‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham was going to work for them, as one of their lawyers.’
‘Quite,’ said Warde. ‘And who wants a clerk so scrupulous that he will lose a case before resorting to dishonesty? However, I have heard that no one else was in the mill when Deschalers and Bottisham died, so I am doubtless wrong in my speculations. What did you think of my lecture at Merton Hall last Wednesday?’
‘The one about the neglect of mathematics in academic studies?’ asked Bartholomew, casting his mind back to the lively debate that had taken place the morning before Isnard and Lenne were crushed by Mortimer’s cart. ‘You are right: mathematical principles underlie our most basic philosophical tenets, and we should ensure our students are well versed in their application.’
‘Because of that lecture, Doctor Bartholomew is going to talk about Euclid’s Elementa all day,’ said Quenhyth to Warde, clearly less than happy about the prospect. ‘Particularly the theory that parallel lines will never meet, even in an infinite universe.’
‘Good,’ said Warde, rubbing his hands over his oily yellow hair and coughing a little. ‘There is nothing like the Elementa to drive cobwebs from the mind.’
‘God must be able to make parallel lines meet,’ said Redmeadow thoughtfully. ‘He is omnipotent, after all, and it cannot be that hard to do.’
‘I imagine He has better things to do than confound Euclidean geometric universals,’ said Warde. A smile took the sting from his words. ‘Hah! There is Rougham. I must consult with him again about my cough.’
Rougham was in a hurry. He strode along the street in a flurry of flapping sleeves and billowing cloak, showing all who saw him that here was a man with important business to attend. It gave the impression that he was much in demand, and that patients who secured his services were gaining the attention of a man who knew what he was about. He carried a thick book by Galen, to indicate that he was learned as well as busy, but was not burdened down with battered bags full of potions and knives, like a common surgeon. Despite the fact that his rapid progress indicated that he had not a moment to spare before descending on his next lucky customer, he was prepared to stop and talk to Warde.
‘The syrup of blackcurrants did not work?’ he asked, making a show of consulting his book, although Bartholomew was certain Galen never mentioned this particular fruit in his analysis of foods with medicinal qualities. He said nothing, but Quenhyth was not so prudent.
‘Galen does not talk about blackcurrants in that,’ he declared, tapping a bony, ragged-nailed finger on Rougham’s tome. ‘He discusses blackberries, but not blackcurrants.’
If Quenhyth expected Rougham to be grateful for having his mistake pointed out in front of a patient, he was to be disappointed. ‘What do you know about physic, boy? You do not even know the difference between calamint and catmint.’
‘That was not me,’ objected Quenhyth indignantly. ‘It was Redmeadow. But that is beside the point. There is nothing about blackcurrants in Galen.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Is there?’
‘We should be on our way,’ said Bartholomew tactfully. ‘We can talk about Galen as we go.’
‘No!’ cried Quenhyth stubbornly. ‘I am right. Tell him!’
‘Do you see this boy?’ roared Rougham suddenly, addressing the people who were nearby. Some stopped to listen, and Warde began to cough in agitation, uncomfortable with the scene Rougham was about to create. Redmeadow simply turned and fled, and Bartholomew wished he could do the same. ‘He thinks he is a great physician who can challenge his betters. But I advise you all to let him nowhere near you, because he will kill you with his inexperience and foolishness.’
Quenhyth’s normally pallid skin flushed a deep red. ‘I will not! I am–’
‘An imbecile,’ said Rougham, cutting through the student’s stammering objections. ‘A dangerous fool. Take my warning seriously, friends, or he will bring about your deaths with false remedies.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew quietly, moved by the tears of humiliation that spilled down Quenhyth’s downy cheeks. ‘He will make a good physician one day, and he is right about the blackcurrants. Galen does not mention them.’
‘I said blackberries,’ asserted Rougham loudly. He opened the book and pointed to a spot on the page, waving it far too close to the physician’s face for him to be able to read it. ‘Here. Do you see that? You are as bad as your dithering, blundering student.’
He snapped the book closed and stalked away. Quenhyth gazed after him, tears staining his face and his hands clenched at his sides. He was shaking so much that Bartholomew put an arm around his shoulders, but Quenhyth knocked it away. Seeing the show was over, people began to disperse, some laughing at the sight of physicians quarrelling publicly.
‘He did say blackcurrants,’ said Warde kindly to Quenhyth. ‘And he recommended blackcurrant syrup to me.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Does this mean I asked Lavenham for the wrong thing?’
‘Someone spoke mine name?’ asked the apothecary, who happened to be passing with Cheney the spice merchant and Bernarde the miller. Their heads were down, as though they had been deep in serious conversation. ‘I here.’
‘I need a potion of blackberries for my cough,’ said Warde. ‘Do you have one?’
‘I give blackcurrant,’ said Lavenham in surprise. ‘Blackberry now? You want all black potions future? Bartholomew give black medicine for black bile. Charcoal for Una the prosperous–’
‘Una the prostitute,’ corrected Bernarde, jangling his keys. ‘She is not prosperous at all.’
‘She should charge her customers more, then,’ said Cheney, as though the solution to Una’s poverty was obvious. ‘These women call themselves the Guild of Frail Sisters, but then they cheat themselves by charging ridiculously low amounts for their services.’
‘They cannot demand too much,’ said Bernarde. It seemed he, too, was intimately acquainted with the Frail Sisters’ economic shortcomings. ‘Or men would just take what they could not afford. That happened with flour after the Death – people had no money, so they stormed the mill and stole what they needed. The Frail Sisters will not want that to happen to them.’
‘And there is issue for quality,’ added Lavenham knowledgeably. ‘Una do not ask much, because she not good. Not like Yolande de Blaston, who ask more, and is very good when she can be got.’
‘We should go,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to become engaged in a public discussion about the town’s prostitutes. ‘Come on, Quenhyth.’
‘Rougham did not have to do that,’ sniffed Quenhyth, as he and Bartholomew left the burgeoning conversation about the town’s Frail Sisters and their value for money. Warde waited for it to finish so that he could order Rougham’s next ineffective remedy. Although syrups were good for coughs of short duration, Bartholomew felt Warde’s had lingered long enough to warrant something more powerful, and hoped Rougham would soon prescribe a remedy that might work.
‘Rougham was unkind,’ he agreed. ‘But do not take his words to heart.’
‘He confused me with Redmeadow,’ said Quenhyth in a broken voice. ‘That is the only explanation. I do not see why else he should attack me.’
‘There is Bess,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract him from his misery. ‘Shall we talk to her, and see whether she is more rational today?’
‘No,’ said Quenhyth, beginning to weep again. ‘I do not want to talk to anyone. I want to go to our room and hide. If you had not stepped in, he would still be abusing me now. I hate him! How can I visit your patients now? They will laugh at me and say I am not fit to be in their presence!’
‘They will not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He took a phial from his bag that contained medicine for Isnard. It had to be delivered daily, because the bargeman had already tried to swallow a month’s worth in the mistaken belief that a larger dose would speed his recovery. ‘Take this to Isnard and ensure he takes it. Then check his pulse and ask him how he feels. If you conduct his daily examination, then I will not need to visit him today.’