To Kill or Cure (25 page)

He did not feel safe by the river, so he abandoned the towpath and cut up one of the narrow alleys to Milne Street. When a
woman called Yolande de Blaston wished him good morning, he regarded her suspiciously, and looked around to see if she had
been charged to waylay him, so he could be pelted with mud – or worse.

‘Do not worry about bad-tempered apprentices, Doctor,’ said Yolande. She was a part-prostitute and part-laundress, and knew
virtually every man in the town for one reason or another. ‘If they give you any trouble, you come and tell me, and I will
sort them out for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew weakly.

‘I said the same to that Motelete – the student Arderne raised from the dead. The pot-boys from the Angel had him cornered,
and were going to kill him in revenge for
Ocleye. I sent them off with a flea in their ear, although Motelete is a lad who knows how to look after himself, and I suspect
he would have been able to fend for himself. Still, he thanked me prettily enough.’

‘Motelete?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he would fare very well against pot-boys.’

‘He had bloodied a couple of noses,’ countered Yolande. ‘It surprised me, too, because he is a gentle youth. Would you like
me to stop Arderne spreading lies about you? I was going to do it yesterday, but Doctor Rougham said I should ask you first
– he said if I knock out Arderne’s teeth in your name, the fellow might make trouble for you. Did I tell you I am expecting
again, by the way? Number twelve – you missed number eleven, because you were in France.’

Bartholomew was suitably impressed, and recalled that most of her offspring bore uncanny likenesses to prominent townsmen
and scholars. Her husband did not object to the way she earned extra pennies to support their growing brood, and there were
few households in Cambridge that were as content and happy as the Blastons. He persuaded her that punching healers was not
a good idea for pregnant ladies, although it was not easy, because she had taken an intense dislike to Arderne. He took his
leave of her, and had not gone more than a few steps before he met his sister.

‘Have you had news about Falmeresham?’ she asked, worried to see him looking so preoccupied and careworn.

He shook his head. ‘But people do not just disappear. He must be somewhere.’

‘They fall in the river though, and are swept away, never to be seen again. I appreciate that is not what you want to hear,
but it is true.’

‘I know,’ he said shortly, refusing to think about it.

‘Agatha threw a loaf of bread at Arderne yesterday – in
the Market Square – because he was braying that your amputation of Isnard’s leg was unnecessary. It was a loaf she had baked
herself, so he is lucky to be alive.’

Uncharitably, Bartholomew wished she had lobbed it a little harder. ‘I cannot imagine what I have done to offend him.’

‘He rails against Rougham and Paxtone, too,
and
he was rude about Lynton when he was alive. Lynton was so angry that he challenged him to a trial by combat.’

Bartholomew started to laugh. ‘Lynton? I doubt he knew one end of a sword from another.’

‘Well, you are wrong – he was quite accomplished. He was training to be a knight when he realised he had an aptitude for scholarship
and decided to become a physician instead. I do not think he honed his skills very often, but he certainly knew how to wield
a weapon. Surely you must have noticed the confident way he rode his horse, and how he never went out without a proper dagger?’

‘He was a good horseman,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He had never given his colleague’s penchant for knives much thought, assuming
them to be decorative rather than functional. He considered the new information carefully, and decided it added weight to
his contention that Arderne had killed Lynton – Lynton had been shot because he had not submitted passively to Arderne’s torrent
of abuse, and had tried to do something to stop it.

‘Arderne accepted Lynton’s challenge eagerly,’ Edith went on. ‘And why not? What danger could an elderly scholar pose? Then
he found out that Lynton knew how to fight, and he began to make excuses – delaying the time they were due to meet, finding
fault with the locations Lynton suggested, and so on. And now – conveniently for Arderne – Lynton is dead. Rumour is that
the horse killed him, but he was too skilled a rider to have simply fallen off.’

‘What are you saying? That you think Arderne killed Lynton?’

‘It crossed my mind, although it is difficult to see how.’

Bartholomew did not enlighten her; she was safer not knowing. ‘I have not heard about this duel before, and neither has Michael.’

‘Then you are obviously talking to the wrong people. You should ask your questions of townsfolk, not University men. You will
have a lot more honest answers.’

‘I might have a dagger in my back, too. Scholars are not popular with laymen at the moment.’

‘It would all blow over if the landlords were allowed to raise the rents. You must admit that the situation is unfair: once
a band of students is in a house, they are free to stay as long as they like – for a pittance. Come to Trumpington for a few
days, Matt. Term is not due to start for another week, and Langelee will not begrudge you a respite with your family.’

‘You want me tucked away until people stop being angry about Isnard’s leg?’

She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes – and you must see that I am right. Look at those baker’s apprentices. They are glowering at you,
and if I were not here, they would attack.’

Bartholomew glanced to where she pointed, and conceded that the gang of youths was regarding him in an openly hostile manner.
As he watched, one stooped and picked something up from the ground. His arm went back, and something started to fly through
the air. Bartholomew tried to interpose himself between the missile and Edith, but he was too slow. The stone hit her head
with a thump and she crumpled to the ground.

For a moment, the apprentices did nothing but stare, then they took to their heels and fled, their horrified faces
showing it was not the outcome they had intended. Heart pounding, Bartholomew knelt next to his sister, relieved beyond measure
when she opened her eyes and looked at him. Being a scalp wound, there was a good deal of blood, but her thick hair and padded
head-dress had absorbed most of the impact, and she was more shocked than seriously hurt.

He gathered her up in his arms, and carried her to her husband’s Milne Street property, where Oswald Stanmore fussed and fretted
until she was compelled to order him away. Although theirs had been an arranged marriage – Stanmore had wanted a wife from
an old and respected family, and Edith’s father had been interested in the clothier’s rapidly burgeoning wealth – they were
a happy couple, and loved each other deeply. He stood in the doorway and watched Bartholomew stitch the wound, his face a
mask of stricken horror. It was some time before he was convinced that there would be no lasting damage, and only then did
he agree to let his brother-in-law leave. He followed the physician to the front door.

‘I know my apprentices stood against you in the Market Square yesterday. I have berated them for it, and it will not happen
again.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I cannot blame them. It is not an easy choice: their master’s kin or their local friends. I imagine
it is not pleasant for you either.’

Stanmore smiled ruefully. ‘That is an understatement! My fellow burgesses say I have divided loyalties, and I find myself
“accidentally omitted” from important meetings. Candelby wanted me to bribe you – to pay you for persuading Michael to yield
to him over the rents.’

‘What was he offering?’

Stanmore’s smile was grim. ‘More money than you make in a year. However, I declined on your behalf. Now all your
patients have defected to Arderne, you cannot afford to lose your Fellowship to charges of corruption.’

‘
All
my patients have not defected,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Most have remained with me, although they are wary about
admitting it. The only notable losses are Hanchach, the three crones who sell cabbages in the Market Square, and a couple
of butchers.’

‘And Isnard,’ added Stanmore. ‘He always was a bad judge of character. When he comes to his senses – as he will, in time –
you should have nothing to do with him. That will teach him a lesson he needs to learn.’

‘He threatened to kill me just now. He was drunk, but I think he meant it.’

‘God help us! Arderne’s antics are doing you serious damage, and while
I
am willing to stand at your side, I do not want Edith to do it. Will you agree to stay away from her until this is over?
We both want the same thing – her safety.’

Bartholomew nodded, knowing it was the right thing to do, but he deeply resented the necessity. For the first time, he began
to feel stirrings of genuine anger towards Arderne. He left Stanmore’s house in a growing rage, and had Arderne been out at
that precise moment, Bartholomew would have been the second Cambridge physician to challenge him to a trial by combat – his
recent experiences with King Edward’s army in France meant he was sure he could give the healer a run for his money. However,
it was not Arderne he met, but Michael. The monk took one look at the black expression on his friend’s face, and dragged him
into the nearest tavern.

The Brazen George on the High Street was Michael’s favourite inn. It was a clean, comfortable place that offered a choice
of several rooms to its patrons. This meant scholars could drink their ale without being in company with
townsfolk – and vice versa – and two rear doors meant students could escape if the Senior Proctor or his beadles happened
to enter. There was a flurry of movement towards the back that day, although Michael rarely fined anyone for drinking in the
Brazen George. It would have been rank hypocrisy, given the amount of time he spent there himself.

When Bartholomew told him what had happened, the monk’s eyes grew round with horror. ‘This is growing more deadly by the moment.
You should stay in Michaelhouse until it blows over.’

‘I shall not. I have done nothing wrong, and refuse to skulk like a frightened rabbit. Do you think Arderne will accept my
challenge? He accepted Lynton’s.’

‘And then immediately withdrew when he realised Lynton was hardier than he looked. He is not a fool, and will not make the
same mistake twice. Keep away from him. It is safer that way.’

‘Safer for whom?’

‘Him,’ said Michael wryly. ‘I have never seen you so angry. You say Edith will suffer no long-term effects, so put this into
perspective. It was you these lads were aiming for, not her.’

‘That makes me feel better.’

‘Easy, Matt. Remember that Lynton fought back against Arderne, and now he is dead.’

‘I thought you considered Candelby a more viable suspect for Lynton’s murder.’

‘I do, but that does not mean I am happy for you to take needless risks. Even if Arderne is innocent of shooting Lynton, he
is still a very dangerous man.’

‘Then that is even more reason for taking steps to neutralise him. He gave Hanchach urine to drink last night, and God only
knows what other toxic potions he is distributing in his ignorance.’ Bartholomew changed the subject
when he saw Michael look worried. The monk had enough to occupy him, without being burdened by the physician’s concerns, too.
‘Where have you been this morning?’

‘Asking questions about Lynton. It is amazing how you think you know a man, but once he is dead, you learn all manner of new
facts about him. I had no idea he owned houses, or that he was almost a knight. And I did not know that he was closer to Maud
Bowyer than we were led to believe, either. Were you aware that she was his lover?’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Are you trying to make me feel better by making bad jokes? If so, it will not work. Lynton was
scrupulous about observing the University’s rules, and reprimanded me several times when he thought I was spending too much
time with Matilde. That was two years ago, before she …’ He trailed off. It was never easy to talk about Matilde.

‘Then we shall have to add hypocrisy to the list of character traits we never knew he possessed. Isabel told me about this
dalliance – I met her on the High Street a few moments ago.’

‘She just came out with it?’ Bartholomew was sceptical, and suspected the monk had been the subject of a practical joke, albeit
one in very poor taste.

‘Hardly! It slipped out as part of a misunderstanding. You see, Agatha mentioned to me this morning that Maud and Lynton often
played games of chance together on Sunday afternoons. One of her many kinsmen works in Maud’s kitchen, and he told her—’

‘So now Lynton is a gambler and a despoiler of the Sabbath, as well as a womaniser?’

Michael raised his hand. ‘Let me finish. When we ran into each other just now, I asked Isabel exactly how much time Lynton
actually spent with Maud – you do not dice
with
your
patients, and it occurred to me that Candelby might not be her only admirer. Isabel did not realise I was asking about Sunday
afternoons, and admitted that Lynton visited Maud most nights, with the notable exception of Fridays. Fridays were apparently
reserved for some other activity.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew acidly. ‘Robbing travellers on the King’s highways? Running a brothel in The Jewry? Chanting spells
to summon the Devil?’

‘Do not vent your spleen on me,’ said Michael sharply. ‘It is not my fault your colleague transpires to have been such a dark
horse. Isabel did not know what he did on Fridays – only that he never visited Maud then. Perhaps he spent the time on his
knees, begging forgiveness for his sins. God knows, there are enough of them.’

‘Isabel parted with this information willingly?’

‘No, she was furious when she realised she had given me more than I was anticipating, and accused me of tricking her. Of course,
I did nothing of the kind, and she knows it. She assumed I had been asking questions of Maud’s servants, and one of them had
let the cat out of the bag. She was mortified when she saw
she
was the one who had betrayed her mistress’s trust.’