‘It is Sunday, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘It is our turn to prepare the church for mass.’
Bartholomew groaned and flopped back onto the bed. ‘It is still the middle of the night!’
‘It is almost dawn and well after the time we usually rise. You know Sunday services are later than in the rest of the week.’ He gave Bartholomew an unsympathetic prod. ‘Hurry up, or we will be fined again for failing to carry out our duties.’
Most scholars in the University – Bartholomew among them – had taken minor orders with the Church. This meant that they came under the lenient jurisdiction of Canon, rather than secular, law. Others, like Brother Michael, had taken major orders with their accompanying vow of chastity. In return, the scholars were obliged to perform a certain number of religious duties, which included officiating at masses and giving the occasional sermon. Before the plague, these duties had been light, but the Death had had a devastating impact on the friars and monks of England and it was said that almost half their number had perished. Clergy were thus in short supply and each Fellow of Michaelhouse was obliged to take services at least twice a week.
By the time Bartholomew had dragged himself out of bed, Michael had slipped away to the kitchen for an illicit breakfast. Bartholomew washed and shaved – unevenly and inadequately, but so did most scholars whose Colleges declined to provide them with candles, but still expected them to appear neat and tidy before dawn in church – in the cold water that always stood in a jug on the floor and pulled on some clean leggings with hands that shook from the cold. He groped around in the dark until he found his best shirt and hunted down a woollen jerkin that his sister had given him for Christmas. Finally, he pulled his black scholar’s tabard over his head, ran his fingers through his hair to pull it into some kind of order, grabbed his cloak, gloves and medicine bag, and left.
Michael was waiting for him at the gate, his mouth still full of the oatcakes he had stolen from the kitchen. They usually had to wait for Walter to wake up and open the gate for them, but the porter had apparently not slept again after Michael’s threat, because he appeared in an instant to let them out. Bartholomew asked him how he was feeling, but received only a sullen sneer for his concern.
Clean air wafted in from the Fens, smelling of the salt sea that lapped a few miles to the north. Bartholomew inhaled deeply. Despite his reluctance to rise, he liked early mornings when the streets were quiet and the breeze was fresh. The rain had stopped too, although the lane was still a treacherous snare of potholes, patches of slick mud and ankle-wrenching irregularities concealed under a brown film of water. He walked next to Michael in companionable silence, content to save any discussion of the events of the previous day until later.
St Michael’s Church was a square, black mass against the dark sky, its low tower dwarfed by the more elegant St Mary’s further down the High Street. Michael unlocked the doors and waited while Bartholomew began the delicate operation of kindling the church’s single, temperamental lamp.
‘Hurry up!’ said Michael impatiently, after a while. ‘The others will think we overslept if the church is not ready when they arrive.’
‘The wick is damp,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should have brought a new one. Ah – there we are!’
He stood back in satisfaction as the lamp spluttered into life, shedding a golden light around the porch. Michael picked it up and walked to the sanctuary, his sandalled feet slapping on the newly laid tiles. Bartholomew followed, checking the level of holy water in the stoop and emptying the buckets strategically placed to catch the drips from the leaking roof. While Michael muttered lauds, Bartholomew trimmed the altar candles and found the appropriate reading for the day in the great Bible that sat on the lectern.
As Michael finished his prayers and laid out the sacred vessels for mass, Bartholomew scraped some of the spilled candle wax from the altar with a knife and hummed to himself.
‘There is a dreadful stench in here,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose in distaste and looking around him. ‘It is worse than the King’s Ditch.’
‘It is Master Wilson’s tomb again,’ said Bartholomew, sweeping the pared wax off the altar and onto the floor with his hand. ‘Or rather the flowers John Runham insists on leaving on it every week. He just jams the fresh ones into the vase without bothering to change the water or throw the dead ones away.’
Michael strolled to the side of the chancel that housed the late Master Wilson’s neat black tomb, laid a hand on it and grinned. ‘Runham was complaining yet again about this at the installation feast. He said you have done his noble cousin a terrible dishonour by providing him with such a plain grave, and claims Master Wilson was a great man who deserves a finer memorial than a crude slab of marble devoid of all decoration.’
‘It is decorated!’ protested Bartholomew, who had been responsible for having Wilson’s tomb built, and for transferring the mouldering bones from their temporary home in the graveyard to their final resting place near St Michael’s altar. He came to stand next to Michael, and leaned against the black stone as he trimmed the wick of a candle with his knife. ‘It has knots carved on it. And Wilson was not a great man! He was a smug and arrogant–’
‘At least have the decency not to sit on his grave while you malign him!’ admonished Michael, amused. ‘But last night, Runham announced his intention to rectify your insult to the saintly Wilson: he plans to mount your inadequate efforts with a gilded life-sized effigy.’
‘A gold statue of Wilson in our chancel?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. He gazed at the simple, but beautiful lines of the arches and windows, and tried to imagine the dead Master’s smug features presiding over them through a mask of precious metal. It was not a pleasant vision. ‘How could he inflict such a vile thing on this lovely building!’
‘With a good deal of money and a total lack of taste,’ said Michael. He patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Matt. I will do all in my power to prevent this crime against architecture – even if it means buying all the gold leaf in Cambridge myself to thwart him. We must protect our town from men like him, or before we know it, some Colleges will take advantage of our tolerance, and will do something totally dreadful – like raising imitation Greek temples all along the river.’
Bartholomew laughed, and went to empty the stinking water from the heavy pewter vase that always sat on Wilson’s grave. He tossed the rotting flowers out of the door, and scrubbed the green slime from the vessel with a handful of wet grass.
‘At least the rain has stopped,’ said Michael conversationally when he walked back inside, carefully laying a tiny piece of bread on the silver paten. ‘All this wet must be the cause of the winter fever among your patients who live near the river. Living near the Cam and being deluged with constant rain must have over-saturated them, and destroyed the balance of their humours.’
Bartholomew leaned his elbows on the altar, his duties forgotten at the prospect of a discussion about medicine. ‘I think the swollen river has somehow invaded their drinking water. The people using the well in the Market Square seem unaffected, but those using the one in Water Lane are falling victim to this intestinal sickness.
‘Then tell them to use the market well instead,’ said Michael with a shrug.
Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I have, Brother. But they do not see why something as simple as water should make them so ill. They show me a cup of clear river, and ask me to show them the contagion in it. When I tell them the contagion might be too small for us to see, they cross themselves like a gaggle of frightened nuns and call me a heretic.’
‘I do not understand why you waste your time with ingrates,’ said Michael, pouring wine into the chalice, downing it in a gulp and pouring a second measure. ‘You could be making a fortune with the wealthy merchants in the town and, instead, you choose to frequent the hovels.’
It was not the first time he had been told this. But Bartholomew did not want to spend his days examining the urine of healthy people or working out complex astrological charts for treatments they did not need. He wanted to cure genuine diseases and treat victims with wounds who might otherwise die. He had learned his medicine from an Arab physician at the University of Paris, an unusual choice of master, which was reflected in his unorthodox treatments and diagnoses.
The present Master of Michaelhouse had been quick to see the advantage of having a physician in his College who was prepared to treat the poor. The University was unpopular in the town, and Bartholomew’s services to the sick went a long way in improving the uneasy relationship between Michaelhouse and its neighbours. His rate of success was unquestionably better than the other physicians in the town, a fact made even more remarkable because he dealt mainly with people who were unable to afford expensive medicines and palliatives. So Bartholomew was allowed to attend his patients without interference from the University – with the exception of occasional queries from scholars curious as to why he was contented with his small salary as a Fellow
