‘That couple barely have enough for bread, and only ask me to visit because I forget to charge them.’
‘I “forgot”, too,’ said Paxtone, removing the first of his urine flasks from a chest for Bartholomew to admire. ‘But that is not all I have done for you recently. Michael asked me to inspect a corpse for him a couple of weeks ago. I agreed, because you are my friend and I wanted to be of use, but I shall not do that again! I am a physician, not a Corpse Examiner, and I deal with the living, not the dead.’
‘I used to think that, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the flask and thinking nostalgically of the days when his time had been filled solely with healing and teaching. ‘But the additional income from examining bodies is very useful – it is how I provide medicines for patients like the one you saw last night. Besides, I have learned a great deal from corpses that can be applied to the quick.’
‘Anatomy,’ said Paxtone with distaste, taking the flask from Bartholomew and presenting him with another. ‘I hear they are teaching that at the Italian universities these days, but I shall have nothing to do with it. Christian men do not prod about inside the dead. That is for pagans and heretics.’
‘What I do is hardly anatomy,’ protested Bartholomew, who had never dissected a corpse in his life, although he would not have objected to doing so. He had been an observer at several dismemberments at the University in Padua, and believed much could be gained from the practice. He turned the flask over in his hands as he spoke. It really was a fine thing, made from thin glass that would allow the urine to be seen clearly through it from any angle. ‘I only assess the-’
‘I do not care,’ interrupted Paxtone firmly. ‘I did not like looking at the dead man from Oxford, and I shall not oblige you again. I told Michael as much.’
‘What did you learn from Okehamptone’s cadaver?’ Bartholomew asked absently, wondering whether there had been a wound on the body’s wrist, like the one on Chesterfelde’s.
‘Learn?’ echoed Paxtone in distaste. ‘Nothing. His companions said he had died from a fever.’
‘But you examined the body, to make sure they were telling the truth. So, what did you-?’
‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Paxtone fervently. ‘Michael left me alone with the thing, and told me to “get on with it”, to quote his eloquent phrasing. But I saw no reason to disbelieve an honest man like Warden Duraunt, so I knelt next to Okehamptone and prayed for his soul. I considered that far more valuable than poking around his person. Besides, we all know corpses harbour diseases. I do not know how you have lived so long, given your penchant for them.’ He presented another flask with a flourish. It was beautifully engraved; clearly he had saved the best for last.
‘So, the only reason you know Okehamptone died from a fever is because his companions told you so?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the object without seeing it.
‘No,’ said Paxtone shortly. ‘I knew because there was a thick blanket around his body and one of those liripipes – a combined hood and scarf – enveloping his head and neck. In short, the corpse was dressed just like any man who had been laid low with an ague in his last hours. I possess some common sense, you know.’
‘You did not strip the body, to see if there was a dent in his head or a wound under these clothes?’
‘Is that what you do?’ Paxtone was clearly repelled and did not wait for a reply. ‘Well, such a distasteful task was not necessary in this case, because Okehamptone looked exactly like a man who had died of a fever: bloodless around the lips and chalk-faced. Besides, there were seven people at Merton Hall, and they all told the same story: Okehamptone contracted some virulent contagion on the way to Cambridge and died the night they arrived. They have no reason to lie.’
Bartholomew was not so sure, given what had subsequently happened to Chesterfelde, but Paxtone reminded him that Okehamptone had been in his grave almost two weeks, and they could scarcely dig him up to confirm the diagnosis. There was nothing he could do to rectify Paxtone’s ineptitude, and it was none of his affair anyway. He put the matter from his mind and concentrated on the flasks. After each bottle had been re-examined and admired, Paxtone offered to show him his new clyster pipes, too, stored in a shed in the garden. He led Bartholomew into the yard, where Michael was waiting.
‘I smell smoked pork,’ said Michael as they approached.
‘We always dine well on Mondays,’ said Paxtone, a little smugly, aware that Michaelhouse fare was mediocre on a good day and downright execrable on a bad one.
Michael watched a student trot across the courtyard and begin to pull on a bell rope. Tinny clangs echoed around the College. ‘Is it not a little late for breakfast?’ he asked, rubbing his stomach in a way that declared to even the most obtuse of observers that he was peckish.
‘The bell is for our mid-morning collation – it tides the more ravenous over until noon.’ Paxtone smiled engagingly. ‘We are going to see my clyster pipes. Would you like to come?’
‘I am ravenous,’ declared Michael, opting for brazen, now that subtle had failed. ‘And not for the sight of clyster pipes, either. I am sure there is room at your high table for a slender man like me.’
Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael was the last man who could be called slender, and the physician was worried that his overly ample girth meant he could no longer move at speed. It was not just friendly concern, either: he was aware that if he chased wrongdoers on Michael’s behalf, then he would be fighting them alone until the fat monk managed to waddle to his aid.
‘There is always room for friends,’ said Paxtone. ‘Would you like to eat before or after you see the clyster pipes.’
‘Before,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could respond. The physician grimaced, knowing he would be unlikely to see Paxtone’s enema equipment that day, because once Michael had been fed, they would have to visit Dickon.
The King’s Hall refectory was a sumptuous affair, with wall hangings giving the large room a cosy but affluent feel. Since monarchs and nobles often graced it with their presence, the Warden and his Fellows were in constant readiness to receive them, with the result that they lived like kings and barons themselves most of the time. Their hall was furnished with splendid oak tables and benches, a far cry from the rough elm, which splintered easily and was a menace to fingers and clothes, that Bartholomew was used to in Michaelhouse. There was no need to scatter the floor with rushes, for the polished wood was a beauty to behold. Bowls of fresh herbs and lavender stood along the windowsills, while servants burned pine cones in the hearth; the scent of them along with the smell of bread and smoked meat was almost intoxicating.
Paxtone led his guests to a raised dais near the hearth, and gestured that they were to sit on either side of him. Several men were already there, and nodded amiably to the newcomers. Bartholomew noticed that they did not seem surprised or discomfited by their unexpected guests; at Michaelhouse it would have meant a shortage of food.
Bartholomew found himself sitting next to a man called John de Norton, who was something of a scandal, for he had been admitted to a College despite the fact that he could barely read and knew virtually no Latin. He could, however, pay handsomely for the privilege of a University education, and made no secret of the fact that he intended to use his sojourn in Cambridge to further his career at Court. He spent a good deal of time cultivating friendships with men he thought would later become similarly successful, ready for the time when they would be in a position to trade favours.