To Kill or Cure (16 page)

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.

Finally, Father William was reading a tract by a Franciscan called Bajulus of Barcelona, who had written that Blood Relics
– drops of Christ’s blood – were a physical impossibility on the grounds that anything holy would have risen with Him at His
Resurrection; only unholy substances would have been left behind on Earth. This contention was hotly opposed by the Dominicans,
because of the implications for the Transubstantiation at masses, and the resulting schism was tearing the Church apart. Unfortunately,
William had scant understanding of the complex theological issues involved, and his chief concern was just to oppose anything
postulated by members of a rival Order. Every so often, he would give a small, crowing laugh, or snort his satisfaction.

It was not long before Michael became annoyed with him.

‘I fail to understand why you feel compelled to produce all these cackles and hisses,’ the monk snapped, after a particularly
loud explosion of delight. ‘Blood Relics are nothing to snigger over.’

‘I am merely voicing my appreciation for Bajulus’s argument,’ said William. He was used to Michael venting his spleen on him,
and insults and put-downs were like water off a duck’s back. ‘He
proves
we Franciscans are always right in theological matters. I wonder what Honynge and Tyrington think about Blood Relics. I know
you all agree with me, so I hope
they
do not elect to be controversial.’

‘I doubt they would dare,’ muttered Langelee. His Fellows did hold opposing views – they just chose not to air them with William.
The Franciscan was not a good intellectual sparring partner, because he was in the habit of stating his opinions, then declining
to listen to the other side. Michaelhouse was used to his idiosyncrasies, but the new members were going to be in for a shock.

‘When do they arrive?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The day after tomorrow.’ Langelee held up his hand when he saw the startled expressions on his colleagues’ faces. ‘I know
it is sudden, but there are reasons for having them installed quickly. First, we need someone ready to take Kenyngham’s classes
as soon as possible, and secondly, we would have lost Tyrington to Clare had we not acted promptly.’

‘Clare wanted him?’ asked William. He looked pleased. ‘And we got him first? Hah!’

‘We pre-empted St Lucy’s Hostel, too,’ added Langelee, a little smugly. ‘Honynge’s lease on Zachary is due to expire at the
end of this week, and when Lucy’s heard about it, they raced around to ask him to be
their
Principal. Had Michael delivered our invitation a moment later, Honynge might have been lost to us.’

‘Damn!’ murmured Michael. ‘Damn, damn!’

‘We are lucky to get him,’ said Langelee, shooting the monk a warning look. ‘And I want you all to make him welcome when he
arrives. He fulfils all our academic requirements perfectly.’

‘There is that, I suppose,’ conceded Michael. ‘Although I cannot say I like him. Still, at least you do not need to wear an
apron when you talk to him, as you do Tyrington.’

‘Tyrington said kind things after Kenyngham’s funeral,’ said Wynewyk. ‘But when I spoke to Honynge, I had the impression it
was a three-way conversation – between me, Honynge and Honynge.’

‘I hope he does not give us a reputation for lunacy,’ said William. He turned to Langelee before anyone could point out that
Michaelhouse was already famous for owning several strange Fellows, and that William was one of them. ‘I wish they were not
coming quite so soon, though. There will be no time for us to grow used to the fact that Kenyngham is gone.’

‘I know,’ said Langelee sympathetically, ‘but term starts next week, and we need Tyrington and Honynge to begin teaching.
We are all stretched to the limit, and cannot manage any more classes.’