A Vein of Deceit (4 page)

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.