To Kill or Cure (17 page)

‘You must be pleased about Motelete, Brother,’ said Wynewyk, after a short silence. ‘It is one less death for you to investigate,
and will give you more time to devise a solution to the rent war.’

Michael nodded. ‘It was a shock, though. Robin had pronounced Motelete dead from a cut throat and Matt had begun his inspection
of the corpse – which had been in its coffin since Sunday. Then Arderne waved his feather, and all of a sudden, the lad was
sitting up.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily. ‘Men do not rise from the dead – it is impossible.’

‘And yet it happened,’ said Langelee. ‘There were dozens of witnesses to the fact, because all Clare was there, along with
Candelby and several influential burgesses.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, still not sure what to think. ‘Motelete was cold, white and waxy, and there was a lot of blood
around his throat from what looked to be a fatal wound. He was—’

‘Then Arderne’s claim must be accurate,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘A fatal wound is a fatal wound. I worked for the Archbishop
of York before I became a scholar, and I know all about cut throats.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. No one was quite sure what Langelee had actually done for the Archbishop of York, and
the occasional oblique remark like that one did nothing to dispel the notion that his duties had had very little to do with
religion.

‘What happened to the wound after Motelete started walking around?’ asked Langelee, when no one said anything. ‘Did it disappear
completely?’

‘When I wiped away the blood, all that remained was a scratch,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But I must have been mistaken. People
do not—’

‘Corpses are always rising up when they lie at the tombs of saints,’ interrupted William.

‘But this did not happen at the tomb of a saint,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It happened in a half-derelict church, and was
instigated by a man with a feather. I do not trust it – and I do not trust Arderne. I have no idea how he did it, but I cannot
believe a miracle was involved.’

‘I have heard of cases where a person was pronounced dead, then started hammering on his coffin as it was lowered into the
ground,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps Motelete was one of these – he
looked
dead, but there was life still in him.’

‘Such cases are very unusual,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely happy with that explanation, either. He knew, with every fibre
of his being, that Arderne was a fraud, so how could
he
have detected a rare condition when a fully qualified physician had missed it? Or was Bartholomew losing his touch? He
thought back to the many other corpses he had assessed, and sincerely hoped he had not misdiagnosed death before.

‘How do you know they are unusual?’ asked William. ‘The churchyards might be full of contorted skeletons, all scratching furiously
at the soil in their desperation to escape.’

‘Please, Father!’ cried Wynewyk with a shudder. ‘That is an unnecessarily grotesque image to put in our minds before we go
to sleep.’

‘Well, whatever happened, it is good for Motelete,’ said Langelee, bringing an end to the discussion. ‘And I am delighted
for him and for Clare. They may have lost Tyrington – and that horrible Wenden, who was killed
last month – but they have managed to keep hold of Motelete.’

‘Then let us hope he stays alive,’ said William. ‘I am told the town is furious that he lives, when Ocleye remains dead. It
would be a pity if he was murdered a second time.’

When the oil in the lamp ran out and the conclave was plunged into darkness, Langelee suggested his colleagues go to bed,
because they could not afford to burn more fuel that night. Unusually, the students had retired before them, despite the fact
that there was oil aplenty in their lantern, and Bartholomew supposed none of them had felt like talking after Kenyngham’s
funeral. The Fellows walked in a silent procession through the hall, down the stairs and into the yard, where they stood in
a circle, reluctant to relinquish each other’s company and be alone with their thoughts. The moon was out, dodging between
clouds, and the buildings loomed black against the night sky. The College was strangely quiet, and there was none of the usual
sniggering and arguing that could be heard most evenings as the students readied themselves for sleep.

‘We should not linger here,’ said Wynewyk, glancing around uneasily. ‘Arderne delivered a love-potion to Agatha today, and
she is refusing to say which poor devil has attracted her interest.’

‘It will not be you,’ said William baldly. ‘You have always declared a preference for men.’

‘Is it you, then?’ asked Wynewyk archly. He eyed the friar in distaste, his gaze lingering on the filthy habit and unsanitary
hands. ‘I would think she was more discerning.’

‘I would not take her anyway,’ declared William. ‘I am a man of God, and I have foresworn sinful relations. Besides, she is
not my type – she is too opinionated.’

‘If it is me she wants, she will be disappointed,’ said Langelee. ‘I have a strong mind, and will resist Arderne’s concoctions
with no trouble at all.’

‘What do you think is in it, Matthew?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘I have read that mandrake has the ability to make men fall passionately
in love.’

‘It can also kill them, because it is poisonous,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘However, it is expensive, and I do not see
Arderne wasting it in potions that will not work anyway.’

Yet when the laundress appeared in the yard, hollering for the College cat to do its duty with a mouse, the Fellows bade each
other a hasty goodnight and headed for their quarters at considerable speed. Langelee was the only one with a chamber to himself,
although it was not much bigger than anyone else’s. Wynewyk roomed with three civil lawyers, and William had two Franciscan
novices. Bartholomew would normally have had Falmeresham for company, but although Cynric had unrolled the lad’s mattress
and set his blankets ready, the pallet remained empty and was a sharp and painful reminder that he was still missing.

The sight of it made the physician restless, so he lit a lamp, intending to work until he fell asleep. Most scholars could
not afford the luxury of a private lantern, but Bartholomew’s travels in France the previous year had put him at the Battle
of Poitiers. He had fought, although neither well nor badly enough to have attracted attention, but the King had been grateful
for his services to the injured afterwards, and had paid him well. Unfortunately, his reward was rapidly dwindling, because
he was in the habit of offering free remedies to his poorer patients. Falmeresham constantly warned him against the practice
but Bartholomew thought there was no point in ministering to the sick if he did not also provide them with the means to facilitate
their recovery. Langelee, of course, was
delighted by the goodwill Bartholomew’s generosity was earning Michaelhouse, especially at a time when the town was beginning
to rise up against the University.

The physician was writing a treatise on fevers. He had intended it to be a short guide for students, but it had expanded well
beyond that, and was reaching mammoth proportions. He picked up a pen, but his thoughts kept returning to his absent student,
and eventually he grabbed his cloak and set off across the yard.

‘Where are you going?’ asked his book-bearer, who was enjoying a cup of wine in the porters’ lodge with the morose Walter.
Cynric was a small, compact Welshman with grey streaks in hair that had once been black. He had been with the physician ever
since a chance encounter during a riot in Oxford, and was more friend than servant. ‘It must be almost nine o’clock – very
late.’

‘To look for Falmeresham.’

‘Again? Then I had better come with you.’ Cynric’s voice told Bartholomew there was no point in saying he wanted to go alone.
The Welshman excelled at sneaking around in the dark, and his eyes were already gleaming at the prospect of a nocturnal adventure.

Walter’s long, gloomy face was a mask of disapproval. ‘Master Langelee said not to let anyone out after dark, because the
town is uneasy. He does not want trouble.’

‘There will be no trouble,’ said Cynric confidently. ‘Not as long as I am with him.’

Reluctantly, Walter opened the gate and ushered them out. Cynric waited just long enough to satisfy himself that it had been
properly secured again, then raised enquiring eyebrows.

‘I was going to search the bushes in the graveyard of St John Zachary,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he crawled there,
to escape the mêlée.’

‘I have already looked, boy,’ said Cynric gently. ‘Twice. But we can do it again, if you like. We should be careful not to
be seen, though. It will look odd if we are caught poking around in a cemetery at this time of night.’

Bartholomew sighed tiredly. ‘True. Perhaps this is not such a good idea.’

Cynric grinned conspiratorially. ‘Almost certainly, but why should we let that stop us?’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew weakly, wishing Cynric was not always so eager to do things that were either shady or downright
illegal.

They spent an hour rooting through the moonlit undergrowth around the Church of St John Zachary, Cynric shoving the physician
into the shadows when the night-watch passed, or when the last of the revellers emerged from the nearby taverns. Apart from
them, the streets were deserted. When no sign of Falmeresham was forthcoming, Cynric suggested looking in Clare itself. The
College had substantial grounds, and although Kardington claimed every inch had been scoured for the missing student, Cynric
pointed out that the scholars would have been distracted by the news of Motelete’s death, and might not have searched very
carefully.

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Why would Falmeresham be inside Clare?’

‘Why would he be here?’ countered Cynric, gesturing at the cemetery. ‘You think he may have crawled into these bushes to escape
the brawl, so perhaps he limped to Clare for the same reason. The gate was open, because all the scholars had rushed out to
gawp at the accident – I saw it ajar myself. Anyone, including Falmeresham, could have gone through it.’

‘He would not have gone inside Clare,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He has no friends there.’

‘It was the nearest point of refuge –
I
would have gone there, had
I
been injured and there was a riot erupting around
me
. It may be a rival house, but you are all scholars, and he knew he would have been safe. He may have staggered into a thicket
and lost consciousness.’

‘We could wake Kardington, and ask him to look again.’

‘At this hour?’ asked Cynric incredulously. ‘He would think you had gone stark raving mad! Besides, he will accuse you of
questioning his honesty, because he told you he had searched every nook and cranny. No, boy. It is better that we take matters
into our own hands.’

Bartholomew gazed at the high walls with some trepidation. ‘You expect me to scale those?’

‘They were built to repel invaders,’ acknowledged Cynric approvingly. ‘However, I know a place where the mortar has fallen
away, affording plenty of good hand- and footholds.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ muttered Bartholomew ungraciously. ‘Can we not find a way through St John Zachary instead? It backs
on to Clare, and if we—’

‘Impossible,’ said Cynric with such conviction that Bartholomew was left in no doubt that he had already tried. He did not
want to know why. ‘It is easy to get inside the church from Milne Street, but even a mouse could not go from it to Clare.
Those scholars knew what they were doing when they blocked all the windows with such heavy shutters.’

He led Bartholomew to the back of the College, where the wall was lower and older, and cupped his hands to make a stirrup.
With grave reservations, Bartholomew placed his foot in the cradle, then yelped in surprise when he was propelled upwards
faster than he had anticipated.

‘Lower your voice,’ hissed Cynric sharply. ‘We do not want to be caught doing this – it would be difficult to
explain. And watch yourself on the top of the wall. It has sharp metal spikes embedded in it, designed to make thieves think
twice about scrambling over.’

Bartholomew smothered a curse when the warning came too late. ‘Have you done this before?’

There was no reply, and suddenly Cynric’s dark form was beside him. The Welshman clambered over the lethal spikes like a monkey,
then swarmed down the other side. Bartholomew was slower and less agile, and by the time he reached the ground he had ripped
a hole in his hose and skinned his knuckles. It was a small price to pay, he thought, if they found Falmeresham.

Clare’s benefactress had been generous. Not only had she provided her scholars with a fine hall and several houses, but she
had also given them a large plot of land. Herbs were being cultivated in neat squares, and beds were dug over for onions,
leeks, carrots and cabbages. Bartholomew was looking around uneasily, when Cynric gripped his arm and pointed. They were not
the only ones to be invading Clare – someone else was creeping slowly towards the College buildings.

Bartholomew and Cynric watched the hooded figure skirt the vegetable gardens and aim for the main hall. The man was trying
to move stealthily, but all the care in the world did not stop him from being perfectly visible in the bright light of the
full moon.

‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Cynric, his breath hot against the physician’s ear.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He knows where he is going, though, because he has not stopped once to orientate himself. It
must be a student, sneaking home after an illicit evening in a tavern.’

‘He has gone straight into the hall,’ whispered Cynric.
‘So you are probably right. But this is not helping Falmeresham, so you keep watch while I explore these fruit trees.’

While Cynric jabbed about with a stick, Bartholomew stared at the darkened College, waiting to see if the figure would reappear.
It was late enough that even the most studious of scholars had given up his books for the night and had gone to sleep, although
there was a lamp burning in the Master’s house. Kardington was evidently entertaining, because Bartholomew could hear two
distinct voices. He went to investigate, wondering what topic could keep men from their beds until such an unsociable hour.
Kardington was a skilled and entertaining disputant of theology, and the physician was sure that whatever he was saying would
be well worth hearing. It occurred to him that they might be discussing Blood Relics, and that he might learn something to
improve his understanding of the subject if he moved close enough to listen. Or perhaps they were talking about Falmeresham,
and eavesdropping would yield some clue as to his whereabouts; he knew it was unlikely in the extreme, but he was tired and
desperate, and could not stop himself from hoping.