To Kill or Cure (33 page)

Bartholomew stared at him in astonishment, Arderne momentarily forgotten. ‘What?’

‘You touched her and gave her medicines, when he said it was best to leave her alone,’ explained Falmeresham. ‘I have
seen
him work miracles, so there is no doubt in my mind that it was your interference – albeit well-intentioned – that brought
about Maud’s decline.’

Bartholomew decided it was time for Falmeresham to hear a few facts. ‘Arderne bought sheep entrails from Putrid Peter on Monday,
and performed some sleight of hand to make you think they were your own. He could not possibly have drawn your liver through
that small cut in your side.
It is a medical impossibility, and were I allowed to teach you anatomy, you would see I am right.’

Falmeresham took a step away. ‘Magister Arderne said you would try to turn me against him, by denigrating his achievements.
I did not believe him, but I see he was right.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘You take his word over mine? After all these years?’

‘He does not,’ said Carton quickly. ‘He is still unwell, and—’

Falmeresham pulled away from him. ‘On the contrary, I have never felt better. While I was recovering, I spent hours talking
to Magister Arderne, and was amazed by the depth of his knowledge. Everything he said makes sense. You say there is a lot
about the body that you do not understand, but he knows
everything
. He
always
has answers and
never
says he does not know.’

‘Then he is a fool, as well as a fraud,’ said Michael tartly.

Falmeresham regarded him coldly. ‘You are the fool, Brother, for not seeing what is staring you in the face. You have grown
so used to Doctor Bartholomew’s failures that you are unnerved by a man who is flushed with success.’

‘Watch yourself, lad,’ warned Michael. ‘I appreciate you have had an unpleasant experience, but it does not give you the right
to be insolent. I suggest you go home and think about what you “saw” when you were with Arderne. Consider it logically, in
the light of your training, then ask yourself whether these miracles are credible. Arderne is not a saint, infused with the
power of Heaven.’

‘I disagree,’ said Falmeresham quietly. ‘And I want to learn more from him. He asked me to be his assistant, and I think I
should accept his offer.’

Bartholomew was dismayed, knowing the lad was making a terrible mistake. ‘At least finish this term. Then you will have your
degree.’

Falmeresham edged away. ‘I cannot waste another moment – it would be irresponsible to the people I can cure in the future.
Will you stop me?’

Bartholomew seriously considered locking him up until he came to his senses. ‘Not if you think you are doing the right thing.’

‘I am,’ said Falmeresham. ‘My eyes have been opened, and a whole new world has unfolded. I shall always appreciate what you
have taught me, though – it is not your fault the academic study of medicine falls so far short of what might be achieved.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, recalling his own excitement after hearing a lecture by the Arab physician who would later
become his teacher. He understood exactly how Falmeresham felt.

‘You should stop him,’ said Carton, horrified. ‘I do not want him to go to Arderne. He may—’

‘May what?’ asked Michael, when the commoner stopped speaking abruptly.

Carton shrugged, and refused to look at him. ‘May learn facts that will do him no good.’

It was an odd thing to say, but Bartholomew was too preoccupied with Falmeresham to think about it. He turned away when the
student reached his hero and began talking. Arderne shot a gloating smile in the physician’s direction, and put a possessive
arm around the lad’s shoulders.

‘I think we
will
go home the back way,’ said Michael, pulling Bartholomew in the opposite direction. ‘I do not feel like walking down Bridge
Street today.’

The tinkle of the College bell woke Bartholomew the following morning, and he sat up to find the students who now shared his
room had risen, dressed, and left. A heavy sleeper, he had not heard a thing. He appreciated having the chamber to himself
as he washed in the bowl of cold water Cynric had left for him, shaving quickly with one of his surgical blades. The clothes
he had worn the day before were not too crumpled from where he had left them in a heap in the corner, so he donned them again,
hopping from foot to foot in an effort to keep his bare feet off the cold stone floor.

He trotted into the yard, pulling his tabard over his head. It was not a pleasant day. There was a sleety drizzle in the air,
and the wind whipped in from the Fens like a knife. There was not a student, commoner or Fellow who was not shivering as he
waited for Langelee to lead the procession to the church for daily prayers, and the only warm person was Agatha, who watched
the assembly from the comfort of her wicker throne next to the kitchen fire.

Suddenly, there was a piercing scream that had the new students exclaiming their alarm, but it was only the porter’s peacock
being let out of its coop. It strutted boldly into the open, then scuttled inside again when it saw the state of the weather.
The hens were made of sterner stuff, and were scratching about in the mud, scuttling diagonally every so often, as the wind
caught them.

‘Who is still missing?’ demanded Langelee, looking round irritably. ‘Someone is not here. Who?’

‘Honynge and Carton,’ said William, looking around irritably. ‘Honynge was still in bed when I passed his door, but he said
he was coming. Do you want me to hurry him up?’

‘Deynman will do it,’ said Langelee. ‘Where is Carton?
He
is not usually late.’

‘There,’ said Wynewyk, pointing towards the front gate. The porter had just opened it, and Carton was slipping quickly inside.
‘Where has he been?’

‘Reciting masses,’ replied the friar, when Langelee repeated the question to him. ‘In St Michael’s. I came back when I heard
the bell.’

Yet he was very wet, and had clearly been out longer than the time it would have taken to walk from church to College. Bartholomew
was about to demand the truth, but the Master was speaking.

‘Right,’ Langelee shouted. ‘The rest of you gather around me. Come on, hurry up!’

Everyone formed a tight huddle, with him in the centre, waiting expectantly for what sounded as though it was going to be
an important announcement. Bartholomew wondered if he had found a way to dispense with Honynge, and was going to confide it
while the man was not there.

‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, after several moments of silence.

‘Nothing,’ said Langelee. ‘I just thought you could keep the rain off me while we wait.’

There was a chorus of weary groans. Bartholomew started to laugh, although William failed to see the humour in the situation,
and began a litany of bitter grumbles that saw the Dominicans to blame for the Master’s jest and the foul weather at the same
time.

‘I am glad
I
am not a Black Friar,’ said Tyrington, standing close to the physician and speaking in a low voice. ‘William is not entirely
sane when he starts ranting about them, and I would not like that sort of venom directed at me. How can you let him spout
such poison? The students will hear it, and might think it is true.’

‘I suppose we should tell him to moderate himself,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to edge away from the cascade of spit. ‘We
take no notice of him, so we assume no one else does, either.’

‘You have twenty new members who do not know he should be ignored. I do not mean to be objectionable – finding fault with
my new College so soon – but I am offended by these tirades and would like them to stop. Is that unreasonable?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Of course not, and you are right. I will talk to Langelee about it.’ He shivered. ‘It is
freezing out here! Where is Honynge?’

‘He and I were invited to a debate in Bene’t College last night. It went on longer than we expected, and we came home very
late.’

Bartholomew nodded, recalling how it had not been late enough to prevent Honynge from joining him and Wynewyk in the conclave
afterwards. Wynewyk had been working on the accounts and Bartholomew had been reading, enjoying the remnants of the fire in
companionable silence. Then Honynge had arrived and ordered them to move so he could warm himself. Wynewyk had objected, and
Bartholomew had left when the ensuing argument had degenerated into an exchange of personal insults.

‘Honynge is imbued with great energy at night,’ Tyrington went on. ‘I was exhausted, but he was all for continuing the debate.
I declined, so he tried to persuade others instead. All refused, because of the lateness of the hour,
but he even approached Candelby in his desperation for a discussion.’

‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he has much patience with scholarly pursuits.’

Tyrington shrugged. ‘I think Honynge was so keen for a disputation that it did not occur to him that a taverner might not
be the man to ask. It did not take him long to find out, though. He had caught me up by the time I reached St Mary the Great,
and we walked the rest of the way home together.’

‘Where is that man?’ demanded Michael. Rain had plastered his thin hair to his head, which looked very small atop the vast
mountain of his body. ‘Does he not know he is keeping us out here in the wet?’

Tyrington pulled a phial from his scrip and handed it to Bartholomew. ‘Here is something that may occupy you while we wait.
I bought it from Arderne – or rather, he forced it on me, then demanded a shilling. I was too taken aback to protest.’

‘What was ailing you?’ asked Bartholomew, taking it cautiously. The stopper did not fit very well, and it was leaking. He
would never have dispensed medicine in such a container.

Tyrington looked indignant. ‘He told me I have too much saliva in my mouth, and that this potion would dry it out. What was
he talking about? I do not spit!’

‘You will not be doing anything at all if you swallow too much of this,’ said Bartholomew, sniffing the flask warily. ‘I detect
bryony in it, and that can be harmful in too concentrated a dose.’

Tyrington gaped at him, shocked. ‘You mean he was trying to
poison
me? Why? I have never done anything to him! In fact, I had never even spoken to him before yesterday.’

‘I suspect he just saw an opportunity to earn himself a shilling,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And bryony is used to clear the chest
of phlegm, so it is not poison exactly.’

‘Just another example of Arderne’s incompetence,’ muttered Michael.

Eventually, Honynge arrived, and did not seem to care that he had kept his colleagues lingering in the wet while he made himself
ready. He was clad in an expensive cloak, his hair was neatly brushed, and he was shaved so closely that Bartholomew imagined
the procedure must have taken a very long time. Langelee was only willing to be pushed so far. He nodded to his Fellows, who
stepped into formation behind him, and set off. Cynric whipped the gate open to ensure there was no delay, and Langelee stormed
up St Michael’s Lane at a furious lick. As a consequence, Honynge was obliged to run to catch up. He was seething when he
finally took his place, and glowered at Langelee in a way that made Bartholomew uneasy.

The physician put Honynge from his mind as Michael began the mass, enjoying the monk’s rich baritone as he intoned the sacred
words. Although he was a Benedictine, Michael had been given special dispensation to perform priestly duties during the plague,
and the shortage of ordained men since meant he had continued the practice. The psalm he had chosen was one of Kenyngham’s
favourites, and Bartholomew found himself wishing with all his heart that the old man had not died. Even without Honynge’s
malign presence, Michaelhouse was a poorer place without him.

When the monk had finished, the scholars trooped back to the College at a more sedate pace than they had left it, and waited
in the yard until the bell announced that breakfast was ready. Michael was first to reach the door, thundering up the spiral
stairs that led to the hall, then pacing
restlessly until everyone else had arrived. Honynge was last, because he had found something else to do along the way, and
Langelee said grace before he had reached his seat. Pointedly, Honynge murmured his own prayer before he sat, and then took
so much of the communal egg-mess that there was none left for Bartholomew and Tyrington. When Tyrington voiced his objection,
the hands of the Fellows sitting near him immediately adopted the Michaelhouse Manoeuvre.

‘I am concerned about this exhumation you propose to conduct,’ said Honynge, when the meal was over and the Fellows were in
the conclave, deciding who should invigilate the disputations. The comment was somewhat out of the blue. ‘Are you sure it
is necessary?’

‘I must know how Kenyngham died,’ said Michael. ‘Besides, I always investigate odd deaths.’

‘
Is
Kenyngham’s death odd?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought he died of old age.’

‘He was poisoned.’ Michael brandished the parchments he had been sent. ‘This confession proves it, and so does the letter
offering me twenty marks for finding his killer.’

‘Perhaps they are pranks,’ suggested Wynewyk, studying them thoughtfully. ‘Or a plot devised by someone who wants to hurt
you because of the rent war.’

‘Why would anyone confess to a murder he did not commit?’ demanded Michael.

‘Why would a killer want you to know what he had done?’ countered Honynge. ‘If Kenyngham really was poisoned, the culprit
would be grateful that his crime had gone undetected. He would not brag about it, and risk having you launch an investigation
that might see him exposed. Of course these missives are hoaxes! And anyone who cannot see it is a fool.’

‘The killer wants me to know how clever he is,’ Michael shot back.

‘Piffle,’ declared Honynge. ‘If you disturb a man’s corpse after it has been buried, you are agents of the Devil. I strongly
urge you to reconsider this distasteful course of action, Brother.’