‘Well, they are all senile,’ confided Gedney. ‘So you should take what they say with a pinch of salt. Is that a herring on your shoulder, Brother? I like herring, but I have not eaten one since the Death, because Babington here says they make you bald.’
‘Do herrings make you bald?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I have noticed a certain thinning in front of my tonsure, so perhaps I should abstain from now on. I do not like herrings anyway.’
‘I looked up Holcot’s Postillae in our library records,’ said Kardington, leading the way across the yard. ‘Gedney loaned it to a man more than forty years ago, and it was never returned. It seems the matter still preys on his mind – such mind as he has left.’
The Church of St John Zachary, where Motelete’s body lay, was a small building that stood on the corner of Milne Street and one of the many lanes that led down to the river. It served as chapel to Clare and Trinity Hall, but was closer to Clare. It stood in a leafy graveyard that was in desperate need of pruning, but that was unlikely ever to see a pair of shears. It was technically a parish church, and therefore the responsibility of the town, but most of its congregation had died during the plague, and the few who remained objected to spending vast sums on a place that was used mostly by the University. Meanwhile, the two Colleges saw no reason to divert their own resources to repair someone else’s property.
The lack of care showed not only in the wilderness of the cemetery, but in the building itself. Its stained glass had been broken long ago, and the stone tracery in its windows had crumbled. The only way to keep weather and thieves out was to board them up, so all the south-facing windows were permanently sealed with thick wooden planks. The north side was in a better state of repair because it formed part of Clare’s boundary wall, and the scholars did not want a ruin in their grounds. Here all the windows had shutters, although they were sturdy and could only be opened from the outside – the Fellows were worried about townsmen gaining access to their compound, and the shutters protected their College, not the church. The only exception was the window in the Lady Chapel, which was left open when the scholars were at their prayers, to allow light into what was otherwise a very dark place.
The roof also needed urgent attention, but the spiral stairs that gave access to it had collapsed the previous winter, meaning repairs were out of the question. The fall had resulted in a chaos of rubble in the stairwell, which no one had bothered to remove. The churchwardens had placed ropes across the entrance, to stop anyone from trying to use it, then put the mess from their minds. It was not uncommon to hear the hiss and patter of falling plaster during services, and Bartholomew often wondered how long it would be before the rest of the building gave up the ghost, too.
Kardington did not bother with the main door, which stood on Milne Street, but used the window in the Lady Chapel to enter the church. Crude wooden steps had been built to allow Clare scholars to climb up to the chest-high windowsill from their garden, but there was only a table on the other side, and some major leaps downwards were required. Michael objected vociferously, first about the height of the jump, and then about the fact that the opening was rather narrow for a man of his girth. In the end, he decided the manoeuvre could not be safely accomplished, so Spaldynge was obliged to escort him to the front door instead.
While he waited for the monk to arrive, Bartholomew looked around him. It was cold in the building – far colder than outside – and he shivered. The roof leaked so badly that there was barely a dry spot in the whole chapel, and the once-bright wall paintings were all but indistinguishable. There was a smell of rotting thatch, damp and incense, and the physician found it hard to imagine what the place had looked like in its heyday.
Motelete was in the Lady Chapel, which was in a slightly better state of repair than the rest of the building. He lay in the parish coffin, covered by thick blankets, as if some sensitive soul had not wanted him to be cold. Bartholomew stared down at the still, pale face, and felt an overwhelming sorrow that someone so young should have died. The clothes around Motelete’s neck were stained with so much blood that it was clear one of the great vessels in the throat had been severed. His skin was white and waxy, too, another sign of death by exsanguination.
‘I doubt we will find a crossbow bolt here,’ said Michael softly in the physician’s ear. ‘Even I can see that he died from his throat being cut. Do you agree?’
Bartholomew nodded, and pulled back the clothes to inspect the wound. It was difficult to see much, because the chapel was gloomy and gore had dried around the boy’s neck. He was about to ask for a lamp when there was a rattle of brisk footsteps, and he glanced up to see Arderne striding towards them. The healer was not alone; Candelby and several burgesses were at his heels, while Robin of Grantchester hovered tipsily at the rear.
‘Magister Arderne,’ said Kardington in surprise. He spoke Latin. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I heard the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to inspect the body of the boy Robin failed to save,’ boomed Arderne, once Spaldynge had translated. ‘So, I came to watch.’
‘I did my best,’ bleated Robin. Several Clare students exchanged grim looks, and Bartholomew suspected more clods of mud were likely to be flying the surgeon’s way. ‘But the cut was fatal, and the situation hopeless.’
Arderne sneered. ‘You could have tried to stem the bleeding. You did not bother, so you killed him with your ineptitude. Tell him, Bartholomew.’
‘Robin may have arrived too late to make a difference,’ hedged Bartholomew, unwilling to be used as a weapon to attack a colleague. ‘Patients can die very quickly with these sorts of—’
‘Rubbish!’ snapped Arderne. ‘You are siding with him because he is your friend. Robin was there the moment this lad was viciously assaulted, because he was hoping to earn a fee. He claims to be a surgeon, so he should know how to stop a wound from bleeding.’
‘You see?’ said Spaldynge to his colleagues, his voice thick with disgust. ‘What did I tell you? There is not a medical practitioner in Cambridge who knows what he is doing.’
‘There is now,’ declared Arderne. ‘If you can afford me, of course. I do not come cheap.’
Disgusted with the man’s self-aggrandisement, Bartholomew turned his attention to the corpse, and was about to resume his examination when Arderne elbowed him out of the way.
‘Let me,’ ordered the healer. He leaned down. ‘Here is the gash that caused his demise – you can see the incised vessels quite clearly. However, I have rescued men from a state of death before. I may be able to bring this lad back to life.’
‘Do not play games, Arderne,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware of the hopeful looks that were being exchanged between Motelete’s classmates.
Arderne ignored him. He removed a feather from his bag, and passed it several times up and down the body. ‘Yes, I sense life here.’
Bartholomew was too exasperated to contradict him.
The healer tapped Motelete sharply on the chest. ‘Open your eyes,’ he commanded. ‘I know you can hear me, so show us you are alive. Come on, lad. Wake up!’
Bartholomew gaped in shock when the corpse’s eyes flew open and Motelete sat up.
Thomas Kenyngham, founding Fellow of Michaelhouse and one of its most popular Masters, was buried that afternoon. He went into a vault in St Michael’s chancel, to join several other scholars who rested there. It started to rain the moment the funeral procession began, a heavy, drenching downpour that turned the streets into rivers of mud and soaked through the mourners’ clothes. The church was bursting at the seams, because many people had loved Kenyngham’s quiet gentleness, and it was not only Michaelhouse scholars who wanted to pay their last respects.
Before the ceremony began, Bartholomew had slipped away to the old man’s bier. Motelete’s return from the dead had unsettled him so much that he performed a small, discreet examination while his colleagues greeted the many guests who had been invited to attend. Only when he was absolutely certain that Keny
ngham was truly dead did he leave the coffin and return to his other duties. Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows.
‘No blisters in the mouth?’ he whispered. ‘Or tiny wounds in the head or chest?’
Bartholomew did not like to admit that it was the possibility that he misdiagnosed death that had driven him back to the old man’s body.
‘Of course not,’ he snapped, his distress over Kenyngham and his unease over the Motelete affair making him uncharacteristically irritable. ‘No one harmed him.’
Michael frowned unhappily. ‘So you said, but I cannot put that letter from my mind. Supposing it is not a hoax – that the writer has good reason to urge me to look into the matter?’
‘Then why does he not come forward openly? As I said at the time, Brother, it is just someone trying to cause trouble. Do not let him succeed.’
Michael did not look entirely convinced, but he forced a smile. ‘Then let us hope you are right. There is bitterness enough already, without one of Cambridge’s most-loved residents being brutally slain.’
‘Bitterness? Over what?’
‘Over the fact that Motelete could be raised from the dead, but Ocleye could not. Candelby asked Arderne what could be done for his pot-boy after he had finished with Motelete. I followed them to St Bene’t’s, where Arderne said the only reason he could do nothing to help Ocleye was because a Corpse Examiner had laid tainted hands on him first.’
‘Surely people do not believe such nonsense?’
‘Townsmen do, because it is another reason to be angry with us. But regardless of what people think about that claim, Motelete is powerful proof that Arderne possesses talents you do not. Bringing someone to life after two nights in a coffin is a remarkable achievement.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Spaldynge mentioned that, too, in one of his vicious diatribes against physicians. Arderne told Spaldynge that he could have saved the whole town from the plague, and Spaldynge believes him. He hates us more than ever now.’
Michael rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. ‘We should discuss this later – the Gilbertine Friars have just arrived, and we must go and talk to them.’
The rain had stopped by the time the rite was over, and people milled in the churchyard. They ranged from the Mayor and his burgesses, all wearing at least one garment of black to indicate not only their sense of loss but their adherence to courtly fashion, to a small army of beggars who had benefited from Kenyngham’s generosity. Isnard was there, too, tears flowing down his leathery cheeks as he told people how Kenyngham had sent him money for food when he had been too ill to work. He led the Michaelhouse Choir in an impromptu Requiem, which came to a sudden and merciful end when Langelee whispered that free ale was waiting for them back at the College.
Bartholomew did not feel like going home, and lingered in the cemetery talking to his medical colleagues, Rougham of Gonville and Paxtone of King’s Hall. Rougham was a bulky, belligerent man who had once opposed Bartholomew’s methods violently, but who had since buried the hatchet. They were not friends, but they rubbed along amiably enough, and even consulted on difficult cases. Paxtone was kinder, friendlier and much more likeable, although he was firmly of the belief that no medical theory was worthwhile unless it had been written down for at least three hundred years; newer ideas were regarded with deep suspicion before being summarily disregarded. Paxtone was not as fat as Michael, but he was still a very large man, who looked even more so because his bulk was balanced atop a pair of impossibly tiny feet.
‘I do not feel well,’ said Paxtone, rubbing his stomach. It was the wrong thing to say to two physicians, because they immediately began to ask questions, Bartholomew about the nature of his diet, and Rougham about his horoscope. It occurred to Bartholomew that he should be concerned about one physician being unwell so soon after the murder of another, but he pushed the notion from his mind. Paxtone was a glutton, and had probably overeaten again. His malady was nothing sinister.
‘You need a clyster,’ said Robin. His soft voice made them all jump because they had not seen him approach, and had no idea he had been listening. ‘I have devised a new recipe that includes extra lard, and I rinsed my pipes in the river only last month. I will perform the operation, if you like.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Paxtone, unable to suppress a shudder. The notion of having an enema from the unsavoury Robin was the stuff of nightmares. ‘It is kind of you to offer, but I ate a bag of raisins last night, and we all know what Galen says they do to the digestive tract.’
‘Do we?’ asked Robin warily. ‘What?’
‘I am more sorry about Kenyngham than I can say,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘And I am sorry about Lynton, too. He was not an innovative practitioner, but I shall miss him nonetheless.’
‘So will I,’ said Paxtone, grateful to be talking about something other than clysters. ‘He was studying Heytesbury’s writings, and was going to deliver a special lecture on them next term. It is a pity we will never hear what more he had to say on the matter.’
‘What matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The mean speed theorem?’
Paxtone nodded. ‘You and he discussed it a month ago in St Mary the Great, and he enjoyed it so much, that he was going to ask you to meet him at the Disputatio de Quodlibet. Did he tell you?’
Bartholomew shook his head. Only the very best thinkers were invited to take part in the Disputatio de Quodlibet, the University’s most prestigious forum for scholastic debate, and he was flattered that Lynton had chosen him as a sparring partner – or would have done, had someone not put a crossbow quarrel in his heart.
‘The mean speed theorem is a popular subject these days,’ Paxtone went on. ‘But unfortunately, I cannot see men wanting to pursue it now Lynton is dead. It is a great pity.’
‘Arderne is not here, thank God,’ said Robin, looking around at the other mourners. ‘I thought he might put in an appearance, given that he sees every gathering as an excuse to promote himself at the expense of the rest of us.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Rougham sharply.
‘He has been telling folk that none of us are any good,’ elaborated Robin. ‘He has even gone as far as whispering to some people that their loved ones would still be alive had I not intervened.’
‘He has made derogatory remarks,’ acknowledged Paxtone, graciously not pointing out that they were probably accurate in Robin’s case, ‘but I ignore them. Besides, his claims about his own skills are rash and stupid – he cannot possibly achieve some of the things he says he can do.’
‘He claimed he could raise Motelete from the dead, and look what happened,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Are you sure the boy was really a corpse?’ asked Rougham sceptically. ‘I have my doubts.’
‘He was dead,’ said Robin firmly. ‘I put a glass against his mouth to test for misting, I looked in his eyes, and I saw the wound on his neck. Arderne must have used witchcraft to raise him.’
‘Do not say that!’ cried Paxtone in alarm. ‘Once one medicus is accused of being a warlock, it is only a matter of time before we all join him on the pyre. Keep such thoughts to yourself, Robin.’
‘Perhaps he did manage something remarkable with Motelete,’ conceded Rougham reluctantly, ‘but his cure of Candelby is bogus. The man’s arm was not broken in the first place.’
‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to where Candelby was flexing the afflicted limb in front of a dozen awed burgesses. ‘He would not, though.’
‘It is a pity Arderne could not help Maud Bowyer,’ said Paxtone. ‘Word is that the poor woman is not at all well. She refuses to let Candelby in to see her.’
‘Perhaps the accident brought her to her senses,’ said Rougham unpleasantly. ‘She should not have allowed herself to be courted by such a worm. He is determined to destroy our University, you know.’
‘I will see you later, Matthew,’ said Paxtone, moving away rather suddenly. ‘Here come the two men Michaelhouse has nominated as its new
Fellows. I wish you every happiness of them.’
‘You must have been desperate,’ said Rougham, also beating a hasty retreat. ‘Tyrington is decent enough – or would be, if you could cure his spitting – but Honynge’s tongue is too sharp for me.’
‘We came to lend our support, Bartholomew,’ said Tyrington. His leer was less predatory than usual, perhaps because he knew it would be inappropriate to do too much grinning at the funeral of the man whose post he had been invited to take. ‘Michaelhouse is our College now, and we felt we should be here, despite the fact that neither of us knew Kenyngham very well.’
‘He was very old,’ said Honynge, ‘but I am sure you will miss him anyway. Is there anything we can do? No? Good. That will leave the rest of the day free for packing my belongings.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Tyrington, watching him walk away. ‘If I had known he was going to be brusque, I would have kept him away from you.’ He narrowed his eyes suddenly. ‘Is he talking to himself? His lips are moving, and he is shaking his head.’
‘He seems to do that rather a lot.’
‘Then perhaps that is why he is so rude – he spends so much time in his own blunt company that he does not know how to moderate himself when he meets folk who are more civil.’
Michaelhouse was home to a sombre gathering that night. The students were unusually subdued, and there was none of their customary laughing and chatter. Meanwhile, the Fellows struggled to make conversation in the conclave, but soon gave up and sat in silence. Kenyngham’s funeral had upset them all, and it had not been just the younger scholars who had wept.
The fireside chair usually occupied by Kenyngham – the best seat in the room – had been left empty, and Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before someone else would use it. Michael sat opposite, squinting at a Book of Hours. The light was dim, and Bartholomew knew he could not see well enough to read it; he supposed the monk’s thoughts were either with Kenyngham or on the murder of Lynton. Langelee was at the table, going over the College accounts with Wynewyk. They made the occasional comment to each other, but neither sounded as though the matter had his full attention. Bartholomew was marking a logic exercise he had set his first-years, although he was aware that he was not catching as many mistakes as he should. He was bone-weary from orchestrating yet another hunt for Falmeresham, this time using all his medical students. It had proved as fruitless as all the others, and when darkness had forced him to abandon his efforts, he had been all but overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness, frustration and despair.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12