was not yet noon, but the sun
was already scorching. He leaned against the wall for a minute, enjoying the warmth on his face, with his eyes closed. The air in the courtyard felt still and humid, and Bartholomew was acutely aware of the stench from the
ditches west of the College. He thought of one of his
patients, Tom Pike, who lived down by the wharves on
the river and had a lung disease. This weather would
make life unbearable for him. The smells and the insects were always worse by the river and the King’s Ditch than elsewhere in the town. He wondered if bad smells and
foul air were responsible for the spread of the plague that was ravaging Europe.
He saw the commoners, Jocelyn of Ripon and
d’Evene the Frenchman, coming out of the hall together and hailed them over.
‘Are you better now?’ he asked, looking closely at
the rings under their eyes and the way they winced at
the brightness of the sun.
‘My head aches something rotten,’ grumbled Jocelyn.
‘Master Swynford told me the wine may have been tampered with, and I can tell you, Doctor Bartholomew, that
it would come as no surprise to me if it were. I have not had a hangover like this since I was ten years old!’
Bartholomew could well believe it of this rough man
who drank so much. D’Evene coughed cautiously. ‘That
is the last time I drink French wine,’ he said, a weak attempt at a joke.
‘Do you recall which jug of wine it was that contained the drug?’ asked Bartholomew.
Jocelyn looked at him in disbelief. ‘Of course I do
not!’ he said. ‘Do you think I would have drunk it if I thought it had been poisoned?’
Bartholomew smiled, acknowledging the absurdity
of his question. D’Evene interrupted. “I remember,’ he said. “I have a natural aversion to wine - it brings on blinding headaches - so I avoid it whenever possible,
and drink ale instead. Last night, a good while after
you Fellows left, the commoners were all together
enjoying the atmosphere, the food, the drink, when
poor Montfitchet started to complain about feeling ill.
We ignored him until he really was sick, which made us all begin to question the states of our own stomachs. We decided to leave, and went across to our room together.
When we were there, before going to sleep, someone
said it would be right and proper to toast Master Wilson and his new role with his best wine. Montfitchet and I declined the wine, but everyone else said we were being churlish, and that we should drink Master Wilson’s health with his fine red wine. I had consumed a good deal of ale by then, and so I allowed myself to accept when I should have declined. So did Montfitchet. I have no idea how
the wine came from the hall to our dormitory, but it
was there.’
Jocelyn looked at him. ‘Yes, by God!’ he said. ‘The
wine in the jug. I poured it out. It was my idea to drink the Master’s health. I do not recall how it arrived in our room. It was just there, and I saw it was fairly distributed among the lot of us.’
‘When did you start to feel the effects?’
‘It is difficult to say,’ d’Evene replied, with a shrug.
‘Perhaps half an hour? The older folks had already
dropped off to sleep, but Jerome, Roger Alyngton,
Jocelyn and I were still chatting. We were already merry, and I do not think any of us felt that the sudden soporific feeling was anything more than too much strong drink.
Although perhaps poor Montfitchet felt different.’
Bartholomew spoke to Alyngton, Father Jerome,
and two of the old men. None of them could add to
d’Evene’s story, although all claimed to have gone back to the dormitory together.
Bartholomew sat again, resting his back against the
pale apricot stone, his head tipped back and his eyes
closed against the brightness of the sun. A shadow fell across him, and he squinted up.
‘We must talk, Matthew, but not here. Meet me
shortly, in the orchard.’ Aelfrith, after a furtive glance round, glided off towards his
was already scorching. He leaned against the wall for a minute, enjoying the warmth on his face, with his eyes closed. The air in the courtyard felt still and humid, and Bartholomew was acutely aware of the stench from the
ditches west of the College. He thought of one of his
patients, Tom Pike, who lived down by the wharves on
the river and had a lung disease. This weather would
make life unbearable for him. The smells and the insects were always worse by the river and the King’s Ditch than elsewhere in the town. He wondered if bad smells and
foul air were responsible for the spread of the plague that was ravaging Europe.
He saw the commoners, Jocelyn of Ripon and
d’Evene the Frenchman, coming out of the hall together and hailed them over.
‘Are you better now?’ he asked, looking closely at
the rings under their eyes and the way they winced at
the brightness of the sun.
‘My head aches something rotten,’ grumbled Jocelyn.
‘Master Swynford told me the wine may have been tampered with, and I can tell you, Doctor Bartholomew, that
it would come as no surprise to me if it were. I have not had a hangover like this since I was ten years old!’
Bartholomew could well believe it of this rough man
who drank so much. D’Evene coughed cautiously. ‘That
is the last time I drink French wine,’ he said, a weak attempt at a joke.
‘Do you recall which jug of wine it was that contained the drug?’ asked Bartholomew.
Jocelyn looked at him in disbelief. ‘Of course I do
not!’ he said. ‘Do you think I would have drunk it if I thought it had been poisoned?’
Bartholomew smiled, acknowledging the absurdity
of his question. D’Evene interrupted. “I remember,’ he said. “I have a natural aversion to wine - it brings on blinding headaches - so I avoid it whenever possible,
and drink ale instead. Last night, a good while after
you Fellows left, the commoners were all together
enjoying the atmosphere, the food, the drink, when
poor Montfitchet started to complain about feeling ill.
We ignored him until he really was sick, which made us all begin to question the states of our own stomachs. We decided to leave, and went across to our room together.
When we were there, before going to sleep, someone
said it would be right and proper to toast Master Wilson and his new role with his best wine. Montfitchet and I declined the wine, but everyone else said we were being churlish, and that we should drink Master Wilson’s health with his fine red wine. I had consumed a good deal of ale by then, and so I allowed myself to accept when I should have declined. So did Montfitchet. I have no idea how
the wine came from the hall to our dormitory, but it
was there.’
Jocelyn looked at him. ‘Yes, by God!’ he said. ‘The
wine in the jug. I poured it out. It was my idea to drink the Master’s health. I do not recall how it arrived in our room. It was just there, and I saw it was fairly distributed among the lot of us.’
‘When did you start to feel the effects?’
‘It is difficult to say,’ d’Evene replied, with a shrug.
‘Perhaps half an hour? The older folks had already
dropped off to sleep, but Jerome, Roger Alyngton,
Jocelyn and I were still chatting. We were already merry, and I do not think any of us felt that the sudden soporific feeling was anything more than too much strong drink.
Although perhaps poor Montfitchet felt different.’
Bartholomew spoke to Alyngton, Father Jerome,
and two of the old men. None of them could add to
d’Evene’s story, although all claimed to have gone back to the dormitory together.
Bartholomew sat again, resting his back against the
pale apricot stone, his head tipped back and his eyes
closed against the brightness of the sun. A shadow fell across him, and he squinted up.
‘We must talk, Matthew, but not here. Meet me
shortly, in the orchard.’ Aelfrith, after a furtive glance round, glided off towards his
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