knew she would be much more comfortable if she drank a solution of chalk and charcoal, mixed with poppy juice. But the patient was Una, one of the town’s more desperate prostitutes, and she needed to spend her meagre earnings on bread and rent; medicine was an unthinkable luxury. He glanced around her hovel, noting the holes in the roof, the gaps in the wall, and the mean little fire in the hearth.
He asked for a sample of urine, then showed the students how to assess it for various maladies. All three scribbled notes furiously on scraps of parchment. Redmeadow dropped his pen in his desperation to write, and had to grovel on the floor to retrieve it from under a bench. As he stretched out his hand, he exposed the sleeve of his tunic, and Bartholomew saw it was ingrained with dust and dirt. Bartholomew assumed he had been earning extra pennies by drudging for Agatha in the kitchens. Like Quenhyth, Redmeadow was not a wealthy student, and was often obliged to undertake menial tasks in an effort to make ends meet.
‘I saw you last night, Doctor,’ said Una mischievously, when the consultation was over and the students started to argue among themselves about the reason for the sudden decline in Michaelhouse victuals. They paid her and their teacher no attention.
‘I saw you, too,’ Bartholomew replied, smiling as he sat on the bench. ‘Or rather, I heard you. You were at Cheney’s house. Incidentally, he fed you acidic wine that upset your humours. You should demand a better-quality brew from him in the future.’
She grimaced. ‘I wondered why he took his own claret from a different jug. But I watched you go inside Deschalers’s home, and I saw someone else run out a little later. Did you startle a burglar? I am not surprised someone chanced his hand. Deschalers’s house will offer handsome pickings, and the whole town knew he was not in a position to defend his property last night.’
‘The burglar climbed out of a window at the back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then he made good his escape down the alley that leads to the river.’
‘No, he left through the front door,’ argued Una. ‘After you and the fat monk had gone inside. I saw him with my own eyes – although Cheney’s wine made me feel as though I had six of them.’
‘Perhaps he doubled back,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she had probably seen Michael or the elderly servant. Or perhaps she had confused the sequence of events, and had watched the burglar entering the house rather than leaving it.
‘Perhaps.’ She winced and put a hand on her stomach as she was gripped by another spasm of pain. ‘This hurts, Doctor. There must be something that can relieve it. I hear you always carry strong wine to use as medicine. Will you give me some of that?’
‘It would make you worse,’ said Bartholomew. He left her house, fuming silently that rich merchants could have whatever they liked, while Una would not eat that day if she did not secure herself some customers. It was unjust, and he fully empathised with the growing unrest among folk who were clamouring for better pay and wanting to narrow the gap between rich and poor. He recalled the disturbances in Ely the previous summer, when men had risked the King’s displeasure by instigating insurrection among the peasantry.
He was still fretting about the problem when he met a messenger with an order to attend Tynkell at the Church of St Mary the Great. Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman immediately began to speculate about why an august personage like the Chancellor should want Bartholomew to visit him. Bartholomew hoped it was nothing to do with the curious discussion about poisons they had had after the Disputatio de quodlibet. He doubted it was anything to do with the mill deaths, because Michael would have answered any questions arising from that.
‘Perhaps Tynkell wants you to take his place,’ suggested Quenhyth sycophantically. ‘He has been in office for three years now, and he may have decided it is time for a change.’
‘I think Brother Michael might have something to say about that,’ said Redmeadow. ‘He intends to be the next Chancellor. And chancellors are elected, anyway. It is not for Tynkell to appoint one.’
‘Perhaps he is with child and knows you are better with women’s matters than Rougham and Paxtone,’ suggested Deynman.
Bartholomew regarded his cheery-faced student warily, while the other two students clutched each other in helpless laughter. ‘How could Chancellor Tynkell be pregnant?’
Deynman blushed furiously. ‘Surely you do not need me to explain that process? It happens when a husband and his wife come together, and–’
‘That is not what I meant,’ interrupted Bartholomew, amused by Deynman’s prim notion that the making of children occurred only between married couples. ‘I was referring to the fact that Tynkell is a man – and men do not bear children.’
‘Some do,’ said Deynman, round-eyed. ‘I read it in Aristotle last night. He said that the sex of hermaphrodites is determined by whether they prefer the clothing of males or females. Although Tynkell was baptised a man, he obviously prefers wimples and gowns, and he will soon bear a child.’
Not for the first time, Bartholomew thought how dangerous a little knowledge could be in the mind of someone like Deynman. He struggled to explain in words he thought the lad might comprehend. ‘Aristotle actually said that hermaphrodites should be considered men or women depending on their ability to copulate – nothing to do with clothes or bearing children. But why have you attributed this particular condition to Tynkell?’
‘He is always rubbing his stomach,’ said Deynman, as though no further explanation were necessary. He glanced at his teacher, saw his confused expression, and hastened to elaborate. ‘Labour pains. All pregnant women have them.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, aware that Redmeadow and Quenhyth were almost in tears as they attempted to suppress their amusement. ‘Is that all?’
‘And because he never bathes,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘He does not want anyone to know of his circumstances, because, as a woman, he would not be permitted to be Chancellor. By never bathing – and thus never revealing any minute portion of his flesh – he ensures his secret remains safe.’
‘Except from you,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how he would ever solve the problem that Deynman had become. At some point the student was going to realise that he could study for the rest of his life and still not be good enough to pass his disputations, and then he would leave Cambridge and descend on some unsuspecting settlement to ply his ‘skills’. Not all physicians completed their University studies, and there were many who had never attended a school at all. However, Deynman could honestly say that he had studied longer than most, and prospective patients would be impressed. Bartholomew felt a sudden stab of fear, knowing it was only a matter of time before Deynman did someone some serious harm.
‘Why are Una’s humours unbalanced?’ asked Redmeadow, wiping his eyes and attempting to bring the discussion back to the patient they had just visited. ‘Is it because she spends too much time romping with men she does not know?’
Bartholomew applied himself to answering, noticing how Quenhyth and Deynman hurried to emulate Redmeadow, and extract scraps of parchment from their scrips and jot down notes. He talked about the delicate balance of humours in the stomach, and how Una had an excess of acid bile that needed to be brought under control. Redmeadow and Deynman listened, then lagged behind when they felt they had heard enough. Quenhyth, however, was still full of questions.