Death of a Scholar

No passer-by needed to be reminded of the dangers of a blaze in a town where houses were timber-built and thatch-roofed. There was an instant flurry of activity. Buckets, bowls and even boots were frantically filled with water from the well, but the effort was disorganised and far too much of the precious liquid was spilled as it was slopped towards the burning building.

With his sleeve over his nose and mouth, Bartholomew groped his way inside, aiming for the spot where he could still hear Heyford. The priest was lying on the chancel floor, crooning and chuckling to himself, while the high altar was a bright rectangle of flames. He heard a sound behind him and turned quickly.

‘Is he drunk?’

Eyer the apothecary had followed him in. He was a comparative newcomer to the town, a pink-faced man with a round head. He always wore a clean white apron, and his air of venerable geniality made people more willing to trust his remedies. His clean, pleasantly fragrant shop on the High Street had become a refuge for the town’s physicians, and Bartholomew in particular sought sanctuary there when pressure of work threatened to overwhelm him. Eyer had recently been elected to the Guild of Saints, and Edith said he had already donated large sums to worthy causes.

Yet despite his generosity, there was something about the apothecary that Bartholomew did not quite trust, and he knew the other medici felt the same. None could put his finger on what made them draw back from the proffered hand of friendship, but the inconsistencies in the stories Eyer told about his past did not help: small contradictions, it was true, but enough to raise eyebrows.

Together, physician and apothecary pulled Heyford to his feet, and half dragged, half carried him into the street, where they deposited him, still chortling, next to a horse trough. Two of his deacons came to hover anxiously over him. Heyford reeked of wine, and his eyes had the dull glaze of a man who was barely conscious. Bartholomew suspected it would be some time before he was sober enough to answer questions.

‘I had not taken him for a drinking man,’ remarked Eyer wonderingly. ‘And certainly not one who would imbibe so much that he would set his own church alight.’

‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said one of the deacons indignantly. ‘He is ill, not drunk.’

‘We shall take him home,’ said the other. ‘The poor man needs to rest.’

They hauled him upright and hustled him away, taking a circuitous route so that as few people as possible would witness his condition. Bartholomew turned his attention back to the fire.

There were many willing hands, but no one had organised them, so the result was a chaotic mêlée, with folk bumping into each other and water slopped needlessly. The Guild of Saints had abandoned its meeting. A few members were toting buckets, but most were too grand to soil their hands, so confined themselves to offering impractical advice. The Deputy Sheriff, who should have taken charge, was more interested in cornering Potmoor. Watching, Bartholomew saw that Dickon was right to say he looked like a monkey — de Stannell had a long, protruding nose, close-set eyes and bushy facial hair.

‘Perhaps he is trying to charm another benefaction for our Guild’s continuing good work,’ shrugged Eyer, seeing where Bartholomew was looking and reading his thoughts. ‘Potmoor has been generous since … recently.’

‘I would have thought that saving the town is rather more pressing at the moment.’

Eyer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Spoken like a man with no head for finance! But look — your sister and Mistress Holm have taken charge. De Stannell’s authority is not needed anyway.’

Briskly competent, Edith and Julitta shepherded people into a line so that water could be poured into the church more effectively. Bartholomew and Eyer joined it, the physician glancing around quickly to see who had done likewise.

Provost Illesy and his Fellows had pitched into the affray, Illesy speaking in a loud, important bray to ensure that everyone knew Winwick Hall was doing its bit. Lawrence worked quietly at his side, his white beard full of cinders, while Nerli toiled with soldierly efficiency. Bon dropped more buckets than he passed, but at least he was trying — unlike Ratclyf, who kept his distance.

‘The Cambridge Debate will start soon,’ said Eyer, when Bartholomew remarked on it. ‘Ratclyf is scheduled to speak, and will not want to arrive looking like a drowned rat.’

‘That does not seem to worry anyone else.’

Eyer shoved a bucket at Bartholomew with such urgency that most of its contents sluiced down the physician’s front. ‘Perhaps he is just more fastidious than the rest of the University.’