To Kill or Cure (40 page)

‘What a shame,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘Arderne will ruin him – fill his head with nonsense and superstition.’

‘I should have anticipated this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is frustrated when he asks questions that I cannot answer, and it
must be exhilarating to find someone with solutions at his fingertips.’

‘And that is the real pity,’ said Michael sadly. ‘His new source of knowledge runs foul and dark.’

Arderne kept Bartholomew and Michael waiting longer than was polite, and when he arrived, he was wiping his lips on the back
of his hand, indicating that he had finished feeding before going to see what the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner wanted.
Michael had been on the verge of leaving, but Bartholomew had persuaded him to stay, sensing that there were answers to be
gleaned from the sinister healer. Both scholars were surprised to see Isabel St Ives behind Arderne. She was dressed, but
her long hair cascaded freely down her shoulders, and looked tousled from sleep. Even Bartholomew, not the most observant
of men when it came to romantic dalliances, could tell she had spent the night.

‘Should you not be with your mistress?’ Michael asked.

The smile faded from Isabel’s face. ‘She died yesterday, so I am now without a home. However, Magister Arderne has a vacancy
for a good nurse, so we have been discussing terms.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, eyeing her disarrayed appearance pointedly. ‘Well, I am sorry about Maud. She was a good woman. She
made lovers of our scholars, but at least she was discreet about it.’

‘What do you want, monk?’ asked Arderne coldly. ‘A cure for gluttony? A miracle that will melt away your fat and render you
slim again?’

‘I am not a glutton,’ said Michael, startled. ‘And I am not fat, either. I just have big bones.’

‘Speaking of misdiagnoses, you gave Tyrington a remedy for spitting,’ said Bartholomew, cutting across Arderne’s bray of laughter.
‘It contained bryony.’

‘Mandrake,’ corrected Arderne, while Falmeresham frowned in puzzlement. ‘I would never use bryony, because it causes gripes.
I used mandrake, which has secret properties, as we all know. Traditional medicine has not unlocked many of its marvels, but
I know the plant well enough to be familiar with its benefits. It will cure Tyrington’s unseemly slobbering.’

‘You might have killed him,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘First you prescribe urine to Hanchach, and now some toxic potion
to Tyrington.’

Falmeresham gaped at him. ‘Urine? But Hanchach’s health is too fragile for—’

‘What I do is none of your affair, physician,’ snarled Arderne. ‘Leave me and my patients alone, or I shall prescribe something
that will make
you
wish you had never been born.’

‘Threats to cause harm?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is hardly what one expects from a healer.’

‘You can take it how you will,’ grated Arderne. ‘Now get out of my house.’

Falmeresham was dismayed. ‘Please,’ he said, stepping forward and attempting a placatory grin. His frustration at Bartholomew’s
inability to answer medical questions did not mean he was prepared to stand by while his former mentor was insulted. ‘There
is no need for hostility. We are all interested in the same thing: making people well.’

‘Is that so?’ said Arderne. ‘Then why do University physicians lose so many patients? A dozen deaths have occurred in the
few weeks since I arrived, all of which could have been prevented. Cambridge will be better off when these academics pack
their bags and leave
me
in charge.’

‘Where were you last night?’ asked Bartholomew, not deigning to reply. He thought of Edith, and itched to punch the man. He
was not often given to violent urges and was astonished by the strength of the rage he felt towards Arderne.

‘Here,’ said Arderne, reaching out to touch Isabel’s hair. She blushed furiously at the display of public affection, and pulled
away awkwardly. Then he fixed her with his pale eyes, and she gazed back, like a rabbit caught in the glare of a lantern.

‘We were
all
here,’ elaborated Falmeresham. ‘Magister Arderne taught me a new way to cure infections of the eyes, and Isabel was listening.
Why do you ask?’

‘Because Motelete is dead,’ said Michael.

Arderne shrugged. ‘So I heard, but I am not his keeper. What does it have to do with me?’

Michael found his attitude irritating. ‘Someone was pawing his corpse in the churchyard of St Mary the Great, and I wondered
whether anyone here might have something to say about it.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Arderne, affecting a bored look.

‘Such as whether you poisoned him,’ Michael flashed back. ‘Or whether you tried to raise him from the dead a second time,
and ran away like a coward when you were almost caught.’

‘It is all right, lad,’ said Arderne, when Falmeresham stepped forward angrily. The ex-student might dislike Arderne insulting
Bartholomew, but that did not mean he was willing to remain silent while Michael hurled accusations at his new master. ‘I
am used to enduring this sort of rubbish from disbelievers, and I usually treat them with the contempt they deserve by ignoring
them.’

‘You had better go,’ said Falmeresham to the scholars. He was struggling to control his temper. ‘I would not have let you
in, had I known you were going to be rude.’

‘What about the people outside?’ asked Bartholomew of Arderne. ‘Are you going to leave them there all day? It is raining,
and none are dressed for standing around in the cold.’

‘I have suggested they go home,’ replied Arderne, ‘but they remain hopeful of one of my cures. I do not mind them there, because
they advertise my trade nicely, and I may deign to heal one later. I do not usually bother with the poor, but they are doing
me a service, after all.’

He turned and walked away. Isabel trotted after him like an obedient dog, without so much as a nod to the scholars as she
left. Bartholomew wondered whether Arderne had put her in some sort of trance; certainly her behaviour was not normal.

‘I am pleased you are learning so many new things,’ he said to Falmeresham, as the student escorted them to the door. He felt
no resentment towards the lad, only sadness that he had proved to be so gullible. He supposed he should have trained him to
be less credulous of men who
claimed to have all the answers. ‘However, I hope Arderne’s attitude to the poor is not one of them.’

‘You could learn from him, too, if you would open your mind. You have no idea of the extent of his powers. I admit he has
his faults, but I am willing to overlook them in the pursuit of knowledge.’

‘Was Arderne telling us the truth about last night?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to discuss it. ‘Was he really in the whole
time?’

‘Yes,’ said Falmeresham. ‘He really was. We sat by the fire with Isabel, and he held forth about ailments of the eyes. Did
you know that lost sight can be restored simply by licking the eyeball?’

‘I know it is a remedy favoured by witches, but it does not work. And neither does rubbing a gold ring across the eye’s surface,
if he included that particular trick in his discourse, too.’

Falmeresham sighed irritably. ‘You do not know what you are missing by refusing to acknowledge his skills.’ He slammed the
door with considerable vigour, thus ending the discussion.

‘And was
Falmeresham
telling the truth?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked back along the High Street. ‘He knows his new master is not
perfect, but that is a long way from seeing through him. He may well fabricate tales to ensure Arderne is not charged with
Motelete’s murder.’

Bartholomew shrugged, not sure what to think. ‘He has never lied to me before.’

‘Then what about Falmeresham as the killer? He poisoned Motelete because he resented the attention Arderne gave him – and
because he stole from his hero. Despite his claim that the pots in Arderne’s dispensary are empty, there are still toxic substances
to hand, because you
said there was bryony in the remedy he gave Tyrington. Could bryony have killed Motelete?’

‘Yes – it would be in keeping with the blisters I saw. But it is not difficult to come by, and I imagine most households have
a supply of it, to cure coughs, spots and wounds.’

‘So the visit to Arderne did not tell us much?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

‘It told me I would like to make
him
try some of his remedies.’

That afternoon, when the rain stopped and the sun came out, Bartholomew went to visit patients. There were two cases of fever
among the ragged folk who inhabited makeshift shacks in the north of the town, but other than Blankpayn howling abuse, his
journey was mercifully uneventful. He prescribed his usual tonic for agues, and then walked to the Dominican convent, where
the prior was complaining of backache. The Black Friars were a hospitable group, and plied him with wine and cakes, so by
the time he left, he had overeaten and was slightly drunk. It was not a pleasant sensation, and he wondered how Michael and
Paxtone could bear doing it day after day. He returned home via the Barnwell Gate, keeping his temper admirably when the soldier
on duty pretended not to recognise him and demanded proof of his identity.

‘You know me, John Shepherd,’ he said mildly, aware that a queue was building behind him and that the delay was being perceived
as his fault. ‘I set your mother’s broken wrist last year.’

Shepherd glanced around furtively, then spoke in a testy whisper. ‘Of course I know you, but we are under orders to question
everyone in a scholar’s tabard or a religious habit. If I do not do as I am told, I will be reported.’

‘Orders from whom? The Sheriff is away.’

‘And
that
is the problem,’ said Shepherd in disgust. ‘Tulyet would never have issued such a stupid instruction. It comes from the burgesses,
led by Candelby. They are making a point.’

‘What point is that?’

‘That the town has control over some matters, and will make a nuisance of itself if scholars do not yield to its demands.
But I have delayed you enough to make it look good, so you are free to go.’ Shepherd lowered his voice further still. ‘I could
lose my job for telling you this, but warn Brother Michael that there is a move afoot to set fire to the University Church.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just finished repairing it from the last time it was attacked, and a big building
like that is expensive. Do you know when it will happen?’

‘Monday, probably. Stop it if you can. My house backs on to its cemetery, and when it goes up in flames, soot lands on my
wife’s best cushions. She is getting a bit tired of it.’

Unsettled, Bartholomew went on his way. When he reached the High Street, he saw Paxtone and Rougham. Paxtone was looking unwell
again, and was rubbing his stomach. Bartholomew knew how he felt, because he was suffering from the same heavy, bloated feeling
himself.

‘You two are in each other’s company a good deal these days,’ he remarked as they approached.

‘They are in my company a good deal, too,’ said Robin, peering out from behind Paxtone. The surgeon was small, and Bartholomew
had not noticed him behind the physician’s bulk. ‘It is safer that way, and if you had any sense, you would join us.’

‘We have formed an alliance,’ explained Paxtone. ‘Cambridge practitioners versus Arderne – or, to put it another way, honest
medici
against a leech.’

‘Arderne attacked us without provocation or cause,’ added Rougham. ‘So, we have decided the best way to combat him is by standing
together. Did you know he claims to have cured Hanchach of laboured breathing when you had failed?’

‘He did not cure Hanchach – Hanchach was getting better anyway,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘However, he might relapse if
he declines to take his lungwort and colt’s-foot. The phlegm will rebuild in his chest, and he will be back where he started.’

‘I heard Arderne donated some of his own urine for Hanchach’s remedy,’ said Robin. ‘He claims all his bodily fluids contain
healing powers, so he hoards them up and charges high prices for their sale. Why did I not think of such a ruse? I could have
been rich beyond my wildest dreams.’

There was a short pause, during which Paxtone and Rougham regarded the surgeon with distaste, and Bartholomew thought he might
be sick.

‘The fact that we are prepared to join forces with Robin should tell you how seriously we take the threat of Arderne,’ said
Paxtone to Bartholomew.

‘Here!’ said Robin, offended. ‘This alliance was my idea.’

‘True,’ said Rougham. ‘And we were none too keen when you first mooted it, but we see now that we have no choice. This is
no place to talk, though. Come to the Angel, and I shall buy us all something to eat.’

‘The Angel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not think we should go there.’

‘Michael does not mind us purchasing food, just as long as we do not drink,’ argued Rougham. ‘Besides, you can always tell
him you were investigating Ocleye’s death. I can tell you something that will lend credence to the lie, if you like. It is
not much, though, just a snippet.’

‘What?’

‘The day before he died, I saw Ocleye in conversation with a man who wore a hood to conceal his face. Ocleye was eating a
pie, but his companion did not touch his, so something had robbed the fellow of his appetite. Ocleye was a spy, so he was
obviously conducting some shady business.’

‘He was a shady man,’ agreed Paxtone. ‘I also saw him meeting with an unusual array of people – Spaldynge from Clare, and
Carton of Michaelhouse, to name but two.’

‘Carton is not shady,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘He is not someone I would want as a colleague, though. He is complex – like Lynton, a man of many layers.’ Paxtone turned
to Rougham. ‘But Matthew is right – we should be wary of breaking University rules. We shall eat these victuals in St Bene’t’s
Churchyard. A man cannot live without a decent pie, and I would not be the man I am today, were it not for the Angel.’

Bartholomew looked him up and down, and considered telling him the Angel had a lot to answer for, but a sober voice at the
back of his mind reminded him that these were friends, and he should not insult them because he was tipsy. He took a deep
breath to clear his wits, and followed them through a series of back alleys to Bene’t Street. They stepped into the leafy
churchyard, where Paxtone sank on to a lichen-glazed tombstone. He clutched his stomach, and seemed to be in pain.