To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 8

Although William and Wynewyk were scheduled to preside over the mock disputations that Friday morning, Langelee decided the new Fellows should earn their keep, and had informed them at breakfast that they were free to choose any topic they pleased. Honynge sighed heavily, and muttered something about using the free days outside term to conduct his own research, although Tyrington was more amenable.

‘Anything for Michaelhouse,’ he said, rubbing his hands and leering at Langelee in a way that made the Master clench his fists. Langelee disliked sycophantic men, and was not overly pleased to be decorated with the remnants of Tyrington’s breakfast either.

‘Do not debate Blood Relics, though,’ said William, standing with his hand covering the top of his breakfast ale to prevent Tyrington from adding to it. It was a defensive gesture that all the Fellows had employed the previous evening, and one Wynewyk had already dubbed ‘the Michaelhouse Manoeuvre.’ Bartholomew suspected it would not be long before they did it without thinking, and rival foundations would laugh at them for it. ‘We had enough of that last night.’

Tyrington nodded. ‘You are right – the College does not seem ready for such weighty theology, so we should stick to simpler issues. How about whether counterfactuals – natural impossibilities, as they are also known – can overthrow the fundamental principles of an Aristotelian world view?’

‘I think I will stay here this morning,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. A debate on theoretical physics sounded a good deal more appealing than investigating the murder of a colleague.

‘Now just a moment,’ said William, offended by the slur on his colleagues’ collective intellect. ‘I resent your implications, Tyrington. Michaelhouse owns some of the best minds in the University.’

‘Actually, it does not,’ countered Honynge. ‘Tyrington and I will redress the balance, but it will take time. He is also correct in saying that we should debate simple topics to start with, which means the subject he has proposed is too advanced. We must select something even more basic, and build up to more complicated issues as term progresses.’

‘I wonder what he has in mind,’ said Michael, watching the servants dismantle the trestle tables in the hall and stack them behind the screen at the far end. William might splutter indignation at the new members’ comments, but the monk knew there was truth in them. He and Bartholomew were well-regarded in academic circles, but Wynewyk was more interested in College administration than in honing his mind, and Langelee had never made any pretence at scholarship. The two absent Fellows were solid but not outstanding, and he was perfectly aware that standards had slipped below foundations like Gonville, Clare and Trinity Hall.

‘Of course,’ Honynge muttered under his breath, ‘an inflated view of their worth is to be expected from men who put dog in their breakfast pottage.’

‘We do no such thing!’ said William angrily. ‘It is a Friday, and we never eat meat on Fridays.’

‘That means they have dog on other days,’ whispered Honynge. ‘You will have to watch them.’ He turned and walked away, having achieved the impossible: leaving William at a loss for words.

When the servants had rearranged the benches to face the high table, the students began to take their places. The hall was rather full that morning, especially given that term had not yet started, because of the twenty new students. Honynge’s seven, Tyrington’s three and Lynton’s two were sitting together at the back, while the eight who had been chosen from the sodden hopefuls chose the front rows, eager to prove themselves to their new teachers.

‘I shall preside,’ announced Honynge, elbowing Langelee unceremoniously from the dais. ‘As I am obliged to be here, I may as well be in charge.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed. ‘Watch who you push around, man – unless you want to be pushed back. At Michaelhouse, people shove the Master at their peril.’

Langelee had a way of sounding pugilistic even when he was trying to be pleasant, and when there was genuine menace in his voice, folk tended not to argue with him. Honynge nodded a prudent apology, and began to pace back and forth in front of the high table. When he spoke, his ringing voice silenced the rumble of conversation in the hall.

‘The subject we shall debate is: frequens legum mutato est periculosa. Who will translate?’

‘I will,’ said Deynman, leaping to his feet with one of his guileless smiles. ‘It means “frequently asking vegetables to remain mute makes them very discontented”.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘He knows even less Latin now than when he first arrived.’

Falmeresham and his cronies were sniggering, although the new students were too unsure of themselves to join in. Langelee nodded, suggesting that he found Deynman’s interpretation perfectly acceptable, while Wynewyk and Michael were uneasy, anticipating that Honynge’s inevitable scorn would bring about a quarrel. William looked puzzled and Tyrington was regarding Deynman warily, not sure what to think.

‘No, Deynman,’ said Honynge, surprisingly gently. ‘Although you have correctly identified the verb and the noun, which is to be commended. However, the proper translation is: a too frequent alteration of the laws is dangerous.’ Here he looked meaningfully at Michael.

‘By laws, do you mean Statutes?’ asked the monk icily.

Honynge shrugged. ‘Changing the University’s Statutes to suit townsmen’s pockets is not a good idea, and I shall vote against it.’

‘I agree with your sentiments,’ said William. ‘But loyalty to colleagues comes first, and you should back Michael’s attempts to placate these landlords.’

‘I shall not,’ declared Honynge. ‘I shall vote as my conscience dictates. However, our students will not learn much today if all they do is hear us squabble. Let us begin this disputation.’

‘He is a sharp-tongued cur,’ whispered Langelee to Bartholomew, as the Fellows retreated to the back of the hall, leaving Honynge and Tyrington at the front. ‘I cannot say I like him.’

‘It was your decision to elect the man,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the Master had a lot to answer for. ‘If you had taken Carton, Michaelhouse would still be a haven of peace.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael, overhearing. ‘He has odd habits, too – such as going out after the curfew and declining to say where.’

‘Tyrington is all right, though,’ said Langelee. ‘I am not keen on his leering and slobbering, but at least I do not feel the urge to plunge a blade in his gizzard every time he opens his mouth. It is a good thing Honynge does not sit next to me at meals, because I would not like my appetite spoiled by an effusion of blood.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncomfortably, not sure how much was humour and how much heartfelt desire. ‘Michael will find a non-violent solution to the problem. Just give him time.’

‘He has too many other things to worry about – finding Lynton’s killer, ending the rent war, averting trouble brought about by Arderne. He cannot manage Honynge, too.’

‘Oh, yes he can,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Especially if it transpires that Honynge killed Lynton.’

Langelee was alarmed. ‘I sincerely hope that is not the case! If it is, Peterhouse might demand compensation from us – for the murder of one of their Fellows by one of ours.’

‘The crime was committed while Honynge was still at Zachary,’ said Michael. ‘It had nothing to do with us.’

‘But Zachary no longer exists,’ Langelee pointed out. ‘Candelby reclaimed it yesterday, the moment Honynge and his students vacated. He grabbed Tyrington’s hostel, too, and a wealthy goldsmith is already installed there. He must be delighted, because Tyrington was not due to leave Piron until September.’

‘Piron was well maintained,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the sumptuous building. ‘It needed no repairs before it could be leased again, so I am not surprised Candelby has filled it quickly.’

‘Zachary is the same,’ said Langelee. ‘It is a bit shabby on the outside, but the inside was always clean and neat. I imagine Honynge and Tyrington were ideal tenants from that standpoint.’

‘Here we go,’ said Michael, breaking into their discussion. ‘The disputation begins.’

‘I like your notion, Deynman,’ said Honynge, smiling pleasantly at the student. ‘The topic of a debate is irrelevant, and what is important is our ability to present coherent, logical arguments. In fact, I would suggest that debating the absurd requires greater skill than topics with which we are familiar. So, as president, I have decided that the subject will be the one Deynman has mooted: Let us enquire whether frequently asking vegetables to remain mute makes them very discontented.’

The students laughed.

‘We cannot debate that,’ cried William, aghast. ‘I do not understand what it means!’

‘That is part of the exercise,’ explained Tyrington, not bothering to hide his exasperation with a man who should have known better. ‘You must define your terms. And then an opponent will challenge them.’

Falmeresham stepped up to propose that vegetables disliked being asked to remain silent, and although his analysis had the hall ringing with laughter, his logic was impeccable. When he had finished, Tyrington put the opposite side of the argument. It was a lively debate, and Honynge was careful to let each student have his say, even Deynman. When someone made a mistake, it was highlighted patiently and kindly; Bartholomew wished Honynge was as considerate of his senior colleagues.

Tyrington’s enthusiasm was infectious, so there was very little wandering of attention. When Carton – the only one of the assembled scholars who did not seem to be enjoying himself – began to gaze out of the window, Tyrington balled up a fragment of parchment and pitched it, hitting the commoner plumb in the centre of the forehead. Carton spun around with a start, and the other students smiled at his confusion. When Tyrington scored another direct hit a few moments later, Bartholomew suspected he had honed the skill to perfection: Carton glared at Tyrington, his normally bland face dark with fury.

‘Damn!’ murmured Michael. ‘They are both skilled teachers. I expected Honynge to be pompous and overbearing, but the students like him. And Tyrington’s obvious love of learning has even enthused my dispassionate Benedictines – I have never seen them so animated. What a nuisance! I was hoping to use incompetence as a means to be rid of Honynge, but now I cannot.’

‘Damn indeed,’ said William. ‘We shall have to think of something else, because I do not want him in my College. He is a vile creature – probably a secret Dominican.’

‘Where are you going?’ Bartholomew asked, as the friar shoved past him, heading for the door.

‘To buy some dog-meat,’ replied William. ‘And lots of it.’

‘I have grown confused with all we have learned,’ said Michael, when he and Bartholomew had left the hall to continue their investigation into Lynton’s murder. ‘And I am not sure what to do next. Come to the Brazen George with me, and summarise everything.’

‘We have only just had breakfast,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I am not sure it is wise to frequent taverns, given what is happening in the town. We would do better to stay here.’

‘Nonsense, Matt. Candelby’s antics will not prevent me from walking about my own streets – or from enjoying my favourite alehouse.’

Cambridge was quieter that day, and the roads held fewer people, although Bartholomew suspected this was because a troupe of travelling players was performing in the Market Square, not from any lessening of hostility. He could hear cheers, and was glad the crowd was good-humoured.

Michael pointed along the High Street. ‘Candelby is heading our way. Can we reach the Brazen George before our paths converge? I am not in the mood for a spat.’

‘Not unless you pick up the pace, Brother.’

‘I am not running from the man. Very well, we shall bandy words, then. Perhaps he will be drunk, and I can persuade him to sign an agreement that will end our sordid squabble.’

Candelby was impeccably dressed, and the gold rings on his fingers glittered in the sunlight. He looked smug and prosperous, and Bartholomew wondered why he was making such an issue over rents, when it was clear he already had more money than he could spend; not being an acquisitive man himself, the physician failed to understand the bent in others. Blankpayn was with Candelby, although his clothes were dishevelled and he looked unkempt and unshaven.

‘Why does Candelby keep company with a disreputable rogue like him?’ asked Bartholomew, as the two taverners drew nearer. ‘Blankpayn is uncouth and stupid.’

‘But loyal. The other burgesses follow Candelby because he is powerful and influential; Blankpayn follows him because he thinks he can do no wrong.’

‘I hear you plan to hold a Convocation of Regents, Brother,’ said Candelby without preamble, as their paths converged. ‘To ask whether it is right to go on defrauding honest townsfolk.’

Michael was startled. ‘The Convocation is not public knowledge yet. My clerks have not finished drafting the official proclamation, so no one outside the University should know about it.’

‘I have my sources. Let us hope your colleagues see sense and rescind this ridiculous Statute once and for all.’

‘They may decide rents should remain as they are,’ warned Michael. ‘And if they do, I will lose the authority to raise them even by a small amount. You may find yourself worse off than ever.’

Candelby smirked. ‘If that happens, I shall tell my fellow landlords to evict all poor scholars from their houses, and lease them to wealthy townsmen instead. I will not be worse off, Brother.’

‘There cannot be that many rich citizens wanting to hire houses,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘If you decline to lease your buildings to students, you will have such a small pool of customers that competition will drive prices down. You will be poorer in the long term.’

Candelby’s expression was patronising. ‘I have never said I will not lease my properties to the University; I have only said I will not lease them for a pittance. There will always be a demand for accommodation in Cambridge, and academics will have to pay the market price for their lodgings in future, just like anyone else.’

Michael glared at him. ‘Is a heavier purse worth the trouble this dispute is causing? Men have died. Do you want more bloodshed on your conscience?’

‘Any fighting is the University’s fault, not mine,’ declared Candelby firmly. ‘Incidentally, I heard you visited Maud, Bartholomew. Do not do it again, because she is worse today. Arderne says it is because you touched her with your Corpse Examiner’s hands.’

‘Maud no longer cares for you,’ said Michael tartly. ‘So her health is none of your concern.’

Candelby eyed him with dislike. ‘She is feverish and does not know what she is saying. She will welcome my courtship when she is well again, and then I shall marry her.’

‘The accident exposed your real feelings towards her,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘She sees now that you only want her for her money. She probably noticed your indifference towards your pot-boy, too – Ocleye is dead, and you do not seem to care.’

‘Ocleye was a spy,’ snapped Blankpayn, leaping to defend his friend. ‘You cannot blame Candelby for not being grieved about a man like that. Ocleye was not to be trusted.’

Candelby shot him a pained look. ‘Thank you, Blankpayn; your support is greatly appreciated. Now perhaps you will deliver this letter to Maud. Arderne wrote it for me, and he has a way with words, so it will not be long before she invites me to visit.’

The taverner stamped away, clutching the missive in his grubby fingers.

‘You are lucky to have such a fine friend,’ said Michael ambiguously.

Candelby’s expression was blank. ‘Yes, I am. I missed him when he was in the Fens, hiding, because you accused him of murdering Falmeresham.’

‘According to Falmeresham, Blankpayn was ready to drop him down a well,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Our accusations were not as far-fetched as you make out.’

‘I imagine you were very worried,’ said Candelby with a malicious grin. ‘I would have been.’

‘So, Ocleye was a spy, was he?’ mused Michael, before Bartholomew could take issue with him for keeping Falmeresham’s whereabouts secret. ‘I imagine your fellow burgesses will be very interested to know you hire such men – especially if you paid him to watch them.’

Candelby blanched. ‘I did not hire Ocleye to watch them,’ he said, licking his lips uneasily. ‘I employed him to watch you.’

Michael smiled, pleased to have nettled the man at last. ‘Then he cheated you, because my beadles would have noticed anyone spying on me. Obviously, he was not doing what he was told.’

Candelby grimaced. ‘It pains me to admit it, but you are right. At first, I assumed he was just not very good at his job, because he never had any intelligence worth reporting. It was only later that I came to realise he was actually in someone else’s pay – the rogue was taking my money, but instead of spying on you, he was spying on me!’

‘Yet he was riding in your cart on the day of your accident,’ said Michael, unconvinced. ‘If you knew he was betraying you, why did you permit such familiarity?’

‘He asked in front of Maud, and I was trying to impress her,’ replied Candelby sheepishly. ‘Telling him to pack his bags and leave the town would have made me look unmannerly. So I let him ride with us, but was going to dismiss him as soon as we had a moment alone.’

‘Who was he spying for?’

Candelby grimaced a second time. ‘I assumed it was you, but I can see from your reaction that it was not. It will be another scholar, although God alone knows which one. They all hate me.’

‘I wonder why,’ murmured Michael, as he walked away.

When the proprietor of the Brazen George came to greet Michael and Bartholomew, he expressed none of his usual pleasure in seeing old friends. His large, plum-shaped face was a mask of worry.

‘What is wrong, Master Lister?’ asked Michael, watching him secure the door behind them. ‘Surely you have not taken against me now?’

Lister winced. ‘Of course not, Brother. However, I have had warnings.’

‘Warnings?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘What kind of warnings?’

‘Ones that tell me I would be wise to break off my association with scholars.’

‘Who has been saying such things?’ demanded Michael angrily.

‘The notes were anonymous, but Blankpayn is the obvious culprit. He and Candelby want to drive a wedge between the University and any townsfolk who provide it with essential services.’

Bartholomew tried not to smile at the notion that the Brazen George provided ‘essential services’. Michael saw nothing amusing in the situation, though. ‘Lord!’ he breathed. ‘What next?’

‘If Candelby wins this war, he will pit himself against those of us who defied him,’ said Lister miserably. ‘I shall be ruined. So, you must defeat Candelby, Brother. My livelihood depends on it.’

‘I shall do my best,’ vowed Michael. ‘But you have quite destroyed my appetite. Instead of roasted chickens, I shall content myself with half a dozen Lombard slices. Matt will have the same.’

‘Matt does not want anything at all,’ countered Bartholomew, feeling slightly queasy at the thought of eating sticky date pastries so soon after breakfast.

Michael eyed him balefully as Lister left. ‘Please do not refer to yourself in the third person. It reminds me of Honynge. Do you think he is the scholar who hired Ocleye to spy on Candelby?’

‘What would he gain from doing that?’

‘He was living in one of Candelby’s hostels – a place that was seized the moment he moved into Michaelhouse. Obviously, he wanted information about the man who was planning to evict him.’

‘The same is true of Tyrington. However, I suspect Arderne employed Ocleye. We know he did nothing but listen and watch during his first few weeks in Cambridge, learning the lie of the land before he made his presence known. Hiring a spy is an easy way to amass knowledge.’

Michael gave a grim smile. ‘We are both allowing personal dislike to colour our judgement. So, let us review what we know without taking Arderne and Honynge into account, and see what other suspects emerge.’

Bartholomew knew he was right. ‘You start, then.’

‘First we have Lynton, murdered with a crossbow in the middle of Milne Street, in broad daylight. Ocleye was killed the same way, at more or less the same time. It seems obvious that he saw the archer, and was killed to ensure his silence. Do you agree?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It cannot have been the other way around – Lynton killed because he saw Ocleye’s killer – because Ocleye was fussing about Candelby after Lynton had been shot.’

‘Ocleye was a spy, not a pot-boy,’ continued Michael. ‘That explains three things: why he was older than most tavern scullions; why he made scant effort to socialise with the other lads from the Angel; and why he seems to have appeared out of nowhere.’

‘Four things,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Spies are better paid than pot-boys, and he probably could afford to rent his own house, rather than live in the inn where he ostensibly worked.’

‘And the man he chose as his landlord was Lynton. Perhaps he was Lynton’s spy, then.’

‘It is possible. Lynton had the rent agreement in his hand, and was probably reading it when he died. I wonder who took it from him.’

‘Ocleye?’ suggested Michael. ‘He would not have wanted any links between him and a man who was unlawfully slain – spies do not like that sort of attention. Then he was murdered in his turn.’

‘Carton!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, recalling something that had happened. ‘He knelt next to Lynton’s body and was straightening the cloak that covered him. Perhaps he removed it.’

‘He would have given it to us, had that been the case – he has no reason to steal such a thing and keep it quiet. Perhaps I am wrong to dismiss Candelby in favour of Honynge. Candelby was present when the crime occurred, and he owns a crossbow. Unfortunately, Maud does not recall him pulling it out and committing murder, and no other witnesses have come forward. How can I catch him? I need real evidence, or he will claim I am just accusing him because of the rent war.’

‘Meanwhile, we have learned facts about Lynton that have surprised us. He kept a long-term lover; he owned a Dispensary near the Trumpington Gate; he was a knight in all but name; and he was a landlord, raking in lucrative profits by renting his houses to wealthy townsmen.’

‘Do you think a disgruntled student shot him? Scholars are losing their homes all over the town, yet Lynton still preferred to lease his properties to rich civilians.’ Michael did not wait for an answer. ‘And what did he do on Fridays, when he never visited Maud?’

‘There is a motive for Candelby wanting Lynton dead: Lynton was Maud’s lover – the woman Candelby still intends to marry.’

Michael was uncertain. ‘Isabel said the affair was a secret, and I have never heard any gossip, so perhaps they did manage to keep it to themselves. Further, Agatha knew they played games of chance together on Sundays, but did not guess the real nature of their relationship – and she knows just about everything in the town, given the number of folk she counts among her kin.’

‘Perhaps Candelby was suspicious about Lynton and Maud, and sent Ocleye to find out what they were doing together.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘You are right – and that is a good motive for murder. So, we have Candelby as our chief suspect, with a resentful student second. What about Kenyngham?’

‘Kenyngham was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew adamantly.

‘Yes, he was,’ said Michael, equally firmly. ‘I am not blaming you for missing clues, Matt. A mistake is understandable under the circumstances, and we were all upset by his death.’

‘I did not make a mistake,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I was concerned I might have done, which is why I examined him a second time. However, there is nothing to suggest his death was unnatural.’

‘Poisons are difficult to detect – you said so yourself. You may have overlooked something, because you were not expecting to find it. We shall know after the exhumation. Rougham will–’

Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. ‘I was very careful – both times. And if I could not detect anything amiss, then neither will Rougham. I concede you might learn something if you open him up, but I doubt Rougham will agree to that.’

‘Open him up?’ echoed Michael, round-eyed. ‘You mean dissect him? Oh, Matt!’

‘It is a discussion you started. Tearing him from his final resting place is just as distasteful as anatomising him.’

Michael’s expression was flinty. ‘You have become very ghoulish since you returned from those foreign schools. They have reignited your desire to be controversial and heretical, which is a habit I thought you had grown out of.’

Bartholomew changed the subject before they could annoy each other any further. ‘At least we have Falmeresham home.’

‘What do you think of Arderne’s claim to have cured him?’

‘He cannot possibly have pulled Falmeresham’s liver through that hole in his side. It would be like pulling a heart through a shoulder. Arderne was lying to him.’

‘Arderne did cure Motelete, though. I accept your contention that the lad may not have been fully dead in the first place, but he certainly lay in a corpse-like state for two days. There are dozens of witnesses to that fact.’

Bartholomew nodded towards the Brazen George’s small, but secluded garden. It was a pleasant space with a tiny pond and the kind of vegetation that benefited from a sheltered, sunny position. The tavern had the luxury of glazed windows, and although it was not easy to see through them, he recognised Clare’s personal Lazarus, even so.

‘Motelete is out there. Shall we ask him about his resurrection again?’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael with a weary sigh. ‘I cannot see any other way through the ungodly maze of facts we have accumulated.’

Motelete had abandoned the academic tabard that identified him as a scholar of Clare, and was wearing a surcoat of dark green with multicoloured hose. He was in company with a fair-headed girl and a youth who looked so much like her that Bartholomew assumed they were siblings. The lad looked bored and resentful, but Motelete and the woman seemed to be enjoying themselves.

‘Motelete’s companion is named Will Sago,’ said Michael, watching them. ‘He is one of the Angel’s pot-boys. Now why would Motelete be in such company?’

‘It is not Sago he is interested in,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘It is Sago’s sister.’

When Lister brought more Lombard slices, Michael asked why he was allowing a student and a pot-boy to drink together, when it might bring trouble. Lister pulled a resentful face.

‘Candelby’s lads have taken to patronising my inn of late – they come to spy, of course. How else would Candelby know the occasional academic visits my humble establishment?’

Everyone in Cambridge knew the Brazen George catered to scholars, and Bartholomew suspected Candelby had ordered his servants to frequent the place as a way to intimidate Lister into banishing them, rather than to gather intelligence.

‘The lass is Siffreda Sago,’ Lister went on. ‘And the student is Motelete, who was raised from the dead by that remarkable Arderne. Sago is there to make sure she does not lose her virtue, although Motelete will have her soon, watchful brother or no.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Motelete courts townswomen, bloodies noses in brawls, and outwits chaperons. He does not sound like the quiet, timid student described to us at Clare – the one who would never have harmed Ocleye, who never visited taverns, and who cried for his mother.’

‘He is said to have changed since his resurrection,’ explained Lister. ‘I am not surprised – it must have been an eerie experience.’

Bartholomew and Michael walked outside, where Motelete hurriedly removed his hand from down the back of Siffreda’s gown.

‘Wine is good for me,’ he said, gesturing to the jug on the table in front of him. ‘Magister Arderne said I should drink lots of it, to make sure I do not fall into death again.’

‘That is the kind of physician any man would be pleased to own,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Mine is always telling me to abstain, which is a wretched bore.’

Motelete smiled. ‘I would rather have Arderne than any medicus alive. He is a genius, and I shall always be in debt to him for saving me. Would you like to see my neck? You will recall it was marred by a great gash that saw me lose all my blood, but now there is virtually no mark at all.’

It was an offer no physician could decline. Bartholomew examined the bared throat, and saw a cut that had scabbed over and was healing nicely. In a few days, it would fade to a faint pink line, and a month might see it vanish altogether.

‘Do you remember being dead?’ he asked.

Motelete shook his head. ‘People keep asking me that – did I see Christ, was I in Purgatory, was my soul weighed? All I recall is being very cold, and when Magister Arderne commanded me to rise, it was difficult, because I was stiff. He says all corpses undergo a phase of stiffness.’

They talked a while longer, mostly about the fact that Motelete was not wearing his prescribed uniform, and that even scholars newly risen from the grave were not exempt from the University’s rules. Motelete was not entirely won over by Michael’s logic, but agreed to go home to Clare – without his sweetheart – when the monk mentioned that he had the authority to demand a fine of up to six pence from students who preferred taverns to their schools.

As soon as Michael was satisfied that Motelete was heading in the right direction, Bartholomew headed for a stinking alley known as Butchery Row. It was behind the Market Square, identifiable by its rank stench and large population of bluebottles. Children sold rhubarb leaves at either end so customers could use them to keep buzzing flies from their faces as they browsed the wares on sale.

‘I want to find out whether any meat-sellers have hawked livers that were knobbly and green,’ he explained to Michael, ‘because the organ Falmeresham saw cannot possibly have been his own.’

‘This place always makes me glad I am not a woman,’ said Michael, holding his sleeve over his nose with one hand, and flapping furiously with the other. ‘They are obliged to come here every day, and it turns my stomach.’

‘There is Agatha, buying meat for your dinner. She does not seem to mind the flies or the smell.’

‘No fly would dare alight on her,’ retorted Michael, flailing harder as they ventured deeper inside the shadowy alley. ‘And nor would any smell.’

‘Arderne delivered my love-potion yesterday,’ Agatha announced as she approached. The sack hefted over her shoulder was huge, and probably contained the best part of a sheep. ‘It contains real mandrake, and we all know there is nothing like mandrake for making folk fall in love.’

‘It is also a powerful poison,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed for the man who might drink it. ‘It can induce wild fancies, but the dosage must be very carefully measured.’

‘Who is it for?’ asked Michael warily.

She grinned mischievously. ‘You will know soon enough. Do not worry, Matthew. I will not give him too much of it.’

‘I shall hold you to that,’ said Bartholomew, hoping her idea of ‘too much’ was the same as his own. ‘Edith told me you threw a hunk of bread at Arderne yesterday. If you dislike him enough to lob loaves, then why did you buy his remedy?’

Agatha was thoughtful. ‘I hurled the bread because he insulted you, and I was going to refuse his charm when it arrived. But when he delivered it, and looked at me with those eyes of his, I could not stop myself from reaching for my purse. He is a clever man, though, despite his sharp tongue. He cured Motelete and Falmeresham of death, and he healed Blankpayn’s leprosy.’

‘I have not seen a genuine case of leprosy in England for years,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘Arderne said it was leprosy. I know all about it, because Blankpayn is my cousin.’

‘Blankpayn?’ asked Michael in astonishment, while Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised. Agatha was related to at least half the county.

Agatha became defensive. ‘I know he is not kin of which to be proud, but you cannot choose your relations, so I am stuck with him. He says he did not harm Falmeresham on purpose, though.’

‘We know,’ said Michael. ‘I was witness to the fact that it was an accident myself, and there was no need for him to have run away. However, that does not justify him neglecting to mention Falmeresham’s whereabouts when he knew we were worried.’

‘He is a spiteful fool,’ agreed Agatha venomously. ‘He has no wits, not like me.’

‘I do not suppose he told you anything else, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Perhaps about Candelby and the crossbow he keeps to repel thieves and scholars? Blankpayn will never talk to me, but he might have confided in you.’

‘He does confide,’ acknowledged Agatha, liking the notion that she might possess information the monk did not. ‘But Candelby did not shoot anyone on Sunday. His crossbow is never loaded, and as they take a few moments to arm, I never bother with them personally. I prefer a sword.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, swallowing hard at the notion of Agatha armed. ‘Who is in the sack?’

‘Who?’ she echoed. ‘You mean what? It is a bit of mutton for your supper. I thought I might cook something special tonight, seeing as you have two new Fellows. Tyrington praised my pottage this morning, so I want to show him what one of my roasts is like.’

‘You never do that for me,’ said Michael plaintively.

She winked at him. ‘I might, if you were a bit more charming.’

‘Do you think she intends to feed her potion to Tyrington?’ asked Michael, after she had gone. ‘She seems enamoured of him.’

‘She is just flattered that someone has complimented her cooking at last,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘We take her for granted, and it must be a pleasant change to be appreciated.’

Michael gagged as they reached a particularly noxious section of Butchery Row. ‘Can we go now? The stench is making me nauseous.’

Bartholomew was obliged to approach three meat-merchants before he found one willing to talk to him. The first two gave him short shrift, informing him bluntly that they had no wish to be seen talking to scholars. The third owned the smallest shop, and was not noted for the freshness of his wares. As a consequence, ‘Putrid Peter’ tended to be patronised by those who could not afford the better stuff, and he and his family barely made ends meet.

‘Pay no heed to them,’ said Peter, flicking a thumb at his colleagues. ‘One owns a house that is used as a hostel, and the other is his nephew. They are both with Candelby against the University, and are going around telling everyone not to sell meat to scholars.’

‘They sold mutton to Agatha,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Peter regarded him as though he was short of a few wits. ‘They support Candelby, but that does not make them madmen. No one refuses Agatha, not if he values his vitals. If you want an end to this rift, Brother, you should send her after Candelby. You would have peace quicker than you can say your pater nosters.’

‘I might do that,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, I am running out of other options.’

‘Does Magister Arderne ever buy meat from you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Peter shook his head. ‘Not meat, just entrails for his dog. I sold him the innards from a sheep on Monday. They were a bit past their best, but he said Rex would not mind.’

Bartholomew made his way out of the cluttered, reeking shambles, Michael stumbling behind him. One of the butchers chose the moment they passed to upend a bucket of bloody water into the street. Bartholomew was agile enough to jump out of the way, but the back of Michael’s habit ended up drenched. The physician was not quick enough to dodge the bone that was lobbed at him, however, and it caught him a painful blow on the elbow.

‘Was that escapade worthwhile?’ snapped the monk irritably, when they were away from the stalls and in the Market Square. ‘You learned that Arderne buys cheap meat for some animal he keeps, but at what cost? I am soaked and you are bruised.’

‘It was worthwhile,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. ‘Falmeresham was stabbed on Sunday. The next day, Arderne purchased sheep guts, and went to “operate”. Falmeresham was too dosed with potions to know what was really happening, and was deceived in the most appalling manner.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘First, if Falmeresham really had been badly wounded, he would not have survived being toted to the Angel and then to Arderne’s house. Secondly, the injury was in the wrong place to have affected a liver, as I have told you – something Falmeresham does not know, because I am not allowed to teach him anatomy. Thirdly, I doubt Arderne owns a dog, so he must have had another reason for wanting cheap entrails. Fourthly, Falmeresham said his liver was “knobbly and green”, which looks like no human liver that I have ever seen, but Putrid Peter sold Arderne entrails that were turning bad. And finally, you do not pull an organ from a body, suture it, and have the patient walking around in three days.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Do you think Arderne deceived young Motelete, too?’

Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘But I cannot see how. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Are you sure you have not taken against him because his claims resulted in Edith being hurt?’

‘I have taken against him for that, yes. And for misleading Falmeresham, for making Hanchach drink urine, and for giving Isnard false hope and stealing his money. Shall I go on?’

‘There is no need,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘I see your point.’

Because they were passing, Bartholomew stopped at King’s Hall to ask after Paxtone, whose indisposition still confined him to his quarters. The large physician was lying down, but declared himself to be better. He rubbed his ample paunch ruefully.

‘I am a devil for pigeon, but I shall limit myself to three of them next time we have a feast.’

‘I like pigeon, too,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘Although Agatha does not always remove all the feathers. They get stuck in my throat and make me choke.’

‘Our cooks are the same,’ sympathised Paxtone. ‘I choke, too.’

‘If you took time to look at what you were eating, instead of gobbling, these problems would not arise.’ Bartholomew became aware that Paxtone and Michael were regarding him in astonishment, unused to him giving such tart advice. He relented. ‘I am sorry. It is Arderne – we have good evidence that he is defrauding people, but I do not know how to stop him. And my arm hurts.’

While Paxtone smeared Bartholomew’s elbow with an ointment of elder leaves and marjoram, Michael summarised what they had deduced about Arderne’s treatment of Falmeresham.

‘I am not surprised,’ said Paxtone. ‘And Blankpayn does not have leprosy – his skin flakes when he eats too many eggs. He always mends in a few days, and if Arderne is claiming that as one of his successes, then he is deluded – and so is Blankpayn for believing him.’

‘Can you think of a way to expose him?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Paxtone replace his salve on a shelf. ‘We must do something, because it is only a matter of time before someone dies.’

‘Even if someone does perish, he will deny responsibility,’ said Paxtone gloomily. ‘Maud Bowyer is sinking fast, but he declines to accept the fact that he failed to clean her wound properly. He is blaming her illness on you, because you gave her something to swallow.’

‘Poppy juice and henbane.’

Paxtone raised his hands in a shrug. ‘A powerful elixir for a painful condition. It is what I would have prescribed myself. Wretched man! To catch him will be like laying hold of a snake – whichever end you grab will result in a bite. But you know all this, so there is no point in me harping on it. Have you come any closer to learning why Lynton rode his horse at Candelby?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Although we are certainly learning a lot about Lynton himself. Did you know he trained as a knight, and that he owned buildings all along the High Street?’

Paxtone raised his eyebrows. ‘I knew about the properties, but not about his military expertise, although it does not surprise me. He was elegance itself astride a horse.’

‘He was murdered,’ said Michael baldly. ‘Shot. We have not told anyone else, except Langelee, because we fear reprisals. However, Matt believes Arderne may be responsible, so you may be in danger, too. I tell you for your own safety, although I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself.’

Paxtone was appalled. ‘But this is dreadful! I had no idea!’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘That is what we intended.’

Paxtone took a gulp of wine, straight from a container that looked suspiciously like a urine flask. ‘You must do all you can to catch this monster – whether it is Arderne or someone else. But, of course, that is what you have been doing. Forgive me. It is the shock. Poor Lynton!’

‘You must look out for Rougham, too,’ said Michael. ‘Do not confide in him, because he is fiery, and outrage may lead him to confront Arderne, which will help no one.’

‘I shall be discreet,’ vowed Paxtone. He paled suddenly. ‘I have noticed someone watching me several times recently. Lord! It might have been an assassin hired by Arderne.’

‘Watching you how?’ asked Bartholomew.

Paxtone raised his hands. ‘Sometimes he is in the street opposite our gatehouse, sometimes I see him at the apothecary’s shop, and he was at Kenyngham’s funeral. I mentioned him to Rougham, and he said the fellow had been dogging him, too. Have you noticed anyone following you?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am usually accompanied by Michael, Cynric or students. They would have noticed something amiss, even if I did not.’

‘We did notice something amiss,’ said Michael. ‘You chased a hooded figure who was lurking outside Peterhouse, but lost him in the woods nearby.’ He turned to Paxtone. ‘Can you describe this person?’

Paxtone shook his head. ‘He is always bundled up in his cloak, and I have never seen his face. Neither has Rougham.’

Michael was concerned. ‘You must be on your guard.’

Paxtone’s malaise seemed to have evaporated now he had something more serious to worry about. He stood and headed for the door, tottering slightly on his tiny feet. ‘I shall walk to Gonville Hall now, and make sure Rougham is in one piece. Poor Lynton! Did I tell you we had a disagreement last week?’

Michael followed him down the stairs. ‘What about?’

‘The mean speed theorem. He made an assumption that I considered erroneous.’

‘In what way?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The basis of the theory is that a body will traverse a specific distance in a given amount of time. However, I see no evidence that the speed should be constant, and I disagreed with him about his mathematical assumptions.’

‘I see your point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, if that same body were to move during the same interval of time with a uniform velocity equal to the instantaneous speed acquired at the middle instant of its uniform acceleration, it would traverse a predictable distance. Would it not?’

Paxtone paused at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath. ‘He kept varying his definition of “uniform”, which meant his deductions were difficult to predict. I was right more often than not, but a man of my standing does not like to be proven wrong. All this happened in his Dispensary.’

Bartholomew was surprised Paxtone had taken the matter so much to heart. Being wrong was part of the learning process, and anyone who minded having his conclusions questioned had no right to be a scholar. ‘You visited his Dispensary? I did not even know he had one until yesterday, although it is like no Dispensary I have ever seen – there is nothing in it to dispense, for a start.’

‘Just wine,’ said Paxtone, leading the way across the yard. He looked a little furtive. ‘Lynton liked to give wine to the patients who visited him. It was a very popular habit.’

‘I am sure it was,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael lowered his voice when they reached King’s Hall’s mighty gatehouse. ‘While I am in the mood for confidences, I have received a letter saying that Kenyngham was poisoned. And there was another note offering me twenty marks for bringing the culprit to justice.’

Paxtone regarded him uncertainly. ‘Kenyngham was old. I imagine he died of natural causes, and the writer of these letters – I assume they are one and the same – is playing a nasty game with you.’

‘That is what I have been telling him,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am unwilling to take the chance,’ said Michael. ‘So, I shall take the matter seriously until a proper examination of Kenyngham tells me otherwise. Besides, these missives cannot have been written by the same man. He is hardly likely to offer me a reward for his own capture, is he?’

‘But Kenyngham is buried,’ said Paxtone. ‘How can you examine him? Unless … surely, you cannot mean to exhume him?’ He rounded on Bartholomew. ‘Are you party to this outrage?’

‘No. Michael intends to ask Rougham to help him.’

‘Rougham will have nothing to do with it – and rightly so. I strongly urge you reconsider, Brother.’

Michael watched him waddle away, a frown creasing his fat features. ‘Perhaps he killed Kenyngham. He certainly objected very strongly to my determination to learn the truth.’

‘He objected to you digging up a dead colleague,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘As do I.’

As Bartholomew and Michael walked home to Michaelhouse, they met Father William. He was talking to the Warden of the town’s Franciscan Friary, an austere, unsmiling man named Pechem. Pechem was one of Bartholomew’s patients, and regularly consulted him about the poor state of his digestion. He usually blamed his discomfort on a bad alignment of stars, although the physician was more inclined to think a penchant for pickled rhubarb might have something to do with it.

‘The Grey Friars will stand with you at the Convocation next Monday, Brother,’ said Pechem, as they approached. ‘William has been telling me how it is your attempt to avert trouble, so we shall support your proposal to change the Statutes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, pleased.

‘The Dominicans are being awkward, though,’ said William gloomily. ‘I went to see them today, but Prior Morden said he intended to vote for whatever I voted against.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I shall have to visit Morden later, then.’

‘Do not bother,’ said Pechem. ‘The Black Friars have eighteen Regents, but we have nineteen. As we cannot possibly be expected to vote for the same side, you are better accepting our pledge.’

Michael sighed crossly. ‘Surely you can put your differences aside, just this once?’

‘We have been happily opposing Dominicans on everything for nigh on two hundred years,’ said Pechem indignantly. ‘Why should we change now?’

‘That stupid Honynge says the Dominicans are right about Blood Relics,’ said William to Pechem, oblivious to the monk’s exasperated disapproval of the Warden’s stance. ‘Can you credit it? The man is an ass! However, I have had my revenge.’

‘What have you done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. William was not a subtle person, and his vengeance was likely to be something crude that would cause another quarrel.

‘As Junior Fellow, he is obliged to manage the Illeigh Hutch,’ said William. He explained to Pechem. ‘Hutches are chests containing money that can be borrowed by our students. In return for coins, they leave something of equal or greater value – a book, a piece of jewellery, and so on.’

‘And?’ asked Michael warily. ‘What did you do? Remove all the money, so he will look foolish when a student asks for some and he finds it is empty?’

William’s face fell. ‘How did you guess?’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘He will know someone is playing tricks, and may reciprocate with something vicious. I doubt he is the kind of man to take a joke.’

Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘I think we can salvage something from the idea, though. Go and put it all back, Father, but include the gold coronet from the Stanton Hutch, too. Honynge will conduct an inventory, and discover an addition. Then we shall see how honest he is.’

‘We shall declare it stolen,’ crowed William, delighted. ‘And then it will be found in his room!’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘This is an ill-conceived plan – and dangerous, too, to risk something so valuable. He might manage to spirit the thing away. And then what will we say? That it was last seen by William, who hid it in the Illeigh Hutch to trap a thief?’

‘That is a clever notion, Matt,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We do not have to declare it was Honynge we wanted to catch out, do we?’

Grinning like a madman, William raced away to do as Michael suggested. Bartholomew gave up trying to reason with the monk, and started to think about Arderne instead. He was still deep in thought when Carton approached, Falmeresham at his side. Carton was holding his friend’s arm, alarmed that he was walking about when Bartholomew had recommended rest after his ordeal.

‘Isabel St Ives has just been,’ said Carton. ‘Maud Bowyer is worse, and wants you to visit as soon as possible. It sounded urgent, so I thought I should find you myself, but Falmeresham insisted on accompanying me, even though he should be in bed.’

‘I came because Maud has no right to summon you,’ said Falmeresham, freeing his arm. ‘She is Magister Arderne’s patient, and he will not like it if you interfere. Isabel should not have come.’

‘Isabel thinks the same, actually,’ said Carton to Bartholomew. ‘She believes her mistress should be left to Arderne, too. But Maud wants you, and Isabel cannot ignore a direct order.’

‘Arderne is a good man,’ said Falmeresham, rather defiantly. ‘If Maud can be healed, he will do it. She does not need the services of another medicus.’

‘Arderne cannot be a good man, or he would not be saying spiteful things about the town’s other practitioners,’ said Carton snidely.

‘You mean Robin of Grantchester?’ asked Falmeresham. ‘It is about time someone reviled him – he is a menace. And Rougham is no better, with his archaic skills. They should be denounced.’

‘What about Doctor Bartholomew?’ demanded Carton archly. ‘Should he be denounced, too?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped Falmeresham. ‘But it is not Arderne who is doing that. It is Isnard.’

‘Because Arderne told him to. He raised Isnard’s hopes by saying he might be cured, but dashed them cruelly when it proved impossible. Then he blamed Doctor Bartholomew, even though it was his failure.’

‘But Arderne might be right about amputation,’ argued Falmeresham. ‘We are taught certain injuries are irreparable, and specific diseases are incurable. But I saw Arderne healing several such complaints with my own eyes. I think he possesses skills superior to anyone in Cambridge.’

‘Visit Maud, Matt,’ said Michael, cutting into the debate before it could erupt into a serious quarrel. ‘She trusts you, even if your students do not.’

‘I trust what works,’ countered Falmeresham. ‘My mind is open to anything new.’

Bartholomew took Falmeresham with him when he went to tend Maud, seeing it as a chance to teach the student something about fatal fevers. Michael insisted on accompanying them, lest a lone physician and his apprentice prove too tempting a target for mud-slingers and bone-lobbers, and Carton followed without being invited, loath to let his friend out of his sight.

When they arrived at the handsome house on Bridge Street, Maud was indeed worse. The smell of decay was stronger, and Bartholomew knew she did not have long to live. Isabel was almost in tears.

‘You have done enough damage already,’ said Isabel accusingly, watching Bartholomew kneel by the bed and examine the patient. ‘I would never have called you, had my mistress not insisted. I summoned Magister Arderne first – although she objected. He waved his feather, but said you had destroyed all hope of a cure, because you had laid tainted hands on her. It is your fault she is dying.’

‘Arderne says tainted hands are the reason why he could not save Ocleye, either,’ added Falmeresham, rather unhelpfully.

Bartholomew regarded Isabel unhappily. Her eyes were red from crying, but there was a hard, cold glint in them that he had not seen before. He had a feeling he was about to acquire yet another enemy. ‘I gave her a potion to relieve her pain,’ he said quietly. ‘And that is all.’

‘You put your hand against her cheek to feel her fever,’ countered Isabel. ‘And you raised the bandage to inspect the wound. Arderne said that was enough to cause the damage, because evil miasmas went from you to her.’

‘Claptrap,’ declared Carton angrily. Falmeresham glared at the friar, and with a shock, Bartholomew saw his student believed Arderne’s wild claims.

‘You can discuss this later,’ said Michael softly, nudging the physician with his elbow. ‘Tend Maud, Matt. You know you can do more for her than a leech with a feather.’

Bartholomew began to administer a powerful potion that would ease her pain. After a few moments, the lines of suffering around her eyes and mouth began to fade. He mixed more of the remedy, and gave it to Isabel with instructions on how to use it.

‘But it will not make her live?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This often happens with wounds caused by jagged splinters – small fragments remain behind, and they fester. The medicine will ease her end, but no more.’

‘I can hear you,’ said Maud, in a voice that was unexpectedly strong. She opened her eyes. ‘Or rather, I can hear voices. Are you talking about me?’

‘We are talking about Master Lynton,’ said Isabel, saying something she thought might please her. ‘He was a good friend of Doctor Bartholomew, who has come to see you.’

Maud smiled. ‘Did you know Lynton and I were close? We grew up together – born in adjoining manors. I should have married him, but we left it too late; he became a scholar, and I took another husband. He was a fine warrior in his day – tall, strong and true of hand. Still, at least we enjoyed each other after I became a widow.’

‘It is difficult to imagine him as a knight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or a lover.’

Her smile became wistful. ‘He was an enigma, and one I shall love to my dying day. Arderne tells me that might come sooner than I would like. What do you say, Bartholomew?’

‘I imagine that is true for most people.’

She smiled again. ‘You have a clever tongue. And now tell me the truth.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I doubt you will see another Sunday.’

‘Arderne said I would not see another hour, and that it is your fault that I am doomed. I do not believe him, though. You told me the truth – and did not demand five shillings for it.’

‘Magister Arderne always charges for consultations,’ said Falmeresham defensively. ‘He says offering services free of charge suggests they are not worth paying for.’

‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew sharply. It was impolite to argue with a patient, especially one who was dying, and he was surprised at Falmeresham.

‘Arderne is shallow and mean,’ said Maud. ‘I know you summoned him because you are desperate to help me, Isabel, but I do not want him here again. Doctor Bartholomew’s medicine is working, and the pain is less now. I ask for no more.’

She began to drowse, and Isabel opened the door, indicating it was time for the visitors to leave. ‘Magister Arderne is coming back later, and I do not want him to find you here,’ she said. ‘You will quarrel, and it might upset her.’

‘Maud just said she does not want him,’ said Bartholomew, loath to abandon anyone to the healer’s dubious ministrations.

‘He is not coming to see her,’ said Isabel with a smile that was a little wanton. ‘He is coming to see me. But I shall make sure he does not come up here, if that is what she wants.’

‘So, Isabel has a fancy for Arderne,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked home, Carton and Falmeresham trailing behind them. The two younger men were quarrelling in low voices. Falmeresham was angry because Carton was making rude comments about the healer he had come to revere, and Carton was apparently disgusted that his friend should be so easily deceived.

Bartholomew considered the predicament of Isabel St Ives. She was about to lose her mistress, her home and her employment, and was in an acutely vulnerable position. He hoped the arrogant Arderne would not take what he wanted, then abandon her. ‘There is no accounting for taste.’

‘I imagine most women consider him handsome, and he is very charismatic,’ said Michael. ‘I know from personal experience that ladies find that particular combination of traits attractive in a man. But speak of the Devil, and he will appear. Here comes the fellow himself.’

The healer was not alone. Blankpayn was announcing in a loud voice that Arderne had cured him of leprosy – although Bartholomew noticed that no one wanted to stand too close to him even so – and Candelby was still showing off his ‘broken’ arm. Carton asked Falmeresham in an uncharacteristically acerbic voice whether he would like to join them and flaunt his mended liver.

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, as Arderne swaggered towards them. ‘I want a word with him.’

‘Do not tackle him here,’ warned Michael in alarm, seeing the determined set of the physician’s jaw. ‘We are heavily outnumbered, and this is neither the time nor the place for a confrontation.’

‘I do not care,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have been patient, but he has gone too far.’

Falmeresham was also worried, and tugged on his arm. ‘Come down this lane, so you avoid meeting him. I can see you are itching to accuse him of bringing about the death of Mistress Bowyer, and that would be unfair. It is your fault she is dying, not his.’

Bartholomew stared at him in astonishment, Arderne momentarily forgotten. ‘What?’

‘You touched her and gave her medicines, when he said it was best to leave her alone,’ explained Falmeresham. ‘I have seen him work miracles, so there is no doubt in my mind that it was your interference – albeit well-intentioned – that brought about Maud’s decline.’

Bartholomew decided it was time for Falmeresham to hear a few facts. ‘Arderne bought sheep entrails from Putrid Peter on Monday, and performed some sleight of hand to make you think they were your own. He could not possibly have drawn your liver through that small cut in your side. It is a medical impossibility, and were I allowed to teach you anatomy, you would see I am right.’

Falmeresham took a step away. ‘Magister Arderne said you would try to turn me against him, by denigrating his achievements. I did not believe him, but I see he was right.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘You take his word over mine? After all these years?’

‘He does not,’ said Carton quickly. ‘He is still unwell, and–’

Falmeresham pulled away from him. ‘On the contrary, I have never felt better. While I was recovering, I spent hours talking to Magister Arderne, and was amazed by the depth of his knowledge. Everything he said makes sense. You say there is a lot about the body that you do not understand, but he knows everything. He always has answers and never says he does not know.’

‘Then he is a fool, as well as a fraud,’ said Michael tartly.

Falmeresham regarded him coldly. ‘You are the fool, Brother, for not seeing what is staring you in the face. You have grown so used to Doctor Bartholomew’s failures that you are unnerved by a man who is flushed with success.’

‘Watch yourself, lad,’ warned Michael. ‘I appreciate you have had an unpleasant experience, but it does not give you the right to be insolent. I suggest you go home and think about what you “saw” when you were with Arderne. Consider it logically, in the light of your training, then ask yourself whether these miracles are credible. Arderne is not a saint, infused with the power of Heaven.’

‘I disagree,’ said Falmeresham quietly. ‘And I want to learn more from him. He asked me to be his assistant, and I think I should accept his offer.’

Bartholomew was dismayed, knowing the lad was making a terrible mistake. ‘At least finish this term. Then you will have your degree.’

Falmeresham edged away. ‘I cannot waste another moment – it would be irresponsible to the people I can cure in the future. Will you stop me?’

Bartholomew seriously considered locking him up until he came to his senses. ‘Not if you think you are doing the right thing.’

‘I am,’ said Falmeresham. ‘My eyes have been opened, and a whole new world has unfolded. I shall always appreciate what you have taught me, though – it is not your fault the academic study of medicine falls so far short of what might be achieved.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, recalling his own excitement after hearing a lecture by the Arab physician who would later become his teacher. He understood exactly how Falmeresham felt.

‘You should stop him,’ said Carton, horrified. ‘I do not want him to go to Arderne. He may–’

‘May what?’ asked Michael, when the commoner stopped speaking abruptly.

Carton shrugged, and refused to look at him. ‘May learn facts that will do him no good.’

It was an odd thing to say, but Bartholomew was too preoccupied with Falmeresham to think about it. He turned away when the student reached his hero and began talking. Arderne shot a gloating smile in the physician’s direction, and put a possessive arm around the lad’s shoulders.

‘I think we will go home the back way,’ said Michael, pulling Bartholomew in the opposite direction. ‘I do not feel like walking down Bridge Street today.’