A Bone Of Contention Part 8

'But what?' asked Bartholomew, appalled. 'Who could benefit from a riot? Trade will be disrupted and if much damage has been done, the King will grant the burgesses permission to levy some kind of tax to pay for repairs. No one will gain from this.'

'Well, someone will,' said Michael sombrely. 'Why else would he - or they - go to all this effort?'

Each sat engrossed in his own thoughts, until Bartholomew rose to leave.

'Are you sure you are up to going out and throwing yourself on the mercy of the town's injured?' Michael said in sudden concern. 'There are sure to be dozens of them and you are the town's most popular physician.'

Bartholomew waved a deprecatory hand. 'Nonsense.

There is only Father Philius from Gonville Hall, Master Lynton of Peterhouse, the surgeon Robin of Grantchester, or me from which to choose. Philius's and Lynton's services are expensive, while Robin has a mortality rate that his patients find alarming. It does not leave most people with a huge choice.'

Michael laughed. 'You are too modest, my friend.' He grew serious again. 'Are you certain you feel well? You were all but witless last night.'

Bartholomew smiled. 'It was probably the shock of seeing you rise from the dead,' he said. His smile faded.

'It was not one of my more pleasant experiences. I lost my knife and tabard,' he added illogically.

'Cynric has your knife,' said Michael. 'It is not a good idea to leave an identifiable weapon at the scene of multiple murders you know. The Sheriff might find it and feel obliged to string you up as an example, despite the fact that he seems to consider himself your friend.

We brought your tabard back but it was so damaged we had to throw it away. So get yourself another weapon, don your spare tabard, and let us be off.'

Bartholomew followed Michael across the yard of Michaelhouse, breathing deeply of the early morning air as he always did. Today, the usually clean, fresh wind that blew in from the Fens was tinged with the smell of burning.

Surprisingly, given the violence of the night's rioting, only eight people had been killed. The bodies had been taken to the Castle and Bartholomew promised the hara.s.sed Sheriff that he would inspect them later in the day to determine the cause of death for the official records. But there were many injured, and Bartholomew spent most of the day binding wounds, and applying poultices and salves. Some people were too badly hurt to be brought to him, and so Bartholomew traipsed from house to house, tending them in their homes. He was just emerging from the home of a potter who had been crushed by a cart, when he met Eleanor Tyler. Shyly, she handed him a neat package that rattled.

'Salves,' she explained. 'I thought you might need extra supplies today, given the number of people I hear have been injured. I packed them up myself in Uncle Jonas's shop.'

Thank you,' said Bartholomew, touched by her thoughtfulness.

'That was kind, and I have been running low.'

She glanced at the potter's house with its sealed shutters.

'Will he live?'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'Father William should be here soon to give him last rites.'

She took his arm and led him away. 'I am sure you have done all you can for him but now you should look to your own needs. You look pale and tired and you should rest while you eat something. My mother has made some broth and we would be honoured if you would come to share it with us.'

That would be impossible,' he said somewhat ungraciously, as he tried to extricate his arm. 'I have another six patients to visit, and I cannot just abandon them.'

'No one is asking you to abandon them,' she said, taking a firmer grip on his sleeve. 'I am simply advising you that if you want to do your best for them, you should rest.

Uncle Jonas says it is dangerous to dispense medicines unless you are fully alert, and you cannot be fully alert if you have been working since dawn.'

'Eleanor, please,' he objected, as she pulled him towards the High Street. 'I am used to working long hours and none of the medicines I will dispense are particularly potent.' In fact, most of his work had involved st.i.tching wounds and removing foreign bodies, work usually considered beneath physicians and more in the realm of surgeons.

They were almost at Eleanor's home, still marked with streaks of soot from the fire of the previous night. Mistress Tyler and her other two daughters were scrubbing at the walls with long-handled brooms, but abandoned their work when they saw Bartholomew. Before he could object further, he was ushered through a small gate to an attractive garden at the rear of the house. While the two older daughters pressed him with detailed questions about the town's injured, Mistress Tyler and the youngest child fetched ale and bread.

'I heard that Michaelhouse's laundress - Agatha drove away a group of rioters from the King's Head virtually single-handed,' said Hedwise with a smile. Hedwise, like her older sister, had rich tresses of dark hair and candid grey eyes. She was slightly taller than Eleanor and had scarcely taken her eyes off Bartholomew since he had arrived.

'What was Agatha doing at the King's Head?' asked Bartholomew. 'She lives at Michaelhouse.'

'The King's Head is her favourite tavern,' said Eleanor, surprised. 'Did you not know? She can often be found there of an evening, especially when darkness comes early and there is nothing for her to do in the College. She says if Michaelhouse will not buy her any candles so that she can see to sew, then she will take her talents elsewhere.'

'Agatha?' asked Bartholomew, bemused. 'I had always a.s.sumed she went to bed after dark. I did not know she frequented taverns.'

'You see how these scholars fill their heads with books to the exclusion of all else?' asked Eleanor of Hedwise.

'Doctor Bartholomew probably has no idea about how Agatha earns herself free ale in the King's Head!'

'And I do notwish to,' he said hastily, embarra.s.sed. The notion of the large and formidable woman, who ruled the College servants with a will of steel, dispensing favours to the rough male patrons of the King's Head was not an image he found attractive.

Eleanor and Hedwise exchanged a look of puzzlement before Hedwise gave a shriek of shocked laughter and punched him playfully on the arm. 'Oh, Doctor! You misunderstand! Agatha mends torn clothes for free ale.

She is very good.'

'I see,' said Bartholomew, not sure what else he could say after what, in retrospect, indicated that he had a low opinion of the moral character of Michaelhouse's most powerful servant. He hoped the Tyler women were discreet, for Agatha was not a woman to suffer insults without retaliating in kind.

Eleanor dispatched her sister to help Mistress Tyler with the broth. Hedwise left Bartholomew and Eleanor alone with some reluctance, glancing backwards resentfully as she left. As soon as she was out of sight, Eleanor rested her hand on his knee.

'I hear Michaelhouse is due to celebrate its foundation next week,' she said.

'Yes, next Tuesday,' he said, grateful for the change in conversation. Tt is the most important day in the College calendar, and is the only time that its Fellows are allowed to bring ladies into the hall. We are each allowed two guests.'

'I know,' said Eleanor, smiling meaningfully, still gripping his knee.

Bartholomew looked at her, not certain what he was expected to say. He continued nervously. 'Our founder, Hervey de Stanton, provided a special endowment for the occasion, so that there will always be money to celebrate it. The Founder's Feast and the Festival of St Michael and All Angels the following Sunday-St Michael is the patron saint of Michaelhouse - come close together.'

'So, who have you invited to this feast?' asked Eleanor, raising her eyebrows.

'I had been planning to ask my sister and her husband, but I left it too late and they accepted an invitation from one of the commoners instead. So, I have invited no one.'

It would have been pleasant, he thought ruefully, to have taken Philippa. The mere thought of her long, golden hair and vivacious blue eyes sent a pang of bitter regret slicing through him. He looked away.

'I am free on Tuesday,' said Eleanor casually. 'And I have never been to a Founder's Feast before.'

'Would you like to come?' asked Bartholomew doubtfully, wondering why a lively and attractive woman like no Eleanor should want to sit through a long, formal dinner, with lengthy Latin speeches that she would not be able to understand, attended by lots of crusty old men whose aim was to eat enough to make themselves ill the following day and drink sufficient wine to drown a horse.

'Yes, I would,' she said happily, her face splitting into a wide grin. 'I would be delighted!'

'Good,' said Bartholomew, hoping she would not be bored. 'It begins at noon.'

Mistress Tyler arrived with the broth, and Eleanor's hand was withdrawn from his knee. Bartholomew ate quickly, concerned that he had already been away too long from his patients. It was excellent broth, however, rich and spicy and liberally endowed with chunks of meat that were edible. The bread was soft and white and quite different from the jaw-cracking fare made from the cheapest available flour that emerged from the Michaelhouse kitchens. Perhaps Michael had been right in the tavern the previous night, and Bartholomew did need to venture out of College more and sample what the world had to offer. Including the company of women, he decided suddenly.

As he took his leave, one of Jonas the Poisoner's children came to say that his father was inundated with requests for medicines after the riot, and that he needed Eleanor's help.

'You have some knowledge of herbs?' asked Bartholomew, impressed.

'She sweeps up,' said Hedwise with disdain.

'I do not!' Eleanor retorted, glowering at her sister.

'I have a good memory, and Uncle Jonas says I am indispensable to him in his work.'

'Then you had better go to him,' said Hedwise archly.

Ill 'I shall accompany Doctor Bartholomew to see his next patient.'

'There is no need for that,' said Bartholomew, not liking the way Eleanor's look had turned to something blacker.

Hedwise took his arm. 'Shall we be off, then? I shall return later,' she called to her family as she opened the garden gate and bundled him out.

'Do not be too long,' Eleanor shouted after her. 'You still have the pig to muck out, and I have that potion for the rash on your legs that you asked me to fetch from Uncle Jonas. You should apply it as soon as possible before it becomes worse.'

Hedwise laughed lightly and, Bartholomew thought, artificially, as she closed the gate behind her. 'Eleanor likes to jest, although mother is always berating her for being overly vulgar. But I have watched Uncle Jonas very carefully in his shop, and if I can be of service to you this afternoon, I shall be happy to oblige.'

'What about the pig?' asked Bartholomew, desperately trying to think of a way to reject her offer without hurting her feelings. It was not that he did not want her company, but some of the sights he had seen that morning had been horrific and he had no wish to inflict them on young Hedwise Tyler.

'The pig will manage without me for an hour or two,' said Hedwise, 'and I am sure I can do more good by a.s.sisting you than by dealing with that filthy animal.'

'Perhaps another time, Hedwise,' said Bartholomew gently, 'although I do appreciate your offer and the fact that you are prepared to subject yourself to some unpleasant experiences in order to help me.'

She looked away and, to his horror, he saw that her eyes brimmed with tears. At a loss, he offered her a strip of clean linen from his bag with which to wipe her eyes.

'I so seldom leave the house,' she said in a m.u.f.fled voice. 'Eleanor, being the eldest, is always the first to go on errands and the like, while I have to stay at home with the pig.'

Bartholomew's discomfort increased, so, uncertain what to say, he said nothing. She gave a loud sniff.

'I never go anywhere,' she continued miserably. 'I have not even been to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels at St Michael's Church.'

'Oh, I could take you to that,' he said, relieved he could at least suggest something positive. 'It is the Sunday after next, although I cannot see that you would enjoy it - Michael's choir is going to sing, you see, and they are not what they were before the plague. Afterwards, Michaelhouse provides stale oatcakes and sour wine in the College courtyard. If it rains, we just get wet because the Franciscans outvote everyone else that the meal - if you can call it that - should be held in the hall. The Franciscans do not approve of townspeople in the hall except at the annual Founder's Feast.'

He realised he had not made the offer sound a particularly appealing one, and sought for something to say in the Festival's favour. Hedwise did not give him the chance.

'How wonderful!' she exclaimed, tears forgotten. 'Oh, thank you!'

'You can bring your mother,' he said, recalling that her elder sister had already inveigled an invitation to the Founder's Feast. He did not want Mistress Tyler thinking he was working his way through her entire family. Hedwise, however, had other ideas.

'Oh, no,' she said briskly. 'Mother will not want to sit in a damp church all day. But I will be delighted to accompany you. Just the two of us.'

'And a hundred other people,' he said. 'The church is always full for the Festival. Of course, it might not be so well attended if people hear the choir in advance. But if you have second thoughts about wasting a Sunday, you must tell me. I promise you I will not be offended if you find something better to do.'

'I can think of nothing better to do than to spend a Sunday with you at the Festival,' she announced. She gave him a huge grin and slipped away, dodging deftly out of the path of a man driving an ancient cow to the Market Square. A little belatedly, Bartholomew began to wonder what he had let himself in for.

CHAPTER 4.

Barthoi.omew's fears for Hedwise's well-being were unfounded as it happened, and most of the cases he saw the afternoon after the riot comprised minor injuries, rather than serious wounds. He tended a merchant who had gashed his hand on gla.s.s when he tried to protect his home from looters, and then set off along Milne Street to where a baker with eyes sore from smoke awaited him. On his way, he was accosted by a shabby figure in dark green, with protuberant blue eyes and a dirty, unshaven look.

His hands, Bartholomew could not help but notice, were black with dried blood.

'Good afternoon, Robin,' he said, involuntarily stepping backwards as the surgeon's rank body odour wafted towards him.

'I hear you have been st.i.tching and cutting,' said Robin of Grantchester in a sibilant whisper, pursing his lips and looking at Bartholomew in disapproval. 'Chopping and sewing. '

'Yes,' said Bartholomew shortly, walking on. He did not have the time to engage in a lengthy discussion with the surgeon about the techniques he used, despite the fact that Bartholomew thought the man could use all the help he could get: Robin of Grantchester was not noted for his medical successes. The surgeon scurried after him.

'Surgery is for surgeons,' hissed Robin, sniffing wetly.

'Physicking and reading the stars is for physicians. You are taking the bread from my mouth.'

Bartholomew heartily wished that were true, and that Robin would pack up his unsanitary selection of implements and look for greener pastures in another town.

The more Bartholomew observed the surgeon in action, the more he was convinced that his grimy hands did far more harm than good, and shuddered to think of anyone being forced to pay him for any dubious services he might render. The fact that Robin always demanded payment in advance because of his high mortality rate did little to endear him to Bartholomew.

'My job is slitting and slicing,' said Robin venomously.

'Hacking and slashing, more like,' muttered Bartholomew, wondering whether the man had been drinking.

His eyes were red-rimmed and he seemed unsteady on his feet.

'You are not a surgeon. You have no right,' persisted Robin. 'I do not profess to read the stars or inspect urine.

Keep to your profession, Bartholomew, and I will keep to mine. I shall complain to the master of Michaelhouse if you continue to poach my trade.'

'Complain then,' said Bartholomew carelessly, knowing that Master Kenyngham would do nothing about it. 'I am duty bound to do whatever it takes to ensure the complete recovery of my patients. If that involves a degree of surgery, then so be it.'

'You can call me to do it,' said Robin, wiping his runny nose with a bloodstained finger. 'The other physicians do so, and I insist you do not poach my work.'

'All right,' said Bartholomew, stopping outside the sore-eyed baker's house. 'I promise you I will ask any patient I operate on whether they would rather have you or me. Will that suffice?'

Robin saw it would have to, and slunk away down a dark alley, his canvas sack of saws and knives clanking ominously as he went. Before Bartholomew could knock at the baker's door, he was hailed a second time, and turned to see Adam Radbeche, the Princ.i.p.al of David's Hostel and the man responsible for Father Andrew and his unruly Scottish students.

Radbeche was a distinctive-looking man, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair that reminded Bartholomew of a scarecrow. The Scot was a well-known figure in the University, famous for his brilliant interpretations of the works of Aristotle, and Bartholomew was pleased that Radbeche's scholarship had been rewarded by an appointment to Princ.i.p.al - even if it were only to the small, anonymous David's Hostel. Students and masters from the same part of the world tended to gather together, so it was not unusual that Radbeche had attracted fellow Scots to his establishment.

The philosopher's hand was bandaged; he explained that he had been burned while a.s.sisting a neighbour to extinguish a fire. The students had also helped to bring the fire under control, but, Radbeche said, at least three times he had counted them all back in again, so Bartholomew was inclined to believe that the Scots had played no part in the rioting. He led Radbeche across the road to sit on the low wall surrounding the little church of St John Zachary - decommissioned since the plague had taken most of its parishioners, and now with weeds growing out of its windows and its roof sagging dangerously.

While Bartholomew inspected and re-dressed the burned hand, Radbeche informed him that the ailing student Bartholomew had treated the day before at David's was recovering well. When Bartholomew waved away the offer of payment, impatient to attend the baker who had emerged from his house and was blinking at him anxiously, Radbeche suggested instead that he might like to borrow a medical book by the great Greek physician Galen. Bartholomew was surprised.

'Galen? But you have no medical students.'