To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but it was basic surgery, and he did not apply his magic, which is why she is not recovering. I do not mean to offend you, Doctor Bartholomew, but medicine is not very effective unless it is also accompanied by spells and incantations. I learned that during the plague, when physicians failed to save my family.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

  ‘Will you see her?’ Isabel asked impulsively. ‘Despite my beliefs, you were a friend of Lynton’s, and my mistress may be pleased to see you. I would give anything to see her smile again.’

  Isabel led Bartholomew and Michael upstairs to a pleasant chamber lit by a fire; the shutters were closed, lending the room a warm, cosy feel. However, even the herbs set in bowls on the windowsills could not disguise the stink of sickness and corruption, and Bartholomew went to the bed with a heavy heart, already knowing what he would find.

  The splinter had been driven deep into Maud’s shoulder, but it had been carelessly removed, leaving slivers behind. The wood had been tainted with filth from the street, so the wound was badly infected. Had the injury been on an arm or a leg, Bartholomew would have recommended its removal, before bad humours could permeate the rest of the body, but he could not amputate a shoulder, and Maud was going to die.

  ‘I cannot cure her,’ he whispered to Isabel. ‘I am sorry.’

  Isabel’s expressive face registered her distress, but she smiled at him anyway. ‘I know you would have done, if you could. It is not your fault you cannot help her now, just as it was not your fault when you could not help her last year.’

  ‘Maud’s eyes,’ explained Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Lynton asked for a second opinion, because her sight was clouding and he did not know how to stop it from getting worse. And, I am sorry to say, neither did I.’

  ‘I will summon Magister Arderne again,’ said Isabel, speaking softly so as not to disturb the patient. ‘If I give him six gold goblets, he may agree to work one of his miracles.’

  ‘They will certainly encourage him to try,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I can give Maud something for the pain, though. She does not have to suffer like this.’

  Isabel watched him dribble a sense-dulling potion between the sick woman’s lips. ‘Let us hope that will see her through until Magister Arderne arrives. Then he will cure her, and all will be well,’ she said.

  Bartholomew bathed Maud’s face with a wet cloth, and after a few moments, she opened her eyes. She was smiling distantly. ‘I thought you were Master Lynton. He had a way of wiping a hot face with a cool rag, too. Arderne uses a feather to draw out poisons and reduce fevers.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally. He refrained from denigrating Arderne’s methods, on the remote chance that the man might succeed where traditional medicine failed. He knew from experience that a person who believed in a cure was more likely to survive than one who did not, and he wanted Maud to have every chance of recovery, no matter how small.

  ‘Hugh Candelby plans to marry me,’ she went on. The fever was making her ramble. ‘But I will not have him. He was never more than an amusing diversion, but I see now that he was only after my property – to use against the University. I will not allow that to happen.’

  ‘It is good to know we have one friend, at least,’ said Michael softly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I tried to talk him out of this confrontation over rents, but he would not listen. I like the University and its scholars. They are courteous, erudite and pleasant, while most burgesses are unkempt and oafish. Do not worry, Brother. I will never allow Hugh to get my houses.’

  ‘Brother Michael wants to know what happened on the day you were hurt,’ said Isabel quietly. ‘Can you tell him what you recall?’

  Maud coughed weakly. ‘Hugh had just been telling me about his latest plan to thwart the University, which involves issuing an ultimatum and refusing to budge. He says he will break your laws as he pleases, because you cannot stop him – or force him to pay any fine you care to levy.’

  ‘He has a point,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘Invading his home and making off with silverware in lieu of coins will not go down very well with his fellow worthies. They will riot.’

  ‘That is what he hopes – such an outrage would force the waverers to commit to his cause. The next thing I remember is sitting among the remnants of his cart. Then Arderne took me home.’

  ‘Did Candelby have a weapon with him that day?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Of course,’ said Maud, surprised he should need to ask. ‘What sane man does not?’

  ‘Do you know what kind?’

  ‘He always has a crossbow – not a very large one, but one that makes thieves think twice.’

  Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a startled glance. ‘Is he capable of using it on anyone?’ asked Michael, rather eagerly.

  Maud shook her head, and Bartholomew saw her eyes begin to close. The potion he had fed her was sending her to sleep at last. ‘That is the ridiculous thing. It was never loaded.’

  When the two scholars left Maud’s house, Isabel went with them, claiming she had shopping to do in the Market Square. Bartholomew was alarmed to see that townsmen had started to gather in sullen groups, and he did not like the way their eyes followed him and Michael as they walked. Some were his patients, folk he had known for years, but not many returned his friendly greetings. Most seemed too frightened to speak, afraid of attracting attention from those who did not approve of fraternising with the University. A few were genuinely hostile.

  ‘Go away,’ said Isabel, whipping around to glare at a gaggle of potters who had begun to shadow them. ‘I do not feel comfortable with you dogging my every step, so stop it. Do not stand there, gaping like cattle. Do as I say! At once!’

  There was a determined jut to her chin, and it seemed to convince them that they would be wise to obey. To Bartholomew’s astonishment, they turned and shuffled back the way they had come.

  ‘Perhaps you should go ahead of us,’ he suggested uneasily. ‘You do not want them to take against you for keeping company with scholars.’

  Isabel’s expression was disdainful. ‘I shall walk with whomever I please, thank you! I cannot imagine what has got into those boys. They are normally amiable lads, always willing to carry a basket or to run errands. I deplore this current disquiet and unease. Candelby has a lot to answer for – and so does his horrible henchman, Blankpayn.’

  ‘Have you seen Blankpayn recently?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘About your student Falmeresham?’ Isabel saw his surprise, and explained. ‘It is common knowledge that Blankpayn may have done him a grievous harm, and that you have been scouring the town for them both ever since. But I am afraid I cannot help, because I have no idea where the wretched man might be. I will ask the servants when I go home, and will send word if I learn anything useful.’

  Michael smiled. ‘I do not suppose you would like to be my Junior Proctor, would you? I have not had a decent assistant in years.’

  Isabel laughed, a hearty chuckle. ‘I would like it very much, Brother. When can I start?’

  ‘You have already started. You ordered those potters away, and they obeyed without question. They would never have done that for me. Students would, but not townsfolk.’

  He was being overly modest, because few men – other than Candelby – ever had the audacity to oppose Michael. He wielded too much power, and while he could not fight townsmen directly, he could certainly do so insidiously. Over a period of time, he could impose fines, restrict trade, close down businesses and excommunicate serious offenders. Even the Sheriff did not have such an awesome battery of penalties at his fingertips, which was partly why the landlords’ rebellion had taken the University so much by surprise.

  ‘That was a waste of effort,’ said Michael, when they reached the Market Square, and Isabel had gone to buy meat and barley to make a strengthening broth for her mistress. ‘Their testimony – such as it was – confirms what we al
ready know, but we learned nothing new.’

  ‘We learned that Candelby totes a crossbow around with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Maud said he kept it unloaded, but perhaps that was not true on Sunday. The town was uneasy, and he may have felt the need for extra precautions.’

  ‘If so, then perhaps he did kill Lynton. He has a motive.’

  ‘Two motives, Brother – jealousy of Lynton’s professional relationship with the lady he intends to marry, and anger that Lynton was able to rent his property to townsmen.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘But if he shot Lynton, then it stands to reason that he also killed Ocleye – there cannot be two killers using the same mode of execution. However, Ocleye was his own pot-boy.’

  Michael did not see that as a flaw in the solution. ‘Ocleye was in the back of Candelby’s cart when Lynton was murdered – a witness to the crime. So Candelby killed him to ensure his silence.’

  ‘Then why is Maud still alive? If Ocleye watched the murder from the back of the cart, then surely Maud, who was sitting next to Candelby, would also have noticed something untoward?’

  ‘But she claims to remember nothing – probably because she is afraid that if she does, he will kill her, too.’ Michael’s expression was triumphant. ‘And do not overlook the fact that she refuses to see him. It must be because she knows he is a killer. I am right here, Matt. Candelby hates scholars so intensely that he would think nothing of shooting one, then dispatching witnesses.’

  But Bartholomew thought Candelby as the culprit left too many unanswered questions. ‘I still think Arderne is a better suspect – ridding himself of a rival, because—’ He stopped speaking and stared across the street. ‘There is Blankpayn!’

  ‘Wait!’ Michael reached out to stop him, but it was too late. The physician was far too agile for the heavy-boned monk. ‘Let my beadles … oh, damn it all!’

  The owner of the Lilypot tavern was swaggering along the High Street. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, suggesting he had been at the ale, and his clothes were the ones he had worn on Sunday.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘I have been looking for you for days.’

  Blankpayn was startled to be addressed so bluntly, and tried to walk away, but the physician’s arm shot out and barred his way. Michael held his breath, anticipating violence, and his unease intensified when three of the Lilypot’s patrons arrived – rough, unkempt fellows with a reputation for brawling. He hurried forward, intending to pull Bartholomew away from the confrontation while he was still in one piece – they would do better to ask their questions another time, when Blankpayn did not have the security of friends massing at his back.

  But Michael had reckoned without the fellowship of the University. Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse saw Bartholomew surrounded by hostile drunks, and hastened to redress the balance. He had two students with him, burly lads who carried long knives in their belts. Then Kardington of Clare came to see if he could help. Spaldynge was at his side, clenching his fists in a way that told the monk he was more than ready to use them in defence of his colleagues, even if one was a physician. Unfortunately, then a group of Oswald Stanmore’s lads approached, and pointedly ranged themselves behind the townsmen. Michael supposed they were tired of being called scholar-lovers by their friends, just because Bartholomew was their master’s kinsman.

  ‘Lord, Matt!’ the monk muttered angrily. ‘Now look what you have done.’

  ‘What do you want, physician?’ demanded Blankpayn. ‘I do not waste time talking to scholars, so say whatever is on your mind, then get out of my way and let me pass.’

  ‘We just want to know if you have seen Falmeresham,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could phrase the question in a more aggressive – or accusatory – manner.

  ‘No,’ said Blankpayn, shoving Bartholomew hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Now get lost.’

  ‘There is no need for violence,’ objected Kardington in his precise Latin, while Michael put out a hand to prevent the students from reciprocating in kind. ‘Surely we can converse in a civil manner, without recourse to common brutalities?’

  ‘If you swear at me again, I will cut your throat,’ snarled Blankpayn, rounding on him. ‘Do not think I cannot understand your vile tongue, because I learned French at school.’

  Kardington lisped something no one understood. He looked pleased with himself, and beamed affably at the taverner; Bartholomew supposed he had made some comment about finally meeting a man who knew a language other than Latin. His friendly smile confused Blankpayn, who stood with a look of total incomprehension stamped across his pugilistic features.

  ‘We do not want trouble,’ said Michael quickly. He heard Spaldynge mutter that trouble would be fine with him, because he would welcome the opportunity to trounce the sly villain who had murdered Falmeresham. ‘We are just concerned for a lad who may need medical attention.’

  ‘You mean the fool who ran on to my dagger?’ asked Blankpayn with an unpleasant sneer.

  ‘Perhaps you will run on to my fist,’ suggested Spaldynge, to approving nods from the students. Kardington and Wisbeche exchanged an alarmed glance. ‘And then on to the toe of my boot.’

  ‘And perhaps you will dance on the end of my sword,’ retorted Blankpayn. He started to reach for his weapon, but thought better of it when Wisbeche’s lads immediately drew their daggers. ‘But I have no idea what happened to your student, because I have been with my mother in Madingley since Sunday. Why? Is he dead? I did not wound him that badly.’

  ‘You have not been in Madingley,’ said Bartholomew, determined to have the truth. ‘Your mother has not seen you in days.’

  Blankpayn’s expression hardened. ‘You have been pestering her? An old lady who lives alone, and who would have been terrified by scholars invading her home? How dare you!’

  ‘We do not care where you have been hiding,’ said Bartholomew, not pointing out that Blankpayn’s mother was a fierce matron who was unlikely to be terrified by anything. ‘We are only concerned with Falmeresham.’

  ‘If he is alive, we want him home,’ said Michael. ‘If he is dead, we want him decently buried.’

  ‘I have not seen him since the accident,’ stated Blankpayn firmly. ‘I wish I had, because then I would have bartered – your student’s corpse in return for a relaxing of the rent laws. It would be a fair exchange.’

  ‘I will give you a fair exchange,’ muttered Spaldynge, stepping forward.

  Michael pulled him back. ‘Do not let us detain you, Blankpayn. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Go and wash your ale-pots like a good boy,’ Spaldynge jeered as the taverner began to slouch away. ‘And while you are at it, you can wash yourself, too. You stink.’

  ‘Spaldynge!’ exclaimed Kardington, shocked. ‘Rude!’

  Spaldynge looked suitably sheepish. Fortunately, Blankpayn did not consider the insult to be an especially grave one, because he made an obscene gesture as he left, but that was the full extent of his retaliation. Seeing the crisis was over, and there would be no opportunity for brawling that day, the students and apprentices began to disperse. They were disappointed, clearly itching to be at each other’s throats.

  ‘Thank you for your support,’ said Michael to the two masters. He pointedly ignored Bartholomew and Spaldynge, displeased with both for almost bringing about another fight.

  ‘Surely, there is no need for all this strife?’ asked Wisbeche. ‘Are you sure the stance you are taking with the rents is the right one, Brother?’

  ‘I think it is,’ said Kardington, abandoning his attempts to speak English now he was alone with scholars. ‘We must maintain affordable hostels, or we will have a plethora of unpaid bills at the end of every term – if students enrol at all. Candelby’s demands could destroy the University.’

  Wisbeche remained unconvinced. ‘I think Candelby has a point – it is time to relax the Statutes. Since the Death, prices have risen for every commodity – except rents.’

  ‘But surely, maintain
ing low rents in a world of spiralling costs is a good thing?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Good for us,’ said Wisbeche. ‘But not for those who need the income to feed themselves.’

  ‘That does not include Candelby, though,’ said Spaldynge. ‘He is already disgustingly rich.’

  ‘You should know,’ said Wisbeche tartly. ‘You sold him a University-owned house, despite the Senior Proctor’s request that we hold off on property sales until the rent war is settled.’

  ‘A compromise would be the best solution,’ said Kardington, stepping forward to prevent Spaldynge from responding. ‘Perhaps we could raise the rents by a nominal amount. Our students will complain, and so will the landlords, but it is the best we can do.’

  ‘I have already tried that,’ said Michael. ‘And it has been rejected in no uncertain terms. The landlords want to triple the rents, and will not accept a penny less.’

  ‘Then triple them,’ said Wisbeche with a shrug. ‘Students on low incomes will have to go to Oxford instead. Nothing can be bought in this world without money, so why should a university be any different?’

  ‘Do not do it, Brother,’ warned Kardington. ‘If you yield on this front, we will face ultimatums from those who provide other commodities – ale, bread, meat and other essential supplies.’

  Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘So, as well as having to do battle with the town, I discover that my colleagues are divided in their opinions, too – two sides offering perfectly valid arguments.’

  Wisbeche smiled ruefully. ‘It would seem so. I would not like to be in your position, Brother.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ said Kardington fervently. ‘So, we agree on that, at least. Come, Spaldynge. Let us go home before you offend any more vulgar taverners.’

  ‘Willingly,’ said Spaldynge. ‘I do not want to linger here with a physician, anyway.’

  When they had gone, Bartholomew noticed that three old ladies who sold vegetables near St Mary the Great were glaring at him. One summoned him frequently to cure her stomach pains, and he had never once charged for his services. He smiled at her, and was disappointed when she spat at him. He had expected her to feel some affection towards him, after all his years of charity.