The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 1

Cambridge, July 1360

Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of the College of Michaelhouse, was in two minds about getting married in eleven days. On the one hand, he loved Matilde with all his heart, and was looking forward to spending the rest of his life with her. On the other, marriage was forbidden to scholars, which would mean an end to his teaching the mysteries of medicine. He would miss that more than he could say.

He sat in the room he shared with four of his pupils, and stared out of the window into the pre-dawn gloom. Michaelhouse had been his home for the greater part of two decades, and had seen him pass from idealistic youth to pragmatic middle age. Its daily routine was deeply ingrained in his being: rising before dawn for church, breakfast in the hall, teaching and seeing patients until evening, and then preparing the next day’s classes.

How would he fare as a ‘secular’? Filling his time would be no problem – he was one of few town medici willing to tend the poor, either for a nominal fee or free of charge, and they would continue to expect his services regardless of whether or not he was a member of the University. However, when he left Michaelhouse, he would lose his College stipend, so his only income would be what he earned from medicine – which meant he would have to tout for wealthy clients.

He experienced a pang of unease. What if the town’s affluent elite declined to hire him? Matilde was independently wealthy, but he could hardly expect to live off her for the rest of his life. Moreover, every spare penny she owned was being funnelled into the school for women she intended to establish, as she considered it an outrage that half the town’s population should be denied the delights of education on the basis of their sex.

At that moment, the College bell chimed, telling scholars to assemble in the yard, ready to process to Mass in St Michael’s Church. There was a faint glimmer of light in the east, and he could just make out his book-bearer, Cynric, hauling on the bell-rope.

Cynric had been in his service since Bartholomew had been a student in Oxford, but that was something else that would soon change: Cynric had decided to remain at Michaelhouse when the physician left. The book-bearer had made a good life for himself in the College, and did not want to abandon all he had built over the years. Bartholomew knew exactly how he felt.

Slowly, Michaelhouse came to life. Windows were thrown open, bedding set to air, and footsteps clattered. Bartholomew’s students were the last to rise, grumbling as usual about the ungodly hour. All four had recently passed their disputations, and would graduate at the end of term, which meant they would be presented to the Chancellor as intelligent men of good character, worthy of receiving the coveted degree of bachelor. Then they would be free to practise medicine on their own, although Bartholomew had reservations about them all: Islaye was too gentle and Mallett was not gentle enough, but the two who gave cause for the greatest concern were Stasy and Hawick. Neither had a genuine vocation, and had chosen to study medicine because they wanted to be rich.

He glanced at them and saw Stasy grin, making him suspect mischief in the offing. Sure enough, there was a furious screech from the kitchens, where Agatha, technically a laundress but in reality ruler supreme of the College’s domestic affairs, was preparing the scholars’ breakfast.

‘What?’ Stasy asked, all false innocence when Bartholomew raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘It is not my fault the peafowl ate all her raisins.’

‘You had better hope she does not guess you facilitated it,’ said Bartholomew tartly, thinking him a fool to risk getting on the wrong side of the fearsome Agatha. ‘If she does, your life will not be worth living.’

‘Ten days,’ sighed Hawick. ‘Then we shall leave this boring old College for ever. I cannot wait to be free of all its rules. Have we told you our plans yet?’

Bartholomew shook his head warily. It was Stasy who replied.

‘Hawick and I will settle here and earn ourselves a fortune. There are only three physicians and one surgeon for the whole town, so there are plenty of opportunities for two young and talented medici.’

This alarming news made Bartholomew think it was just as well he was giving up teaching, as he might need all his time to repair the mistakes the ambitious but inept duo would make. He had been astonished when they had passed their disputations, and only later had it occurred to him that money might have changed hands – he knew for a fact that their examiner had allowed himself to be bought in the past. Unfortunately, by that time, it was too late to do anything about it.

‘Isnard, the cripple-bargeman, came here last night,’ said Hawick, changing the subject when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘He was ill.’

Most people who visited Bartholomew were, but he was more concerned by the news than he would normally have been, because of an outbreak of summer flux. He had tended a dozen new cases the previous day, all from the parish of St Mary the Less, and Isnard lived nearby.

‘Not the flux,’ said Stasy, reading his mind. ‘He has a head cold, and wants you to cure him. He says he cannot sing with a sore throat.’

Isnard was a member of the Michaelhouse Choir, which had recently changed its name to ‘the Marian Singers’ in a effort to escape a reputation for tuneless bawling.

‘Please do not make him better,’ begged Hawick. ‘He has a voice like a donkey, yet still wants to perform at our graduation ceremony. It will be much nicer without him – without all of the choir, in fact.’

That was certainly true, and as it would be Bartholomew’s last appearance as a University Regent Master, he, too, would be sorry to have it marred by the cacophony that passed as music among the Marian Singers. But Isnard had been his patient for years, and Bartholomew had a soft spot for him, so he would visit him later, and if he could help, he would, despite the unhappy consequences for everyone else’s ears.

When Cynric rang the bell a second time, the scholars hurried into the yard, where the Master was waiting to lead them to church for their morning devotions. The current Master was Brother Michael, not only a celebrated theologian and influential Benedictine, but also the University’s Senior Proctor. Although proctors were technically answerable to the Chancellor, Michael had been in University politics for so long that the Chancellor answered to him, and it was common knowledge that he made all the important decisions.

As soon as the last student was in line, he led the way through the gate and out onto St Michael’s Lane. Even though the sun was not yet up, the streets were already uncomfortably hot, and the scholars’ feet kicked up dust as they went. Bartholomew tried to remember when it had last rained, and supposed it was back in May. Trees and crops wilted, several wells had run dry, and he had never seen the river so low.

Bartholomew was fairly sure that the paucity of water was exacerbating the spread of the flux, as the easiest way to use less of it was by cutting down on basic hygiene – most folk now saw water as too precious a commodity to waste on needless hand-washing. Unfortunately, he stood alone in advocating higher standards of cleanliness, because everyone else thought the flux came from a poisonous miasma that seeped from decomposing vegetation or meat, and thus viewed good sanitation as an irrelevance.

The procession wove through the shadowy graveyard and entered St Michael’s Church, which was a pretty building on the High Street. It had a low, squat tower and an unusually large chancel to accommodate all the College’s students and Fellows; staff and parishioners were relegated to the nave. Inside, Bartholomew inhaled the familiar odour of cool, damp plaster, old wood and cheap incense. When he married, he would have to attend All Saints-in-the-Jewry, which was smaller, shabbier and not nearly so pretty.

It was his turn to assist at the altar, so he took his place and watched Father William riffle through a missal for the readings of the day. The Franciscan had a reputation for being the grubbiest friar in Christendom, and he more than lived up to the description that day. His habit was stiff with ingrained dirt, his hands were filthy, and his hair stood up in oily spikes around an irregularly shaped tonsure.

His other claim to fame was conducting inordinately speedy masses, which the students appreciated, even if the Fellows considered this a dubious skill. He galloped through the Eucharist at an astonishing lick, and had intoned his final prayers while Bartholomew was still fumbling about with the chalice and paten. When the rite was over, Michael led his scholars home again. Bartholomew walked next to William, with the three other Fellows behind, and the students streaming at their heels.

‘I am tired of this heat,’ the Franciscan grumbled, breaking the rule that scholars were to process to and from church in silence. The students began chattering, too, their spirits high with the looming end of term, and the knowledge that they would soon be leaving for the summer vacation, some never to return now that their studies were complete.

Bartholomew agreed. ‘We need rain before the wells run completely dry.’

‘The situation would be less dire if Mayor Morys allowed folk to take their drinking water from the Mill Pond,’ William went on. ‘It is half full, but will he share? No! He forces them to pay for every bucketful. It is brazen robbery.’

‘No one should drink from the Mill Pond,’ said Bartholomew with a fastidious shudder. ‘Although it is better than the river – now Morys keeps the Mill Pond sluices closed, there is almost nothing to wash away all the accumulated sewage and rubbish. It is a filthy grey trickle, yet people still use it for cooking and washing.’

William wrinkled his nose. ‘It certainly stinks. I can smell it from here.’

Bartholomew could also smell something, but suspected it was the friar’s mucky robe.

‘Could this stench be the miasma that causes the summer flux?’ William asked uneasily. ‘I know you have seen more cases than you can count these last few days.’

Bartholomew did not want to explain his rejection of the miasma theory to a man who was incapable of accepting new ideas, so he kept his answer vague. ‘This outbreak is like no other that I have seen. Usually, I can blame a specific well or stream, but this time, the victims appear to be random – small clusters with no or little connection to each other.’

William stole a glance at the students walking behind. ‘Stasy and Hawick have vowed to cure the flux when they start their own practice. I hope they fail. They are arrogant now, but if they cure an ailment that confounds you, we shall never hear the end of it.’

‘They will not succeed,’ said Bartholomew, aware that producing an effective remedy would require a considerable outlay of money and a lot of hard work. His students did not have the first, and were unlikely to bother with the second.

‘You should order Morys to open the sluices,’ said William. ‘Then all the Cam’s filth will be washed away and we shall be stench- and miasma-free once more.’

‘That will take more than the contents of the Mill Pond,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Too much filth has accumulated in the river, and the only thing that will help us now is rain. Lots of rain.’

William was silent for a while, then asked, somewhat out of the blue, ‘What do you think of your new brother-in-law? I was astonished when Edith remarried last month, as I assumed she would remain a widow for the rest of her life.’

He could not have been more astonished than Bartholomew. Although his sister’s first marriage had been an arranged one, it had been very happy, and she had always maintained that no one could ever take Oswald’s place. Philip Chaumbre seemed pleasant enough, but there was nothing remarkable or special about him, and Bartholomew failed to understand why he, of all men, should have caused Edith to change her mind.

‘I assume it is a match of convenience,’ William went on. ‘Oswald left her a cloth business and Chaumbre is a dyer, so the association will benefit them both. Indeed, I would say it has put them among the wealthiest families in the shire.’

‘I hope that was not why she accepted him,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the notion. He loved his sister dearly, and her happiness was important to him.

‘Not everyone has the good fortune to wed for love, Matt,’ said William, very sagely for a man who would never marry at all. ‘Count yourself lucky.’

Since Brother Michael had been elected Master, the College had developed in leaps and bounds. First, he had persuaded wealthy benefactors to pay for repairs and improvements, so the roofs no longer leaked and there was real glass in all the windows. This meant that in inclement weather, scholars were no longer obliged to choose between light and warmth – having the shutters open so they could see what they were doing, or closed so they did not freeze.

Second, he had arranged for the Michaelhouse pier to be upgraded. As it was very conveniently located for the market square, merchants paid handsomely to use it for the goods they transported up and down the river. Thus it now provided the College with a princely and reliable income, most of which was spent on food, so sawdust-filled bread and watery pottage had become distant memories.

And finally, he had elevated Michaelhouse’s academic standing by encouraging its Fellows to publish their ideas and send copies to Avignon for papal endorsement. Under his rule, the College’s future looked both secure and promising.

He led the way into the hall and took his place on the dais at the far end. He waited until his Fellows and students were standing at their designated places, and had stopped chatting, fussing and fidgeting. Then he intoned a grace in his perfect Latin, before sitting down and indicating that the servants were to serve breakfast.

That day, all the windows were open in the hope of catching a breeze, although with scant success. For some inexplicable reason, breakfast comprised a stodgy pease pudding and roasted meat, which Bartholomew considered unsuitable fare for a sweltering summer morning. Michael disagreed, and set to with gusto.

‘How are your wedding preparations coming along, Matt?’ the monk asked conversationally, loading his platter with beef.

He was Bartholomew’s closest friend, although too busy for his own good as he juggled the duties of Master and Senior Proctor with his teaching obligations. He was a large man, tall as well as plump, and was of the opinion that a princely girth was a sign of healthy living, not because he ate too much.

Bartholomew winced. The wedding was a sore point, as he would have liked a small, private ceremony, as befitted two people well past the first flush of youth, but Matilde had waited a long time to snag the man she loved, and she wanted it done properly. She had asked a friend named Lucy Brampton – a lady of firm opinions and a flair for organisation – to help, and Lucy was determined to provide Matilde with a day to remember. They gaily ignored his pleas for restraint, which meant he had given up being horrified by the growing grandiosity of the occasion, and had settled into a kind of nervous resignation.

‘I would rather spend the money on medicine for the poor,’ he said, hating the thought of funds squandered on things he deemed unimportant, such as garlands, fine table linen, and the purchase of new-fangled implements from the Italian Peninsula called ‘forkes’ – although as these were used to spear food, thus obviating the need for filthy fingers plunging in and out of the common bowl, he supposed they had their advantages.

‘Do not be such a misery!’ chided Michael. ‘Your guests deserve to have the time of their lives. And so do you.’

‘Have you heard any news about those two missing scholars?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject because he knew they would never agree; Lucy Brampton was not the only one who liked a party. ‘Huntyngdon from King’s Hall and his friend Martyn?’

It was Michael’s turn to wince. ‘None – their whereabouts remain a mystery.’

‘They are my patients,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not know them well, but neither strikes me as a man to jaunt off without telling anyone.’

Michael agreed. ‘Huntyngdon is the illegitimate but much-loved son of an earl, while Martyn is destined for the Bishop’s retinue. Both have promising futures, and their disappearance is out of character. I fear something terrible has happened to them.’

‘You think they are dead?’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Although there is no reason to suspect foul play. They are popular with their colleagues, and we have been at peace with the town for weeks now. There have been no brawls since that Spital business back in May.’

‘So, what will you do about them?’

‘There is no more I can do. I have explored every avenue of enquiry imaginable, but learned nothing of use. However, it will not be my concern after today, because I am delegating the matter to my Junior Proctor.’

‘Thomas Brampton?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Brampton, the brother of Matilde’s friend Lucy, was more politician than investigator, and was unlikely to succeed where Michael had failed. Ergo, by passing the responsibility to him, Michael was effectively giving up on Huntyngdon and Martyn. ‘Really?’

‘I have no choice,’ said Michael, so heavily that Bartholomew saw it had not been an easy decision. ‘Besides, the case needs fresh eyes.’

‘You might fare better getting his sister to do it,’ said Bartholomew acidly. ‘Lucy is arranging my wedding with terrifying efficiency, so hunting missing scholars will be no kind of challenge at all for her. It is a pity the siblings are not reversed – she should meddle less, and he should do it more.’

‘I shall promote him to Senior Proctor tomorrow,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is–’

‘But you are Senior Proctor!’ blurted Bartholomew, shocked to learn that Michael was planning to vacate a post that afforded him so much power. He lowered his voice, aware that students were turning to listen. ‘Or is this your way of announcing that your ambitions have been realised at last, and you have been awarded an abbacy or a bishopric?’

Michael smiled. ‘Not yet, although it is only a matter of time. However, Aynton plans to resign as Chancellor tomorrow, and I have decided to take his place. I cannot be Chancellor and Senior Proctor at the same time, so Brampton must step into my shoes.’

Bartholomew blinked, startled anew. ‘Aynton is leaving? But he has only been in post for a few weeks!’

‘More than enough time for him to realise that he is unequal to it.’

‘How can that matter, when you are Chancellor in all but name?’ Bartholomew was unsettled by the news, feeling his entire world was beginning to shift and change, and he did not like it. ‘I cannot imagine there is much for him to do.’

‘Unfortunately, there is,’ sighed Michael. ‘We are far larger and more prosperous than we were a decade ago, so there is a lot to handle, even for a figurehead. And Aynton is unequal to the task. He is a pleasant fellow, but he is disorganised, feeble and inept, and it has been a struggle for me to manage his duties, as well as my own.’

‘So you are glad he is going?’

‘I am not,’ replied Michael grimly. ‘I would rather he acquired a backbone and a modicum of common sense, and worked with me to drive our University into the future. I much prefer directing from the sidelines, as it gives me greater freedom to act. I do not want to be elected Chancellor tomorrow.’

Bartholomew gaped yet again. ‘You plan to hold an election tomorrow? Is that not rather hasty? You usually claim that these things take months to organise.’

‘As they should,’ said Michael. ‘But we cannot be without a titular head over the summer, as there are several very important matters pending that will require a Chancellor’s seal. Aynton has done us a serious disservice by deciding to leave so precipitously.’

‘But tomorrow!’ breathed Bartholomew, still stunned. ‘Why not next week?’

‘Because we must be quorate for the vote to be legal, and some of our Regent Masters are already slipping away – they are supposed to wait until the end of term, but we all know this rule is regularly broken. Ergo, I have no choice.’

‘So why will you stand? Why not remain Senior Proctor, and find a Chancellor you can manipulate, as you have always done before?’

‘If only I could,’ sighed Michael. ‘Unfortunately, as soon as Aynton announced his retirement, three men raced forward to nominate themselves as his replacement. None are suitable, and would damage the University that I have worked so hard to build.’

‘Which three?’

‘John Donwich of Clare Hall, who is a diehard traditionalist, resistant to change; Richard Narboro of Peterhouse, who cannot walk past a shiny surface without stopping to admire himself; and Geoffrey Dodenho of King’s Hall, whose brain is smaller than a pea.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I see what you mean. Donwich and Narboro would be a disaster. But surely you can bend Dodenho to your will? He is too dim-witted to know what was happening, and would present all your ideas as his own.’

‘I considered it, but I cannot have him involved with the complex negotiations that are scheduled over the summer. He would destroy everything just by opening his mouth.’

‘But what happens if you lose tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

Although Michael had done more for the University than any scholar in living memory, there were some who resented his success and would vote against him out of jealousy and spite. It would be none of Bartholomew’s business soon, but that did not mean he would stop caring about the studium generale and its future.

‘I will not lose.’ Michael shrugged confidently. ‘I am the best candidate. Besides, not only will the others have no time to gather any meaningful support, but it is the Feast of St Benedict on Friday. The founder of my Order will ensure that I am where I need to be on the morning following tomorrow’s election.’

‘Will he?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully, aware that Michael did not always keep the vows he had made at his ordination, so might not be as favoured as he imagined.

‘Of course.’ Michael smiled as he wiped his greasy fingers on a piece of linen. ‘It will be your last vote as a Regent Master. And perhaps the most important of them all.’

It was always difficult to teach during the last few days of the summer term, when disputations were over, the results were pinned on the door of St Mary the Great, and the students itched to go home to their families. A few slipped away early, ignoring the obligation to ‘keep term’ – to spend a specific number of nights in Cambridge during the academic year. The rest, however, grew rowdier and more restless with each passing day, especially those who were due to graduate, who felt their studies were now complete.

Most Fellows did not try to give lectures and left their lads free to do what they liked. Bartholomew was the exception, and persisted with a full teaching schedule, as he felt there was still so much more for his students to learn. He drove them hard, ignoring their resentful glares as the College’s lawyers, grammarians, philosophers and theologians strolled off to lounge in the orchard or play ball games in the yard.

He kept his pupils at their studies until the bell rang for the noonday meal. While they hurried away to snatch some fresh air before eating, he decided to visit Isnard, to make certain that the bargeman really was suffering from a cold and not the flux. He looked around for a couple of students to take with him, feeling it was a good opportunity to continue their education. His eye lit on Stasy and Hawick, who were by the gate, where the College’s assorted poultry had also gathered.

‘You want us to go with you now?’ asked Hawick in dismay, when Bartholomew told them that they had been chosen for some additional tuition. ‘But dinner is nearly ready.’

‘And it is too hot for traipsing after customers anyway,’ added Stasy, fanning himself with a grimy hand. ‘Let Isnard come to us if his complaint is urgent.’

‘You will not keep many patients with that attitude,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And what are you doing among these birds anyway? Whatever it is, they do not like it.’

‘They do not,’ agreed a quiet voice, and Bartholomew jumped as John Clippesby, the College’s gentle Dominican, emerged from the shadows.

It was generally assumed that Clippesby was either insane or a saint in the making. He talked to animals, and insisted that he understood every grunt, squawk, moo, bleat, bark, mew, cluck or oink directed back at him. What he claimed they told him often made a lot more sense to Bartholomew than the ramblings of his allegedly rational colleagues.

‘What are you doing, lurking in the dark?’ demanded Stasy, his tone impertinent for a student addressing a Fellow. ‘Listening to that gossipy peacock again?’

He exchanged a smirk with Hawick, and Bartholomew bristled. He was fond of Clippesby, and was not about to stand by while Stasy mocked him, but Clippesby spoke while the physician was still devising a suitable rebuke.

‘Peacocks never gossip,’ he said, regarding Stasy with wide, innocent eyes. He gestured to the bird in question, a glorious creation with an enormous tail and an ego to match, who belonged to Walter the porter. ‘However, Henry did mention that you drove him and his harem into the kitchens last night, with a view to seeing them in trouble with Agatha for scoffing raisins.’

‘Then Henry is a liar,’ declared Hawick indignantly. ‘We did nothing of the kind.’

‘Birds do not know how to lie,’ said Clippesby, and it occurred to Bartholomew that the same was true of the Dominican himself. ‘They see no need for it.’

The peacock strutted towards Clippesby, hoping for a treat. For no reason other than malice, Stasy aimed a kick at him, and as Bartholomew chose that moment to step towards the gate, the flying sandal missed the bird and caught him instead. While Stasy staggered off balance, Henry lunged.

‘It bit me!’ howled Stasy, holding up a finger to reveal a tiny blob of blood. ‘It should not be allowed to roam free. That thing is dangerous!’

‘So are you,’ retorted Bartholomew, making a great show of hobbling about and rubbing his knee, although the truth was that Stasy’s shoe had barely touched him.

‘Hey!’ came Walter’s angry voice. The porter was inordinately fond of his bird, and had recently spent all his life savings on four peahens, because Clippesby said that Henry yearned for female company. ‘Come near my flock again and I will kick you! Now clear off!’

Stasy shot him a dismissive sneer before loping away towards the orchard, where the medical students tended to congregate at that time of day. Hawick muttered what might have been an apology, and trotted after him.

‘Do you want me to fetch them back?’ asked Clippesby, leaning down to pick up a chicken that was scratching about nearby; he cocked his head towards her as she clucked. ‘Ethel says you wanted to take them to see Isnard.’

‘I did,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘But not any more. Were they up to mischief here, John? The birds did not seem very happy when I arrived.’

‘Stasy wants to wring Henry’s neck,’ explained Clippesby. ‘So he and Hawick herded all the poultry here, so he could grab him. Ethel heard them planning the attack.’

‘What?’ cried Walter, shocked and angry. ‘He was going to do what?’

‘Do not worry,’ said Clippesby kindly. ‘I shall watch over the birds myself from now on. No harm will come to Henry, I promise.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right, for everyone’s sake, because if Henry did meet a premature end, murder would quickly follow, and he did not want Walter to hang for it.

The physician felt as if he was in a furnace as he headed towards the river, to take the towpath to Isnard’s cottage. The sun burned through his black academic tabard, which was so uncomfortable that he flouted College rules by removing it. Shirt sleeves were cooler, although not by much, and he pitied those who were in the grip of the flux, fevered and lying in houses that were like ovens.

The Mill Pond was a small lake, very deep in the middle, created by the West, Middle and East dams. Each dam had a sluice, which comprised great wooden gates that could be opened and closed as needed. In the past, several mills had operated there, but now there was only one: Mayor Morys’s. It stood near the Small Bridges, and the West Dam directed water down a specially constructed spillway that drove its wheel.

Morys’s mill ground grain. If the Mill Pond were low or empty, its wheel could not turn and he lost money, hence his determination to hog what little water trickled in from the drought-starved Cam to the south. The river’s flow was not cut off entirely, but the dams slowed it significantly, so what water did seep through was so sluggish as to be virtually stagnant. The situation was a little better when the West Dam was opened to drive the mill, but not much, as most of the water was directed along an arm of the Cam that flowed around the west of the town, and only joined the main river once past the Carmelite Priory.

Bartholomew reached Isnard’s house, which was near the Middle Dam, and stopped for a moment to look around.

There were not many buildings near the pond, as it had a tendency to flood in wet weather. The exceptions were Isnard’s house, which stood on a small rise; a row of cottages occupied by people who had not appreciated the location’s shortcomings when they had moved in; and a low, squat ugly building belonging to Peterhouse. This was Hoo Hall, named after an early Master, and currently offered as accommodation for students.

The Mill Pond itself was a hive of activity. Although less than half full, women flocked around its sun-baked shores to do their laundry or to scrub pots and pans; others collected water for cleaning, cooking and drinking. Guards employed by Morys prowled to make sure they paid for what they took. It smelled stagnant and Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in distaste.

‘It is no good advising them to use the wells, Doctor,’ said Isnard, emerging from his home to greet him; he spoke in a croak and he could not breathe through his nose. ‘Most of those have turned muddy, but the Mill Pond is still clean.’

Bartholomew was amazed that anyone should consider the Mill Pond ‘clean’, although he knew better than to debate the matter with Isnard, whose opinions were immovable once he had decided upon something. Bartholomew was fond of him, even though events earlier in the year had revealed the bargeman to be an intolerant bigot with a passionate and wholly irrational hatred of strangers.

‘Do you drink from the pond?’ he asked.

Isnard regarded him askance. ‘I do not! And nor will I, unless someone contrives to fill it with ale. But it is too hot to stand out here, so come inside and sit in the shade. Then you can cure me of this vile disease.’

Bartholomew entered to see that Isnard had company – Margery Starre was visiting. Margery was quite open about the fact that she was a witch, which should have been enough to see her hanged. However, she knew how to end unwanted pregnancies, prepare love potions, banish adolescent spots, and ward off evil. Thus she was popular with townsfolk and scholars alike, so the authorities tended to turn a blind eye to her activities.

‘I cannot help poor Isnard, Doctor,’ she said ruefully. ‘I have never been any good at curing common colds.’

Nor was Bartholomew, so the bargeman was horrified when told that he would just have to wait for it to get better on its own.

‘What do you mean, you cannot mend me?’ he rasped at Bartholomew. ‘You must! I can barely breathe, my head aches, my throat is sore, and I feel terrible. I intend to sing a solo at the University’s graduation ceremony, and I cannot practise feeling like this.’

‘Rest your voice, drink lots of boiled barley water, and let nature take its course,’ instructed Bartholomew. ‘You should be well in time for your solo.’

‘But I need to rehearse or they will give the part to John Godenave!’ cried Isnard hoarsely. ‘There must be something you can do.’

‘You can try a linctus of blackcurrant, but rest and time are really the only cures.’

‘You see, Isnard?’ said Margery. ‘What did I tell you? We medical professionals are all as helpless as each other when it comes to colds.’

‘And the summer flux,’ put in Isnard nasally, full of disgust for both of them. ‘Neither of you are very good at mending that either.’

‘He is right, you know,’ said Margery, as she and Bartholomew walked along the towpath together a short while later. ‘I have had no success with curing this horrible flux.’

Bartholomew did not reply, because he was holding his tabard over his nose and mouth so as not to inhale the stench of the near-stagnant river and its festering cargo of sewage, animal manure and refuse. He used his free hand to flap away the flies that swarmed around his head, determined to prevent them from alighting, as he knew exactly where they had been first. Margery was made of sterner stuff, and neither the insects nor the reek seemed to bother her.

‘The flux always comes in summer,’ she went on, ‘but it is much worse this year. I am rushed off my feet with demands for help.’

Bartholomew glanced up at a brassy sun in a harsh blue sky, and wondered when he had last seen even a wisp of cloud. ‘What do you prescribe for it?’ he asked, his voice muffled by the cloth.

‘Boiled barley water,’ came the surprising response. ‘It washes out the poisons, see. Of course, mine comes complete with incantations to make it more effective – to God and to the older deities, as it is difficult to know who to trust on this matter. I also add a bit of liquorice and mint to make it palatable.’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Bartholomew approvingly, then added hastily for clarification, ‘Flavouring the water, I mean.’

She smiled smugly. ‘Yes, you should not try spells; you are not qualified for it. You might want to warn those students of yours against it, too – Stasy and Hawick. They think they will compete with me when they set up business here, but they are sadly mistaken.’

‘I imagine they are more interested in competing with me,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘But they know no spells, so do not worry on that score. Magical incantations are not part of the University’s medical curriculum.’

‘You may not have taught them any, but they certainly think they have learned some on their own account,’ countered Margery. ‘They are vile boys, and I am surprised you took them on in the first place.’

Bartholomew was not about to confide that they had been foisted on him against his will by a former Master, because the College had been strapped for cash at the time, and they had agreed to pay their tuition fees up front. He turned off the towpath into Water Lane, unable to stand the stink of the river any longer.

‘There is Richard Narboro,’ said Margery, pointing a gnarled finger at a scholar who strutted along ahead of them. She sniggered. ‘Have you heard about him and Lucy Brampton? You know Lucy – she is the one organising your wedding.’

‘She certainly is,’ muttered Bartholomew, and before he could add that he had heard the story about her several times already, Margery began to regale him with it anyway.

‘Ten years ago, Narboro offered to marry her. Her family agreed, so a contract was drawn up. Then he went off to work for the King, but promised to wed her when he got back at the end of the month. The rogue stayed gone for more than a decade. He arrived home a few weeks ago, took one look at her, and called the betrothal off.’

‘I wonder when it will rain,’ said Bartholomew in an effort to change the subject; he disliked gossip. Unfortunately, Margery declined to be sidetracked.

‘He claimed he did not like what the delay had done to her teeth, and announced his intention to remain a scholar instead. And scholars cannot wed, as you know. So poor Lucy spent ten years waiting for him, and now it is too late for her to snag someone else.’

‘You cannot know that,’ objected Bartholomew, feeling obliged to defend her – she was Matilde’s friend after all. ‘She looks much younger than her forty summers, and her teeth are not the worst I have ever seen.’

‘Her fangs are not the real problem,’ averred Margery in conspiratorial tones. ‘Her brother is: Junior Proctor Brampton plans to sue Narboro for breach of promise, and no one wants to marry into a litigious family, lest they become victims of a lawsuit, too.’

‘I hardly think–’

‘Doubtless that is why she is planning your wedding,’ Margery forged on. ‘Because she was deprived of her own. Of course, I have seen her smiling at other men, so she has not given up hope, even if everyone else knows her situation is hopeless. Narboro’s rejection of her was cruel, and I am surprised she has not come to me for a spell to punish him.’

‘She is not that kind of–’

‘I heard this morning that Narboro wants to be Chancellor,’ interrupted Margery, and cackled her amusement. ‘As if he could defeat Brother Michael! However, just to make sure nothing goes awry, I have put hexes on all three of the good brother’s opponents.’

‘Please do not tell anyone else that,’ begged Bartholomew, thinking that Michael’s chances of victory might be damaged if it became known that he had acquired the active support of a witch.

‘I will not,’ she promised. ‘I know how scholars fear matters they do not understand, poor lambs. But just look at that foolish Narboro! He barely has two pennies to rub together, yet he still attires himself like a baron. He will not be able to dress with such extravagance when Lucy’s brother has finished with him.’

‘I doubt Brampton will persist once he learns Narboro has nothing to give him.’

‘You are wrong – the lawsuit is not about money, it is about revenge. Brampton is wealthy, and will use his fortune to crush a man who insulted his family’s honour. To him, destroying Narboro is more important than Lucy’s future happiness.’

Bartholomew looked at Narboro. As a Fellow of Peterhouse, he was obliged to wear its uniform tabard, but as these garments were rather shapeless, he had altered his to show off his trim figure. He had also dispensed with the hat that went with it, allowing him to flaunt his beautiful golden curls. He held something in his hand, and constantly glanced down at it.

‘His mirror,’ cackled Margery, watching in amusement. ‘He is never without it, because he likes to be able to see himself at all times.’

There was a building with a new window at the corner of the lane, and Bartholomew watched as Narboro admired his reflection as he passed. He was so delighted by what he saw that he failed to watch where he was putting his feet, and he stumbled over a pothole.

‘He is so vain!’ chuckled Margery. ‘His Peterhouse colleagues call him Narcissus Narboro, after a famous Greek person who loved himself so much that he died.’

‘Greek mythology,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It did not actually happen.’

‘Well, it might happen here,’ averred Margery, when Narboro tripped a second time. ‘He will break his neck unless he stops admiring himself.’

The midday meal was over by the time Bartholomew reached Michaelhouse, so his students had saved him some bread and cheese. He forgot to eat them in the excitement of teaching De motu thoracis et pulmonis that afternoon, although his students were less than thrilled about sitting in a stifling hot hall to learn Galen’s pontifications on the movements of the chest and lungs. Then it was time for supper, followed by more patients, so it was well past eight o’clock by the time the physician finally repaired to the conclave.

The conclave was a pleasant room off the hall. It was the undisputed domain of the Master and his Fellows, and was where they gathered each evening to read, chat and prepare the next day’s classes. Michaelhouse currently had five Fellows – Bartholomew, William and Clippesby, who had been there for years, and Aungel and Zoone, who were more recent appointments.

When Bartholomew arrived, the others were already there, and the atmosphere was one of convivial relaxation. He slumped wearily at the table and opened his copy of Galen’s De ptisana. It was about the virtues of barley water, which he felt should be revisited now it was his chief weapon against the flux.

‘You should relent, Matthew,’ admonished William, who was trying to remove a nasty stain on his habit that had been there for weeks. ‘It is unfair to drive your lads so hard when the rest of us are winding down.’

It was not sympathy for Bartholomew’s classes that prompted the remark, but guilt: William had spent his day dozing in the orchard, and the physician’s dedication to his duties made him feel lazy.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘They paid for a year’s teaching, so that is what they will get. We do not want them claiming that they have not had their money’s worth.’

‘Your lads can have no cause for complaint on that score,’ said Clippesby, who was in a corner, surrounded by roosting hens. ‘You have crammed more inside their heads this term than the last five years combined.’ One of the birds clucked, and he smiled. ‘Indeed, Ethel has just informed me that no Michaelhouse students have ever worked so hard.’

‘There is still so much more that they should know,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Yet in a few days, some will be licensed to ply their skills on real people. Would you want Stasy or Hawick to tend you if you were ill?’

‘Certainly not,’ declared William firmly. ‘I shall continue to be looked after by you, even after you are wed.’

‘Will you?’ asked Aungel stiffly. ‘Then what about me?’

John Aungel, until recently a student himself, had been appointed to teach medicine when Bartholomew left. He was young, eager and conscientious, but everyone knew he could never fill his former master’s shoes.

‘We shall use you both,’ said Clippesby, ever the peacemaker. ‘For different things.’

‘You are better at horoscopes,’ said William, and jerked a dirty thumb at Bartholomew. ‘Whereas he thinks the stars have no effect on a man’s health, and refuses to calculate them.’

Aungel allowed himself to be mollified. ‘Then I shall provide them free of charge for anyone from Michaelhouse.’

‘I should think so,’ said Will Zoone, the last and newest of the Fellows. He was a tall, languid man with black hair, who taught arithmetic. He also designed bridges, castles and siege engines, although there tended not to be much call for these in the University. ‘We are colleagues, and I would never think of charging you for my services.’

There was a short silence, as the other Fellows tried to think of something Zoone had that Aungel might want. Then Bartholomew went back to his book, aware that the conclave was stiflingly hot. The windows were open, but there was not so much as a whisper of breeze to move the air. In the stillness of the evening, he heard church bells chiming to announce the end of compline. Shortly after, Michael arrived, all important huffing and puffing as he settled in his favourite chair.

‘All is set for tomorrow,’ he reported. ‘The church is ready, and we shall have our election at noon. Donwich, Narboro and Dodenho will doubtless spend tonight preparing their speeches, but I shall just speak from the heart.’

‘You will win,’ predicted William gleefully, ‘and Michaelhouse will be home to yet another Chancellor. Our College continues to go from strength to strength.’

‘Although this election has been sprung on us with almost indecent haste,’ put in Zoone worriedly. ‘It smacks of intrigue.’

‘Of course there is intrigue,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘It is the University.’

They began to discuss the other candidates, so Bartholomew returned to his reading. When he had finished, and was sitting back to rub his tired eyes, the conversation had moved to the two missing scholars.

‘I know Martyn and Huntyngdon,’ Aungel was saying. ‘They are steady, reliable men, who take their University duties seriously. They are not absconders.’

‘But one lodged in the Cardinal’s Cap,’ said Zoone disapprovingly. ‘And the other visited him there. We all know that taverns are forbidden to scholars.’

‘The Cap is different,’ explained Michael. ‘It is where learned men from different foundations gather for intelligent debate. There is never any trouble, so I tell my beadles to turn a blind eye. And yes, the missing men did meet there just before they disappeared – they discussed metaphysics, and left an hour later. Neither has been seen since.’

‘Have you questioned the sentries on the town gates and bridges, Brother?’ asked Aungel. ‘Perhaps Huntyngdon and Martyn did slip away that night, although if so, I am sure they will have a legitimate reason. They are not men for reckless jaunts.’

‘I questioned the guards twice,’ replied Michael. ‘They are certain that no scholars left that evening or the following day. And before you ask, yes, we can trust them – they have been vigilant since the fright we had with the threat of a French invasion earlier this year.’

Aungel raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Then if they did not leave, they must still be here. But where? There are not many places one can hide for days on end.’

‘They are not hiding,’ declared Clippesby confidently. ‘The College cat would have heard if that were the case, but she assures me that there has been no news on that front.’

At that point, there was a knock on the door and Cynric appeared.

‘You are needed, boy,’ the book-bearer told Bartholomew. ‘By Sheriff Tulyet. There has been an accident on the Great Bridge.’

Bartholomew looped his medical bag over his shoulder. ‘What sort of accident?’

‘A nasty one,’ replied Cynric. ‘Perhaps you should come, too, Brother, because the casualty is thought to be Chancellor Aynton.’