To Kill or Cure (32 page)

‘Just wine,’ said Paxtone, leading the way across the yard. He looked a little furtive. ‘Lynton liked to give wine to the
patients who visited him. It was a very popular habit.’

‘I am sure it was,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael lowered his voice when they reached King’s Hall’s mighty gatehouse. ‘While I am in the mood for confidences, I have
received a letter saying that Kenyngham was poisoned. And there was another note offering me twenty marks for bringing the
culprit to justice.’

Paxtone regarded him uncertainly. ‘Kenyngham was old. I imagine he died of natural causes, and the writer of these letters
– I assume they are one and the same – is playing a nasty game with you.’

‘That is what I have been telling him,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am unwilling to take the chance,’ said Michael. ‘So, I shall take the matter seriously until a proper examination of
Kenyngham tells me otherwise. Besides, these missives cannot have been written by the same man. He is hardly likely to offer
me a reward for his own capture, is he?’

‘But Kenyngham is buried,’ said Paxtone. ‘How can you
examine him? Unless … surely, you cannot mean to
exhume
him?’ He rounded on Bartholomew. ‘Are you party to this outrage?’

‘No. Michael intends to ask Rougham to help him.’

‘Rougham will have nothing to do with it – and rightly so. I strongly urge you reconsider, Brother.’

Michael watched him waddle away, a frown creasing his fat features. ‘Perhaps
he
killed Kenyngham. He certainly objected very strongly to my determination to learn the truth.’

‘He objected to you digging up a dead colleague,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘As do I.’

As Bartholomew and Michael walked home to Michaelhouse, they met Father William. He was talking to the Warden of the town’s
Franciscan Friary, an austere, unsmiling man named Pechem. Pechem was one of Bartholomew’s patients, and regularly consulted
him about the poor state of his digestion. He usually blamed his discomfort on a bad alignment of stars, although the physician
was more inclined to think a penchant for pickled rhubarb might have something to do with it.

‘The Grey Friars will stand with you at the Convocation next Monday, Brother,’ said Pechem, as they approached. ‘William has
been telling me how it is your attempt to avert trouble, so we shall support your proposal to change the Statutes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, pleased.

‘The Dominicans are being awkward, though,’ said William gloomily. ‘I went to see them today, but Prior Morden said he intended
to vote for whatever
I
voted against.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I shall have to visit Morden later, then.’

‘Do not bother,’ said Pechem. ‘The Black Friars have eighteen Regents, but we have nineteen. As we cannot possibly be expected
to vote for the same side, you are better accepting
our
pledge.’

Michael sighed crossly. ‘Surely you can put your differences aside, just this once?’

‘We have been happily opposing Dominicans on
everything
for nigh on two hundred years,’ said Pechem indignantly. ‘Why should we change now?’

‘That stupid Honynge says the Dominicans are right about Blood Relics,’ said William to Pechem, oblivious to the monk’s exasperated
disapproval of the Warden’s stance. ‘Can you credit it? The man is an ass! However, I have had my revenge.’

‘What have you done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. William was not a subtle person, and his vengeance was likely to be something
crude that would cause another quarrel.

‘As Junior Fellow, he is obliged to manage the Illeigh Hutch,’ said William. He explained to Pechem. ‘Hutches are chests containing
money that can be borrowed by our students. In return for coins, they leave something of equal or greater value – a book,
a piece of jewellery, and so on.’

‘And?’ asked Michael warily. ‘What did you do? Remove all the money, so he will look foolish when a student asks for some
and he finds it is empty?’

William’s face fell. ‘How did you guess?’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘He will know someone is playing tricks, and may reciprocate with something vicious. I doubt he
is the kind of man to take a joke.’

Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘I think we can salvage something from the idea, though. Go and put it all back, Father,
but include the gold coronet from the Stanton Hutch, too. Honynge will conduct an inventory, and discover an addition. Then
we shall see how honest he is.’

‘We shall declare it stolen,’ crowed William, delighted. ‘And then it will be found in
his
room!’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘This is an ill-conceived plan – and dangerous, too, to risk something so valuable. He might manage
to spirit the thing away. And
then
what will we say? That it was last seen by William, who hid it in the Illeigh Hutch to trap a thief?’

‘That is a clever notion, Matt,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We do not have to declare it was Honynge we wanted to catch out,
do we?’

Grinning like a madman, William raced away to do as Michael suggested. Bartholomew gave up trying to reason with the monk,
and started to think about Arderne instead. He was still deep in thought when Carton approached, Falmeresham at his side.
Carton was holding his friend’s arm, alarmed that he was walking about when Bartholomew had recommended rest after his ordeal.

‘Isabel St Ives has just been,’ said Carton. ‘Maud Bowyer is worse, and wants you to visit as soon as possible. It sounded
urgent, so I thought I should find you myself, but Falmeresham insisted on accompanying me, even though he should be in bed.’

‘I came because Maud has no right to summon you,’ said Falmeresham, freeing his arm. ‘She is Magister Arderne’s patient, and
he will not like it if you interfere. Isabel should not have come.’

‘Isabel thinks the same, actually,’ said Carton to Bartholomew. ‘She believes her mistress should be left to Arderne, too.
But Maud wants you, and Isabel cannot ignore a direct order.’

‘Arderne is a good man,’ said Falmeresham, rather defiantly. ‘If Maud can be healed,
he
will do it. She does not need the services of another
medicus
.’

‘Arderne cannot be a good man, or he would not be
saying spiteful things about the town’s other practitioners,’ said Carton snidely.

‘You mean Robin of Grantchester?’ asked Falmeresham. ‘It is about time someone reviled
him
– he is a menace. And Rougham is no better, with his archaic skills. They
should
be denounced.’

‘What about Doctor Bartholomew?’ demanded Carton archly. ‘Should he be denounced, too?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped Falmeresham. ‘But it is not Arderne who is doing that. It is Isnard.’

‘Because Arderne
told
him to. He raised Isnard’s hopes by saying he might be cured, but dashed them cruelly when it proved impossible. Then he
blamed Doctor Bartholomew, even though it was
his
failure.’

‘But Arderne might be right about amputation,’ argued Falmeresham. ‘We are taught certain injuries are irreparable, and specific
diseases are incurable. But I
saw
Arderne healing several such complaints with my own eyes. I think he possesses skills superior to anyone in Cambridge.’

‘Visit Maud, Matt,’ said Michael, cutting into the debate before it could erupt into a serious quarrel. ‘She trusts you, even
if your students do not.’

‘I trust what works,’ countered Falmeresham. ‘My mind is open to anything new.’

Bartholomew took Falmeresham with him when he went to tend Maud, seeing it as a chance to teach the student something about
fatal fevers. Michael insisted on accompanying them, lest a lone physician and his apprentice prove too tempting a target
for mud-slingers and bone-lobbers, and Carton followed without being invited, loath to let his friend out of his sight.

When they arrived at the handsome house on Bridge Street, Maud was indeed worse. The smell of decay was
stronger, and Bartholomew knew she did not have long to live. Isabel was almost in tears.

‘You have done enough damage already,’ said Isabel accusingly, watching Bartholomew kneel by the bed and examine the patient.
‘I would never have called you, had my mistress not insisted. I summoned Magister Arderne first – although she objected. He
waved his feather, but said
you
had destroyed all hope of a cure, because you had laid tainted hands on her. It is your fault she is dying.’

‘Arderne says tainted hands are the reason why he could not save Ocleye, either,’ added Falmeresham, rather unhelpfully.

Bartholomew regarded Isabel unhappily. Her eyes were red from crying, but there was a hard, cold glint in them that he had
not seen before. He had a feeling he was about to acquire yet another enemy. ‘I gave her a potion to relieve her pain,’ he
said quietly. ‘And that is all.’

‘You put your hand against her cheek to feel her fever,’ countered Isabel. ‘And you raised the bandage to inspect the wound.
Arderne said that was enough to cause the damage, because evil miasmas went from you to her.’

‘Claptrap,’ declared Carton angrily. Falmeresham glared at the friar, and with a shock, Bartholomew saw his student believed
Arderne’s wild claims.

‘You can discuss this later,’ said Michael softly, nudging the physician with his elbow. ‘Tend Maud, Matt. You know you can
do more for her than a leech with a feather.’

Bartholomew began to administer a powerful potion that would ease her pain. After a few moments, the lines of suffering around
her eyes and mouth began to fade. He mixed more of the remedy, and gave it to Isabel with instructions on how to use it.

‘But it will not make her live?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This often happens with
wounds caused by jagged splinters – small fragments remain behind, and they fester. The medicine will ease her end, but no
more.’

‘I can hear you,’ said Maud, in a voice that was unexpectedly strong. She opened her eyes. ‘Or rather, I can hear voices.
Are you talking about me?’

‘We are talking about Master Lynton,’ said Isabel, saying something she thought might please her. ‘He was a good friend of
Doctor Bartholomew, who has come to see you.’

Maud smiled. ‘Did you know Lynton and I were close? We grew up together – born in adjoining manors. I should have married
him, but we left it too late; he became a scholar, and I took another husband. He was a fine warrior in his day – tall, strong
and true of hand. Still, at least we enjoyed each other after I became a widow.’

‘It is difficult to imagine him as a knight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or a lover.’

Her smile became wistful. ‘He was an enigma, and one I shall love to my dying day. Arderne tells me that might come sooner
than I would like. What do you say, Bartholomew?’

‘I imagine that is true for most people.’

She smiled again. ‘You have a clever tongue. And now tell me the truth.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I doubt you will see another Sunday.’

‘Arderne said I would not see another hour, and that it is your fault that I am doomed. I do not believe him, though. You
told me the truth – and did not demand five shillings for it.’

‘Magister Arderne always charges for consultations,’ said Falmeresham defensively. ‘He says offering services free of charge
suggests they are not worth paying for.’

‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew sharply. It was impolite to
argue with a patient, especially one who was dying, and he was surprised at Falmeresham.

‘Arderne is shallow and mean,’ said Maud. ‘I know you summoned him because you are desperate to help me, Isabel, but I do
not want him here again. Doctor Bartholomew’s medicine is working, and the pain is less now. I ask for no more.’

She began to drowse, and Isabel opened the door, indicating it was time for the visitors to leave. ‘Magister Arderne is coming
back later, and I do not want him to find you here,’ she said. ‘You will quarrel, and it might upset her.’

‘Maud just said she does not want him,’ said Bartholomew, loath to abandon anyone to the healer’s dubious ministrations.

‘He is not coming to see
her
,’ said Isabel with a smile that was a little wanton. ‘He is coming to see
me
. But I shall make sure he does not come up here, if that is what she wants.’

‘So, Isabel has a fancy for Arderne,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked home, Carton and Falmeresham trailing behind
them. The two younger men were quarrelling in low voices. Falmeresham was angry because Carton was making rude comments about
the healer he had come to revere, and Carton was apparently disgusted that his friend should be so easily deceived.

Bartholomew considered the predicament of Isabel St Ives. She was about to lose her mistress, her home and her employment,
and was in an acutely vulnerable position. He hoped the arrogant Arderne would not take what he wanted, then abandon her.
‘There is no accounting for taste.’

‘I imagine most women consider him handsome, and he is very charismatic,’ said Michael. ‘I know from personal experience that
ladies find that particular combination of
traits attractive in a man. But speak of the Devil, and he will appear. Here comes the fellow himself.’

The healer was not alone. Blankpayn was announcing in a loud voice that Arderne had cured him of leprosy – although Bartholomew
noticed that no one wanted to stand too close to him even so – and Candelby was still showing off his ‘broken’ arm. Carton
asked Falmeresham in an uncharacteristically acerbic voice whether he would like to join them and flaunt his mended liver.

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, as Arderne swaggered towards them. ‘I want a word with him.’

‘Do not tackle him here,’ warned Michael in alarm, seeing the determined set of the physician’s jaw. ‘We are heavily outnumbered,
and this is neither the time nor the place for a confrontation.’

‘I do not care,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have been patient, but he has gone too far.’

Falmeresham was also worried, and tugged on his arm. ‘Come down this lane, so you avoid meeting him. I can see you are itching
to accuse him of bringing about the death of Mistress Bowyer, and that would be unfair. It is
your
fault she is dying, not his.’