To Kill or Cure (21 page)

‘You mean Constantine Mortimer?’ asked Rougham. ‘The one who fell from his horse and cracked his skull so badly that he never
awoke?’

Paxtone nodded. ‘Arderne claims he could have been woken by inserting a hot iron in his anus.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘We followed a course of treatment that was humane. Of course we could have induced a reaction by causing
him pain, but that is a long way from making him better.’

Rougham glowered. ‘Arderne is a menace. Today, Mayor Harleston informed me that he no longer requires my services, which makes
the fifth wealthy patient to abandon me this week alone.’

‘I lost Chancellor Tynkell this morning,’ added Paxtone, ‘and he is a very lucrative source of income, because of
his appalling hygiene. We should form a united front to combat this wretched leech and his slanderous accusations.’

‘That is what Robin said,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I do not want to be associated with Robin,’ said Rougham in distaste. ‘However, he is a medical man – after a fashion – and
he
has
been ruined by Arderne, so I feel a certain empathy with him.’

‘We may be losing patients, but your situation is far more perilous, Matthew,’ said Paxtone. ‘Arderne told Isnard his leg
need not have been amputated, and Isnard believes it. Isnard is popular in Cambridge, and people are angry with you. I fear
their resentment may erupt into violence.’

‘I agree,’ said Rougham. ‘Perhaps you should confine yourself to Michaelhouse until all this blows over. And blow over it
will, because Arderne cannot possibly keep all the promises he has made, and it is only a matter of time before he is exposed.’

‘I cannot stay in!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘What about my patients?’

‘You still have some?’ asked Paxtone bleakly. He turned suddenly. ‘I thought I could sense malevolence behind me – and there
he is! Arderne himself. Look at him, strutting around the town as if he owns it.’

‘He is beginning to,’ said Rougham bitterly. ‘That is the problem.’

‘Cambridge’s infamous physicians,’ said Arderne amiably, when he spotted the three medical men standing with Michael. ‘How
is business, gentlemen? If you are doing as well as I am, you must be very pleased with yourselves.’

‘Pleased enough,’ replied Rougham, unwilling to let the man know the extent of the damage he was causing. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because Sir Robert Ufford – your
former
patient – wants
me
to cure his swollen veins,’ said Arderne smugly. His eyes
held a hard gleam of spite. ‘I shall eradicate his ailment with my feather and a decoction of grease.’

‘What manner of decoction?’ asked Bartholomew, while Rougham’s jaw dropped.

‘I never share professional secrets,’ replied Arderne. ‘Besides, only
I
can attempt these treatments – you do not have the necessary skills.’

‘Try him,’ challenged Michael. ‘He has been to Montpellier, where they study anatomy and surgery. You may find he is better
at these exotic techniques than you.’

‘I do not compete with men who try to bury their patients alive,’ said Arderne contemptuously. ‘It is fortunate
I
was on hand to effect one of my miraculous cures, or Motelete would have suffered the most dreadful fate imaginable.’

‘Very fortunate,’ muttered Paxtone venomously.

‘It is not just Rougham’s patients who are flocking to me, either,’ said Arderne, rounding on the portly physician. ‘Master
Powys – Warden of your own College – asked me for a remedy today.’

Paxtone gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you.’

Arderne shrugged, and fixed Paxtone with his pale eyes; Paxtone gazed back mutely, as though it was beyond his strength to
break the stare. ‘Who cares what you believe? In a few weeks, I shall have all your wealthy customers, and you will be left
with the ones who cannot pay.’

‘I refuse to sit still while that fellow damages my reputation – perhaps permanently,’ snarled Rougham, when the healer had
gone. ‘We
must
act.’

‘And do what?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Paxtone, whose expression was rather blank. ‘Launch into a slandering match,
which will show us to be as petty and despicable as him?’

‘It would be demeaning,’ blurted Paxtone when
Bartholomew poked him with his finger. He shook himself and took a deep breath.

‘I was thinking of employing more devious tactics,’ said Rougham. ‘How about tampering with his feather – putting some substance
on it that will make his patients ill?’

‘We cannot do that!’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘It would break all the oaths we have sworn.’

‘It is a case of expediency,’ argued Rougham. ‘Would you rather have a couple of folk with rashes, or some real deaths, when
needy patients go to him for a cure and he fails them?’

Michael knocked on Maud Bowyer’s door while Bartholomew faced the road. The physician had noticed several people glaring,
and someone had thrown a stone. It had missed, but he was afraid to turn his back on the street lest the culprit try it again.
He had assumed people were angry with Michael over the rents, and had been shocked to learn that some of the sour glances
had, in fact, been directed at him. He was not sure what he could do about it – he had explained countless times to Isnard
that the removal of his leg had been unavoidable, but the bargeman had never really come to terms with the loss. Arderne had
homed in on Isnard’s vulnerability like a fly to dead meat, and had known exactly how to exploit it to his own advantage.
But how could Bartholomew tell Isnard that? Or the men and women who sympathised with him?

Michael’s rap was answered by a thickset man who wore a sword. He conducted them to a pleasant solar on the ground floor,
explaining as he went that he had been hired to make sure Candelby did not try to force his way inside the house.

‘Mistress Bowyer has washed her hands of him,’ he said. ‘He only wanted her for her money, poor soul. Wait here while I fetch
her housekeeper, Isabel St Ives. She will tell you whether the mistress is well enough to receive well-wishers.’

Michael looked around appreciatively when the guard had gone. ‘Fine rugs on the floor, gold goblets on the
windowsills – Maud is wealthier than I thought. She is probably right to be suspicious of Candelby: I imagine he
was
courting her for her riches.’

‘She owns houses, too,’ said Bartholomew, remembering something his sister had told him. ‘Perhaps those are what attracted
him.’

It was not long before a pretty woman in her thirties came to greet them. Isabel St Ives wore a white goffered veil over her
hair, and her blue surcoat – an ankle-length dress – was slightly baggy, suggesting it had been handed down from someone larger.
Bartholomew recalled something else his sister had said – that Isabel had started to work for Maud after the plague, when
both had lost husbands to the disease. He had seen her before, because it had been Isabel who had tried to comfort her mistress
at the scene of the accident in Milne Street.

‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Isabel politely. ‘I am afraid my mistress is still too unwell to receive guests, but thank you
for coming to enquire after her health again.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Michael, with a gracious bow. ‘However, there is another purpose to my visit. I would like to ask
her about the accident. As Senior Proctor, I am obliged to make a report to the Chancellor, but it is proving difficult to
trace reliable witnesses.’

‘Unfortunately, it is a blur in her mind, and her fever is making it worse.
I
saw some of what happened, though – I was nearby at the time. I will answer questions, if you think it might help.’

‘I need to understand exactly what happened to Lynton,’ said Michael carefully. ‘I would like to know who killed Ocleye, too.
The other death – Motelete’s – transpired to be no death at all.’

‘So I heard,’ said Isabel. ‘A true miracle. However, the accident was odd, and I am not surprised you are having
trouble establishing a clear order of events from eye witness accounts.’

‘How was it odd?’ asked Bartholomew. He had taken a liking to Isabel’s pretty face and pleasant manner. Unlike many University
men, he had not taken major orders, and so women were not forbidden to him. He was still not supposed to fraternise with them,
but there were ways around that particular prohibition, and he was not averse to female company, like some of his colleagues.
He had even come close to marrying once, and still loved Matilde, despite the passing of time. He supposed he always would,
and wondered whether she would ever return to Cambridge – and whether she would consent to be his wife if she did. Although
common sense told him Matilde was gone forever, part of him refused to believe he would never see her again, and he had not
given up hope that one day she would reappear and tell him that she loved him, too.

‘It was odd because there was no reason for Lynton to have ridden his horse at Candelby,’ Isabel was saying. Bartholomew’s
attention snapped back to the present. ‘As far as I could tell, he suddenly slumped in his saddle, and the horse cavorted
sideways, as though something startled it.’

‘Did you notice anything else?’ asked Michael.

‘Only that a crowd gathered very quickly, and folk stood according to affiliation – either with townsmen or with students.
Usually, they are mixed together, but that was not the case on Sunday.’

‘Because they were anticipating trouble,’ surmised Michael grimly. ‘Were any of these townsmen armed – armed with
real
weapons, I mean, like swords or crossbows?’

‘I did not see any. However, it would not surprise me to learn that Candelby did something to Lynton’s mare – that Lynton
is innocent of all blame for the accident.’

‘Why would Candelby do that?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because Lynton owned a lot of houses, and was doing with them what Candelby yearns to do – rent them to those who can afford
higher prices. It may have been simple jealousy.’

‘Matt tells me Lynton was Maud’s physician,’ said the monk. ‘We all know Lynton preferred wealthy patients to poor ones, and
your mistress must be one of the richest women in the town.’

‘She is. And Lynton’s consultations may be another reason Candelby wished him harm.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘She probably consulted butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers, too, but that should not
induce a suitor to drive carts at them.’

‘Lynton was a conscientious, thorough man, and his sessions with my mistress were often lengthy. Perhaps Candelby objected
to the amount of time another man spent in her presence.’

‘Then Candelby’s jealousy addled his wits,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Lynton would never have done anything untoward with
a patient. He was too old for a start.’

‘Quite,’ said Isabel. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’

‘Did you see Arderne mend Candelby’s arm?’ asked Michael.

Isabel nodded. ‘I rushed to my mistress’s side when I saw she was hurt; Candelby was clutching his wrist. Then Magister Arderne
arrived and said Candelby’s bones needed to be set immediately. He waved a feather over him, and he was healed instantly.
It was a miracle.’

‘It was?’ asked Bartholomew. He found he was disappointed in her, because she had seemed too sensible to be deceived by
cheap tricks.

She was surprised by the scepticism in his voice. ‘Of
course. Magister Arderne is a remarkable man, quite capable of marvellous deeds. However, I wish he had applied his talents
to my mistress instead. She has not been well since the accident, and I am very worried about her.’

‘You do not seem to like Candelby,’ said Michael. ‘And Maud has forbidden him to visit. Why?’

‘I tolerated him when I thought he made her happy, but the accident opened her eyes to his true character, so I can say what
I like about him now. We were both shocked and disgusted by the way he gloated over Lynton’s death.’

‘What is wrong with your mistress?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I noticed a splinter in her shoulder. Did Arderne remove it?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, but it was basic surgery, and he did not apply his magic, which is why she is not recovering. I do not mean
to offend you, Doctor Bartholomew, but medicine is not very effective unless it is also accompanied by spells and incantations.
I learned that during the plague, when physicians failed to save my family.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

‘Will you see her?’ Isabel asked impulsively. ‘Despite my beliefs, you were a friend of Lynton’s, and my mistress may be pleased
to see you. I would give anything to see her smile again.’

Isabel led Bartholomew and Michael upstairs to a pleasant chamber lit by a fire; the shutters were closed, lending the room
a warm, cosy feel. However, even the herbs set in bowls on the windowsills could not disguise the stink of sickness and corruption,
and Bartholomew went to the bed with a heavy heart, already knowing what he would find.

The splinter had been driven deep into Maud’s shoulder,
but it had been carelessly removed, leaving slivers behind. The wood had been tainted with filth from the street, so the wound
was badly infected. Had the injury been on an arm or a leg, Bartholomew would have recommended its removal, before bad humours
could permeate the rest of the body, but he could not amputate a shoulder, and Maud was going to die.

‘I cannot cure her,’ he whispered to Isabel. ‘I am sorry.’

Isabel’s expressive face registered her distress, but she smiled at him anyway. ‘I know you would have done, if you could.
It is not your fault you cannot help her now, just as it was not your fault when you could not help her last year.’

‘Maud’s eyes,’ explained Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Lynton asked for a second opinion, because her sight was clouding and he
did not know how to stop it from getting worse. And, I am sorry to say, neither did I.’

‘I will summon Magister Arderne again,’ said Isabel, speaking softly so as not to disturb the patient. ‘If I give him six
gold goblets, he may agree to work one of his miracles.’