A Deadly Brew

of Michaelhouse when he could have supplemented his income by treating the wealthy.

The door creaked as the first of the scholars arrived for the morning service. Bartholomew hastily brushed the remaining wax onto the floor and joined Michael at the altar rail. Master Kenyngham knelt next to him, followed as ever by the fawning Alcote. Singly, and in pairs, the other scholars joined them, the Fellows in a row to the right and the students ranged behind them.

‘I hope you were pleasantly warm last night,’ whispered Alcote to Bartholomew. ‘Walter tells me you stole three of my logs to make a fire.’

‘Not here, gentlemen,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘There is a time and a place for a discussion of logs, and at the altar during mass is not one of them.’

‘Theft is theft, Master,’ said Alcote sulkily. ‘I would not wish Matthew to begin the day with a crime on his conscience.’

‘Then I absolve him,’ whispered Kenyngham, waving a vague benediction in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘And now we will never mention the matter again.’

Alcote’s bitter indignation was lost on the other-worldly Kenyngham, whose head was already bowed as he began to pray. Next to Bartholomew, Michael’s shoulders quaked with mirth and even the dour Franciscan Father William seemed amused at Alcote’s discomfiture.

Another clatter of the door heralded the arrival of the scholars of Physwick Hostel, who were obliged to use St Michael’s Church for their offices – and to pay Michaelhouse handsomely for the privilege. At their head was Harling, who was their Principal as well as the University’s Vice-Chancellor. He was immaculately dressed and his greased hair shone in the candlelight. As a physician, however, Bartholomew detected a darkness under Harling’s eyes and noted that he looked grey and tired. He wondered whether the weight of responsibility thrust on him in the Chancellor’s prolonged absence at Ely was too much for him when combined with running his hostel.

While Bartholomew intoned the reading of the day in his precise Latin, Michael rounded up his choir. The choir was something Michael regarded with a good deal of ambiguity. It was by far the largest in Cambridge, comprising men and children from the parish as well as scholars from the College, and was considered, by gentle souls such as Kenyngham, as proof that not all townsfolk wanted to kill scholars and vice versa – although the fact that choir practices usually ended with bread and ale explained why the parishioners were prepared to overlook a good many insults hurled at them by the student-choristers. However, Michael’s choir was also one of the least musically inclined, making up in volume for what it lacked in tone.

Among the membership were several small children, and it was Michael’s hope that one or two of them might have some hitherto undiscovered talent that he could hone and encourage. Bartholomew was always surprised that the fat monk had the patience to deal with children, but he was remarkably good with them, and they certainly did not hold him in fear, as did the unfortunate undergraduates who came within reach of his proctorial arm.

The anthem for the day was a difficult Gloria by Gherardello da Firenze, which, sung by them, bore more resemblance to the bawdy songs bellowed by students on illicit visits to taverns than a religious piece. It gradually increased in speed, too, despite Michael’s frantic arm-waving to slow it down. The piece ended somewhat abruptly, although two elderly tenors in the back row had been left behind and found themselves singing a duet after everyone else had finished. As always, their Sunday morning efforts were greeted by a stunned silence, and it took several moments for Kenyngham to collect himself sufficiently to continue.

Eventually, the long service was over and the scholars lined up to process back to Michaelhouse for breakfast. Bartholomew saw Vice-Chancellor Harling reach out and grab Michael’s arm, whispering something in his ear to which Michael nodded. Then both men turned and regarded Bartholomew speculatively. The physician felt his heart sink. He could decline Michael’s request for help – the monk understood his reluctance to become involved, even if he did not approve – but if the demand came from the Vice-Chancellor he would have no alternative but to comply. As Harling nodded coolly in his direction, Bartholomew knew he was going to be dragged into the affair of the poisoned wine whether he liked it or not.

Kenyngham led the way down St Michael’s Lane – at a healthy pace, for the rain had started again – and the scholars hurried across the yard, eager for their breakfast. Bartholomew took his place at the high table, with Michael on one side and Father Paul on the other. As usual, he reached out to grab some of the best bread for Paul, who could not see, before Michael could take it all.

‘What did Harling want?’ said Bartholomew in a low voice, scraping egg-mash onto Paul’s trencher before taking some himself. Sunday’s breakfast, being later than during the week, was always better and Agatha’s egg- mash flavoured with bacon fat was the highlight of a day in which much was forbidden. To escape the College and its dull restrictions, Bartholomew often walked to the nearby village of Trumpington on Sundays to visit his sister.

‘He wants me to appraise him of Grene’s death,’ muttered Michael, smiling sweetly at Alcote, who was glowering at him for breaking the rule of silence at mealtimes.

‘Is he enjoying all this unexpected power?’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I thought he looked ill this morning. When is Chancellor Tynkell back from Ely?’

‘He was due back yesterday for the installation, apparently,’ Michael replied, holding a lump of bread near his mouth in a vain attempt to fool Alcote into believing he was not talking. ‘Harling thinks he decided not to make the journey because of the bad weather.’

‘Then Harling might enjoy his power for a good while yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This rain shows no sign of relenting.’

‘You do Harling an injustice,’ remonstrated Michael. ‘Any other man who lost the post that should have been his would have been bitter. Harling accepted his defeat with a graciousness I find honourable, and he has continued to serve the University with the utmost integrity. Anyway, he clearly thinks highly of you, because he said your duties in treating the poor are more important than helping me solve the affair of the poisoned wine.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into speaking loudly. Several heads turned towards him, and Michael pretended to be absorbed in eating his eggs.

Master Kenyngham looked at them with raised eyebrows. ‘Since you two clearly have something to discuss, perhaps I should allow conversation at meals today,’ he said wryly. ‘Then you will not set a poor example to the students.’

‘That would be a mistake, Master,’ said the dour Father William promptly. ‘It is only a small step from ill- discipline to heresy.’

‘I hardly think erudite disputation at breakfast will lead to heresy, William,’ said gentle Father Paul with a smile. ‘And the students are restless because the rain is keeping them in. I think the time has come to make concessions before we really do have a discipline problem.’

‘Nonsense!’ said William. ‘You are far too soft with them. If anything, they need a reduction of concessions, not an easier life. If I were appointed Junior Proctor, I would show the University how to keep order among the students.’

He shot Michael a baleful look that Michael pretended not to notice. Father William had put himself forward for the post of Junior Proctor when the previous incumbent had left to serve the King. Not surprisingly, given the Franciscan friar’s uncompromising and inflexible views of the world and everyone in it, his application had not been successful. Bartholomew did not know whether Michael had played a role in William’s rejection or whether the friar’s reputation had spoken for itself, but Michael was, nevertheless, invariably uncomfortable when the issue was raised.

‘Have some eggs,’ said Bartholomew, before William could begin a tirade on how he would personally reform the University by burning half its scholars in the Market Square for heresy.

‘Eggs!’ said William in disgust, gesturing at the bowl Bartholomew held out to him. ‘I was never so coddled when I was an undergraduate!’

‘But you have eaten them, nevertheless,’ Alcote observed, eyeing William’s empty trencher. ‘Anyway,’ he continued hastily when he saw William preparing himself for a row, ‘I see no harm in conversation, so long as it is kept to religious matters and is in Latin.’

While Father William shook his head in fervent disapproval, Kenyngham announced that conversation would be permitted during meals that day, provided the topic were theological and the language Latin. There was an immediate buzz of chatter from the students, although the little core of Franciscans followed William’s example and maintained their silence.