'Give me a hand up, Brother,' Bartholomew said to Michael, emerging last from the hall, his jaws still working on a scrap of food. Michael extended a hand and pulled. Bartholomew was momentarily taken aback by the strength of Michael's arm. He had always imagined the large monk to be flabby and weak, but Bartholomew was hauled to his feet with effortless ease.
'I am away to Barnwell Priory this afternoon,'
Michael said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'Want to come? We could stop off at St Radegund's on the way.' He gave a most unmonklike leer. Had Abigny told everyone of Bartholomew's interest in his sister?
'I cannot, Brother. I am going to talk to Aelfrith.'
Michael gave him an odd glance. 'What about?'
'This business about Augustus, I suppose,' said Bartholomew. 'Do you believe me, Michael? Do you think Augustus was dead last night?'
'Oh, yes,' said Michael fervently, 'Augustuswas dead.
I saw you do your usual checks, and I saw him myself.
Look, Matt,' he said suddenly, seizing Bartholomew's wrist with a clammy hand, 'you must be cautious.' He glanced about him, as furtive as Aelfrith had been. 'I do not understand what is going on, but I am afraid.
Afraid for me and afraid for you.'
'Afraid of what?' asked Bartholomew in a hushed voice.
'I do not know,' said Michael, exasperated, tightening his grip on Bartholomew's arm. 'Perhaps it is the work of the Devil. Augustus thought so, and now his body has disappeared.'
'Come now, Brother,' said Bartholomew reasonably.
'You cannot believe that. You have always told me that the only Devil is man himself. And what do you mean about Augustus and the Devil?'
Michael shook his head. 'I do not know. He spoke of it just before he died.'
'When exactly?'
Michael shook his head again and released Bartholomew's arm. 'I do not remember. But you must be cautious. Go to meet Aelfrith, but remember what I say.'
He scurried off and disappeared into the dark doorway of his staircase. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully. What was bothering Michael? What was going on in the College?
4
When Bartholomew returned to his room, there was a message from one of the wealthy cloth merchants in Milne Street asking him to visit. Bartholomew glanced up at the sun, trying to estimate whether he had sufficient time before he was due to meet Aelfrith. He hesitated for a moment, but then set off, swinging his heavy bag of potions and instruments over his shoulder, aware that he should walk slowly to avoid straining his knee. Since the merchant had never asked for him before, Bartholomew imagined that his brother-in-law must have recommended him.
He found the house, a rambling building gleaming under fresh whitewash, and knocked at the door. A servant directed him up the stairs and into a sumptuous room hung with cloth of blue and gold. There was even glass in the windows, and the sun filtered through it to make patterns on the wooden floor. Bartholomew introduced himself, and sat on the bed to listen to his new patient's problem. It did not take him long to discover that if Nathaniel the Fleming had been more abstemious with Master Wilson's wine at the Michaelhouse feast the night before, he would not have been lying in his bed complaining of pains in his head and stomach cramps. Bartholomew listened gravely to Nathaniel's list of ailments, and prescribed large quantities of watered ale and a cold compress for his head. Nathaniel looked aghast.
'But you have not consulted my stars. And should you not leech me?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'There is no need for leeches, and I do not need to read your stars to understand the nature of your… affliction.' He rose to take his leave.
'Wait!' Nathaniel, with a burst of energy that made him wince, grabbed Bartholomew's arm. 'Oswald Stanmore told me you were the best physician irr Cambridge. Is watered ale and wet cloths all that you prescribe? How do you know about the state of my humours?'
Bartholomew felt a flash of impatience. 'Of course, I could spend the afternoon consulting charts and learning of your humours. But at the end of the day, my advice to you would be the same: drink lots and apply a cool cloth to soothe your head. Time will heal the rest.'
Nathaniel half rose from his bed. 'But that is not enough! What kind of physician are you that you choose not to use the tools of your trade?'
'An honest one, Master Nathaniel,' retorted Bartholomew.
'I do not seek to charge you for services you do not need.'
'But how do you know?' argued Nathaniel. 'And I feel the need for leeches.'
'Then I cannot help you,' said Bartholomew, turning to leave.
'Then I will send for Master Colet,' said Nathaniel.
'He knows his leeches. You need not tend to me again.'
Bartholomew left, biting his tongue to prevent himself from telling Nathaniel he was a fool. As he clattered down Nathaniel's fine staircase, he heard the merchant ordering a servant to fetch Colet. Clenching his fists in frustration, he wondered whether he should have complied with Nathaniel's request- applied leeches to his arm to remove the excess of humours, and read his stars to see what other treatment they might suggest. But the man only had a hangover! Why should Bartholomew waste his time applying treatments that were unnecessary?
And why should Nathaniel pay for them? As he walked home, his frustration and anger subsided. Once again, he had lost the chance of a wealthy patient because he tried to give him what he knew was best, rather than what the patient expected. Sir John had been wise when he encouraged Bartholomew to work among the poor — they seldom questioned his skills, even if they did not always follow his advice.
Bartholomew stopped at the kitchen for something to drink, and by the time he had limped to the orchard, Aelfrith was already waiting. It was pleasant in the shade of the trees, with the rich scent of ripe apples. Bartholomew made his way to the ancient tree-trunk that lay against the wall, and had been used by countless students to study in solitude or to enjoy a nap in the sun.
'I have made sure that we are the only ones here,'
Aelfrith said. 'I want no one to overhear us.'
Bartholomew watched him warily, Michael's warnings ringing in his ears. Aelfrith took a deep breath.
'There is an evil loose in the College,' he said, 'and we must try to stamp it out.'
'What is the evil, and how do we stamp it out?'
Bartholomew asked. 'And why all the secrecy?'
Aelfrith looked hard into Bartholomew's eyes, as if searching for something. 'I do not want to tell you what I am about to,' he said. 'Until last night I would have said you were better not knowing. But now things have changed, and I have been instructed to tell you for your own good.'
He paused and squinted up into the leafy branches of the apple trees, as if his mind was wrestling with itself. 'There is an evil afoot that threatens not only the College, but the whole University, and perhaps even all England,' he blurted out. Bartholomew studied him. He was deeply agitated about something, and perspiration beaded on his face. 'Satan is trying to destroy us.'
'Oh come, Father,' said Bartholomew, his patience beginning to wane. 'Surely you did not bring me here to tell me that. You sound just like Augustus!'
Aelfrith's head whipped round to look at him.
'Exactly,' he whispered. 'Augustus saw, but his wits were gone, and he was unable to keep his secret. Look what happened to him!'
'What happened to him, Father?' asked Bartholomew.
He had spoken to no one about his suspicions that Augustus had been murdered. Perhaps now he would hear them confirmed.
'Augustus was taken by the Devil,' Aelfrith said in a whisper. Bartholomew tried not to show his
