‘Honynge,’ he prompted, loath to speculate on matters that were none of his concern. ‘Perhaps he was going to steal some clothes from Clare. He is about to take up a new appointment, and he will not want to appear shabby in front of his future colleagues.’
‘We already know he is shabby,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘However, I do not see him as a thief, despite my antipathy towards him. What other reason could he have had for being there?’
‘None that I can think of – at least, nothing that does not involve burglary.’
‘I shall think of a way to ask him later. However, he is not as important as discovering what happened to Lynton or asking how my beadles are faring with Falmeresham. And we should visit Maud Bowyer, too. She is still not recovered, and Candelby remains banished from her presence.’
‘If she is angry with him, then perhaps she will not mind telling us what transpired in Milne Street on Sunday. However, I need to see the vicar of St Botolph’s first. He has a swollen knee.’
‘Robert Florthe?’ asked Michael. ‘I am sorry to hear that, because he is a friend. We shall visit him together, then, and you can cure his leg while he entertains me with gossip.’
As soon as Bartholomew and Michael stepped through the College gates, they were confronted by a strange sight. There was a queue of students standing outside, all waiting patiently in the rain. Those who were leaning against the walls straightened up when the two Fellows emerged, while others brushed down their tabards, hastening to make themselves look as presentable as possible. Some wore oiled cloaks against the inclement weather, but most were wet through.
‘Word has spread that Langelee intends to accept twenty new scholars,’ explained Michael. ‘And these are the hopeful applicants. But Honynge has bagged seven places for Zachary, Tyrington wants three, and you need two for Lynton’s boys, which means there are only eight places left.’
‘But there must be a hundred students here,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Why so many?’
‘Because the rent war has rendered the hostels’ situation precarious, and Colleges offer reliable accommodation, regular meals and decent masters. Do you understand now why we cannot let Candelby win this dispute? Eighty per cent of our scholars live in town-owned houses, and most of them are on the brink of poverty as it is – they cannot afford what he wants to charge.’
‘All these men are from hostels?’ Bartholomew was astounded.
Michael nodded. ‘I recognise most – many came to beg me to save their foundations from closure. All these – and more – will be permanently homeless if Candelby prevails.’
Bartholomew was moved to pity by the pinched, hungry expressions on the hopefuls’ faces, and began to usher them to St Michael’s Church, where they could wait out of the rain. The monk gave a long-suffering sigh, but then secretly slipped Cynric coins to buy them ale and bread. Carton, who was not petitioning the angels for Falmeresham’s safe return, but dozing in the Stanton Chapel, agreed to watch them until Langelee and Wynewyk were ready to begin interviewing.
The clamour of voices disturbed the two men who were kneeling at the high altar. Honynge and Tyrington turned in surprise, then came to see what was happening. When Michael explained, Honynge said the students’ mettle should have been tested by leaving them where they were – ‘only the keenest would have stayed the course’ – and Tyrington asked what he could do to help.
‘You should not have accepted this appointment,’ Honynge muttered. ‘Michaelhouse will prove to be a mistake, you mark my words.’
‘I beg to differ,’ cried Tyrington. ‘I think it is the best decision I have ever made.’
‘I was not talking to you,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘I was addressing myself, so kindly keep your nose out of my private discussions.’
‘Oh,’ said Tyrington, taken aback by the explanation. ‘My apologies.’
‘We came to say a mass for Kenyngham’s soul,’ said Honynge to Michael. ‘It was Tyrington’s idea, although I shall complete my devotions alone in future. He has a habit of spitting when he prays, which I find distracting.’
‘I do not spit,’ objected Tyrington indignantly. ‘What a horrible thing to say!’
‘You can make yourselves useful by helping Carton with these students,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt there will be trouble, given that they are eager to make a good impression, but there must be representatives from twenty different hostels here, and the competition is very intense.’
‘Surely Carton can manage alone?’ said Honynge with an irritable sigh. ‘I have plans for today.’
‘Carton is a commoner,’ said Michael, startled by the response. ‘He does not have the authority of Fellows-elect.’
‘And what will you be doing while we undertake these menial duties?’ asked Honynge unpleasantly. ‘Eating a second breakfast?’
Michael glared at him, deeply offended. ‘Looking for our missing student and trying to learn exactly what happened to Lynton.’
‘“What happened to Lynton?”’ echoed Honynge. ‘I thought he fell off his horse.’
‘He did,’ replied Michael cagily, aware that he had said more than he should and that others were listening. ‘But even accidents must be investigated.’
‘Well, I shall not stay – I am a theologian, not a beadle.’ Honynge began to walk away, adding under his breath, ‘There! That told them you cannot be treated like a servant.’
‘He is a strange fellow,’ said Tyrington, watching him leave. He treated Michael to a leer that had the monk stepping away in alarm. ‘But Carton and I can manage without him.’
‘Distribute the bread and ale as soon as it arrives,’ instructed Michael. ‘And I will ask Agatha to bring pies from the Angel later. You may be here for some time, so bag one for yourself.’
‘I do not eat the Angel’s pies,’ said Tyrington with a shudder. ‘They are far too greasy.’
‘Well, at least that is something he will not be gobbing at me,’ said Michael, wiping the front of his habit as they left. ‘But even so, I prefer his company to that of the loathsome Honynge.’
As Bartholomew and Michael walked along the High Street, they became aware of a commotion ahead. Michael groaned when he saw it comprised scholars from Clare and a number of apprentice leatherworkers from the nearby tannery.
‘Motelete cheated Death,’ one apprentice was yelling. ‘But Death does not yield his prey so readily, and Motelete will soon be seized and dragged down to Hell, where he belongs.’
‘Is that a threat?’ demanded the student called Lexham.
‘No, it is not,’ said Michael, thrusting his way between them. Knowing he had the power to fine, the apprentices did not linger. They stalked away, muttering a litany of insults that were not quite loud enough for the monk to take action on. The Clare students understood the sentiments, though, and their expressions were cold and angry.
‘They will not leave us alone,’ explained Lexham sullenly, when Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Every time we go out, they try to fight us. It is not our fault.’
A small, slight figure stepped from their midst, and Bartholomew recognised the elfin features of the lad Arderne had cured. Motelete looked fit and well, and the grim pallor that had afflicted him the day before had gone. He appeared to have recovered from his ordeal, but Bartholomew looked away, not liking to imagine what would have happened had he been buried.
‘I am to blame, Brother,’ Motelete said shyly. ‘If I had not been cured, no one would be angry. It is a pity Magister Arderne could not heal Ocleye, too.’
‘He said it was because of you, Doctor Bartholomew,’ elaborated Lexham guilelessly. ‘He maintains that physicians who examine cadavers accumulate the taint of death on their hands; this rottenness is then passed to living patients, like a contagion.’
‘Then his logic is flawed,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Matt touched Motelete, too.’
‘Actually, I did not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Only the clothes near his neck.’<
br />
Michael was never very patient with superstition. He turned to Motelete, ignoring the way the Clare students gave Bartholomew a wide berth. ‘Do you recall what happened the day you …’
‘The day I died?’ asked Motelete with a wry smile. ‘I watched Magister Arderne heal Candelby, but the situation began to turn ugly after they left. Master Kardington ordered us all home, but I tripped over Candelby’s broken cart, and by the time I had picked myself up, the others had gone. Everyone was fighting around me.’
‘It must have been unpleasant,’ said Michael encouragingly when the lad faltered.
Motelete nodded. ‘I do not like violence. Then I saw Falmeresham, lying on the ground and bleeding. I tried to help him up, but he was too weak. Almost immediately, I felt a searing pain in my neck, and blood cascaded everywhere. The next thing I recall was waking up in the church.’
‘Falmeresham was unable to stand on his own?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. It was the only account he had had of his student after the brawl had started, and it did not sound promising.
Motelete stared at the ground. ‘I think he was dying,’ he said in a choking whisper. ‘I am so sorry.’
Michael gave him time to compose himself. ‘Did you see Ocleye?’ he asked eventually.
‘It might have been him who attacked me,’ said Motelete. He seemed close to tears, and Lexham put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘It is all a blur, but I vaguely recall him being close by.’
‘You did not attack him, though,’ pressed Michael.
Motelete was horrified. ‘No, of course not! I was trying to help Falmeresham.’
‘How do you know Falmeresham?’ asked Bartholomew. His stomach was churning, and for the first time he began to think perhaps Falmeresham had not survived the incident. ‘He did not fraternise with scholars from other Colleges.’
‘I fell into a pothole on my first day here,’ said Motelete, flushing scarlet with mortification. ‘He helped me out, then carried my bag to Clare. He said I was too clumsy to be left alone.’
Michael ordered the students home, afraid that Motelete’s presence on the streets might spark more trouble, then he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to St Botolph’s.
‘I think Motelete is telling the truth,’ said the monk. ‘He is gangling and inept, exactly the kind of lad Falmeresham might take pity on. I do not think he harmed Ocleye, either. He would not know what to do with a crossbow – and he did not have one with him on the day of the murders anyway, because his friends would have noticed.’
‘I hope he is mistaken about Falmeresham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘About him being weak …’
Michael patted his shoulder. ‘Motelete is not a physician Matt. He saw blood and assumed a fatal wound. Do not put too much store in the observations of a layman.’
‘Unfortunately, they are the only observations we have been given.’
Many churches located near city gates were dedicated to St Botolph, a saint said to be sympathetic to travellers. His chapels allowed people to ask for his protection before they began their journeys, and recite prayers of deliverance when they came back. Cambridge’s St Botolph’s was a pleasant building, although it suffered from its proximity to the odorous King’s Ditch. It was seldom empty – England’s roads were dangerous, and few folk used them without petitioning the saints first. That morning, a party of wealthy nuns was going to London. They sang psalms in the chancel, while their servants inserted pennies into an oblations box, hoping to encourage Botolph to watch over them until they reached their distant destination.
Robert Florthe was in the cemetery, pulling brambles from the primrose-clad mound that contained those of his parishioners who had died during the plague. He was humming, oblivious to the fact that it was raining, and his priestly robes were stained with mud. He was pleased to see visitors, and insisted they join him in his house for a cup of warmed ale.
‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, palpating the hot, puffy knee with his fingers. ‘It will not mend if you do not keep your weight off it.’
‘So you said last time,’ said Florthe with a grin. ‘But those brambles were annoying me and I like being outside. I was sorry about Kenyngham, by the way – and sorry about Lynton, too. He and I were neighbours, and we saw a lot of each other.’
Michael sipped his ale. ‘I would hardly call Peterhouse a neighbour. It is some distance away.’
‘I mean his Dispensary,’ said Florthe, wincing when Bartholomew’s examination reached a spot that hurt. ‘Where he saw some of his patients.’
‘I thought he saw his patients in his College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or visited them at home.’
Florthe pointed through the window, to the smart cottage next to his own modest dwelling. Its main door opened on to the lane that bordered the churchyard, and it looked like the kind of house that would be owned by a moderately wealthy merchant.
‘People came to see him there in the evenings – perhaps his colleagues objected to townsmen and scholars from other foundations descending on them at night. He gave me a key once, to keep in case he ever locked himself out. Would you return it to Peterhouse for me? They probably do not know I have it, and poor Lynton will not be needing it now.’
Michael held out his hand. ‘They will not mind if I look inside first. It might serve as a hostel, and the University needs every building it can lay its hands on at the moment, what with Candelby ousting scholars from places we have occupied for decades.’
Florthe nodded sadly. ‘The students of Rudd’s evacuated this morning – the building is no longer safe, and Candelby refuses to effect repairs. Ovyng has taken them in, although it will be cramped. And Garrett’s lease expired today, so that returns to Candelby, too.’
Michael insisted on inspecting Lynton’s Dispensary before they did anything else, so he could ask the Master and Fellows of Peterhouse – the sole beneficiaries of Lynton’s will – to make it available for homeless scholars. He unlocked the door with Florthe’s key, and he and Bartholomew entered.
The house comprised one room on the ground floor, and a pair of attics above. The lower chamber was substantial, with a hearth, a huge table and a number of cushion-strewn benches. It smelled sweet and clean, but there was not the slightest indication that medical consultations ever took place in it. Bartholomew wondered where Lynton had kept the items he had ‘dispensed’, and climbed the ladder to the upper floor to look for urine flasks, astrological tables, medicines and other equipment. All he found was a large collection of silver goblets.
‘He was never one for physical intervention,’ he said, more to explain to himself the lack of basic tools than to enlighten Michael. ‘And he may have committed essential celestial charts to memory. I consult them when I prepare horoscopes, because they are a waste of time and I cannot be bothered to learn them, but Lynton was a firm believer and probably knew them by heart.’
‘This is a pleasant chamber,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘But the window shutters are painted closed, and I cannot open them. Why would that be?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘So no one could look in and watch him with his patients, I imagine. Some will have had embarrassing conditions, and would have wanted – demanded – privacy.’
‘I thought he had fewer patients than you, but these benches suggest they came to him in droves.’
‘He never seemed busy to me – at least, not with medicine. He did not accept just anyone as a patient, and tended to enrol folk who were not actually ill – ones who wanted preventative treatment rather than curative. He took some charity cases, but not nearly as many as Paxtone and Rougham.’
‘Or you,’ said Michael. ‘Almost all yours are poor.’
Bartholomew looked around him, trying to equate what he saw to the practical application of healing. ‘Perhaps Lynton examined his patients en masse – ordered everyone with ailments of the lungs, for example, to come at a specific time. Then he could purchase the appropriate remedies in bulk, and dispense them all at once.
It is quite common for Arab physicians to specialise in particular ailments or specific parts of the body.’
‘Lynton would never have embraced a practice favoured by foreigners. And what did you mean when you said he was busy, but not with medicine? Was he busy with something else, then?’
‘He was interested in the kinetics of motion; I think he might have been writing a treatise about it. He was always asking to borrow my copy of Bradwardine’s Tractatus de continuo and he knew the subject extremely well.’
‘The mean speed theorem,’ mused Michael. ‘You have talked about it before, and I can see it is an important advance in natural philosophy, although it is dull stuff with its “uniform velocities” and “moving bodies”. I would rather talk about Blood Relics, and that should tell you something, because William has beaten the subject to death and I am bored of it. However, a complex notion like mean speed seems an odd subject to attract Lynton.’
‘The mean speed theorem is not dull,’ argued Bartholomew irritably. ‘Nicole Oresme’s account of the intension and remission of qualities is—’
‘Another time,’ interrupted Michael. He elbowed the physician outside, and locked the door behind them. ‘I am too worried about Lynton, Falmeresham and the rent war to give it my full attention. Do you mind if we take a moment to visit Wisbeche, and ask if he will lend me the Dispensary to house some of these homeless scholars? It will not take a moment.’
Bartholomew followed him the short distance to Peterhouse. As they approached, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Someone was running, heading quickly towards the Gilbertine Friary. He frowned, puzzled.
‘That person was watching Peterhouse, Brother. He was sheltering in the doorway opposite, but his attention was fixed on the College. When he saw us coming, he made a dash for it.’
‘It is not Honynge, is it?’ asked Michael, screwing up his eyes as he peered up the road. ‘He lurks around Clare at odd times, so perhaps he spies on other Colleges, too. You had better give chase while I speak to Wisbeche. It will be the most efficient use of our time.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 15