The scholar on gate duty that day was John of Ufford. Bartholomew recalled Redmeadow telling him that Mortimer and Thorpe had picked a fight with Ufford, and folk had been surprised when he was trounced. Ufford was the son of an earl, and therefore trained in the arts of swordplay, battle tactics and horsemanship. The fact that the two exiles had beaten him said a good deal for the skills they had learned in France. Ufford had a cut on his nose, and was limping. The sore on his mouth had all but healed, though, and Bartholomew supposed he had taken his advice about its care when they had met before the Disputatio de quodlibet.
‘I was not even doing anything,’ said Ufford indignantly. ‘I was outside St Mary the Great, thanking the Hand for not letting me contract leprosy, when they started to pick on me. I drew my dagger, thinking the sight of it would see them off, but they pulled out their own and I was defeated.’ He shook his head, as if he could not imagine how such a thing had happened.
‘Then you must have been dismayed when you learned Thorpe had inveigled himself a home in your own College,’ said Michael.
Ufford grimaced. ‘I was not dismayed – I was furious! But, fortunately for all concerned, Thorpe is rarely here. I think he just wanted to prove to his father that he could secure his own place in the University. It is common knowledge that Valence Marie refused to accept him.’
‘Where is your Master?’ asked Michael, looking around at a College that appeared to be deserted. ‘We need to ask him questions about Bottisham, and I was told all the Fellows would be here today.’
‘Master Colton is – was – with Bishop Bateman at Avignon,’ replied Ufford. ‘He has been the Bishop’s chief clerk for some years now. Their relationship is rather like the one you enjoy with the Bishop of Ely, Brother – except that Colton does not spy for Bateman, and you probably do not want to be your bishop’s replacement.’
Michael stared at him, amusement glinting in the depths of the green eyes that were so uncannily like his grandmother’s. ‘You speak very plainly, Ufford! However, I assure you that I do not spy for the Bishop of Ely, nor would I refuse his see, should it ever be offered to me. But I had forgotten Colton is away. How do you manage without him?’
‘We are used to his absences, and the College is run very ably by Acting Master Pulham.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘It must have been a bitter blow for you to learn of Bateman’s death.’
‘Very bitter,’ agreed Ufford. ‘He was a good man, and generous to us. But you are in luck, Brother. Here are my colleagues now, back from their devotions at St Mary the Great.’
Bartholomew watched Ufford open the gate a second time, to allow the scholars of Gonville Hall inside. They were a neat, sober group, older than those at most other Colleges and hostels, because they had been selected by Bishop Bateman himself – and Bateman had a preference for established scholars over young students. His reasons were understandable: older men were less inclined to join in the frequent brawls that marred the town, and so were less likely to bring his institution into disrepute.
Bartholomew recognised all the Fellows at the head of the procession, and a few of the students behind. Leading the way was Acting Master Pulham with his Cistercian habit and colossal ears, while Rougham the physician was close on his heels. Next came a gentle friar called Henry of Thompson, who hailed from a famous college of priests in south Norfolk. Finally, there was a nobleman named Henry Despenser, who was said to be destined for great things in the Church.
‘Brother Michael,’ said Pulham genially. ‘I am sorry we were not available to see you yesterday. Come to our library for a cup of warmed ale. And while we are there, you might care to inspect a tome or two. We sold Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum to the Chancellor yesterday, and you might be interested in other items we have for sale.’ He sounded hopeful.
‘You are selling your books?’ asked Bartholomew, who would rather have starved than part with one of his own. He thought about the large and extravagant meals for which Gonville was famous, and wondered why they did not economise on food instead. ‘Why?’
‘Just the few we do not use,’ replied Pulham. ‘To raise funds for our chapel.’
‘We will soon have the books from Bateman’s private library,’ said Rougham boastfully. ‘He is certain to have remembered us in his will. So, we are ridding ourselves of rubbish we would never consider using anyway – like the Bacon, and the Trotula scroll I sold to that whore.’ He glanced at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye, so the physician was sure his words were intentionally insulting on two fronts: Bartholomew’s fondness for unorthodox medicine and for Matilde.
He rose to the bait, ignoring Michael’s warning elbow in the ribs. Some discourtesies were simply too grave to be ignored. ‘No gentleman slanders a lady’s good name,’ he said coldly. ‘Your slur reflects more poorly on you than it does on her.’
Rougham glowered. ‘Are you questioning my breeding, sir?’ he demanded archly.
‘If your breeding is reflected in your manners, then I am,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is–’
‘Warm ale, did you say?’ interrupted Michael, in an attempt to prevent a quarrel. He wanted the Gonville Fellows’ co-operation in the matter of Bottisham’s death. ‘In the library?’
‘This way,’ said Pulham hastily, indicating the direction with his hand. But Rougham was not to be silenced.
‘Trotula is foreign rubbish,’ he said, following the Acting Master across the yard, although he had the sense to let the matter lie regarding Matilde. ‘I only ever use Latin or Greek texts in my classes.’
‘They are foreign,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Ancient Greece was very different to the Greece of today,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘And Trotula was from Salerno.’ The tone of his voice made it sound akin to Sodom or Gomorrah. ‘Her medical knowledge was confined to adultery and poisoning. Just like the Arabs, in fact.’
Bartholomew gazed at him, somewhat startled. Rougham knew Bartholomew’s own teacher had been an Arab – many of the ‘unorthodox’ treatments he had learned from Ibn Ibrahim had actually been known in the eastern world for centuries – and so his comments were clearly intended to be offensive. The expression on Rougham’s face was challenging, but Bartholomew quickly suppressed the raft of tart responses that flooded into his mind, and decided to ignore the man. He assumed Rougham was just in a bad mood, and his inflammatory statements were not worth arguing over – especially if to do so would interfere with the investigation into Bottisham’s death.
They entered the library, and sat on the benches that had been placed around the walls. A fire was burning in the hearth, and the room smelled of peat smoke, polished wood and ancient parchment. It was an agreeable aroma, and one that reminded Bartholomew of his Oxford days, when he had studied long hours in the library at Merton. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself back there, unplagued by worries like purchasing medicines for impoverished patients, bitter rival physicians, and the violent deaths of colleagues. It was peaceful; the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of a page turning.
Pulham fussed over jugs and goblets, then presented his guests with cups so full he was obliged to carry each in both hands, gnawing at his lower lip as he concentrated on not spilling any.
‘As you have probably surmised, we are here to talk about Bottisham,’ said Michael, when he had drained his goblet dry to prevent accidents. He did not approve of liquids near books. ‘We are deeply sorry about what happened to him. He was a kindly man, and he will be missed.’
‘Kindly?’ asked Rougham icily. ‘How do you know what he was like?’