A Deadly Brew by Susanna Gregory

towards the Countess, giving every appearance of listening with rapt attention to what she was saying.
    ‘Why is Harling in the seat of honour?’ asked Bartholomew of Runham, who sat opposite him, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the discordant singing from the gallery and the roar of drunken voices. ‘Where is the Chancellor?’
    Runham pursed his lips to indicate his disapproval. ‘With the Bishop in Ely. It is a mere seventeen miles so I do not know why Chancellor Tynkell could not have made the effort to be here. An installation is, after all, an important University occasion.’
    ‘Perhaps his business at Ely is more urgent than gossiping with the Countess of Pembroke and the Abbess of Denny,’ said Bartholomew.
    A servant slapped a dish of sugared almonds so hard in front of him, that some of them bounced across the table to be claimed by Michael. When Bartholomew glanced up at him, the man gave a cheerful wink, and his red cheeks suggested that the guests were not the only ones to have availed themselves of Valence Marie’s endless supplies of wine.
    ‘Tynkell is probably too afraid to come back,’ said Runham uncharitably. ‘He knows he is not up to the task of being Chancellor and is hiding away in Ely behind the Bishop’s skirts.’
    The post of Chancellor was not a position Bartholomew would have willingly held. While it granted the holder a degree of authority over the University and the town, it was also fraught with political pitfalls. The previous incumbent had held office for four years, but the constant intrigues and crafty plotting had finally worn him down, and he had retreated to his family home in the Fens in poor health.
    Harling, his Vice-Chancellor, had expected to step into his shoes as was the usual practice, but in an election that had astonished many scholars almost as much as Harling, a timid nonentity called William Tynkell – who had only agreed to stand for election because he thought it might raise the profile of his hostel in the University community – had won the majority of votes. Bartholomew might have questioned the honesty of the vote-counters, had it not been for the expression of abject horror on Tynkell’s face when he was declared the winner. Harling had accepted his defeat with dignity, and had volunteered to continue as Vice-Chancellor, an offer that Tynkell had accepted gratefully, openly acknowledging his inexperience in the treacherous world of University politics.
    ‘Tynkell!’ muttered Runham in disgust. ‘What a dreadful choice to be the leader of our University! All I can say is that I did not vote for him.’ He gazed speculatively at Bartholomew.
    ‘Neither did I,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to be blamed for the Chancellor’s absence.
    Runham nodded, satisfied, and went on. ‘I am not a man to risk my good health by bathing, but I am always careful to scent my clothes with lavender, and leave my clean linen on the shelf in the latrine to kill the lice. But Tynkell does neither, and there is an odour about him I find most unpleasant.’
    ‘I always feel itchy after an audience with him,’ boomed Father William, whose Franciscan habit was one of the filthiest garments in Christendom, and who paid scant attention to his own personal cleanliness. To prove his point, he began to scratch, and Bartholomew was amused to see Runham and then Michael follow suit. A few moments later, Alcote started, and then Master Kenyngham. It continued until Kenyngham – somewhat out of the blue – changed the subject by asking if anyone had ever debated the question ‘Let us consider whether the edge of the universe can be touched’ and, as the discussion grew more heated, the itches were forgotten.
    Listening to his colleagues with half an ear, Bartholomew watched Harling and the Countess, who, judging from the flapping of her hands, seemed to be telling him how to fly. The Vice-Chancellor reached out a beringed hand, took up his wine goblet, and drained