Luckily for his own patients, Bartholomew was not averse to practising surgery himself, despite it being forbidden to him on two counts. Firstly, it was against Canon Law, and, as a member of the University, he had taken minor religious orders, so was bound by its decrees. Secondly, physicians were supposed to remain aloof from the messy business of cutting and sewing. He had learned, however, that people were more likely to survive if he performed the procedures himself, rather than asking Robin to do them. Therefore, he was pleased to learn that another healer was available for him to call upon, because although he did not mind plying the skills he had learned during his unorthodox training, he disliked the recriminations that often followed from his fellow physicians.
He followed Michael through the press, and surveyed the scene in front of him. A horse stood with its head drooping disconsolately, surrounded by people who seemed more concerned with its welfare than that of its rider. He supposed he should not be surprised, given that the beast was obviously a valuable one. The rider lay on the ground, and the fact that someone had covered him with a cloak suggested he was beyond earthly help.
A cart was on its side nearby, and its passengers sat on the wreckage. Bartholomew recognised them both. One was Candelby and the other was a dumpy, middle-aged woman called Maud Bowyer. Maud’s husband had died during the plague, leaving her one of the wealthiest widows in the county. It was common knowledge that Candelby had been paying her court for the past few months, and everyone was waiting to see whether she would succumb to his charms. Candelby cradled an injured arm, while Maud was bleeding from a splinter that had been driven deep into her shoulder. She was weeping, heartbroken sobs that did not sound like cries of pain. Bartholomew supposed it was shock.
In front of them, wielding a brightly coloured feather, was a tall, thin man who wore the red robes of a surgeon. He had long black hair, and a neat beard. His pale blue eyes were unusually – disconcertingly – bright, and he carried himself with an arrogant confidence.
‘Do not let him near me,’ cried Candelby, when he saw Bartholomew and Michael approach. He waved his uninjured hand at them, but it was not clear to which of them he referred. ‘He might try to make an end of me while I am weak and defenceless.’
There was a growl from the onlookers. Some thought Candelby was right to be cautious, while others resented the slander directed against two of the University’s senior scholars. Bartholomew saw some unfriendly shoving start to take place between a gaggle of Carmelite novices and half-a-dozen burly men who worked at the mills.
‘They would not dare,’ declared the red-robed man confidently. ‘Not while I am here to protect you. I am Magister Richard Arderne, and I protect my patients with my life.’
‘Actually, Candelby is my patient,’ said another voice. ‘So it is my right to protect him.’
A small, grimy fellow stepped from the crowd to hover at Arderne’s side. It was a major tactical mistake for Robin of Grantchester to place himself near the new medicus, because comparisons were inevitable, and none of them worked to his advantage. Robin’s gown was filthy, and his hands and face were not much better. His hair was oily and unkempt, and he bared his brown, rotten fangs in a grin that was decidedly shifty. The bag over his shoulder contained his tools, and some were so thick with old blood they were black. Robin was comparatively wealthy, because of the surgical monopoly he held, but he still looked like a vagrant.
‘I do not want you touching me, Robin,’ said Candelby, alarmed. He glanced at the sobbing woman at his side. ‘Or Maud. Magister Arderne has offered to mend us, and we have accepted.’
‘Fortunately, you paid the retainer I recommended last week,’ said Arderne comfortably. ‘I said at the time that you never know when you might need the services of a healer, and you were wise to part with the ten shillings that grants you unlimited access to my skills.’
‘Ten shillings?’ echoed Bartholomew, staggered by the colossal sum.
Arderne ignored him and addressed the onlookers. ‘Does anyone else want to insure himself against future illness or accident? I sew wounds with no pain, and cure common ailments with minimal fuss. Of course, I am expensive, but quality costs.’ He looked Robin up and down disparagingly, to indicate what he thought of the cheaper alternative.
‘I will send an apprentice with the coins later,’ said the town’s leading mason. ‘Accidents happen, as Candelby and Maud can attest, so it is sensible to be ready for them.’
‘No!’ breathed Robin, appalled. ‘You are mine; you have been with me since the Death.’
‘And you half-killed me the last time I was obliged to summon you,’ said the mason baldly. ‘But I saw Magister Arderne at work on Saturday, and I was deeply impressed.’
‘If Candelby and Maud are in your care, then help them,’ said Bartholomew to Arderne in a low voice. Touting for business while patients suffered was unprofessional in the extreme. ‘She looks as if she might faint.’
‘She will not,’ declared Arderne with considerable confidence. ‘I have shaken my magical feather at her, and a complete recovery is guaranteed.’
‘I might swoon,’ countered Maud in a voice that was hoarse from weeping. A woman, who appeared to be her maidservant, had hurried to her side and was comforting her. ‘I do not feel well, and want to go home. Who will take me?’
‘I shall,’ said Arderne grandly, pushing Robin away when he started to step towards her. ‘I have already sent a boy for my personal transport, and it will be here soon.’
She nodded gratefully, while Bartholomew thought a pain-dulling potion would have done her more good than the wave of a feather. Still, bloody wounds were the domain of surgeons, not physicians, and Bartholomew did not want to cause trouble by pressing a scholar’s opinions on a man who had so clearly won the approval of the town.
‘I cannot bear him,’ muttered Robin, shooting Arderne a furious glare. ‘His “personal transport”, indeed! If he means his cart, then why does he not say so?’
While Michael tried to disperse the crowd, Bartholomew knelt next to the crumpled figure covered by the cloak. He could tell from the tufts of dandelion-clock hair poking above it that the victim was indeed his elderly colleague Master Lynton from the College of Peterhouse. Despite Bartholomew’s frustration with Lynton’s narrow-mindedness in medical matters – and Lynton’s horror at what he called Bartholomew’s love of heretical medicine – they had never been serious enemies, and had rubbed along well enough together. Bartholomew gazed at the kindly face with genuine sorrow, sharply reminded of his own distress for Kenyngham. He pulled more of the cloak away, wondering what had actually killed him. What he saw made his stomach lurch in shock.
Bartholomew was so intent on examining Lynton that he did not hear Arderne come to stand behind him. He leapt in alarm at the hissing voice so close to his shoulder, and hastily tugged the cloak to conceal his colleague’s wounds. He did not want anyone else to see them, given the volatile mood of the people who milled around the scene of the accident.
‘I understand Cambridge has four physicians, every one of them a charlatan,’ Arderne was saying, his pale eyes burning curiously. Bartholomew stood quickly, not liking the way the man hovered over him. ‘Which one are you?’
‘Well, he is not Lynton,’ sneered a red-faced taverner named Blankpayn. He owned a disreputable alehouse called the Lilypot, and was Candelby’s most fervent supporter. ‘Because Lynton is dead.’
Blankpayn was accompanied by three lads who worked in his tavern, plus several of his regular customers. The patrons were rough, greasy men with ponderous bellies, who looked as if they would do anything for a free drink. There was a pause as slow minds digested what Blankpayn had said, followed by hearty laughter as their companion’s wit eventually hit home. Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He needed to talk to Michael about Lynton, and did not want to waste time bandying words with men who wanted to quarrel with him.
‘He is Doctor Bartholomew, from Michaelhouse,’ replied Falmeresham coldly. Car
ton was plucking at his friend’s sleeve, trying to pull him away from the confrontation. Falmeresham freed himself impatiently. ‘And he is no charlatan, so watch your tongue.’
There was a murmur of support from the Carmelites and a group of scholars from Clare. Bartholomew was alarmed to see the crowd had separated into two halves. He put his hand on Falmeresham’s shoulder, silently ordering him to say no more.
‘You are a surgeon?’ asked Bartholomew politely. He pointed to Arderne’s red robes, fighting the urge to walk away from the man and talk to Michael. It would be deemed rude, and he did not want to antagonise anyone.
‘I am a healer,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘No mere sawbones – and no urine-gazer, either. I am superior to both trades, because my remedies are efficacious and I know what I am doing.’
‘A leech,’ sneered Falmeresham. ‘A common trickster.’
‘Perhaps we can talk another time,’ said Bartholomew hastily, before Arderne could react to the insult. ‘But now, your patients need you, and I must carry Lynton to his College.’
‘Here comes my personal transport,’ said Arderne, turning as a cart clattered rather recklessly into the onlookers. It was painted with herbs, stars and signs of the zodiac, and looked more like something a magician would own than a medicus. He addressed its driver. ‘Help my new patients, but be gentle. My cure is working, and rough treatment might see it all reversed again.’
‘Damned liar!’ spat Falmeresham. ‘A cure either works or it does not.’
Arderne chose to ignore him, but a nondescript man, whom Bartholomew had seen working in the Angel when he had bought his pie – his name was Ocleye – was unwilling to let the matter pass. ‘What can apprentice physicians know about the power of magic?’ he demanded. ‘Your teachers do not choose to initiate you into such mysteries, so you will always remain ignorant of them.’
‘Lynton will not be teaching any mysteries now, magical or otherwise,’ brayed Blankpayn. He had enjoyed his cronies laughing at his first witticism, and was eager to repeat the experience. After another pause, his friends cackled obligingly.
‘Poor Lynton,’ said Carton. He knelt, and Bartholomew thought he was going to pray. Instead he began to tidy the cloak that covered the body, straightening it with small, fussy movements that betrayed his unease at the hostility that was bubbling around them.
Michael had ordered his beadles to stand between the two factions, in the hope of preventing more violence. ‘Who saw the accident?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Lynton came racing along Milne Street at a speed that was far from safe,’ replied Blankpayn immediately. ‘His death serves him right. He might have killed poor Candelby.’
‘Perhaps he intended to,’ said Arderne slyly.
Bartholomew glanced sharply at the healer. Arderne knew perfectly well that such a remark might stoke the flames of hatred. Of course, a brawl would almost certainly result in casualties, some of whom might require the services of a medicus. The physician struggled to mask his distaste for the fellow’s unethical tactics.
‘Did you actually see cart and horse collide, Blankpayn?’ pressed Michael, choosing to overlook Arderne’s comment. The monk was pale, and Bartholomew sensed his growing unease with the situation.
‘I was close by,’ hedged Blankpayn, indicating that he had not. ‘And Candelby told me the whole incident was Lynton’s fault.’
‘I shall question Candelby myself – we do not condemn anyone on hearsay.’ Michael raised his voice. ‘Everyone should go home. There is nothing to see here.’
‘Lies!’ shouted Arderne, startling everyone with his sudden vehemence. ‘How can you say there is nothing to see when I am at work? How dare you denigrate my performance!’
‘Your performance?’ Bartholomew was startled by the choice of words.
‘My miraculous healing of Candelby and Maud. They would be dead by now, had it not been for my timely intervention. I healed them with my magic feather.’
Bartholomew declined to argue with him. He knew from experience that such characters were best ignored until they destroyed themselves with their outrageous boasts. He glanced at Lynton again, itching for the confrontation to be over, so he could talk to Michael.
‘It is time Cambridge was blessed with a decent medical practitioner,’ Arderne went on. ‘The age of amateurs is over, and the people of this fine town will now benefit from the best that modern science can offer. I, Richard Arderne, can cure leprosy, poxes, falling sicknesses and contagions. I can make barren women fertile, and draw teeth with no pain at all.’
‘Can you turn lead into gold, too?’ jeered Falmeresham. Bartholomew poked him in the back.
‘I am working on it,’ replied Arderne, unfazed. ‘And when I succeed – which is only a matter of time – I shall share my good fortune with my loyal patients. But now I must take Maud home before she weeps herself into a fit. Good afternoon to you all.’
He was gone in a flurry of clattering hoofs and wheels, leaving the crowd somewhat bemused.
‘You see?’ murmured Robin, suddenly at Bartholomew’s elbow. The physician jumped, on edge and uncomfortable. ‘How can I compete with that sort of announcement? He will ruin me.’
‘He will not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is only a matter of time before one of his clients points out that he was in pain when a tooth was drawn, or that she is still barren. Then his reputation will—’
‘But that might take weeks,’ cried Robin. ‘And he will destroy me in the meantime.’
Bartholomew did not know what to say, aware that Arderne’s brash confidence would certainly appeal to more people than Robin’s sly deference. He watched the unhappy surgeon slouch away.
‘I shall not mourn Lynton,’ declared Blankpayn. ‘One fewer scholar is good news. I heard old master Kenyngham has gone to meet his maker, too, so it is definitely a good Easter for the town.’
Before Bartholomew could stop him, Falmeresham had launched himself at the taverner, who instinctively drew his dagger. Falmeresham saw it too late to swerve, and his mouth opened in shock as he ran on to the blade. He stumbled to his knees. Blankpayn dropped his knife and began to back away, his face white with horror at what he had done.
‘No!’ breathed Bartholomew. He started to run towards his stricken student, but did not get far. One of the patrons swung a punch that caught him squarely on the side of the jaw. He went down hard, and was forced to cover his head with his hands when there was a sudden, furious rush to join the ensuing affray. He tried to stand, but was knocked down again by someone crashing into him. He heard Michael bellowing, ordering everyone home. Then the bells of St John Zachary started to ring, warning scholars that trouble was afoot. More men started to pour into the street.
Bartholomew managed to struggle upright, looking around wildly around for his friends. He could not see Falmeresham, and hoped that Carton had dragged him to safety. Meanwhile, Michael was backed against the broken cart, fending off two masons, who were threatening him with daggers. Bartholomew retrieved the heavy childbirth forceps from the medicine bag he always wore looped across his shoulder, and struck one on the shoulder. The other spun around to fight him, but backed away when he saw a knife was no match for an expertly wielded surgical implement.
Michael gazed at the pushing, shoving mêlée with undisguised fury. He stalked to a trough that was used for watering horses, and in a massive show of strength – for all his lard, he was a physically powerful man – upended it. Green water shot across the street, drenching the legs of anyone close by. There were indignant howls as the skirmishers tried to duck out of the way.
‘Enough!’ roared the monk. His livid face made several scholars slink away before he started to issue fines. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, brawling on Easter Day! Go home, all of you, and do not come out again until you are in a more peaceful frame of mind.’
Bartholomew was astonished when people began to do as they were told. There were some resentful grumbles, but it was not lon
g before the horde had dissipated.
‘Where is Falmeresham?’ demanded Bartholomew of Carton, who was standing uncertainly nearby. ‘I thought he was with you.’
‘I thought he was with you,’ countered the Franciscan alarmed. ‘I saw you dash towards him, but I had no wish to fight Blankpayn and his henchmen, so I hung back.’
‘He will have gone home,’ said Michael, still glaring at the dispersing mob. ‘He is not a fool, to loiter in a place where daggers were flailing.’
‘He could not go anywhere – he was stabbed,’ said Carton in a hushed, shocked whisper. He put his hand to his side, just above the hip bone. ‘Here. I should have overcome my terror and tried to reach him.’
‘Easy,’ said Michael. There was blood on Carton’s mouth, indicating he had not been entirely successful in avoiding the violence. ‘We will find him.’
‘Perhaps Blankpayn took him prisoner.’ Carton declined to be comforted, and was working himself into an agony of worry. ‘Perhaps he intends to hold Falmeresham hostage, to blackmail our University over these rents. He is Candelby’s lickspittle, and will do anything for him.’
‘Blankpayn does not have the wits to devise such a devious plan,’ said Michael. ‘Falmeresham will be home at Michaelhouse. Go, see if you can find him.’
The friar hurried away, anxiety stamped across his portly features, and Michael sighed. ‘Lord save us! Will you fetch a bier for Lynton, Matt? We cannot leave him here, because our students may use his corpse as an excuse for another fracas – claim he was murdered or some such nonsense.’
‘Actually, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, ‘he died because he was shot. He was murdered.’
CHAPTER 2
The conclave at Michaelhouse was a pleasant chamber adjoining the main hall. It was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, and they used it when they met to discuss College business or to relax in the evenings, leaving the hall free for students and commoners. It was an arrangement that suited everyone – the senior members had a place where they were safe from the demands of overenthusiastic students, and the junior ones were left to their own devices for a few hours, as long as they were not too unruly. Fortunately, the students liked being trusted, and were invariably better behaved when they were alone than when anyone was monitoring them. The upshot was that Michaelhouse had a reputation for harmony among its scholars, and Langelee had been asked by several envious masters for the secret of his success.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 4