A Summer of Discontent

‘Then you should not have tied the cockerel and the cat together, Julian,’ said the other youngster, regarding the spotty-faced lad with cool dislike. ‘It was a vile thing to do. I cannot imagine what possessed you.’

Julian’s sigh suggested he was bored by the discussion. He placed his elbows on the table, plumped his pox-ravaged face into his hands, and stared ahead of him in silent disgruntlement.

‘I thought we had agreed to say no more about that unfortunate incident, Welles,’ said Henry admonishingly to the other lad. Unlike Julian, Welles had a pleasant face, with fair curls and a mouth that looked far too ready for laughter to belong to a novice. ‘Julian has apologised to the Prior for committing an act of such cruelty, and we are all hoping he learns some compassion by working with the sick.’

Julian said nothing, but cast Henry a glance so full of malice that Bartholomew saw the physician would have his work cut out for him if he thought he could instil a modicum of kindness in a youth who was clearly one of those to whom the suffering of others meant little. It was clever of Alan to send Julian to the hospital, where he might be moved by the plight of the inmates, but Bartholomew suspected the plan would not work. He did not usually jump to such rapid conclusions, but there was something hard and cruel about Julian that was obvious and unattractive, even to strangers.

‘What particular ailment would you predict, judging from the colour of this urine?’ asked Henry of Bartholomew, bringing the topic of conversation back to medicine.

‘I would not make a diagnosis on the basis of the urine alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I would want to speak to the patient-’

‘To make his horoscope,’ agreed Henry, nodding eagerly.

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, a little tartly. He did not believe that the stars told him much about a person’s state of health, and he certainly did not base his diagnoses on the movements of the celestial bodies, although many physicians did precisely that and charged handsomely for the privilege. ‘I would ask him whether he had experienced pain in his stomach or back, what he had eaten recently, whether he drank water from the river or ale that was cloudy-’

‘What does ale or the river have to do with his urine?’ asked Welles, intrigued.

‘In this case, probably nothing,’ said Bartholomew, holding the flask near his nose to smell it. The two novices exchanged a look of disgust. ‘I would say, however, that whoever produced this should not be quite so greedy with the asparagus, and that next time he should use a different dye to prove his point. Theophilus said that redness in the urine is caused by blood, but this is orange and was caused by the addition of some kind of plant extract.’

Henry gave a shout of excited laughter, and clapped his hands in delight. ‘Excellent! Excellent! That is indeed my urine, and I did add a little saffron to make it a different hue. I wanted to show these boys that the colour of urine is vital knowledge for a physician. I see now I should have used a little pig’s blood instead. I am not usually so careless, but none of us is perfect.’

‘Did you really eat asparagus?’ asked Michael distastefully. ‘Why?’

Henry laughed again. ‘Not everyone loathes vegetables, Michael. And your friend is right: asparagus does produce a distinctive odour in the urine. You should have smelled the latrines this morning! He would have known at once what we all ate last night.’

‘There is very little about urine that Matt does not know,’ said Michael drolly. ‘I knew you would like him. And that is just as well, because he will be staying here with you for the next week, since Blanche is going to hog all the beds in the priory guesthouse.’

‘Lady Blanche is generous to the priory, so we are obliged to give her the entire Outer Hostry when she visits,’ Henry explained. ‘But this time I stand to benefit — by having a fellow physician to entertain. I am sure I shall teach him a great deal.’

‘Oh, good!’ muttered Julian facetiously to Welles. ‘Now there will be endless discussions about piss and how to puncture pustules every time we move.’

‘I am glad I do not have to sleep here, like you do,’ replied Welles in an undertone. ‘Listening to them would give me nightmares.’

‘Matt is from Michaelhouse,’ said Michael to Henry, pretending not to hear their complaints. ‘He has some strange notions about medicine, so you should find a lot to talk about.’

‘We will,’ said Henry, grasping Bartholomew’s hand in welcome. He turned to Michael. ‘But what brings you to Ely, my friend? Have you come to rest from your onerous duties in Cambridge?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle sent for me because he is accused of murder.’

Henry’s brown hands flew to his mouth in horror. ‘No! Do not tell me that you have agreed to investigate on his behalf? Oh, Michael! How could you do such a thing?’

‘I am his agent,’ replied Michael irritably, growing tired of hearing this. ‘I have no choice but to do what he asks.’