To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  He padded across the garden until he was directly under the window, and insinuated himself into the shrubs at the base of the wall. Kardington and his guest were in the solar on the upper floor. They were speaking softly, but the shutters were open, and their words carried on the still night air.

  ‘… had no right,’ came a voice that Bartholomew recognised as that of the Master. He was speaking Latin, of course. ‘It was not yours to sell, and the whole town knows it.’

  ‘It is unfortunate,’ said his companion apologetically. ‘And your ready forgiveness of me is giving rise to speculation and suspicion. I would not have harmed the College for the world, and I wish there was something I could do to remedy the situation.’

  ‘I know that, Spaldynge. But it is a pity you traded with Candelby, of all men. He is determined to destroy the University, and you have provided him with ammunition.’

  ‘Do you think Michael will win the fight?’ asked Spaldynge. His tone was uneasy.

  ‘I hope so, because if he loses, the University will cease to exist in a few years – or will be reduced to a few struggling Colleges. If that happens, Clare may be blamed, because you tipped the balance by selling Borden Hostel to the enemy. But what is done is done, and dwelling on the matter will help no one. How are your students settling in? Going from a small hostel to a large College must be difficult for them.’

  ‘They will be all right. I am sorry to say it, but it is easier without Wenden. He had a cruel tongue, and would have made them feel unwelcome.’

  ‘I would have ousted him years ago, had I known he was going to renege on our agreement and omit Clare from his will. The money you raised by selling Borden arrived just in time, or we would have been reduced to eating the kind of low-quality fare endured by Michaelhouse.’

  ‘It serves them right,’ said Spaldynge bitterly. ‘They train physicians, so I hope they starve.’

  ‘Speaking of physicians, Arderne’s miraculous healing of Motelete means we have attracted attention – and attention is something we do not want at the moment, given … well, you know.’

  In the bushes below the window, Bartholomew grimaced, wishing Kardington would be more explicit. Then he happened to glance across the yard and saw a figure slinking stealthily towards him. He could tell, from the shape of the hood on the cloak, that it was the same person who had been lurking about earlier. So, he thought, it had not been an errant student after all. He watched the man edge closer, and began to feel uncomfortable. Kardington’s lamp and the full moon were throwing a fair amount of light into the garden, and he was not as invisible as he would have liked. Could the hooded intruder see him, and was coming to flush him out?

  But the figure was moving furtively, and would surely have shouted for help if he intended to expose an invader. With a sudden flash of understanding, Bartholomew realised that the fellow’s intention was to hide among the shrubs and eavesdrop on Kardington, too. There was certainly not enough room for both of them, and the physician saw he was going to be caught. For a moment, he could do nothing but watch in alarm as the man advanced across the yard. Then a plan snapped into his mind. He cupped his hands and blew into the hollow between them, making a noise that roughly approximated the hoot of an owl. The shadow stopped dead in its tracks.

  ‘That was very close,’ said Kardington, puzzled. Bartholomew heard footsteps tap across wooden floorboards as the Master came to look out of the window.

  ‘It was not like any owl I have ever heard.’ Spaldynge’s voice suddenly became shrill as his finger stabbed the air above Bartholomew’s head. ‘Someone is there! We are being burgled again!’

  ‘Ring the bell!’ shouted Kardington. ‘Hey, you! Stop where you are!’

  The hooded figure turned abruptly, and broke into a run. He headed straight for the crumbling wall, moving even faster when Spaldynge’s hollers began to wake others. Two night-porters appeared at the far end of the College and started to give chase. Bartholomew grimaced. He had intended to drive the other man off, not initiate a hunt. What should he do? Try to lay hands on the intruder, on the grounds that the fellow’s business in Clare was clearly far from innocent? But then how would he explain his own presence? And what if he was captured and the hooded man escaped? Kardington would assume, not unreasonably, that it had been the physician he had seen tiptoeing towards his quarters.

  Clamours and alarums in the middle of the night were not uncommon in Cambridge, and students had learned to respond quickly. They began to pour from their chambers, and some had had the presence of mind to bring pitch torches. Staying hidden was no longer an option, so Bartholomew abandoned the bushes and tore across the yard, also aiming for the crumbling section of wall. He almost lost his footing when Cynric suddenly appeared from behind a tree, and indicated they were to run in the opposite direction.

  ‘I told you to keep watch,’ hissed the book-bearer. ‘Why did you let Kardington see you?’

  ‘He did not see me,’ objected Bartholomew, racing after him. ‘He saw that hooded man.’

  Cynric glanced around. ‘But unfortunately, he has escaped, and everyone is in hot pursuit of us. You should have stayed where you were, then walked away when the coast was clear.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, risking a quick look behind and seeing at least a dozen yelling scholars on their heels. ‘Now we are in trouble! Shall we try to explain?’

  ‘I do not think so! They are not in the mood for listening.’

  Bartholomew was unfamiliar with Clare’s grounds, and his progress through them was slower than that of the more fleet-footed students. They began to gain. He tried to run harder, heart pounding, chest heaving and leg muscles burning from the effort. Cynric was right: they were angry, and were going to vent their rage with fists and boots. He concentrated on running, aware that the ground was sloping downwards. They were at the back of the College, where a wall separated it from the river and the towpath.

  Unerringly, Cynric aimed for a specific point, and was over in a trice. He straddled the top of the rampart, and leaned down to take Bartholomew’s hand, hauling him upwards with surprising strength for so small a man. But Spaldynge had arrived, and he laid hold of the physician’s leg. Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide back down again. He kicked out, and heard Spaldynge curse as he lost his grip. He clambered inelegantly over the wall, landing awkwardly on the other side. Cynric darted towards the nearest boat, and cut through the mooring rope with his dagger.

  Bartholomew did not like the notion of adding theft to the charge of trespass. ‘Isnard,’ he gasped. ‘We will take refuge—’

  ‘Isnard has taken against you for severing his leg – Arderne said it was unnecessary, and Isnard believes him. He will give you up. Hurry!’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew jumped into the skiff and Cynric began to row. The Clare scholars milled about helplessly, shrieking their frustration and rage as they arrived to see the little craft bobbing away from them. Fortunately, it did not occur to them to steal a boat and follow, and no one was stupid enough to risk swimming, not when the river was swollen with recent rains. Cynric powered towards the opposite bank and jumped out. Before disappearing into the marshy meadows that lay to the west of the town, he turned and gave the enraged scholars an impertinent wave.

  ‘That jaunty little salute was unkind,’ Bartholomew remarked critically, when they were safely hidden among the bulrushes and reeds. ‘Was gloating really necessary?’

  Cynric was laughing softly; he had thoroughly enjoyed the escapade. ‘Yes, because it was not something either of us would have done.’ He saw his master’s look of total incomprehension. ‘Now, if anyone accuses us of being the culprits, we can point out that we are not the gloating types.’

  ‘Did you see that hooded figure?’ Bartholomew asked, not entirely sure the book-bearer’s tactic would work. How could they claim they were not the ‘gloating types’ without admitting guilty knowledge of the gesture in the first place? ‘Did you recognise him at all?’
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br />   Cynric nodded. ‘Oh, yes. It was Honynge – our new Fellow.’

  The following day was wet, and the dreary weather matched Bartholomew’s bleak mood. He had experienced an acute sense of loss that morning when he had glanced at the spot in the chancel where Kenyngham normally stood, and the sombre faces of his colleagues suggested he was not alone in grieving for the old man. Further, he was still in an agony of worry over Falmeresham, and the incident with Motelete had knocked his confidence more than he liked to admit. It was not that he objected to being proven wrong, but he was appalled that he should have been quite so badly mistaken. Two patients summoned him for consultations that morning, and he was so wary of making another misdiagnosis that even Deynman had commented on his excessive caution.

  ‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Michael sternly, when the physician eventually returned to Michaelhouse. ‘What were you thinking of, marauding through Clare’s cabbages last night?’

  Bartholomew had more pressing matters on his mind. ‘William has offered to preside over the disputations today, because he knows I want to look for Falmeresham. But Langelee and Wynewyk are out, and I am loath to leave him in sole charge.’

  His concern intensified when the friar announced the topic of the day would be Blood Relics, specifically that Bajulus of Barcelona’s arguments were so good that no evil Dominican would ever be able to refute them. His agitation increased further still when Deynman offered to help.

  ‘Christ!’ he muttered in dismay. ‘There will be a riot here, never mind the town.’

  ‘There is no call for blasphemy,’ said Michael sharply. ‘You are not on the battlefield now. Look, there is Carton. Perhaps he will supervise the proceedings.’

  ‘I am afraid I have a prior commitment,’ said Carton, overhearing. ‘I heard you come home very late last night, Doctor Bartholomew. Were you with a patient or looking for Falmeresham?’

  ‘Both,’ said Michael quickly. He did not want anyone to know what the physician had really been doing, lest it led to trouble with Clare.

  ‘But you learned nothing,’ surmised Carton, seeing the defeated expression on the physician’s face. ‘And I do not know where else to look – I have visited every College and hostel in Cambridge, but no one has seen anything. Perhaps it is time to give up.’

  Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘Falmeresham knows how to look after himself. If his wound was not too serious, then he might have been able to—’

  ‘But it was serious,’ said Carton tearfully. ‘We all saw the blade slide into his innards.’

  ‘We are doing all we can to find him,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘My beadles hunted for him all last night, and they will not stop the search until I say so – which will not be as long as there is even a remote chance that he might still be alive.’

  ‘They are more experienced in such matters than me,’ said the Franciscan, with a dejected sigh. ‘So, I shall go to the church, and pray to St Michael instead. Perhaps he will spare one of his angels to watch over Falmeresham.’

  ‘Carton is an odd fellow,’ said Michael, watching the commoner walk away. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether he has a reason for constantly letting us know the depth of his concern – lest evidence ever comes to light that says Falmeresham was actually killed by a friend, not an enemy.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

  Michael grimaced ruefully. ‘Yes, it is, so ignore me. I am overly tired, and cannot think straight. However, I have a feeling we may never find out what happened to Falmeresham – we may spend the rest of our lives pondering his fate.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. He knew the chances of finding the student alive were decreasing as time went by, but he refused to give up hope. ‘He will come home.’

  ‘Is that what led you to invade Clare last night – a dogged belief that he might still be awaiting rescue? Did you know Spaldynge claims to have recognised you?’

  ‘Does he?’ Bartholomew supposed it was not surprising; the man had been close enough to grab his leg, and the moon had been very bright.

  ‘Fortunately for you, Kardington maintains that such a notion is ludicrous – that the University’s senior physician would never stoop to such behaviour. Meanwhile, the Clare students think Spaldynge is picking on you because you are a medicus. They have dismissed his testimony, and are so certain of your innocence that Spaldynge’s own convictions have begun to waver.’

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed Bartholomew in relief.

  ‘Of course, it will be difficult to explain why your hands are grazed,’ Michael went on. ‘We shall have to say you fell over in our yard. It is certainly slick enough today, with all this rain.’

  ‘Kardington did not sound as angry with Spaldynge as he should have been,’ said Bartholomew, attempting to change the subject and discuss what he had overheard instead. In the cold light of day, the previous night’s adventure had been hopelessly misguided, and he did not blame Michael for being angry with him. ‘Over selling Borden Hostel, I mean. I wonder why.’

  ‘Because Kardington is a good and forgiving man,’ replied Michael. ‘He has advised his students to forget about the “burglary” last night – he believes the culprit was just someone who wanted to glimpse the miraculous Motelete.’

  Bartholomew began to feel vaguely ashamed of himself. ‘I see.’

  Michael glared at him. ‘How could you think Falmeresham might be in Clare’s grounds? Kardington has already assured you that they have been thoroughly searched.’

  ‘But he must be somewhere, Brother, whether he is dead or alive – and Cynric had a point when he said the Clare students might have been distracted when they performed the original hunt.’

  ‘I am upset about Falmeresham, too, but it does not give me the right to invade rival foundations whenever I feel the urge.’ Michael gave a sudden grin, suggesting his irritation was not as great as he would have his friend believe. ‘Tell me about Honynge.’

  ‘He was just a hooded shadow to me. It was Cynric who identified him.’

  ‘Cynric says he is quite sure of what he saw, so I visited Honynge this morning, while you were with your patients. His knuckles are even more mangled than yours. Unfortunately, I could not think of a way to broach the subject without revealing your role in the debacle.’

  Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Why would a senior scholar be lurking in the grounds of Clare in the depths of the night?’

  Michael regarded him askance. ‘And you ask this question?’

  ‘Honynge was not looking for a missing student.’

  ‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Did he see you during all the confusion last night?’

  ‘Cynric says not.’

  ‘Then you are probably safe – Cynric is usually right about such things. Do you think Honynge was trying to follow in your footsteps, and eavesdrop on the Master?’

  ‘I was not eavesdropping,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. He reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose I was, actually. I heard him talking and I admire his scholarship, so I went to see if I could hear what sort of topic kept him up so late.’

  Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You have been enrolled in universities for more than two decades, and you have some of the sharpest wits of anyone I know. You have fought deadly battles at the side of the Black Prince, and you have travelled to all manner of remote and exotic places. Yet sometimes you are so blithely naïve that you take my breath away. You went to eavesdrop on Kardington for academic reasons?’

  Bartholomew felt defensive. ‘He is a famous disputant, and William’s mention of Blood Relics last night put me in the mood for a theological discussion.’

  ‘Well, next time you experience such a compulsion, come to me and I will debate with you. It would be a good deal safer for everyone concerned. But let us return to Honynge.’

  ‘Perhaps he was visiting a lover,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk scales walls when his latest fancy lives in another foundation. However, Hon
ynge did not look as though he was trysting.’

  ‘I think he prefers women, anyway. I saw him smile at Agatha yesterday.’

  ‘I smiled at her, too, but it does not mean I entertain a fancy for her.’

  ‘You might,’ warned Michael, ‘if she doses you with this love-potion from Arderne. We shall have to watch what we eat and drink from now on. I have asked Cynric to stay in the kitchen when meals are being prepared, just in case she tries to slip this mixture into something I might consume.’

  ‘Such draughts are fictions, invented by the cunning and accepted by the gullible. Agatha can slip it into whatever she likes, and it still will not see her surrounded by suitors.’

  ‘I hope you are right, because I believe she has me in her sights.’

  Bartholomew laughed, appreciating his friend’s attempt to cheer him up. Michael was not smiling, however, and the physician saw he was serious. ‘She does not! She would never seduce a monk in holy orders. Besides, I suspect you are too large, even for her tastes.’

  Michael glared at him. ‘Many women tell me I am a handsome specimen, and the fact that I am unavailable just serves to make me more appealing. And I am not fat. I just have big bones.’

  Bartholomew had suspected for some time that Michael was unfaithful to his vows, although he had never actually caught him in flagrante delicto. But suspicions did not equal evidence, and Bartholomew certainly had no proof that Michael had ever availed himself of the many ladies he claimed were always clamouring for his manly attentions, so perhaps he was doing the monk an injustice.