To Kill or Cure (28 page)

‘It is a pity,’ agreed Bartholomew, who also abhorred harm to books.

William slunk down the spiral stairs, the last to leave the conclave. He was mortified, because it transpired that not only
did both Honynge and Tyrington support the Dominicans’ side of the argument pertaining to Blood Relics, but they were familiar
with the nuances of the whole debate, and could argue them well. They had made mincemeat of his poor grasp of the subject,
and he, a man supremely and blissfully oblivious to his own intellectual shortcomings, was at last forced to confront his
inadequacies. Bartholomew tried to support his old colleague, but he did not give the matter his full attention, and he ended
up being as savaged as the friar.

‘Thank you anyway, Matthew,’ said William gloomily, before heading for his chambers as a chastened man. ‘It was good of you
to take my side. I shall not forget it – and if that Honynge ever asks me to mind his students or take one of his classes
because he is indisposed, I shall tell him to go to Hell, where he belongs.’

Bartholomew doubted Honynge would ever solicit the Franciscan’s assistance on any academic matter, and suspected William would
never have the satisfaction of
wreaking even minor revenge for the unpleasantness he had endured that evening.

Langelee watched him go, then came to stand with Bartholomew, Wynewyk and Michael. ‘I wish Kenyngham had not left us so suddenly,
because then we would have had more time to consider his replacement. I think we have made a terrible mistake with this pair.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Michael with a wink. ‘There are ways and means to deal with this sort of situation, and I am not Senior
Proctor for nothing.’

‘I do not want any bloodshed, though,’ warned Langelee. ‘At least, not bloodshed that can be traced to us. Be discreet.’

‘Discretion is my middle name,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘And do not worry about bloodshed, either. There will be no need for
that, because I was thinking of using my wits, not knives.’

‘Yes, but remember they are both rather well armed in the wits department,’ said Langelee. He began to walk away, but stopped
briefly and called over his shoulder, ‘I have a sword in my chamber.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘Just what he said, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget where he came from. He was the Archbishop of York’s spy
for years, and it would not surprise me to learn that he had solved problems by resorting to weapons.’

‘Just like you then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Itching to challenge Arderne to a trial by combat.’

‘I suspect it will be wiser to use the College statutes, and devise an administrative excuse to be rid of them,’ said Wynewyk.
‘I am a lawyer, so if I can help, do not hesitate to ask.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘I shall almost certainly take you up on it. What is that commotion?’

‘Cynric!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in alarm, beginning to run towards the gate.

‘No,’ said Michael, peering into the darkness. ‘It is Falmeresham!’

A short while later, Falmeresham sat in the hall, surrounded by students, commoners and Fellows – all the Fellows except Honynge,
who claimed he did not know Falmeresham, so could not be expected to celebrate his return. Tyrington stood shyly at the back
at first; then he gave a leering grin when the Master hauled him to the front. It would not do for senior members to relinquish
the best spots to students, and no master wanted to preside over a foundation where the hierarchical balance was in disarray.

‘So, we are not going to be blackmailed by greedy landlords after all,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, watching Carton fuss
about his friend with wine and blankets. ‘That is a relief!’

‘The relief is in seeing him alive and well,’ said Bartholomew. He felt better than he had done in days, and realised what
a tremendous strain the student’s disappearance had been.

William inveigled himself a cup of the students’ claret, and came to stand next to the monk. ‘You can call off the Convocation
of Regents now – we do not need them to decide whether to change the University Statutes after all. We have our student back,
so we can keep the rents as they are.’

‘I wish it were that simple,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Can I count on your vote?’

‘No,’ replied William. ‘I do not think we should throw out ancient laws just because Candelby wants more money. I believe
the rents should stay as they are.’

‘But you are a member of Michaelhouse, and the Senior
Proctor has a right to expect your support, regardless of what you think about the issue,’ said Tyrington quietly. ‘It is
the way things work.’

William scowled as he brushed spit from his revolting habit, and considered Tyrington’s words carefully. He took a swig of
wine, swilling it noisily around his brown teeth. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘I suppose I can ignore my conscience in
the interests of solidarity – and I would not like Michaelhouse made a laughing stock because the Senior Proctor’s proposal
is defeated.’

‘It is hardly a matter of conscience, Father,’ said Langelee impatiently. He turned to the monk. ‘I shall stand with you,
Michael, and I shall persuade a few others to do likewise.’

‘You will not use rough tactics, will you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘I might,’ said Langelee airily, rubbing his hands together. ‘It depends how willing they are to accept my point of view.
William is right: if Michael loses, his failure will reflect on our College, and I do not want to be seen as the Master of
a place that cannot get its own way.’

Bartholomew was not very interested in Langelee’s political manoeuvrings, and was more concerned to find out where Falmeresham
had been for the last four days. The student was pale and thin, but his eyes were bright, and his old grin was plastered firmly
across his face. Carton was also smiling, although not as broadly as the physician would have expected.

‘We were worried about you,’ said Bartholomew chidingly, as he went to sit next to his student. ‘Could you not have sent word
to say that you were safe?’

‘You had several days to do it,’ added Carton, rather coolly.

‘Magister Arderne said it would be better to wait, to make sure his treatment of my fatal wound was successful,’
replied Falmeresham apologetically. ‘He feared for my life the first two days.’

‘It was not a
fatal
wound,’ said William pedantically, ‘if it did not kill you.’

‘But it
did
kill me,’ said Falmeresham earnestly. ‘I was dead, and Magister Arderne brought me back to life. It was a miracle!’

‘Was it indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Where were you wounded?’

Falmeresham raised his tunic to reveal a small, neat scar. ‘Blankpayn’s knife plunged deep into my liver. Magister Arderne
pulled the whole thing out, stitched it up, and replaced it again.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. In the past, he had extracted damaged organs, gently sutured them, and then put them
back, but there was nearly always a fever afterwards, and it was often fatal. However, he had never attempted the procedure
with anything as vital as a liver. Like most
medici
, he tended to leave livers alone.

‘And it hardly hurt at all,’ Falmeresham went on, clearly impressed. ‘Well, the stitching-up did, I suppose, but having my
liver removed did not. I
saw
it in Magister Arderne’s hands.’

‘What did it look like?’ asked Deynman with ghoulish curiosity.

‘Large, knobbly and green,’ replied Falmeresham.

There was an awed gasp from his listeners. Bartholomew frowned, recalling from dissections he had attended at the universities
in Salerno and Montpellier that human livers were never ‘knobbly and green’. However, because anatomy was forbidden to English
scholars, it was not something he could tell anyone. He wondered whether Falmeresham had been fed a potion that had made his
wits reel during what must have been a serious undertaking. He knew from
personal experience that it was better to have patients insensible during surgery, rather than thrashing around and fighting
back.

‘How did you come to be in Arderne’s care?’ asked Carton, pouring Falmeresham more wine. ‘I asked virtually everyone in Cambridge,
but no one recalls you being carried away.’

‘And Arderne was busy with Candelby and Maud after the accident, anyway,’ added Michael. ‘He took them in his cart, because
theirs was wrecked.’

‘That brutish Blankpayn laid hold of me,’ said Falmeresham resentfully. ‘I thought at first that he was going to haul me off
to a quiet place and finish me. But he believed I was dead already, and his chief concern was to hide the body before he could
be accused of murder. He took me to the Angel, because it was closer than his own inn, and his plan was to drop me down the
well.’

‘People drink from that,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘He might have poisoned the—’

‘But I was not dead, and Candelby refused to let him do it anyway,’ interrupted Falmeresham, eager to finish his tale. ‘Magister
Arderne happened to be in the Angel, seeing to Candelby’s arm, and he ordered me taken to his own house on the High Street.’

‘You mean you were held captive by townsfolk?’ asked Michael. ‘First Blankpayn, then Candelby, and finally Arderne?’

‘Magister Arderne was
helping
me,’ said Falmeresham firmly. ‘Candelby was not all bad, either. He would not let Blankpayn drop me down the well, and he
was angry with him for knifing me in the first place.’

‘And you are completely recovered?’ asked Langelee.

‘Completely,’ said Falmeresham with a bright, pleased grin. ‘Magister Arderne gave me some medicine that he
said would facilitate good healing, and it has worked. He recommended that I return to you as soon as I was able to walk –
which was tonight. So, here I am.’

‘I am pleased to see you safe,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the healer had told him what he had done. It had been unkind to
keep him – and Falmeresham’s friends – in an agony of worry for four long days. ‘There has been rather too much death of late.’

Falmeresham nodded. ‘But Magister Arderne is fighting death wherever he can. He and I talked for hours, and he knows
so
much. He invited me to study with him, and it was a tempting offer, but I decided my place was here.’

‘It is,’ said William. ‘You have already paid next term’s fees, and they are non-refundable.’

‘But it was a hard choice,’ said Falmeresham wistfully. ‘Magister Arderne has such exciting ideas. You once told me that it
was impossible to mend a split liver, Doctor Bartholomew.’

‘I thought it was. I have seen surgeons try it on three separate occasions, but the patient died in each case. What did Arderne
do that was different?’

‘He applied his feather,’ said Falmeresham, quite seriously. ‘It is very effective. Patients were coming to his house all
day, and I could see him curing them through the door he left ajar. Magister Arderne is a wise and learned man.’

‘Magister Arderne this, Magister Arderne that,’ grumbled Michael to Bartholomew, when the others had gone. ‘I am tired of
hearing the name. Do you think Falmeresham is telling the truth?’

‘The truth as he knows it,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘However, the scar on his side is too small for a liver to have been pulled
through it, and it is in the wrong place. He was probably in pain from his cut, and drowsy from strong medicine – not in a
position to know what was really happening.’

‘He is beginning to worship the man,’ said Michael. ‘We are lucky he came back.’

‘Why did Arderne let him?’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It sounded as though he wanted an apprentice. And why not? Falmeresham is intelligent,
quick witted and he learns fast.’

‘Perhaps he is an unwitting spy. We shall have to be careful what we say around him.’

‘Why would he spy on us?’

‘Spy on
you
. I am not saying Falmeresham would deliberately hurt you – he would not – but Arderne is quite capable of manipulating him.
Our healer is a dangerous man, who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. And he wants you gone, so we shall have to be
careful. I, for one, do not want to see him succeed.’

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.’