To Kill or Cure (18 page)

He padded across the garden until he was directly under the window, and insinuated himself into the shrubs at the base of
the wall. Kardington and his guest were in the solar on the upper floor. They were speaking softly, but the shutters were
open, and their words carried on the still night air.

‘… had no right,’ came a voice that Bartholomew recognised as that of the Master. He was speaking Latin, of course. ‘It was
not yours to sell, and the whole town knows it.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ said his companion apologetically. ‘And your ready forgiveness of me is giving rise to speculation
and suspicion. I would not have harmed the College for the world, and I wish there was something I could do to remedy the
situation.’

‘I know that, Spaldynge. But it is a pity you traded with Candelby, of all men. He is determined to destroy the University,
and you have provided him with ammunition.’

‘Do you think Michael will win the fight?’ asked Spaldynge. His tone was uneasy.

‘I hope so, because if he loses, the University will cease to exist in a few years – or will be reduced to a few struggling
Colleges. If that happens, Clare may be blamed, because you tipped the balance by selling Borden Hostel to the enemy. But
what is done is done, and dwelling on the matter will help no one. How are your students settling in? Going from a small hostel
to a large College must be difficult for them.’

‘They will be all right. I am sorry to say it, but it is easier without Wenden. He had a cruel tongue, and would have made
them feel unwelcome.’

‘I would have ousted him years ago, had I known he was going to renege on our agreement and omit Clare from his will. The
money you raised by selling Borden arrived just in time, or we would have been reduced to eating the kind of low-quality fare
endured by Michaelhouse.’

‘It serves them right,’ said Spaldynge bitterly. ‘They train physicians, so I hope they starve.’

‘Speaking of physicians, Arderne’s miraculous healing of Motelete means we have attracted attention – and attention is something
we do not want at the moment, given … well, you know.’

In the bushes below the window, Bartholomew grimaced, wishing Kardington would be more explicit. Then he happened to glance
across the yard and saw a figure slinking stealthily towards him. He could tell, from the shape of
the hood on the cloak, that it was the same person who had been lurking about earlier. So, he thought, it had not been an
errant student after all. He watched the man edge closer, and began to feel uncomfortable. Kardington’s lamp and the full
moon were throwing a fair amount of light into the garden, and he was not as invisible as he would have liked. Could the hooded
intruder see him, and was coming to flush him out?

But the figure was moving furtively, and would surely have shouted for help if he intended to expose an invader. With a sudden
flash of understanding, Bartholomew realised that the fellow’s intention was to hide among the shrubs and eavesdrop on Kardington,
too. There was certainly not enough room for both of them, and the physician saw he was going to be caught. For a moment,
he could do nothing but watch in alarm as the man advanced across the yard. Then a plan snapped into his mind. He cupped his
hands and blew into the hollow between them, making a noise that roughly approximated the hoot of an owl. The shadow stopped
dead in its tracks.

‘That was very close,’ said Kardington, puzzled. Bartholomew heard footsteps tap across wooden floorboards as the Master came
to look out of the window.

‘It was not like any owl I have ever heard.’ Spaldynge’s voice suddenly became shrill as his finger stabbed the air above
Bartholomew’s head. ‘Someone is there! We are being burgled again!’

‘Ring the bell!’ shouted Kardington. ‘Hey, you! Stop where you are!’

The hooded figure turned abruptly, and broke into a run. He headed straight for the crumbling wall, moving even faster when
Spaldynge’s hollers began to wake others. Two night-porters appeared at the far end of the College and started to give chase.
Bartholomew grimaced. He had
intended to drive the other man off, not initiate a hunt. What should he do? Try to lay hands on the intruder, on the grounds
that the fellow’s business in Clare was clearly far from innocent? But then how would he explain his own presence? And what
if
he
was captured and the hooded man escaped? Kardington would assume, not unreasonably, that it had been the physician he had
seen tiptoeing towards his quarters.

Clamours and alarums in the middle of the night were not uncommon in Cambridge, and students had learned to respond quickly.
They began to pour from their chambers, and some had had the presence of mind to bring pitch torches. Staying hidden was no
longer an option, so Bartholomew abandoned the bushes and tore across the yard, also aiming for the crumbling section of wall.
He almost lost his footing when Cynric suddenly appeared from behind a tree, and indicated they were to run in the opposite
direction.

‘I told you to keep watch,’ hissed the book-bearer. ‘Why did you let Kardington see you?’

‘He did not see
me
,’ objected Bartholomew, racing after him. ‘He saw that hooded man.’

Cynric glanced around. ‘But unfortunately,
he
has escaped, and everyone is in hot pursuit of
us
. You should have stayed where you were, then walked away when the coast was clear.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, risking a quick look behind and seeing at least a dozen yelling scholars on their heels.
‘Now we are in trouble! Shall we try to explain?’

‘I do not think so! They are not in the mood for listening.’

Bartholomew was unfamiliar with Clare’s grounds, and his progress through them was slower than that of the
more fleet-footed students. They began to gain. He tried to run harder, heart pounding, chest heaving and leg muscles burning
from the effort. Cynric was right: they were angry, and were going to vent their rage with fists and boots. He concentrated
on running, aware that the ground was sloping downwards. They were at the back of the College, where a wall separated it from
the river and the towpath.

Unerringly, Cynric aimed for a specific point, and was over in a trice. He straddled the top of the rampart, and leaned down
to take Bartholomew’s hand, hauling him upwards with surprising strength for so small a man. But Spaldynge had arrived, and
he laid hold of the physician’s leg. Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide back down again. He kicked out, and heard Spaldynge
curse as he lost his grip. He clambered inelegantly over the wall, landing awkwardly on the other side. Cynric darted towards
the nearest boat, and cut through the mooring rope with his dagger.

Bartholomew did not like the notion of adding theft to the charge of trespass. ‘Isnard,’ he gasped. ‘We will take refuge—’

‘Isnard has taken against you for severing his leg – Arderne said it was unnecessary, and Isnard believes him. He will give
you up.
Hurry
!’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew jumped into the skiff and Cynric began to row. The Clare scholars milled about helplessly, shrieking
their frustration and rage as they arrived to see the little craft bobbing away from them. Fortunately, it did not occur to
them to steal a boat and follow, and no one was stupid enough to risk swimming, not when the river was swollen with recent
rains. Cynric powered towards the opposite bank and jumped out. Before disappearing into the marshy meadows that lay to the
west of the town,
he turned and gave the enraged scholars an impertinent wave.

‘That jaunty little salute was unkind,’ Bartholomew remarked critically, when they were safely hidden among the bulrushes
and reeds. ‘Was gloating really necessary?’

Cynric was laughing softly; he had thoroughly enjoyed the escapade. ‘Yes, because it was not something either of us would
have done.’ He saw his master’s look of total incomprehension. ‘Now, if anyone accuses us of being the culprits, we can point
out that we are not the gloating types.’

‘Did you see that hooded figure?’ Bartholomew asked, not entirely sure the book-bearer’s tactic would work. How could they
claim they were not the ‘gloating types’ without admitting guilty knowledge of the gesture in the first place? ‘Did you recognise
him at all?’

Cynric nodded. ‘Oh, yes. It was Honynge – our new Fellow.’

The following day was wet, and the dreary weather matched Bartholomew’s bleak mood. He had experienced an acute sense of loss
that morning when he had glanced at the spot in the chancel where Kenyngham normally stood, and the sombre faces of his colleagues
suggested he was not alone in grieving for the old man. Further, he was still in an agony of worry over Falmeresham, and the
incident with Motelete had knocked his confidence more than he liked to admit. It was not that he objected to being proven
wrong, but he was appalled that he should have been quite so badly mistaken. Two patients summoned him for consultations that
morning, and he was so wary of making another misdiagnosis that even Deynman had commented on his excessive caution.

‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Michael sternly, when the physician eventually returned to Michaelhouse.
‘What were you thinking of, marauding through Clare’s cabbages last night?’

Bartholomew had more pressing matters on his mind. ‘William has offered to preside over the disputations today, because he
knows I want to look for Falmeresham. But Langelee and Wynewyk are out, and I am loath to leave him in sole charge.’

His concern intensified when the friar announced the topic of the day would be Blood Relics, specifically that Bajulus of
Barcelona’s arguments were so good that no evil Dominican would ever be able to refute them. His agitation increased further
still when Deynman offered to help.

‘Christ!’ he muttered in dismay. ‘There will be a riot
here
, never mind the town.’

‘There is no call for blasphemy,’ said Michael sharply. ‘You are not on the battlefield now. Look, there is Carton. Perhaps
he will supervise the proceedings.’

‘I am afraid I have a prior commitment,’ said Carton, overhearing. ‘I heard you come home very late last night, Doctor Bartholomew.
Were you with a patient or looking for Falmeresham?’

‘Both,’ said Michael quickly. He did not want anyone to know what the physician had really been doing, lest it led to trouble
with Clare.

‘But you learned nothing,’ surmised Carton, seeing the defeated expression on the physician’s face. ‘And I do not know where
else to look – I have visited every College and hostel in Cambridge, but no one has seen anything. Perhaps it is time to give
up.’

Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘Falmeresham knows how to look after himself. If his wound was not too serious, then
he might have been able to—’

‘But it
was
serious,’ said Carton tearfully. ‘We all saw the blade slide into his innards.’

‘We are doing all we can to find him,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘My beadles hunted for him all last night, and they will not
stop the search until I say so – which will not be as long as there is even a remote chance that he might still be alive.’

‘They are more experienced in such matters than me,’ said the Franciscan, with a dejected sigh. ‘So, I shall go to the church,
and pray to St Michael instead. Perhaps he will spare one of his angels to watch over Falmeresham.’

‘Carton is an odd fellow,’ said Michael, watching the commoner walk away. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether he has a reason
for constantly letting us know the depth of his concern – lest evidence ever comes to light that says Falmeresham was actually
killed by a friend, not an enemy.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

Michael grimaced ruefully. ‘Yes, it is, so ignore me. I am overly tired, and cannot think straight. However, I have a feeling
we may never find out what happened to Falmeresham – we may spend the rest of our lives pondering his fate.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. He knew the chances of finding the student alive were decreasing as time went by, but he refused
to give up hope. ‘He will come home.’

‘Is that what led you to invade Clare last night – a dogged belief that he might still be awaiting rescue? Did you know Spaldynge
claims to have recognised you?’

‘Does he?’ Bartholomew supposed it was not surprising; the man had been close enough to grab his leg, and the moon had been
very bright.

‘Fortunately for you, Kardington maintains that such a notion is ludicrous – that the University’s senior physician would
never stoop to such behaviour. Meanwhile, the Clare students think Spaldynge is picking on you because you
are a
medicus
. They have dismissed his testimony, and are so certain of your innocence that Spaldynge’s own convictions have begun to waver.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Bartholomew in relief.

‘Of course, it will be difficult to explain why your hands are grazed,’ Michael went on. ‘We shall have to say you fell over
in our yard. It is certainly slick enough today, with all this rain.’

‘Kardington did not sound as angry with Spaldynge as he should have been,’ said Bartholomew, attempting to change the subject
and discuss what he had overheard instead. In the cold light of day, the previous night’s adventure had been hopelessly misguided,
and he did not blame Michael for being angry with him. ‘Over selling Borden Hostel, I mean. I wonder why.’

‘Because Kardington is a good and forgiving man,’ replied Michael. ‘He has advised his students to forget about the “burglary”
last night – he believes the culprit was just someone who wanted to glimpse the miraculous Motelete.’

Bartholomew began to feel vaguely ashamed of himself. ‘I see.’

Michael glared at him. ‘How
could
you think Falmeresham might be in Clare’s grounds? Kardington has already assured you that they have been thoroughly searched.’

‘But he must be somewhere, Brother, whether he is dead or alive – and Cynric had a point when he said the Clare students might
have been distracted when they performed the original hunt.’