To Kill or Cure (19 page)

‘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, Honynge 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.

‘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.’

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.