‘He is dying,’ countered Rougham firmly. He turned to the crowd. ‘Bartholomew may be content to stand by and watch a man perish, but I, William Rougham of Gonville Hall, am not. Remember that when you next summon a physician.’
‘Wait, Rougham,’ began Bartholomew. ‘He has–’
‘We can discuss your refusal to save lives later,’ said Rougham harshly.
He turned around, and made a great show of preparing himself. With much grunting and wincing, to demonstrate that what he did was not easy, he knelt on the river bank and offered an arm to the figure in the water. Thorpe flopped towards it, took the proffered hand and gave an almighty heave. Rougham went into the water head first, to emerge coughing and spluttering some distance away. There was another howl of delighted amusement from the onlookers.
‘We shall remember you, William Rougham of Gonville Hall,’ called Agatha the laundress, drawing more mocking laughter from the crowd. ‘But I prefer my physicians dry, thank you!’
Thorpe hauled himself from the river with one easy, sinuous movement. He stalked over to Bartholomew, and, for an instant, the physician thought he might draw a knife or strike him with his balled fists. But Thorpe was not stupid, and was aware of Michael standing nearby, not to mention Agatha. Since harming Bartholomew and escaping unscathed was impossible – Michael had grabbed a stout stick, while Agatha was casually inspecting one of her cooking knives – Thorpe settled for a warning.
‘I will not forget this, physician,’ he hissed venomously. ‘Your time will come.’
‘Help me,’ came an unsteady voice from the river.
‘If you harm another woman,’ said Bartholomew, in a quiet, calm voice that held far more menace than Thorpe’s hiss, ‘I will make sure you never feel safe again. That is not a threat, because threats are not always carried out.’
He shouldered Thorpe out of the way with more force than was necessary, and knelt on the bank to offer his arm to the floundering Rougham, hoping the Gonville physician did not also intend to drag his rescuer into the water. But Rougham was far too shaken to do anything of the kind. He grasped Bartholomew’s hand with a grip that was painful, and allowed himself to be helped out, to lie on the grass gasping like a landed fish.
‘He could swim,’ he panted furiously. ‘He said he could not. He deceived me!’
‘My brother-in-law teaches all his apprentices to swim,’ said Bartholomew, removing his cloak and offering it to his shivering colleague. ‘It is an essential part of their training, because they unload barges at the quays, and they occasionally fall in. I tried to warn–’
Rougham snatched the shabby garment. ‘You deceived me, too,’ he declared. ‘You happily allowed me to fall foul of that trick. Thorpe is not the only one who will have his revenge.’
Michael sniggered at the sight of the portly physician waddling away up the towpath with water slopping from his boots. ‘I did not think Rougham could despise you any more than he already does, Matt, but I see I was wrong. You have achieved the impossible!’
‘It was his own fault for not listening to me.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden grin. ‘But it was worth it! Who would have thought we would see Rougham and Thorpe take an unintentional swim? But it is cold here with no cloak. I am going home.’
They had barely reached the bottom of St Michael’s Lane when they met Walter. The porter was wearing one of his rare smiles, and Bartholomew supposed he had been among those who had witnessed the lessons meted out at the riverside.
‘You are needed at Valence Marie, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Urgent. Someone has been struck down and they want you to come. In fact, Master Thorpe said he would pay you double if you run.’
‘You had better go to it, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘I shall return to Michaelhouse, and you can give me the grisly details later – but not while I am eating.’
‘It is Warde,’ elaborated Walter. ‘He was eating his evening meal, when he began to cough. He is unable to stop and they think he will die.’
‘You should come with me, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware of a gnawing unease growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Warde has a tickling throat, not a disease of the lungs. He should not cough so much that his colleagues are in fear of his life.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, alarmed. ‘That someone has done something to him?’
‘I think we should bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run, not because of the promised double fee, but because he liked Warde. ‘Do not forget that Warde is one of the King’s Commissioners.’
CHAPTER 8
Because the Hall of Valence Marie enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, money was no object for the scholars who lived there, and a good deal of it had been lavished on their home. The floor of the main hall had recently been relaid with mature oak, so that rugs and rushes were not needed to hide it, like those in most other Cambridge buildings. Its planks shone, carefully polished to show off the fine grain of the wood. The walls were adorned with tapestries sewn in bright colours, and their quality was so outstanding that Bartholomew assumed they must have been made by the Countess’s talented ladies-in-waiting.
At the far end of the hall was a new minstrels’ gallery. It, too, was made from best-quality oak, and had been seasoned and oiled to ensure it would last. The roof was a complex hammerbeam design, and had been painted in bright reds, golds and greens, so that students bored with their lectures could tip their heads back and lose themselves in the intricate patterns that swirled and twined above. Bartholomew was grateful that Michaelhouse had no such tempting distractions.
‘Quickly,’ called Master Thorpe from the dais at the far end of the hall. On the raised platform stood a table, which was generally regarded as one of the finest pieces of furniture in Cambridge, even better than the one in St Mary’s Guildhall, and was the envy of all the Colleges. Valence Marie Fellows had so much room, they were not obliged to sit sideways to make sure everyone had a place, and they had individual chairs rather than communal benches. Bartholomew ignored the brash luxury all around him, and strode to where Thorpe bent over someone who lay on the floor behind the table. Michael followed.
The Master of Valence Marie was white with shock, and his normally immaculate cap of silver hair was in disarray. His eyes were anguished as he watched Bartholomew approach. The other Fellows who clustered around him seemed equally appalled. Bartholomew recognised a man named Thomas Bingham among them; Bingham had stepped into Thorpe’s shoes while he was in York, and had upset his colleagues with his poor table manners.
‘We had just finished our evening meal, when Bingham began to wipe his teeth on the tablecloth again,’ explained Thorpe unsteadily. He scowled at his Fellow. ‘None of us like that, and Warde took issue with him. They argued and Warde started to cough. We took no notice at first, because he has been doing it for the last two weeks. You must have noticed him at the Disputatio de quodlibet?’
‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘But most people thought he was doing it to create an atmosphere of suspense – he started just as he was about to announce the winner.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bingham in a whisper. ‘I would not have quarrelled with him if I thought it would lead to this. Look what has happened.’ He gestured to the prostrate figure on the floor.
Bartholomew knelt to examine the stricken man. Warde’s lips were pale, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. He gripped his throat with one hand, while the other clutched a crucifix.
‘Help me,’ he croaked, terror in his eyes. ‘I cannot breathe. I am hot and my mind is spinning.’
‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew. He spoke softly, knowing a calm voice often soothed a patient’s anxiety, and helped to relax the constricting muscles that were part of the problem. He ordered the circle of onlookers away, thinking it would be better for Warde to recover without an audience. He heard Michael questioning them about what had happened, but they had little to add to Thorpe’s story. Warde had just consumed a broth of leeks and cabbage – from the bowl that had been shared by all – when he had argued with Bingham. After a few moments, he said he was short of breath. He then started to cough and fell to the floor, and Bartholomew had been summoned at Warde’s own request.