To Kill or Cure (11 page)

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Silence me about what?’

‘About his dubious claims that a feather can mend broken bones, for a start. Here he comes. Be on your guard – and remember
that we have a killer to catch. We have no time to waste on spats.’

‘Speak of the Devil and he will appear,’ drawled Arderne, as he approached. His unblinking eyes shone oddly, and his long
black hair tumbled from under his red hat. ‘I was just saying how the people of Cambridge have been badly served by dirty
surgeons and ignorant physicians since the plague, and here is one of them.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Isnard, hobbling over to join them. ‘Bartholomew is a decent man. When my leg was crushed under
a cart, he cut it off and saved my life.’

‘If
I
had been here, there would have been no need for amputation,’ declared Arderne. ‘My feather would have cured your leg, just
as it did Candelby’s arm. Could
you
have salvaged Candelby’s limb, Bartholomew? Or would you have lopped it off?’

‘There is no way to know,’ replied Bartholomew calmly. ‘I did not examine Candelby’s injury, so I am not in a position to
offer an opinion about it.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Agatha, elbowing her way through the listening patrons to stand next to him. ‘And the same might
be said for Isnard’s leg. You were not there, Magister Arderne, so how can you pontificate on what was, or was not, the right
thing to do?’

Arderne shot her a pained look. ‘I most certainly
can
pontificate, madam.
I
am a professional man with a wealth of experience. I do not hide behind excuses, but boldly offer my views when they are
sought. And I could have saved your leg, Isnard. There is no doubt about it.’

‘Really?’ asked Isnard. ‘I do not suppose you can make it grow back again, can you? This wooden one is all very
well, but it keeps falling off as I make my way home from the alehouse.’

‘I could try,’ replied Arderne. ‘My feather has worked miracles before, and will do so again. A cure will be expensive, but
if you really want your leg back, you will not begrudge me the money.’

‘I
do
want it back!’ cried Isnard eagerly. ‘More than
anything
.’

Bartholomew fought to suppress the anger that was burning within him. It did not take a genius to see that Isnard was gullible,
and it was cruel to prey on his weakness. ‘It has gone, Isnard,’ he said quietly. ‘And it will never come back. Do not squander
your money on tricks.’

‘Tricks?’ echoed Arderne. ‘How dare you! You have never seen me work, so you have no idea what I can do. My brother is the
great John Arderne. Surely you have heard of
him
?’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tartly. ‘Is he in the habit of dispensing false hope, too?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Arderne, eyes blazing. ‘You are not even a surgeon, but a physician who has no right
to perform amputations. You are a disgrace to your profession!’

‘Hey!’ snarled Agatha. ‘This is one of
my
Fellows, and anyone who insults him answers to
me
.’

‘My apologies, madam,’ said Arderne with a bow. He was not a fool, and knew when it was wiser to retreat. ‘I spoke out of
turn.’

‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Agatha, still glaring. ‘I am going to finish my ale now, but I shall be keeping an eye on you, so you
had better behave yourself.’

She stamped away, and most of the patrons followed, eager to discuss Arderne’s remarkable claims among themselves, so it was
not long before the healer was left alone with Bartholomew, Michael and Isnard. Candelby was
itching to join them, but Agatha had cornered him, and was demanding to know the whereabouts of Blankpayn. The taverner was
shaking his head rather desperately, trying to convince her that he did not know.

‘Where did you earn your degree,
Magister
Arderne?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew or Isnard could resume the subject of missing limbs. ‘Paris? Montpellier?’

‘I do not hold with book-learning,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘My great body of knowledge comes through observation and experience.’

‘Why use the title, then? If you despise formal training, you should not need its trappings.’

‘It is a form of address that people like to bestow on me,’ replied Arderne smoothly. ‘I do not want to offend them by declining
it.’

‘Are you really John Arderne’s brother?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject when he saw the man would have glib answers
to account for all his deceits. ‘I met him once in Montpellier, at a lecture on bladder stones. He told me—’

‘I have not seen him in years,’ said Arderne, rather quickly. ‘However, I am his superior in the world of medicine. I am better
than anyone in Cambridge, too.’

‘Like Lynton?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You are better than him?’

‘Of course! He was a relic from a bygone age, and that made him dangerous.’

‘So, you think Cambridge is better off without him?’ pressed Michael.

Arderne regarded him with an expression that was impossible to interpret. ‘Without question. And now I must be about the business
of healing. I have a patient who wants a leg.’

‘Make it grow back, then,’ challenged Bartholomew.
He knew from the desperately hopeful expression on Isnard’s face that the bargeman would never listen to reason. ‘But he will
not pay you a penny until you have succeeded – right down to the last toe.’

Arderne shot him a black look. ‘That is not how it works. Do
you
wait until every patient is fully recovered before demanding recompense?’

‘He does, actually,’ said Isnard. ‘And sometimes he forgets to ask altogether.’

‘Well, I am not so careless,’ declared Arderne in a voice loud enough to ring through the tavern like a bell. People stopped
their own conversations to listen to him. ‘
I
am a professional. Do you have enough gold to pay me, Isnard? Miracles do not come cheap.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘Isnard will lose everything he has,’ he said to Michael. ‘Do something!’

‘Isnard’s greatest failing is his propensity to believe anything he hears, especially if it is something he wants to be true.
I can no more stop him from making Arderne rich than I can make him sing a soft
Te Deum
.’

There was a babble of excited conversation as Arderne strutted from the Angel tavern with Isnard limping at his side. The
miraculous saving of Candelby’s arm had captured public imagination, and folk wanted to be there when Arderne did it again.
They started to follow him, and Bartholomew glimpsed the healer’s grin of satisfaction when he realised his self-promoting
declarations had worked. It was not many moments before the tavern was deserted, except for Candelby and his pot-boys. The
servants began to clean up the mess left by the abrupt exodus, and the taverner himself came to see why two scholars should
dare linger in his domain.

‘I have nothing to say to you, monk – unless you have
come to your senses, and are here to tell me that I may charge what rent I choose in my own properties?’

‘I do not own that sort of authority, as I have explained to you before,’ said Michael. ‘It would involve a change in the
Statutes, and
that
would require a vote by the University’s Regent Masters.’

‘Then leave my tavern,’ said Candelby, beginning to walk away.

Michael caught his arm. ‘I am here about another matter – nothing to do with rents.’

‘What?’ demanded Candelby. ‘The fact that I charge scholars more for my pies than I charge townsmen? Your Statues cover the
price of ale and grain, but they do not mention the price of pies. I can do what I like as far as pies are concerned.’

‘How do you know what our Statutes allow?’ asked Michael, rather coldly.

Candelby’s expression was hostile. ‘Because I have made myself familiar with them. They are keeping me from charging my tenants
a fair rent, after all.’

‘I hear you lost a pot-boy in the brawl yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly in the hope of disconcerting
him.

Candelby glared. ‘Ocleye was a good fellow. I intend to offer a reward to anyone who provides information that exposes the
vicious scholar who stabbed him.’

Michael was horrified. ‘Please do not! It will result in a rash of unfounded accusations, because some folk will say anything
for free pennies. You are almost certain to be led astray, and arresting the wrong man will lead to trouble. Your stance over
the rents has already brought us to the brink of civil war, and this will make matters worse.’

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Candelby. ‘I am just standing up for
what is right. I should be allowed to rent my own houses to whomsoever I like.’

‘I did not write the Statutes – they were composed more than a century ago, so do not blame me. If you do not like them, go
and reside in some other town.’

‘I shall not!’ declared Candelby hotly. ‘It is your scholars who will leave, because either they will pay the rent
I
decide to charge, or they can live elsewhere. It is a straightforward choice. Personally, I hope they disappear – set up
their nasty hostels in some other hapless town.’

Michael changed the subject, because they had been over the same ground a dozen times, and nothing would be gained by doing
it again. ‘I did not come here to fight,’ he said tiredly. ‘All I want is to gain a clear picture of what happened yesterday.’

‘I was lucky Arderne was on hand to heal me. It is good to see medical care in the hands of a man who has nothing to do with
the University. Patients will flock to him, leaving your scholar–physicians with nothing.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael with an affected sigh.

‘Your colleagues are hypocrites, Brother. You order me to lease
my
buildings to scholars, but Lynton rented
his
to townsmen. Did you know that?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, abruptly taking the wind out of his sails. Bartholomew was uneasy, though, wondering how Candelby was
party to such information, when Michael had only just learned it himself. ‘And if he were alive, I would fine him for it.
But let us discuss yesterday’s events. Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

‘I was in my cart, taking Maud Bowyer home after church. Ocleye was riding in the back. Suddenly, I heard a snap. I looked
up, and there was Lynton, riding straight at me. The next thing I knew was that my wagon was in pieces,
Maud and I were in the wreckage, and Ocleye was fussing over me like a hen. Then Arderne arrived, and—’

‘And he healed you with his feather,’ finished Michael. ‘I think we have heard that part enough times. Do you mind if my colleague
inspects this miraculous cure?’

Candelby proffered his arm. ‘He
should
see what lay-healers are capable of. Perhaps he will learn something. Ignore the discolouration, Bartholomew – Arderne says
it will fade in two weeks.’

‘Did Lynton say anything when he rode at you?’ asked Michael. ‘Were his eyes open? Where were his hands? Clutching his chest
or holding the reins of his horse?’

Candelby shrugged. ‘I have no idea – it all happened too fast. Ask Maud. She may remember.’

‘We shall,’ said Michael. He sighed again. ‘Look, Candelby, Lynton was not the kind of man to commit murder, and anyone who
knew him would say the same. I doubt he intended to harm you.’

Unexpectedly, Candelby relented. ‘It did seem out of character. Let me think about your questions for a moment. I do not think
he was holding the reins, but good horsemen control their mounts with their knees, so that is no surprise. He did not say
anything that
I
heard. And I was more concerned with that great stallion bearing down on me, so I cannot tell you about his eyes.’

‘It was a mare,’ said Michael. He knew a lot about horses. ‘And a comparatively docile beast. She must have been startled
by this snap you said you heard.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Candelby. ‘The whole incident was dreadful, made worse by the brutal murder of Ocleye. And
now Maud refuses to see me. I have asked Arderne to give her a potion that will bring her to her senses.’

‘She refuses to see you?’ asked Bartholomew, finishing his inspection of the man’s arm. ‘Why?’

‘I wish I knew, but there is no fathoming the female mind. It is a pity you cannot ask Ocleye about the accident, but scholars
certainly murdered him – probably that rabble from Clare. At least poor Ocleye took one of them with him.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yes, it is a pity we cannot speak to Ocleye. Tell me, does he have any family here, or close friends?’

‘No one. He arrived at Christmas, and he was lucky I offered him employment, or he would have been destitute. Still, he was
a decent soul.’

‘Where did he live?’ asked Michael, a little carefully. He did not want to give too much away about the parchment his Corpse
Examiner had recovered. ‘Here, or did he have his own lodgings?’

Candelby’s face was inscrutable. ‘He was a pot-boy, Brother, so what do you think? Now, is there anything else, or can I go
back to work?’

‘Just two more questions. First, how did Ocleye die?’

‘He was stabbed in the chest by a student. The poor fellow lies in St Bene’t’s Church, so go and inspect him, if you do not
believe me. Take your Corpse Examiner – he will confirm what I say.’

‘Unfortunately, it is hard to distinguish between wounds made by townsmen and wounds made by scholars,’ said Michael ruefully.
‘If he could do it, it would make my work very much simpler. And secondly, have you seen your friend Blankpayn? He seems to
have disappeared off the face of the Earth, along with one of our students.’

Candelby retained his unreadable expression. ‘I have not seen either of them, although I understand the boy was grievously
wounded when he raced to attack poor Blankpayn.’

* * *

Michael left the Angel tavern aware that they had learned nothing useful. Either Candelby was unaware that his pot-boy had
signed a rental agreement with a scholar, or he was unwilling to admit to it. Meanwhile, Bartholomew seethed with frustrated
anger at the taunt in the taverner’s parting comment, and it had taken all the monk’s diplomatic skills – and physical strength
– to make him leave the tavern without throats being grabbed.