A Deadly Brew by Susanna Gregory Page A

it without taking his eyes off the Countess’s face. Immediately, a servant hurried to refill it, and a few moments later the entire process was repeated. Bartholomew had heard that, despite her generosity – and resulting popularity – the Countess was not a lady renowned for conversational sparkle. He suspected Harling knew he had a long night ahead of him, and was preparing himself by dulling his mind with as much of Valence Marie’s wine as he could stow away without losing consciousness. Perhaps Chancellor Tynkell had been wiser than all of them, with his timely absence from the town.
    Harling was given a brief respite from the Countess’s monologue as Sheriff Tulyet stepped forward to make his excuses for leaving early to the august occupants at the high table. Under his cloak, he already wore a mail tunic and boiled leather leggings, in anticipation of a nocturnal foray in search of the elusive outlaws.
    ‘Poor Harling,’ said Michael, watching as the Countess homed in on the Vice-Chancellor again as Tulyet left. ‘I am reliably informed that the noble Marie de Valence is about as interesting a companion as stagnant ditchwater.’
    ‘At least stagnant ditchwater does not hog the conversation,’ bawled Runham, who had won the debate about the edge of the universe simply because he had a good deal more to say about it than anyone else. He leaned towards the monk, the flowing sleeve of his fine ceremonial gown knocking over Bartholomew’s wine, and lowered his voice a fraction. ‘She has but two interests: breeding dogs and gardening.’
    ‘She is a very generous woman,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘She founded this College and the abbey at Denny, and she gives alms to the poor.’
    ‘But gardening, Matt,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘That is for peasants!’
    ‘Edward the Second liked gardening and look what happened to him,’ said Runham ominously.
    ‘I hardly think King Edward was executed because of his love of horticulture,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘I imagine his murder had more to do with the fact that he was an abysmal ruler.’
    ‘Please!’ whispered Michael, glancing around him furtively. ‘Edward the Second founded King’s Hall and their Warden is looking right at us! If we are to indulge ourselves in treasonous talk, at least wait until I am too drunk to care!’
    ‘Gardening is a vile pastime,’ continued Runham, undeterred. ‘All that dirt and dreadful creatures like worms and slugs creeping about. Try some of this candied mint, Matthew. It is quite delicious.’
    ‘People who eat that sort of thing die young,’ said Michael knowledgeably, eyeing the dish of sticky leaves disdainfully. ‘It is a well-known medical fact.’
    ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘And is this well-known medical fact from the same source as “green vegetables cause leprosy” and “a diet of nothing but meat and bread prevents baldness” that you mentioned to me last week?’
    Michael favoured him with a withering look. ‘You read too much, Matt. You refuse to believe anything unless it has been written by one of your dull Greek or Arab physicians. The facts to which I refer stem from simple common sense. Look at Harling – there is a man who declines his vegetables and he has a magnificent thick, black mane. The fact that cunning cooks have slipped the occasional bit of cabbage or carrot into my meals accounts entirely for my thinning hair.’
    There was little point in arguing with Michael over matters of diet – or pointing out that a tonsure, such as the one Michael sported, should obviate his own concern about baldness. Bartholomew let the matter drop and gazed at the hour candle, willing it to burn down to a point where it would not be deemed rude to leave. He sighed and rested his chin on one fist as he looked around the crowded, noisy, humid hall.
    After a while, Deschalers the grocer and Cheney the spice merchant came towards Bartholomew with Constantine Mortimer’s eldest