Isobel was sitting behind the counter sewing, while her husband haggled with Robert Thorpe, the Master of Valence Marie. Thorpe was a tall, slender man with a neat cap of silver hair. He looked tired, and Bartholomew wondered whether he lost sleep worrying about his son, or whether Warde’s irritating cough still kept his colleagues from their rest.
‘Why, hello,’ said Isobel, standing to greet Bartholomew. She leaned across the counter in a way that was sure to reveal that her kirtle was unusually low cut. He heard a strangled gasp from Redmeadow, and was aware of the three students jostling for space behind him. Isobel rewarded them with one of her sultry looks, all fluttering lashes and smouldering eyes. She indicated the garment she had been making, and turned her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I have been sewing a tunic for Chancellor Tynkell and it is almost finished. Perhaps you could ask him to collect it, when you see him.’
‘I seldom meet him,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But one of my students–’
‘I will take a message,’ said Deynman, pushing forward, eager to offer his assistance.
‘No, me,’ said Redmeadow. Quenhyth looked as though he would dearly like to compete, too, but he preferred to retain a dignified aloofness in front of Isobel. He stood quietly as his classmates vied for her attention.
‘You can both go,’ said Isobel, favouring them with a wink that promised all sorts of favours when they returned. They darted from the shop to do her bidding, while Bartholomew glanced uneasily at her husband, hoping he had not noticed. He did not want it said that Michaelhouse students tried to ravish the wives of wealthy merchants, regardless of who had been seducing whom. But Lavenham’s attention was on his customer, and Isobel was free to do as she pleased.
‘It is an odd shape,’ he said, nodding to the linen item Isobel shook out to fold.
‘So is Tynkell,’ she replied. ‘But you probably have not noticed it under his academic robes. He says it is difficult to find clothes he likes, and regards me as something of a treasure, because I do not mind how he wants his undergarments sewn.’
‘Have you seen him without them on?’ Bartholomew asked, medical curiosity making him forget that it was an inappropriate question to ask a lady while her husband was in the room.
Even Isobel seemed taken aback by his candour. ‘I have not!’ she said, half shocked and half amused. ‘He is a very private man, and disapproves of physical flaunting. That is what he told me. I do not know of anyone who has seen him dishabille.’
As she leaned across the counter, her bosom straining at its confines, Bartholomew knew exactly why the Chancellor had raised such a subject. Of all members of the University he was the one who could least afford to be seen breaking the rules regarding women, and the physician supposed Tynkell had been warning Isobel to keep her cleavage to herself. He wondered whether Tynkell’s penchant for peculiarly moulded undergarments was evidence of the condition Deynman had ascribed to him, but knew it was equally likely that he was just a man who liked his clothes made in a certain way. Bartholomew empathised, since he preferred unfashionably loose leggings to the modern trend for tight hose.
‘I need some Pastilli Adronis,’ he said, changing the subject before they embarrassed each other further. ‘I ordered it last week.’
‘Here,’ said Isobel, reaching for a package on a high shelf, careful to reveal a goodly portion of leg as she did so. ‘It has been ready since yesterday, and I was beginning to think you did not want it.’ She waggled her hips to indicate that he should have fetched it sooner.
‘And resin of henbane,’ added Bartholomew, tearing his eyes away. ‘For Isnard’s fleas.’
‘An excellent solution,’ said Isobel, disappearing into the back room. There was a jangle of keys and the sound of a cupboard being opened and closed. ‘Fleas can drive men mad when they are confined to their beds. But henbane is a dangerous substance – especially ours, which is highly concentrated. You must tell him not to ingest it.’
‘I will make a decoction for soaking his clothes. It will smell too bad for him to drink.’
‘Isnard will drink anything,’ said Isobel, truthfully enough. Bartholomew realised he might have to add something even more rankly aromatic to prevent the bargeman from testing whether the flea-killer had pleasant intoxicating effects.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ called Lavenham, spotting him and taking the trouble to court a man who, as a physician, was obliged to do a good deal of business with him. ‘I hope you are well.’ He looked pleased with himself and Bartholomew supposed he had been practising his English, since it was the first grammatically correct sentence he had heard the man utter.
Master Thorpe glanced up from his examination of a milky-red solution in a small pottery phial. He held it out for the physician to inspect. ‘What do you think of this?’
‘Watyr of Snayels,’ said Bartholomew, reading the tiny letters on the label. ‘Nasty.’
‘Nasty, no!’ exclaimed Lavenham, affronted. His English took a downward turn as he began to defend himself. ‘He is purest quality, and he took my apprentice three day to made.’
‘What is it for?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that it was none of his affair. Water of Snails was an old-fashioned remedy that was seldom used, and he saw that Lavenham’s concoction had not been properly filtered through sand, as Galen recommended, because it was murky. He thought swallowing such a tincture would probably do little good, and might even cause some harm.
‘It is for Warde,’ replied Master Thorpe. ‘He cannot rid himself of his cough, and none of us have slept in days because of it.’ He regarded the phial doubtfully. ‘I do not know how I shall persuade him to drink this, though. I would not want snail juice washing around inside me.’
‘Rougham recommended it,’ said Isobel.
‘What do you think?’ asked Master Thorpe, still regarding the bottle with rank suspicion. ‘Should I buy it? Or shall we persist with the syrups instead? Warde does not mind taking those.’
‘Water of Snails has proven effective, if there is nothing else,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously.
‘But you would not swallow it yourself,’ surmised Master Thorpe, reading Bartholomew’s mind. He thrust the phial back into Lavenham’s unwilling hands. ‘Thank you, apothecary, but I think I will decline. What shall I have instead, Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew was uncomfortable; it was not good manners to recommend cures for other physicians’ patients. ‘You must ask Rougham. It is not for me to interfere.’
‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Master Thorpe. ‘He is always recommending alternative therapies to your patients, so I do not see why you should not do the same for his. He told Father William – he is yours – to drink fig juice to purge his bowels the other day, when he complained of a sore head.’
‘Then try powdered angelica root,’ suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether William was foolish enough to believe that purged bowels would cure a headache. ‘Mix it with wine.’
‘That sounds like something he would accept,’ said Master Thorpe with satisfaction, as Isobel went to the back room to fetch some. ‘Thank you. I–’
What he was about to say was drowned by a low rumble, followed by a good deal of laughter from the apprentices. Isobel appeared with her hands on her hips and an angry expression.
‘That pile of firewood you insist on gathering has collapsed,’ she snapped to her husband. ‘How much longer will it be before you stack it inside the shed? It will be no good for burning if it rains.’