To Kill or Cure (24 page)

Michael considered his points. ‘All right, I agree that he would not have eaten anything, but what about water? He may have
been thirsty or faint. The poison was fed to him, then he walked home, where it gnawed away at his innards while we all enjoyed
our Easter dinner.’

‘He was
happy
, Brother. He may have been tired, but I do not think he was in pain.’

‘He was happy because he knew he was going to die. He was a religious man, and not afraid. Indeed, he probably welcomed death
as his first step towards Paradise, which is why he said nothing to the physician at his side.’

‘That would have been tantamount to suicide, and thus a sin. He would not have risked his immortal soul in such a way. He
did say some odd things before he died, though. He told me to stand firm against false prophets, which he called shooting
stars, and he said you were to be wary of timely men with long teeth – crocodiles.’

‘Crocodiles,’ mused Michael. ‘What was he talking about? Who has long teeth?’

‘I imagine it was a metaphor.’

Michael scratched his chin, nails rasping against the bristles. ‘He was right about the false prophet – it is Arderne, making
fraudulent claims. It is apt to call him a shooting star, because that is what he is: a passing phenomenon whose fame will
fade the moment people see through him.’

‘We are moving away from the point. I do not believe what this letter claims, because Kenyngham would not have swallowed anything
during his vigil, not even water. And
after that, he was with us, and we all ate and drank the same things. I stand by my initial diagnosis – that he died because
he was old and it was his time.’

‘Well, I
do
believe it now,’ said Michael, equally firm. ‘And I should not have let myself be persuaded otherwise. He told me he was
taking an antidote, and I shall never forgive myself for not pressing him on the matter. I might have been able to save him.
However, while I might have failed him in life, I shall not fail him in death. I
will
unmask the villain that deprived Cambridge of its best inhabitant, even if it is the last thing I do. If I apply for an exhumation order from the Bishop’s palace in Ely, will you inspect the body for me?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have examined it twice already, and there was nothing to see. Please do not do this Michael.
Investigate, if you must, but do not drag him from his final resting place. He would not approve of that at all.’

‘He will approve if he was murdered. I shall write the letter today. Will you look at him or not?’

‘I will not. Ask Rougham – he acted as your Corpse Examiner when I was away last year, so he will be used to such requests.
And if he has been abandoned by as many patients as he claims, he may be glad of the money.’

The rain blew over during the night, and although the streets were full of puddles, the early morning sky was clear with the
promise of sunshine to come. Shivering and complaining bitterly about the sheet of ankle-deep mud that comprised Michaelhouse’s
yard, the scholars lined up to process to the church for their dawn offices. Langelee was in front, his four Fellows were
behind him, and the students and commoners brought up the rear.

When they arrived at St Michael’s, a blackbird was trilling
in one of the graveyard trees and a group of sparrows twittere d near the porch; their shrill chatter echoed through the ancient
stones. The church smelled damp, because there was a leak somewhere, and Bartholomew noticed that the floor needed sweeping.
It was a task Kenyngham often undertook, because it allowed him to spend more time in his beloved church, and the physician
wondered who would do it now. He did not have to think about the matter long, because Carton grabbed a broom while William
and Michael were laying out the altar, and began to push old leaves and small pieces of dried mud into the corner Kenyngham
had always used.

It was William’s turn to perform the mass and, as usual, he charged through the ceremonies at a furious lick, as if his very
life depended on being done as soon as possible. It meant they were out in record time, and as Langelee had agreed to preside
over the disputations and he had a free morning, Bartholomew decided to visit some of his patients – and look for Falmeresham
at the same time. Despite everyone’s gloomy predictions, he still refused to believe his student was dead.

‘You will miss breakfast,’ warned Michael, seeing him start to slip away.

‘I am not hungry.’ Bartholomew had spent another restless night with his mind full of questions. He was anxious for Falmeresham,
distressed about the fact that Michael was intent on investigating a murder he was sure had not occurred, and concerned about
the mischief Arderne was causing.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Michael, not imagining there could be another reason for passing up a meal. He frowned. ‘
You
have not eaten anything offered by shooting stars or crocodiles, have you?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘We will come with you,’ offered Deynman. ‘Me and Carton. You should not be out alone, not with the town so angry about the
number of people killed by the town’s inept physicians.’

‘He means there is safety in numbers,’ elaborated Carton. The commoner–friar had changed since Falmeresham’s disappearance.
He had never been an extrovert, but the loss of his friend had rendered him sullen, irritable and withdrawn, and the students
were beginning to make excuses to avoid his company. Bartholomew wondered whether the Franciscan’s surliness derived from
the fact that he no longer expected Falmeresham to come home alive. His own efforts to search for his friend had certainly
tailed off, and he had not been out to look for him since Sunday.

Deynman gave one of his inane grins. ‘
I
do not believe the lies Arderne is spreading about you, sir, and I told Isnard he was an ass for listening to such rubbish.
Then I asked to see his leg, to assess whether it really was growing back again, as Arderne promised it would.’

‘And was it?’ asked Carton, without much interest.

‘Maybe a bit,’ replied Deynman. ‘It was difficult to tell. Did you hear Paxtone has taken to his bed? He is still digesting
the flock of pigeons he scoffed a few nights ago, and Rougham suggested he remain horizontal, to allow the birds to pass more
easily through his bowels.’

Tired and dispirited, Bartholomew escaped from his colleagues, although he was obliged to enlist Cynric’s help in ridding
himself of Deynman. He walked to the Small Bridges in the south of the town, where a glover called John Hanchach lived. Hanchach
suffered from a congestion in the chest, which Bartholomew had been treating with a syrup of colt’s-foot and lungwort; the
physician had been heartened recently, because
Hanchach had turned a corner and started along the road to recovery.

Hanchach’s house – a pink-washed cottage with a neatly thatched roof – overlooked an odorous stretch of water known as the
Mill Pond, and Bartholomew was sure its dank miasma was at least partly responsible for the glover’s respiratory problems.
He walked along the towpath, enjoying the early morning sun and the scent of damp earth, and tapped on Hanchach’s door.

Hanchach was sitting next to a fire, watching something bubble in a pot. A delicious scent of honeyed oatmeal filled the room.
It was the first time the glover had left his bed in a week, but it was what Bartholomew had expected, given the good progress
of the previous two or three days.

‘I do not need you any more,’ said Hanchach, somewhat sheepishly. ‘I am better.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘You are doing well, but do not stop taking the tonic yet. You need to clear your lungs completely, and
I have brought you—’

‘Magister Arderne is my healer now,’ interrupted Hanchach. He stared at the flames and would not meet Bartholomew’s eyes.
‘He touched me with his feather yesterday and gave me a potion, which is why I am up today. Your remedy was taking ages to
work, but he cured me overnight.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, supposing Arderne knew a patient on the mend when he saw one, and had pounced on the opportunity
it had presented. ‘How did he know you were ill?’

‘Isnard,’ replied Hanchach, acutely uncomfortable. ‘We are neighbours, and he told me how you made a mistake with his leg.
He recommended that I employ Arderne in your place, but Arderne said he would only treat me if I broke off all contact with
you. He said you
would try to foist more false remedies on me, but they might react dangerously with the real cure he has provided.’

‘Is it because of Deynman?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how the student had almost killed Hanchach when he had misinterpreted
some basic instructions and given him too much medicine.

Hanchach grimaced. ‘That
was
a factor, although only a minor one. Mostly, it was Arderne himself. He has such compelling eyes, and you find yourself believing
what he says, even when you do not want to.’

Bartholomew recalled others telling him the same thing. ‘Your condition may worsen again if you do not continue to take the
syrup,’ he warned, unwilling to see a patient suffer needlessly.

‘Arderne told me you would say that.’ Hanchach shot him a wry grin. ‘He is very expensive – I paid him five times what I pay
you – but you can see his treatment is more effective.’

‘You were getting better anyway,’ objected Bartholomew. But he could see that any attempt to argue would look like sour grapes
on his part, and he did not want trouble. ‘May I see this potion?’

Hanchach pointed to a phial on the table. Bartholomew removed the stopper, then recoiled in revulsion. ‘I hope you do not
intend to drink this. It contains urine.’

‘Arderne says a famous Greek practitioner called Galen recommends urine very highly.’

‘I have never read that,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And I know most of Galen’s writings.’

‘Galen did not
write
it,’ said Hanchach, as if it were obvious. ‘He
told
Arderne this special recipe. You see, Galen asked Arderne to help him on a particularly difficult case, and when Arderne
healed the patient, Galen
told him several secret cures, as an expression of his gratitude.’

‘But Galen has been dead for hundreds of years, and—’

‘It must have been another Galen, then. I took the first draught of that tonic last night, and I shall have another this morning.
Arderne says I will be walking around the town this time tomorrow, and back at work the day after that.’

‘If you rush your recovery, you will relapse. I know you trust Arderne, but let your body tell you what to do. Start by sitting
outside for an hour, and do not try walking until you are strong enough. If you need me, send to Michaelhouse and I will come.’

‘I know you will, but I cannot afford to lose body parts to over-ready knives, like Isnard did. Good day to you, Bartholomew
– and please do not tell Arderne you came. I would not like him to withdraw his assistance.’

Bartholomew left dismayed and angry. How could Arderne possibly hope to fulfil all the promises he was making? And what would
be the cost of his reckless boasts? No matter what Arderne claimed, it was
not
a good idea to feed urine to a man who had been so gravely ill – or to anyone for that matter – and Bartholomew liked the
glover, and wanted to see him well again. Should he go back and try to reason with him? But he knew there was no point: Arderne
had fixed Hanchach with his ‘compelling eyes’ and that was that. Preoccupied and unhappy, Bartholomew began to retrace his
steps to Michaelhouse. He was so absorbed that he did not see Isnard until the bargeman attracted his attention with a large
clod of earth.

‘I want a word with you,’ said Isnard coldly, while the physician shook the soil from his hair.

Isnard was brandishing one of his crutches, and
Bartholomew hoped he would not swing it with sufficient vigour that he would lose his balance and fall. Isnard was always
toppling over, mostly because of his fondness for ale, but he heartily resented being helped up, and onlookers were never
sure what to do when he lay floundering. He was drunk that morning, and looked as if he had been imbibing all night.

‘You saw the state of your leg that day,’ said Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well what the ‘word’ was about. ‘It was mangled
beyond recognition. The bones would never have knitted – and you would have been dead of fever long before that happened anyway.’

‘You are wrong,’ slurred Isnard. ‘Arderne said so. You maimed me, so you could collect a fee.’

‘I never charged you, as you know perfectly well. And Kenyngham and the other Michaelhouse Fellows paid for your medicines.’

Isnard’s ale-reddened face softened for a moment. ‘Dear Kenyngham. However, I imagine he bought me the remedies because he
knew what you had done, and he wanted to make amends.’

‘You can think what you like about me,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘But do not malign him. He would never have looked the other
way if he thought I had done something wrong.’

‘You destroyed my life!’ shouted Isnard, ignoring his point. ‘I have given Arderne five marks already, but he said you did
such a terrible job with the amputation that he will probably be unable to cure me. It is not
his
fault – he is doing his best. It is
yours
.’

With sudden fury, he lobbed the crutch at Bartholomew. The physician ducked, and it plopped into the river, where it was caught
in the current and began to bob away.

‘Now look what you have done,’ howled Isnard. ‘You made me lose my stick.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘Let me help you inside before you hurt yourself.’

‘Stay away from me,’ shrieked Isnard. ‘And if you cross my path again, I shall kill you.’

Isnard was not the only one who expressed his disapproval of the physician that morning. As Bartholomew walked from the Mill
Pond to Michaelhouse, two rivermen cast unpleasant looks in his direction. He heard one tell the other that it was common
practise among University physicians to hone their skills on hapless townsmen, so they would know what they were doing when
a scholar needed treatment. Then he added that the operation to remove Isnard’s leg had been performed by Deynman, which Bartholomew
might have found amusing, had he not been so appalled by the way the town was turning so fast against him.