A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 1

October 1357, Cambridge

The scream echoed along Milne Street a second time. Doors were opening, lights flickered under window shutters, and voices murmured as neighbours were startled awake. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, broke into a run. Folk were beginning to emerge from their houses, asking each other why Edith Stanmore was making such an unholy racket in the middle of the night. The noise was coming from her house, was it not?

It was cold for the time of year, and Bartholomew could see his breath pluming in front of him as he sprinted along the road; it was illuminated by the faint gleam of the lamp his book-bearer, Cynric, was holding. There was rain in the air, too, spiteful little droplets carried in a bitter wind that stung where they hit. He glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge the hour. Other than the disturbance caused by the howls, the town was silent, and the velvety blackness indicated it was the darkest part of the night, perhaps one or two o’clock.

‘What is happening?’ called one of Milne Street’s residents, peering out of his door. It was Robert de Blaston the carpenter; his wife Yolande was behind him. ‘Who is making that awful noise? Is it your sister? I can see from here that her lamps are lit.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped it was not Edith howling in such agony. She was his older sister, who had raised him after the early death of their parents, and he loved her dearly. Stomach churning, he forced himself to slow down as he negotiated his way past Blaston’s home. The recent addition of twins to the carpenter’s ever-expanding brood meant they had been forced to move to a larger property, and he was in the process of renovating it; the road outside was littered with scaffolding, wood and discarded pieces of rope. Bartholomew’s instinct was to ignore the hazard and race as fast as he could to Edith’s house, but common sense prevailed – he would be no use to her if he tripped and knocked himself senseless.

‘It is not Edith – it is a woman in labour,’ said Yolande, seeing his stricken expression and hastening to reassure him. Bartholomew supposed she knew what she was talking about: the twins brought her number of offspring to fourteen. ‘Edith must have taken in a Frail Sister.’

Bartholomew faltered. A lady named Matilde had coined that particular phrase, as a sympathetic way of referring to Cambridge’s prostitutes. He had been on the verge of asking Matilde to marry him, but had dallied too long, and she had left the town more than two years before without ever knowing his intentions. It had been one of the worst days of his life, and even the expression ‘Frail Sisters’ was enough to make him reflect on all that his hesitancy had caused him to lose. But he came to his senses sharply when he blundered into some of Blaston’s building paraphernalia and became hopelessly entangled.

‘There are more Frail Sisters than usual,’ Yolande went on, watching her husband try to free him – a task not made any easier by the physician’s agitated struggles. ‘Summer came too early and spoiled the crops, so a lot of women are forced to earn money any way they can.’

Another cry shattered the silence of the night. In desperation, Bartholomew pulled a surgical knife from his medical bag and began to hack at the rope that had wrapped itself around his foot. He could not really see what he was doing, and the carpenter jerked away in alarm.

‘I cannot imagine why you are in such a hurry,’ Blaston muttered, standing well back. ‘You are not a midwife, so you are not obliged to attend pregnant–’

‘He is different from the other physicians,’ interrupted Yolande briskly. ‘The Frail Sisters trust him with their personal ailments, because Matilde said they could.’

Suddenly, Bartholomew was free. He began to run again, aiming for the faint gleam ahead that represented his book-bearer’s lamp. Cynric, of course, was far too nimble to become enmeshed in the carpenter’s carelessly strewn materials. There were two more wails before the physician reached Edith’s house, and without bothering to knock, he flung open the door and rushed inside.

Edith’s husband, Oswald Stanmore, was a wealthy merchant, and his Milne Street property was luxurious. Thick woollen rugs were scattered on the floor, and fine tapestries hung on the walls. Not for him the stinking tallow candles used by most people; his were beeswax, and gave off the sweet scent of honey. A number were lit, casting an amber glow around the room. They illuminated Edith, kneeling next to someone who flailed and moaned. The rugs beneath the patient were soaked in blood; there was far too much of it, and Bartholomew knew he had been called too late.

‘Thank God you are here, Matt!’ Edith cried when she saw him. Her face was pale and frightened. ‘Mother Coton says she does not know what else to try.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank. Mother Coton was the town’s best midwife, and if she was stumped for solutions, then he was unlikely to do any better. He knelt next to the writhing woman and touched her face. It was cold and clammy, and her breathing was shallow. He had been expecting someone younger, and was surprised to see a woman well into her forties. Her body convulsed as she was seized by another contraction, and the scream that accompanied it was loud enough to hurt his ears.

‘It is getting worse,’ said Edith in a choked voice. ‘Do something!’

‘She took a potion to rid herself of her child,’ explained Mother Coton. She was a large, competent person, whose thick grey hair was bundled into a neat coif. ‘Pennyroyal, most likely.’

‘No,’ objected Edith. ‘I am sure she–’

‘I know the symptoms,’ interrupted Mother Coton quietly. ‘I have seen them hundreds of times. She brought this on herself.’

‘But Joan wanted this child,’ cried Edith, distressed. ‘She had all but given up hope of providing her husband with an heir, and was delighted when she learned she was pregnant.’

Mother Coton declined to argue. She turned to the physician. ‘Can you save her? You snatched Yolande de Blaston from the jaws of death after I told her family to expect the worst. God knows how – witchcraft, probably. Will you do the same for this woman?’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, hating the dismay that immediately flooded into Edith’s face. It upset him so much that he barely registered why Mother Coton thought he had been successful with Yolande; he was used to people assuming his medical triumphs owed more to sorcery than book-learning and a long apprenticeship with a talented Arab medicus, but he did not like it, and usually made a point of telling them they were mistaken. ‘I can only ease her passing.’

‘No!’ shouted Edith, beginning to cry. ‘You must help her. Please, Matt!’

Her tears tore at his heart, but she was asking the impossible. He began to drip a concentrated form of poppy juice between the dying woman’s lips, hoping it would dull the pain and make her last few moments more bearable.

‘I have never seen this lady before,’ said Mother Coton to Edith, while he worked. ‘And I know most of the pregnant women in Cambridge. Is she a visitor?’

Edith nodded, sobbing. ‘We were childhood friends, although I have not seen her for years – not since she married and left Cambridge. We met by chance in the Market Square two days ago, and she has been staying with me since. She came to buy ribbons for the baby clothes she plans to make.’

‘Then I am sorry for your loss,’ mumbled Mother Coton, in the automatic way that suggested these were words uttered on far too regular a basis.

‘Is Joan’s husband staying here, too?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘If so, we should summon him.’

‘He is lord of Elyan Manor, in Suffolk. But he did not come with her to shop for baby baubles – he stayed home.’ Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh, Lord! What will Henry say when he learns what has happened? He will be distraught – Joan said this child means a lot to him.’

‘She came alone?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Suffolk was a long way away, especially for a woman at such an advanced stage in her pregnancy.

‘She came with her household priest, who had business with King’s Hall. He is staying at the Brazen George.’ Edith clambered quickly to her feet. ‘I shall send a servant to–’

‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, as Joan’s life-beat fluttered into nothing. ‘I am sorry.’

Edith stared at him, and any colour remaining in her face drained away. ‘Then she has been murdered,’ she declared in an unsteady voice. ‘Do not look at me in that disbelieving way, Matt. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

Bartholomew was used to losing patients – he had been a physician for many years, and was the first to admit that the field of medicine was woefully inadequate, even among the most dedicated and skilled of practitioners – but that did not mean he found it easy. Even when he did not know the victim, there were grieving friends and kin to comfort, and dealing with death was the part of his profession he most disliked. He led Edith to a bench, and held her in his arms while she wept.

‘She was my oldest friend,’ she whispered, heartbroken. ‘We spent all day picking ribbons for her baby. Then we ate just after sunset, and sat laughing about old times. How can she be dead now?’

Bartholomew had no answer. He glanced up, and saw Mother Coton was still with them. He had sent his book-bearer to fetch a bier, while two maids were swabbing the blood from the floor, so she was not lingering to be helpful. It took him a moment to realise she was waiting to be paid.

Fees were usually the last thing on his mind on such occasions, and it was a constant source of amazement to him that others felt differently. He could not pay her himself – Mother Coton’s charges were princely and he was far from rich – so he was obliged to interrupt Edith’s tearful reminiscences and remind her of her obligations. Fortunately, the need to address practical matters forced Edith to compose herself. Wiping her eyes, she took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked a chest.

‘I do not care what your experience tells you, Mother Coton,’ she said, handing over several coins with a defiant glare. ‘Joan did not take something to end her pregnancy.’

The midwife made no reply, although her expression said she thought Edith would accept her diagnosis in time. Bartholomew was inclined to agree: Joan’s symptoms matched those of an attempt to abort. Of course, Edith’s testimony suggested Joan was happy with the prospect of motherhood, but it was not unknown for women to change their minds, and Joan was old for a first pregnancy – perhaps she had not wanted to risk dying in childbirth.

One of the maids picked up Joan’s cloak, intending to lay it over the body. As she did so, a little pottery jar dropped out. Had it landed on the flagstones, it would have shattered, but it fell on a rug, then rolled under the bench. Bartholomew bent to retrieve it.

‘A tincture containing pennyroyal,’ he said, after removing the stopper and sniffing the contents. He poured a little into his hand, then wiped it off on his leggings. ‘Not the herb, but the oil, which can be distilled by steaming. It is highly toxic.’

Mother Coton nodded her satisfaction at being right. ‘It is the plant of choice for expelling an unwanted child.’

‘Then someone gave it to her,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She did not take it of her own volition.’

Mother Coton looked as if she might argue, but then raised her shoulders in a shrug, and when she spoke, her voice was kinder than it had been. ‘You should rest now, Mistress Stanmore. It has been a long night, and things will look different in the morning.’

One of the maids escorted her out, while the other took away the blood-soaked rugs and finished cleaning the floor. She was efficient, and it was not long before all evidence of traumatic death had been eradicated – with the exception of the cloak-covered corpse. Edith stared unhappily at it.

‘Where is Oswald?’ Bartholomew asked, realising for the first time that his brother-in-law had not made an appearance. Stanmore was solicitous of Edith, and although theirs had been an arranged marriage, they were touchingly devoted to each other.

‘Lincolnshire. He told you at least twice that he was going, and asked you to look after me.’

‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was appalled to find he could not remember. Term had just started, and he had been saddled with more students than he could properly manage. He was struggling to cope. Of course, that was no excuse for failing in his obligations to his family.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Otherwise he would have ordered me to stay at our manor in Trumpington, where he thinks isolation will keep me safe. He does not like the notion of me being in town alone.’

‘Then I have let him down,’ said Bartholomew guiltily. ‘I have barely seen you since term began.’

She shot him a wan smile. ‘It was what I was hoping. I do not want a protector breathing down my neck, and the servants are here. So are the apprentices. And then Joan came…’

‘You say she was visiting Cambridge?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing her need to talk.

Edith nodded through fresh tears. ‘She was my closest friend when we were children. Do you not remember her? Our favourite game was to dress you and the dog up like twins.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘It seems to have slipped my mind.’

‘She has not changed.’ Edith’s smile was distant. ‘We still laugh at the same things, and she was so happy to be giving her husband an heir. She thought she was too old to conceive.’

Bartholomew would have thought so, too. ‘It is unusual to be pregnant for the first time at her age.’

Edith’s thoughts were miles away, and she did not hear him. ‘She joked with your colleague Wynewyk in the Market Square – she persuaded him to choose the colour of the ribbon she was buying, and their witty banter attracted quite a crowd. They were flirting, making people laugh.’

Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘I sincerely doubt it! Wynewyk prefers to flirt with men.’

‘Well, he was doing it with Joan today,’ said Edith stiffly. ‘They were very funny.’

Bartholomew did not want to argue with her. ‘Why was she staying with you, if you had not met for so many years?’

‘Her husband does business with King’s Hall, and sent his priest there to draft some agreements. She decided to travel with him, to shop for baby trinkets. She was going to lodge in the Brazen George, but when we met by chance in the Market Square I decided she would be more comfortable here, with me. But someone still managed to kill her…’

‘No one killed her,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And if you say she wanted this child, then we must assume her death was an accident – she took the pennyroyal by mistake. Her pregnancy was obviously well along, so no apothecary would have prescribed it. She must have bought that tincture herself, without realising it would harm her.’

Edith sniffed, then nodded, although he could see she was not convinced. He supposed she did not have the energy to debate the matter; it was very late, and he knew from the amount of spilled blood that the battle to save Joan had raged for some time before he had been summoned.

‘We ate supper and talked a while,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘Then she went to bed, while I stayed up, sewing Oswald a new shirt. Not long after, she stumbled into this room, and there was blood … I wanted to call you, but she said she needed a midwife. Perhaps I should have ignored her wishes…’

‘Mother Coton knows what she is doing. You did the right thing.’

Edith sniffed again, then looked up when there was a soft tap and the maid answered the door. ‘Here is Cynric, and he has brought three of your pupils to carry Joan away. He is a thoughtful soul.’

Bartholomew’s book-bearer had been with him since he was an undergraduate, and was more friend than servant – and wholly indispensable. As he watched Cynric usher the students inside, he thought, not for the first time, what an ill-matched trio his apprentices were. Valence was tall, fair and amiable; Risleye was short, dark and sly; while red-haired Tesdale was one of the laziest lads he had ever encountered.

‘Valence is a pleasant young man,’ said Edith, regarding them critically. ‘But I cannot imagine what possessed you to accept Tesdale and Risleye. Surely, nicer lads applied for the honour of being taught by you? Moreover, I thought Risleye was Master Paxtone’s protégé, so why have you been lumbered with him?’

‘He is a good student,’ replied Bartholomew. But he could see from Edith’s expression that this was not enough of an answer to satisfy, and because he was sorry for her distress over Joan, he pandered to her curiosity. ‘Paxtone said he was unteachable, and asked me to take him instead. It happens sometimes – a tutor and a pupil finding themselves incompatible.’

‘I imagine you think Risleye is unteachable, too,’ said Edith, indignant on her brother’s behalf. ‘But I doubt Paxtone will consent to take him back again. It was unfair to foist such a fellow on you. Risleye is a horrible creature – spiteful, greedy and opinionated.’

She was right: Bartholomew was finding Risleye something of a trial. The lad was devious, argumentative and arrogant. However, he was also conscientious, intelligent and eager to learn, virtues that might turn him into a decent physician one day; and, Bartholomew thought, if Risleye knew his medicine, then his odious personality was irrelevant.

‘And Tesdale is almost as bad,’ Edith went on when he made no reply. ‘His sole purpose in life seems to be devising ways to shirk his duties. And he has a nasty temper.’

Bartholomew started to object, but stopped when he realised she was right about Tesdale, too: the lad was hotheaded, and was always the last to volunteer for any tasks that needed performing. But he also possessed a gentle, confident manner that patients liked, which was enough to make Bartholomew determined to do his best by the lad – the plague had left a dearth of qualified physicians in England, and he felt a moral responsibility to train as many new ones as possible. However, his resolve was tested when Tesdale shoved past the maid and, without so much as a nod to Edith, began to hold forth.

‘It was not me, sir,’ he declared without preamble. ‘Risleye is lying.’

‘I am not,’ declared Risleye, fists clenched angrily at his side. ‘My essay on Galen has been stolen. The thief waited until I had added the finishing touches, then broke into my private chest and made off with it.’

‘You are wrong, Risleye,’ said Valence softly. ‘And this is not the right place for–’

‘He thinks I took it, because I am too lazy to write my own,’ interrupted Tesdale resentfully. ‘But I would not touch his stupid essay with a long pole.’

‘These three were the only ones awake,’ muttered Cynric to Bartholomew, apparently feeling some explanation was needed for his choice of bier-bearers. ‘I shall know better next time.’

‘I was awake because my work is stolen,’ snapped Risleye, overhearing. ‘Michaelhouse is full of thieves, and it is not safe to close your eyes there.’

‘You lost it,’ countered Tesdale angrily. ‘It will turn up in the morning and–’

‘Oh, yes!’ snarled Risleye. ‘After someone has copied all my ideas, to pass off as his own.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply, seeing Edith’s distaste at the clamouring voices in the place where her friend lay dead. ‘Help Cynric, and remember why you are here.’

‘Because you want us to shift a cadaver?’ asked Risleye, frowning his puzzlement at the remark.

‘Because he wants us to take his sister’s friend to the church,’ said Valence quietly. ‘Which we must do with the minimum of fuss, to avoid unnecessary distress.’

‘Very well,’ said Tesdale with a huge yawn. ‘And then we should go home – I am exhausted.’

Edith watched in distaste as Risleye, Cynric and Valence lifted Joan on to the bier. Tesdale did not help, and confined himself to issuing instructions. ‘I cannot imagine how you put up with them,’ she said.

There were times – and they were becoming increasingly frequent as term went on – when the physician wondered the same thing.

‘You are needed at Michaelhouse,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew, as he and the students carried the body out of Edith’s house. ‘Wynewyk is ill.’

Bartholomew was surprised – his colleague had seemed well enough earlier. Leaving Cynric and the students to deal with Joan, he hurried back to the College, his footsteps echoing hollowly along the empty lanes. He was not sure how much time had passed since he had arrived at his sister’s home, but it was still dark and there was no sign of daybreak.

He knocked on the gate and was admitted by Walter the porter, who greeted him with a scowl. Recently, a prankster had relieved Walter’s beloved pet peacock of its tail, and because the incident occurred shortly after Bartholomew had given a lecture on superstitious beliefs – including one that said peacock feathers could cure aching bones – Walter held the physician personally responsible.

‘How long until dawn?’ Bartholomew asked pleasantly. He disliked discord and wanted peace.

‘How should I know?’ snapped Walter. ‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than watch an hour candle burn?’

The physician did not feel like berating him for his insolence – and Walter’s surly rejoinders were likely to wake half the College if he tried – so he headed towards Wynewyk’s room without another word. As he walked across the yard, he looked around at the place that was his home.

Michaelhouse was a medium-sized foundation, and part of the University at Cambridge. It boasted a handsome hall, two accommodation wings that joined it at right angles, and a range of outbuildings. All were protected by a high wall and a gatehouse that contained the porters’ lodge. Unfortunately, time had taken its toll, and the College was starting to look decidedly shabby. Moss and lichen grew over its roofs, most of which leaked, and its honey-coloured stone was in desperate need of scrubbing. The courtyard was a morass of churned mud, mixed with the fallen leaves from a scrawny cherry tree.

It currently housed about sixty students, more than could comfortably be taught by its Master and eight Fellows. One reason they were overworked was because one of their number, Father William, was on a sabbatical leave of absence – which everyone knew was a nice way of saying he had been exiled to a remote part of the Fens for being a zealot. Bartholomew missed William, although he was not sure why: it was certainly not for his dogmatic opinions and argumentative personality.

Wynewyk lived in the same building as Bartholomew, the older and more leak-prone of the two accommodation wings. Like all Fellows, he shared his chamber with students, and it was a tight squeeze at night when they all spread their mattresses on the floor. Bartholomew stepped over the slumbering forms, straining his eyes in the darkness to make sure he did not tread on any. Wynewyk had lit a candle, but he had muted the light with a shade, so as not to disturb his room-mates.

‘Thank you for coming, Matt,’ he whispered. He was a small, neat man who taught law. He had been at Michaelhouse for about three years, and Bartholomew liked him and considered him a friend. ‘I have been feeling wretched all night, although I cannot imagine why – my stars are in perfect alignment, so I should be in fine fettle.’

‘What did you eat at supper?’ Bartholomew asked, to change the subject. Unusually for a physician, he placed scant trust in the movements of the celestial bodies, but this was a controversial stance, and he took care to keep his opinion to himself; rejecting the ancient and much-revered art of astrology would result in more accusations of witchcraft, for certain.

‘The same as you: bread and cheese. I also had a mouthful of posset, but there were nuts in it, and I have an aversion to them, so I spat it out. My tongue still burns, though.’

The posset had contained almonds, but supper had been hours ago, so any reaction Wynewyk might have experienced from his brief contact with them should have been past its worst. Bartholomew examined his colleague, but could find nothing wrong except a reddening in the mouth. He prepared a tonic of soothing herbs that would help him sleep.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘You took ages to come. Were you out?’

Bartholomew nodded absently as he worked. ‘Seeing a friend of Edith’s, but I was called too late.’

‘Dead?’ asked Wynewyk uneasily. He crossed himself. ‘Then I hope you have better luck with me.’

‘You are not going to die,’ said Bartholomew, helping him sit up so he could sip the remedy. ‘You will be perfectly well again tomorrow.’

‘Have any of your patients heard news of Kelyng?’ Wynewyk asked, pushing away the cup when the physician put it to his lips. ‘You promised you would find out.’

Kelyng was Michaelhouse’s Bible Scholar, who had failed to arrive when term had started. He owed a fortune in unpaid fees, and even the salary he earned from reading the scriptures aloud during meals had failed to reduce the debt to a reasonable level. It would not be the first time a student had elected to abscond rather than pay, and Bartholomew, like the other Fellows, thought Kelyng had done so. Kind-hearted Wynewyk was rather less willing to believe the worst of the lad.

‘They saw him leave Cambridge in August,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but no one has seen him since.’

Wynewyk grimaced at the unhelpful news, and began to drink the medicine. ‘Did you hear what happened yesterday?’ he asked between sips. ‘I had a run-in with that horrible Osa Gosse. He accused me of trying to seduce him.’

‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that while Wynewyk was usually discreet, there were occasionally misunderstandings in his quest for willing partners.

‘No!’ Wynewyk sounded horrified. ‘He is a revolting fellow – a liar and a thief. You look as though you have not heard of him, which amazes me. He is an inveterate felon, always being accused of some crime or other. He hails from Clare in Suffolk, but has recently taken up residence in our town.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. Wynewyk owned a great weakness for ruffians, but he usually drew the line at criminals.

‘Everyone knows him – or everyone who does not wander around with his mind full of medicine, at least. I had the misfortune to make his acquaintance about a week ago, when he spat at me. I objected, and he drew a dagger. Fortunately, Paxtone of King’s Hall saw what was happening, and shouted for help. Gosse’s servant was killed when the Carmelite novices rushed to my rescue.’

‘I know who you mean,’ said Bartholomew in understanding. Besides being a physician and a Doctor of Medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for anyone who died on University property. The man in question had been stabbed on land belonging to King’s Hall, so Bartholomew had been asked to give a verdict.

‘I wish Gosse would go back to Clare,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘He blames me for the death of this servant, even though I was not the one who knifed him.’

‘You should rest,’ said Bartholomew kindly. Talking about the incident was agitating Wynewyk, and he would not sleep if his mind was full of worry.

‘Thank God for Paxtone,’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘He saved my life. I never thought much of him until recently, but he is a decent soul.’

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although he was surprised to hear Wynewyk say so – Wynewyk rarely fraternised with men from other foundations, because he believed it created issues of loyalty. Many academics agreed, and confined their circle of acquaintances to within their own College or hostel. But Bartholomew did not see any problem, and had a number of friends outside Michaelhouse, Paxtone among them.

Wynewyk seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘You are astonished I should befriend anyone from King’s Hall. But Paxtone and its Warden, Powys, are erudite men. I like them.’

Bartholomew let him talk, and gradually Wynewyk’s eyes began to close. The physician waited until his colleague’s breathing became slow and even, then crept from the room.

There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, which told Bartholomew it would not be long before the bell rang to summon Michaelhouse scholars to their dawn devotions. He was tired, though, and the prospect of even a short nap was appealing, so he walked to his chamber, and began the tortuous business of stepping over sleeping students in the dark. There were seven of them, most pleasant, intelligent lads determined to become good physicians. Risleye had wanted to join them, eager to share his teacher’s chamber rather than be farmed out elsewhere, but the others had united to keep him out. Bartholomew thought they probably could have squeezed him in, but had not objected too loudly when Risleye had been told to lodge with one of the other masters.

He reached his bed and lay down, but the moment he closed his eyes, Tesdale began to whimper, caught in a nightmare. He knew from experience – Tesdale had bad dreams most nights – that waking caused the lad distress, and that the episodes usually ended of their own accord anyway. However, the noise was not conducive to falling asleep, so Bartholomew decided to put the time to good use by reading instead. He could not do it in his chamber, lest the light disturbed those who were managing to sleep through Tesdale’s moans, so he went to the library. This was a corner in the main hall that comprised a few shelves and three lockable chests. The tomes were either chained to the wall, or secured inside the boxes, depending on their value and popularity; books were expensive, and no foundation could afford to lose them to light-fingered scholars.

He began to read De proprietatibus rerum by Bartholomaeus Angelicus, refreshing his memory of the text he was going to teach that day. It was not long before he became engrossed, and when the bell rang to wake the scholars for morning mass, he was surprised to find the time had passed so quickly. Reluctantly, he closed the book, and walked down the stairs and into the yard.

It was another cold, gloomy day, with clouds thick and heavy overhead. It was windy, too, and autumn leaves swirled around until they made soggy piles in corners. He breathed in deeply, relishing the clean scent of damp vegetation. He whipped around in alarm when he heard a sound close behind him, but it was only Cynric. The Welshman prided himself on his stealth, and was always sneaking up on people with the clear intention of making them jump out of their skin.

‘I saw that woman – Joan – and your sister in the Market Square yesterday,’ the book-bearer said. The expression on his dark face was sombre. ‘It does not seem right that she should be walking and laughing one moment, then dead the next. Do you think someone cursed her?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, struggling for patience. Cynric always looked for supernatural explanations to matters he did not understand, and while the physician was used to it after so many years, he still found it exasperating. ‘She swallowed pennyroyal. That is what killed her.’

‘Mother Coton said Joan wanted rid of the child,’ Cynric went on. ‘But in the Market Square yesterday, she seemed all eager for motherhood – she was choosing ribbons, and making enough show about it to gather an audience.’ He shook his head, as if the ways of the world were a mystery to him.

‘Did you see her buy anything other than ribbon?’ asked Bartholomew, idly wondering how she had come by the pennyroyal. The apothecaries would not have sold it to her – the Church was not very understanding of merchants who let women buy the means to destroy their unborn children.

Cynric raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘A rich woman in a market? Of course I saw her buying other things, boy! And she paid me to carry them all to your sister’s house, so I know for a fact that there were a lot of them. But she went nowhere near an apothecary, if that is what you are really asking. Are you going to church dressed like that, by the way?’

In the growing light, Bartholomew saw his clothes were bloodstained from kneeling next to Joan. He needed to change. He hurried to his room, smiling greetings to his colleagues as he passed. They nodded back, some grumbling about the rain, others more intent on discussing a debate on Blood Relics that was due to take place the following week.

He ducked into his chamber – stepping over Tesdale, who was always the last up – and quickly donned fresh clothes. His hat had blown into a puddle the previous day, and he had forgotten to take it to the laundry, so it was still filthy. Annoyed with himself, he slapped it against the desk a few times, to beat off the worst of the muck, then jammed it on his head, hoping no one would notice its sorry state. Once he had given his boots a quick rub with the cuff of his shirt, he was ready.

There were still a few moments left before Master Langelee would lead the College in procession to St Michael’s Church for morning prayers, so he unlocked the door to the cupboard-like room where he kept his medical equipment, to check the progress of a goose-grease salve he was making. It was thickening nicely, and would soon be ready.

He was about to leave when a ring-mark on the workbench caught his eye. He frowned, because he had spent some time polishing it the day before – hygiene was important when making substances that were to be ingested, and he was always scrupulous about it. He supposed one of his students must have spilled something, then neglected to clean it up. However, his list of potential culprits was short; some of the ingredients he kept in the room were dangerous, so only the most senior pupils were allowed access. And, after a jape involving an ‘exploding’ book the previous week, only Risleye and Tesdale were currently permitted inside – the rest were banned until they had proved themselves mature enough to be trusted.

He bent to inspect the mark more closely, then jerked back in alarm when he caught the distinctive aroma of poppy juice. He stared at it in horror. It was one of the substances no student was allowed to use without his supervision, placed on a high shelf that was off-limits to all and sealed in a container marked with a warning cross of red ink. He looked up at the shelf, and was uneasy to note that someone had been fiddling there: the pots had been moved so their labels no longer faced the front.

He stood on a stool and began to hunt for the poppy juice. When he found it, he opened the jar and looked inside. It was about half full. He was relieved – if Risleye or Tesdale had included some in a remedy they had prepared, then they had not taken very much. Of course, he would have to speak to them about using it at all; it was far too dangerous to be doled out by lads who were not yet qualified.

He began to replace the jars in their proper order, but there was an ominous gap. Bemused, he searched the other shelves, but it did not take long to confirm his suspicions: the pennyroyal was gone.

‘Hurry up, Matt, or you will be late.’ It was Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and one of Michaelhouse’s masters of theology. The portly Benedictine was also Bartholomew’s closest friend. That morning, his monastic habit was covered by a handsome fur-lined cloak, his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers, and his lank brown hair was smoothed down around a perfectly round tonsure. He was immaculate, and Bartholomew felt poor and shabby by comparison.

‘My pennyroyal is missing. I know I had some – I used it to treat a festering ulcer a few days ago.’

Michael tugged his cloak around his ample frame, as if he thought it might ward off unpleasant images as well as the cold. ‘Perhaps you finished it,’ he remarked, without much interest.

‘There was some left. I know there was.’

Michael saw his concern and frowned uneasily. ‘It is dangerous? Poisonous?’

‘I lost a patient to pennyroyal last night. Two, if you count her unborn child.’

Michael’s frown deepened as Bartholomew told him what had happened. ‘Are you saying your supply killed this woman? That one of your pupils–’

‘No!’ It was too dreadful a possibility to contemplate. ‘Joan was a visitor, so cannot know my students. It must be coincidence, although…’ Bartholomew trailed off, uncertain what to think.

‘Are you sure it is missing? Perhaps it is simply mislaid.’

‘It has gone,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘I cannot recall exactly how much was left…’

‘Shall I ask Langelee to excuse you from church while you continue to look for it? I suppose I can be prevailed upon to perform your duties. After all, it will only be the fifth time I have assisted at mass since the beginning of term because you have been too busy with patients to do it yourself.’

‘Three physicians are not enough to look after a town the size of Cambridge,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘Especially now Robin of Grantchester has stopped his work as surgeon. Paxtone, Rougham and I are overwhelmed by the number of people wanting help.’

‘Yes, but Paxtone and Rougham have the sense to decline new cases,’ said Michael tartly. ‘You physick anyone who summons you.’

‘What would you have me do? Refuse them and let them suffer?’

Michael sighed. ‘No. But let us hope Valence, Risleye and Tesdale elect to practise here when they graduate next year. Then there will be six physicians. Of course, while Valence will be a boon, the same cannot be said for the other two. Tesdale is too lazy, and Risleye is so lacking in anything resembling human kindness that it would not occur to him to dispense charity.’

Bartholomew nodded, but his attention had returned to his missing medicine. Both Tesdale and Risleye had borrowed the storeroom key from him that week, but neither should have used pennyroyal, so what had happened to it? Had Tesdale taken it for another student jape? Risleye would not have done, because he had no sense of humour. But Bartholomew had been furious the last time his pupils had abused his trust, and he doubted any would risk doing it again. He did not often lose his temper, and he knew his anger had alarmed them.

He followed the monk outside, locking the door behind him and wondering who else might have had occasion to raid his supplies. He knew about the healing properties of pennyroyal – it was good for stomach pains, dropsy and cleaning ulcers – but did it have non-medical applications, too? Cynric had been known to ‘borrow’ materials for cleaning his sword, while Agatha the laundress was willing to try anything in her ongoing war against moths. He supposed the disappearance of the pennyroyal was not necessarily sinister, although the notion that anyone could wander into the storeroom and help himself to whatever he pleased was disturbing.

It was cold and wet in the yard, and his students had taken refuge in the porters’ lodge. The slow-witted Librarian, Rob Deynman, was with them. Deynman had been a medical student himself, until the College had offered him a ‘promotion’ in order to prevent him from practising on an unsuspecting public. They looked around as Bartholomew approached, and he saw they were all grinning, except Risleye whose face was infused with rage.

‘Tell him, sir,’ Risleye cried, outraged. ‘Tell Valence that garden mint should not be given to teething children, because it is a herb of Venus, and so stirs up bodily desires. That is bad for babies.’

‘I said it can be used to remedy colic,’ corrected Valence patiently. ‘I did not say you should feed it to brats in the kind of quantity that will drive them wild with lust.’

His cronies laughed, and Risleye flushed even redder, clenching his fists.

‘I knew a man who ate an entire patch of mint once, in the hope that it would make him lusty,’ said Deynman, ever amiable. ‘He was obliged to remain in the latrine for the next two days, and his wife was deeply vexed.’

The students laughed again, but Bartholomew was not in the mood for levity. ‘Did any of you use concentrated poppy juice in a remedy this week?’ he demanded. ‘Or take any of my pennyroyal?’

‘You told us not to touch the stuff on the top shelf,’ said Risleye virtuously. ‘And I never disobey orders. Tesdale does, though.’

‘All I took this week was some yarrow to treat Dickon Tulyet’s cold,’ said Tesdale, shooting his classmate a weary look. ‘Why? Have you lost some?’

Bartholomew scratched his head. Perhaps the stain on the workbench had been there when he had polished it the day before; he had been preoccupied with all the teaching he was due to do, so his mind had not been wholly on the task in hand. And the pennyroyal? There was no explanation or excuse for that: it had gone, and that was all there was to it.

Once prayers had been said, and breakfast served, eaten and cleared away, Michaelhouse’s masters and their students gathered in the hall for the morning’s lessons. Bartholomew spoke on De proprietatibus rerum, the author of which listed a number of herbs and their uses, and although pennyroyal was on the physician’s mind to begin with, he had all but forgotten about it by the time the noonday bell rang some hours later.

He was hoarse from trying to make himself heard. Wynewyk had declared himself indisposed, so Master Langelee had taken his class instead, and as he knew nothing about law, he had passed the time by talking about local camp-ball ratings instead – he was an avid camp-ball player, and loved nothing more than a vicious scrum in which it was legal to punch people. The ensuing discussion had grown cheerfully rowdy, and Bartholomew had not been the only one struggling to teach over the racket.

Langelee was a burly man, with muscular arms and a thatch of thick hair, who looked more like a warrior than the head of a Cambridge College. Before becoming a scholar, he had worked for the Archbishop of York, and there were details about his previous life that Bartholomew still found unsettling. But his rule was just and fair, and his Fellows were satisfied with his leadership. One of the most astute things he had done was to delegate his financial responsibilities to Wynewyk, who had a good head for figures and an unerring eye for a bargain.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, coming to join the physician and casting a venomous look in the Master’s direction as the students clattered out of the hall. ‘That was tiresome. My theologians were not interested in camp-ball when we started out this morning, but they are gripped by it now. They tell me Langelee’s exposition of leagues and points was far more interesting than Holcot’s Postillae.’

‘No surprise there,’ murmured Bartholomew, collecting the wax tablets his lads had been using, and stacking them in a cupboard.

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Well, your class was not exactly enthralled by whatever ghoulish subject you had chosen, either: Tesdale could not stop yawning, Valence was staring out of the window, and even Risleye’s attention strayed. I hope Wynewyk is better by this afternoon, because I am not in the mood for another bawling session.’

‘Ask Langelee to lower his voice, then.’

Michael grimaced. ‘I did – he told me he was practically whispering as it was. But the real problem is not him, it is the number of students we are trying to teach. We were stupid to let him enrol all those new pupils last Easter, because none of us can cope. Even with Thelnetham and Hemmysby newly installed as Fellows, we struggle. And all the money is gone, anyway.’

‘What money?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘The money we raised by accepting these additional fee-paying scholars. It has all been spent, and our coffers are emptier now than ever. We discussed it at the last Fellows’ meeting.’

‘Did we?’ Bartholomew did not remember.

‘You spent the whole time writing. Foolishly, we thought you were taking notes, and only learned later that you were penning a remedy for gout. You are lucky the rest of us care enough about your College to pay attention.’

Bartholomew watched the servants begin to arrange the hall for the noonday meal. Trestle tables were assembled, and benches set next to them. Cynric stoked up the fire, while scullions carried dishes from the kitchens to the shelves behind the serving screen. They did not smell very appetising – poor food was just one economy forced on them by Michaelhouse’s ailing finances.

‘I met Edith when I went out for a little proctorial business earlier,’ said Michael, seeing the physician had no answer to his charge. ‘She is pale, but seems to be coping with her friend’s death.’

‘You did not mention my missing pennyroyal, did you?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘She is sure to put the two “facts” together, and it took me a long time to convince her that Joan was not murdered. I do not want to give her a reason to rethink.’

‘Of course not,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘However, it does seem odd that Joan spent the day buying baby ribbons, then swallowed a substance to rid herself of her child the same night.’

‘Perhaps the ribbons were a ruse, to conceal her true intentions. A cover, in other words.’

‘And then she killed herself, too?’

‘And then died because she was unsure of the dosage,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘But regardless of what happened, it is not our concern. She is not a scholar, and Edith’s house is not University property. Ergo, it is outside the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction, and we are busy enough, without making more work for ourselves.’

‘It would be my jurisdiction if it was your pennyroyal that ended up inside her,’ retorted Michael.

‘That is unlikely,’ said Bartholomew, although not without a degree of unease. ‘Pennyroyal is not rare or unusual – it grows everywhere. And the oil can be distilled by anyone with a pot and a fire.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘I dislike coincidences, and here we have a dangerous substance going missing from your storeroom – a place that is basically inaccessible to anyone but Michaelhouse men – and a woman dying of ingesting some of the stuff the very same night.’

‘But I do not know when it disappeared,’ objected Bartholomew. He really did not believe that the two events could be connected – how could a stranger like Joan know anyone in a closed, monastic-style foundation like Michaelhouse? – but there was a cold, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, even so. ‘There is nothing to say it was the same day she died.’

Michael scowled at him. ‘You are splitting hairs and missing my point – which is that it has gone, and you have no idea where. And you are sure your students did not take it?’

‘They say not, and there is no reason to doubt them.’

‘Then it was stolen by someone else,’ concluded Michael.

‘But, as you have just pointed out, no one outside Michaelhouse has access to my storeroom.’

‘Then I recant that statement. We often have visitors, and there are always tradesmen arriving with deliveries. Meanwhile, we pay our servants a pittance, which means they do not stay long and owe us no loyalty. I barely know some of the staff these days. Perhaps one of them took it.’

‘I keep the door locked at all times.’

‘Rubbish! You often leave it open while you run to the library to check a reference or fetch water from the kitchen. Besides, locks can be picked. And if this pennyroyal oil is as dangerous as you claim, then I am perturbed by the notion that it is unaccounted for. I want answers, Matt – not only as your friend, but as Senior Proctor, too.’

‘But who would want to harm Joan?’ asked Bartholomew, unhappy with the way the conversation was going. ‘She has not lived in Cambridge for years, and no one here knows her.’

‘Then you had better question your students again.’ Michael’s expression turned from severe to worried. ‘But do it discreetly. That business earlier in the year has not been forgotten yet, and your reputation is…’ He waved a plump hand, unable to find the right words.

But Bartholomew knew what he meant. A magician-healer called Arderne had raised doubts about his abilities in the spring, and this had been followed by a frenzy of superstition in the summer, during which many of his patients had been quite open about the fact that they believed he was good at his job because he dabbled in sorcery. They did not care, as long as he made them well, but that was beside the point: it was unsafe for a member of the University to be seen as a practising warlock. Bartholomew had kept a low profile since then, shying away from controversy, but people seemed unwilling to let the matter rest, regardless. He hoped it would not dog him for the rest of his life.

‘You will have to find it,’ Michael went on. ‘The pennyroyal, I mean. It cannot stay missing, not if it has the power to kill.’

‘And how am I to do that?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Besides, as I told you, it is not rare or unusual – lots of homes keep a supply of it.’

Michael regarded him worriedly. ‘If you say so, but I have a very bad feeling about this.’

So did Bartholomew, although he was reluctant to admit it, even to Michael.

That afternoon, Bartholomew conducted a thorough search of his storeroom. The missing pennyroyal was not there, although the hunt did warn him that he was running alarmingly low on a number of essential ingredients. He sent Tesdale, Valence and Risleye to the apothecary to replenish them, using most of his October wages to do so. When they returned, he summoned all his students to the hall.

‘I did not take the pennyroyal,’ declared Risleye angrily, before the physician could tell them what he wanted to discuss. ‘I never touch anything on that top shelf, although I think such a precaution is unnecessary at this stage of my training. I do not see why I should be penalised, just because everyone else took part in that silly joke with the igniting book.’

‘I did not take it, either,’ said Tesdale, alarmed when he saw he was the only other suspect. ‘And nor do I leave the room unattended.’

‘Yes, you do,’ countered Risleye spitefully. ‘You never remember all the ingredients you might need for a remedy, and often have to go out to fetch something.’

‘Well, you are guilty of that, too, Risleye,’ said Valence, who had been the ringleader of the exploding-book incident. ‘You left the door wide open the other day, when Walter tripped over his peacock and you went to help him up. And you were gone for ages.’

‘That was different,’ flashed Risleye. ‘An emergency. I bandaged his grazed arm really carefully, but then he refused to pay me. It took me a while to argue my case.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘You charged one of our own servants for medical treatment?’

‘Of course,’ replied Risleye, unabashed. ‘He was a patient and I cared for him. That equals a fee.’

‘Give it back,’ ordered Bartholomew. He cut across Risleye’s indignant objections. ‘Have any of you let anyone else in the storeroom?’

The assembled students shook their heads, and Bartholomew sighed when he saw his interrogation was not going to provide him with answers. And he could hardly berate Risleye and Tesdale for leaving the storeroom unattended when he was guilty of doing the same thing himself.

Unfortunately, their combined negligence meant that virtually anyone could have slipped in and stolen the oil. But who would want it? And who would know what it was capable of doing? He supposed the answer to the second question was obvious: the red cross on its jar warned students that it could be harmful, so anyone with a modicum of sense would know the pot held something to be used with caution.

‘Perhaps the thief did not want pennyroyal,’ suggested Valence, voicing what Bartholomew was already thinking. ‘You keep far more potent items than that: henbane, dog mercury, cuckoopint.’

‘And poppy juice,’ added Risleye. ‘People are always asking me to give them poppy juice, because it makes them feel happy.’

‘And do you oblige?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the stain on the bench.

Risleye was outraged. ‘Of course not! The last time I touched it was days ago, when I helped you prepare that pain remedy for Isnard. You were hurrying me, and would not answer questions, which was wrong, because my education is far more important than the well-being of some non-paying rogue.’

Bartholomew had rushed Risleye, because Isnard’s need was urgent. Had haste resulted in a spillage that was overlooked and not cleaned up? Yet there was something about Risleye’s denial that made the physician uneasy – he had caught Risleye out in lies before. Or was he allowing personal dislike to cloud his judgement?

‘If the thief came for something else and ended up with pennyroyal, then it means he cannot read,’ said Tesdale, rather pompously. ‘Every jar is clearly labelled, after all. Perhaps we can assume it was filched by a servant. Or by one of the men who came to mend the roof.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and only knew he had been inexcusably careless. If it transpired that his pennyroyal had found its way to Joan, he was not sure Edith would ever forgive him. And she would have every right to be angry.

By the time he had finished the interrogation, a number of people had sent word that they needed to see him. Medical training at universities was largely book-based, but he wanted his students to see real diseases and wounds, too, so he usually took the more senior pupils with him when he went to tend patients. In the past, this had meant two or three lads, but Langelee’s decision to accept more scholars, along with Paxtone’s inability to teach Tesdale, meant he currently had eight. It was an absurdly high number, and clients tended to be alarmed when they all trooped into the sickroom. Because of this, he had been compelled to devise a rota, which was unsatisfactory for a number of reasons.

‘I got landed with a case of toothache last time,’ whined Risleye. ‘And Tesdale got the venery distemper. Now I get toothache again, while he has a strangury. It is not fair!’

‘I will exchange my bloody flux for your strangury, Tesdale,’ offered Valence. ‘And then Yaxley will take the bloody flux in return for his rhagades. You have not had rhagades yet.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, listening to the haggling in distaste.

He set off before they could involve him in it, leaving them to scurry to catch up. They pursued him in a gaggle, drawing attention to themselves with their lively good humour – except Risleye, who remained sullen. Then, when they reached the house of a patient, two would detach themselves from the mob and follow him inside.

He rarely rushed consultations, always trying to ensure both patient and pupils understood exactly what he was doing – although the students itched to be done with the mundane cases and on to the more interesting ones. As a result, the visits filled the rest of the day, and by the time they returned to Michaelhouse, it was dark and they had missed supper.

‘I do not care,’ said Risleye smugly. ‘I have fine bread and fresh cheese in my room, so I will not starve.’

He strode away without offering to share, and Bartholomew thought it no surprise that he was unpopular. Not all his classmates could afford the luxury of ‘commons’, and would go hungry that night. Fortunately, the rest were better friends, and agreed to a pooling of resources.

‘It will be better than College food,’ crowed Tesdale gleefully, on seeing the fine fare that was going to be available to him that night. ‘The meals are terrible these days – no meat, and peas galore.’

Bartholomew could only nod agreement. The situation would not have been so bad if Agatha – College laundress and self-appointed overseer of the kitchens – knew how to render pulses more interesting. But she only boiled them to a glue-like consistency, and when the Fellows complained, she retaliated by sending some very nasty concoctions to their table; she was not very good at accepting criticism. The previous noon had seen cabbage mixed with a variety of fish-heads.

‘I am sorry I was careless with the storeroom door, sir,’ said Tesdale, when the other students had gone. ‘But do not worry about the pennyroyal. There will be an innocent explanation for it.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tesdale shrugged. ‘Cynric says it puts a lovely shine on metal, so perhaps one of the servants took it to buff the College silver. Or, as it has a strong but not unpleasant aroma, perhaps someone filched it to sweeten the latrines or to drop into his wet boots. Its loss is not necessarily sinister.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was right.

During the evenings, it was the Fellows’ wont to gather in the comfortable room called the conclave, next to the hall. Candles and lamps were lit after dark, and on cold nights there was a fire in the hearth. Some Fellows read, some marked exercises prepared by students, and others enjoyed the opportunity for erudite conversation. The atmosphere was always convivial, which was something they all treasured – academics, being blessed with sharp minds, often had sharp tongues to go with them, and many members of other Colleges were barely on speaking terms. Michaelhouse, though, was a haven of peace, and although there were disagreements, they were rarely acrimonious.

When Bartholomew arrived, the room was unusually empty. Wynewyk was still unwell, Langelee was out, and Father William was languishing in the Fens. He sat at the table, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Michael, unhappy with the supper Agatha had created, had provided his colleagues with something edible instead.

‘She gave me a beetroot, Matt,’ explained the monk, his green eyes full of righteous indignation. ‘A hard, barely cooked one. It was reclining in a dish of melted butter, with a soggy leek for garnish.’

Bartholomew took a slice of meat pie. ‘Did you send it back?’

‘Only after he had drained the butter into a cup, and quaffed it,’ replied Suttone, a plump Carmelite who fervently believed that the plague would return at any moment. ‘I wish I had thought of that. I like butter, and there was a lot of it.’

Bartholomew felt slightly queasy. ‘Where is Langelee?’ he asked, to change the subject.

‘Dining at King’s Hall,’ said Michael with a grimace. ‘He found out what Agatha planned to give us, and hastened to make other arrangements. He should have warned us, too.’

‘I warned you,’ said Clippesby. He was a Dominican friar who taught theology and grammar. The College cat was in his lap, and he held a frog in one hand and a mouse in the other. ‘The wren saw what Agatha had cooked, and I came immediately to tell you. But you ignored me.’

‘That wren is unreliable,’ retorted Michael. It was widely accepted that Clippesby was insane, although he had been at Michaelhouse long enough for his colleagues to overlook all but his most brazen idiosyncrasies. ‘If you had heard it from the peacock, I might have been more willing to listen.’

The two newest Fellows sat near the window, and Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Thelnetham was filing Hemmysby’s nails. It was a curious thing to be doing, especially as Hemmysby was not very interested in personal appearances. He was a quiet theologian, who divided his time between Cambridge and Waltham Abbey, where he held a lucrative post.

Thelnetham, on the other hand, was interested in what he looked like, and was never anything short of immaculate. He was a brilliant Gilbertine, an expert in both canon and civil law, and a demon in the debating chamber. Like Wynewyk, he had a penchant for male lovers, although where Wynewyk was discreet, Thelnetham sported brightly coloured accessories to his religious habit and indulged in flamboyantly effeminate conversation. The students liked him, because his lectures were boisterously entertaining, although he could be brutally incisive, too.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew asked him.

‘Hemmysby’s nails,’ replied Thelnetham, as if the answer were obvious. Bartholomew supposed it was, and realised he had asked the wrong question. Thelnetham smiled, and elaborated anyway. ‘They are a disgrace, and a man is nothing without smart nails. You always keep yours nice, which is considerate, given that you use them for clawing about in people’s innards.’

Bartholomew winced at the image. ‘I do nothing of the kind.’

Thelnetham wagged his file admonishingly. ‘Now Robin the surgeon no longer practises his unsavoury trade – for which we all thank God – you are free to hack and saw to your heart’s content. You should be careful, though. Physicians are not supposed to demean themselves with cautery.’

‘Leave him alone, Thelnetham,’ said Michael mildly. ‘Robin’s retirement means all the Cambridge physicians are forced to dabble in surgery these days. Even Paxtone is obliged to bleed his own patients, although word is that he is not very good at it.’

Bartholomew was astonished to hear this. He knew Paxtone was a firm believer in the benefits of phlebotomy, but he had not imagined him to be enthusiastic enough about the procedure to open his patients’ veins himself. The King’s Hall physician disliked getting his hands dirty, and preferred his treatments to revolve around the inspection of urine and the calculation of personal horoscopes.

‘There, I have finished, Hemmysby,’ said Thelnetham, sitting back in satisfaction. ‘You now have fingers any lady would be proud to own. Can I tempt anyone else to a little beautification?’

‘Not if you turn us into girls,’ said Suttone in distaste. ‘That nasty Osa Gosse mocked me today, shouting that my habit was womanly. I cannot have feminine hands, or he may do it again.’

‘Very well,’ said Thelnetham, slipping the rasp into the enormous purse that hung at his side. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has Wynewyk spoken to you about Tesdale yet?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily. ‘Why? What has he done?’

‘His nightmares,’ explained Thelnetham. ‘He cries and whimpers, and not all of us are heavy sleepers like you. He wakes us up. You must talk to him, find out what is causing these night-terrors.’

‘I have tried. But he denies there is a problem, and I cannot force–’

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Cynric burst in. His face was pale and his hands were shaking badly. Bartholomew regarded him in alarm – the book-bearer was not easily disturbed.

‘It is Master Langelee.’ Cynric took a deep, steadying breath. ‘He has been murdered.’