Hanchach’s house – a pink-washed cottage with a neatly thatched roof – overlooked an odorous stretch of water known as the Mill Pond, and Bartholomew was sure its dank miasma was at least partly responsible for the glover’s respiratory problems. He walked along the towpath, enjoying the early morning sun and the scent of damp earth, and tapped on Hanchach’s door.
Hanchach was sitting next to a fire, watching something bubble in a pot. A delicious scent of honeyed oatmeal filled the room. It was the first time the glover had left his bed in a week, but it was what Bartholomew had expected, given the good progress of the previous two or three days.
‘I do not need you any more,’ said Hanchach, somewhat sheepishly. ‘I am better.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘You are doing well, but do not stop taking the tonic yet. You need to clear your lungs completely, and I have brought you—’
‘Magister Arderne is my healer now,’ interrupted Hanchach. He stared at the flames and would not meet Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘He touched me with his feather yesterday and gave me a potion, which is why I am up today. Your remedy was taking ages to work, but he cured me overnight.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, supposing Arderne knew a patient on the mend when he saw one, and had pounced on the opportunity it had presented. ‘How did he know you were ill?’
‘Isnard,’ replied Hanchach, acutely uncomfortable. ‘We are neighbours, and he told me how you made a mistake with his leg. He recommended that I employ Arderne in your place, but Arderne said he would only treat me if I broke off all contact with you. He said you would try to foist more false remedies on me, but they might react dangerously with the real cure he has provided.’
‘Is it because of Deynman?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how the student had almost killed Hanchach when he had misinterpreted some basic instructions and given him too much medicine.
Hanchach grimaced. ‘That was a factor, although only a minor one. Mostly, it was Arderne himself. He has such compelling eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says, even when you do not want to.’
Bartholomew recalled others telling him the same thing. ‘Your condition may worsen again if you do not continue to take the syrup,’ he warned, unwilling to see a patient suffer needlessly.
‘Arderne told me you would say that.’ Hanchach shot him a wry grin. ‘He is very expensive – I paid him five times what I pay you – but you can see his treatment is more effective.’
‘You were getting better anyway,’ objected Bartholomew. But he could see that any attempt to argue would look like sour grapes on his part, and he did not want trouble. ‘May I see this potion?’
Hanchach pointed to a phial on the table. Bartholomew removed the stopper, then recoiled in revulsion. ‘I hope you do not intend to drink this. It contains urine.’
‘Arderne says a famous Greek practitioner called Galen recommends urine very highly.’
‘I have never read that,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And I know most of Galen’s writings.’
‘Galen did not write it,’ said Hanchach, as if it were obvious. ‘He told Arderne this special recipe. You see, Galen asked Arderne to help him on a particularly difficult case, and when Arderne healed the patient, Galen told him several secret cures, as an expression of his gratitude.’
‘But Galen has been dead for hundreds of years, and—’
‘It must have been another Galen, then. I took the first draught of that tonic last night, and I shall have another this morning. Arderne says I will be walking around the town this time tomorrow, and back at work the day after that.’
‘If you rush your recovery, you will relapse. I know you trust Arderne, but let your body tell you what to do. Start by sitting outside for an hour, and do not try walking until you are strong enough. If you need me, send to Michaelhouse and I will come.’
‘I know you will, but I cannot afford to lose body parts to over-ready knives, like Isnard did. Good day to you, Bartholomew – and please do not tell Arderne you came. I would not like him to withdraw his assistance.’
Bartholomew left dismayed and angry. How could Arderne possibly hope to fulfil all the promises he was making? And what would be the cost of his reckless boasts? No matter what Arderne claimed, it was not a good idea to feed urine to a man who had been so gravely ill – or to anyone for that matter – and Bartholomew liked the glover, and wanted to see him well again. Should he go back and try to reason with him? But he knew there was no point: Arderne had fixed Hanchach with his ‘compelling eyes’ and that was that. Preoccupied and unhappy, Bartholomew began to retrace his steps to Michaelhouse. He was so absorbed that he did not see Isnard until the bargeman attracted his attention with a large clod of earth.
‘I want a word with you,’ said Isnard coldly, while the physician shook the soil from his hair.
Isnard was brandishing one of his crutches, and Bartholomew hoped he would not swing it with sufficient vigour that he would lose his balance and fall. Isnard was always toppling over, mostly because of his fondness for ale, but he heartily resented being helped up, and onlookers were never sure what to do when he lay floundering. He was drunk that morning, and looked as if he had been imbibing all night.
‘You saw the state of your leg that day,’ said Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well what the ‘word’ was about. ‘It was mangled beyond recognition. The bones would never have knitted – and you would have been dead of fever long before that happened anyway.’
‘You are wrong,’ slurred Isnard. ‘Arderne said so. You maimed me, so you could collect a fee.’
‘I never charged you, as you know perfectly well. And Kenyngham and the other Michaelhouse Fellows paid for your medicines.’
Isnard’s ale-reddened face softened for a moment. ‘Dear Kenyngham. However, I imagine he bought me the remedies because he knew what you had done, and he wanted to make amends.’
‘You can think what you like about me,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘But do not malign him. He would never have looked the other way if he thought I had done something wrong.’
‘You destroyed my life!’ shouted Isnard, ignoring his point. ‘I have given Arderne five marks already, but he said you did such a terrible job with the amputation that he will probably be unable to cure me. It is not his fault – he is doing his best. It is yours.’
With sudden fury, he lobbed the crutch at Bartholomew. The physician ducked, and it plopped into the river, where it was caught in the current and began to bob away.
‘Now look what you have done,’ howled Isnard. ‘You made me lose my stick.’
Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘Let me help you inside before you hurt yourself.’
‘Stay away from me,’ shrieked Isnard. ‘And if you cross my path again, I shall kill you.’
CHAPTER 7
Isnard was not the only one who expressed his disapproval of the physician that morning. As Bartholomew walked from the Mill Pond to Michaelhouse, two rivermen cast unpleasant looks in his direction. He heard one tell the other that it was common practise among University physicians to hone their skills on hapless townsmen, so they would know what they were doing when a scholar needed treatment. Then he added that the operation to remove Isnard’s leg had been performed by Deynman, which Bartholomew might have found amusing, had he not been so appalled by the way the town was turning so fast against him.
He did not feel safe by the river, so he abandoned the towpath and cut up one of the narrow alleys to Milne Street. When a woman called Yolande de Blaston wished him good morning, he regarded her suspiciously, and looked around to see if she had been charged to waylay him, so he could be pelted with mud – or worse.
‘Do not worry about bad-tempered apprentices, Doctor,’ said Yolande. She was a part-prostitute and part-laundress, and knew virtually every man in the town for one reason or another. ‘If they give you any trouble, you come and tell me, and I will sort them out for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew weakly.
‘I said the same to that Motelete – the student Arderne raised from the dead. The pot-boys from the Angel had him cornered, and were going to kill him in revenge for Ocleye. I sent them off with a flea in their ear, although Motelete is a lad who knows how to look after himself, and I suspect he would have been able to fend for himself. Still, he thanked me prettily enough.’
‘Motelete?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he would fare very well against pot-boys.’
‘He had bloodied a couple of noses,’ countered Yolande. ‘It surprised me, too, because he is a gentle youth. Would you like me to stop Arderne spreading lies about you? I was going to do it yesterday, but Doctor Rougham said I should ask you first – he said if I knock out Arderne’s teeth in your name, the fellow might make trouble for you. Did I tell you I am expecting again, by the way? Number twelve – you missed number eleven, because you were in France.’
Bartholomew was suitably impressed, and recalled that most of her offspring bore uncanny likenesses to prominent townsmen and scholars. Her husband did not object to the way she earned extra pennies to support their growing brood, and there were few households in Cambridge that were as content and happy as the Blastons. He persuaded her that punching healers was not a good idea for pregnant ladies, although it was not easy, because she had taken an intense dislike to Arderne. He took his leave of her, and had not gone more than a few steps before he met his sister.
‘Have you had news about Falmeresham?’ she asked, worried to see him looking so preoccupied and careworn.
He shook his head. ‘But people do not just disappear. He must be somewhere.’
‘They fall in the river though, and are swept away, never to be seen again. I appreciate that is not what you want to hear, but it is true.’
‘I know,’ he said shortly, refusing to think about it.
‘Agatha threw a loaf of bread at Arderne yesterday – in the Market Square – because he was braying that your amputation of Isnard’s leg was unnecessary. It was a loaf she had baked herself, so he is lucky to be alive.’
Uncharitably, Bartholomew wished she had lobbed it a little harder. ‘I cannot imagine what I have done to offend him.’
‘He rails against Rougham and Paxtone, too, and he was rude about Lynton when he was alive. Lynton was so angry that he challenged him to a trial by combat.’
Bartholomew started to laugh. ‘Lynton? I doubt he knew one end of a sword from another.’
‘Well, you are wrong – he was quite accomplished. He was training to be a knight when he realised he had an aptitude for scholarship and decided to become a physician instead. I do not think he honed his skills very often, but he certainly knew how to wield a weapon. Surely you must have noticed the confident way he rode his horse, and how he never went out without a proper dagger?’
‘He was a good horseman,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He had never given his colleague’s penchant for knives much thought, assuming them to be decorative rather than functional. He considered the new information carefully, and decided it added weight to his contention that Arderne had killed Lynton – Lynton had been shot because he had not submitted passively to Arderne’s torrent of abuse, and had tried to do something to stop it.
‘Arderne accepted Lynton’s challenge eagerly,’ Edith went on. ‘And why not? What danger could an elderly scholar pose? Then he found out that Lynton knew how to fight, and he began to make excuses – delaying the time they were due to meet, finding fault with the locations Lynton suggested, and so on. And now – conveniently for Arderne – Lynton is dead. Rumour is that the horse killed him, but he was too skilled a rider to have simply fallen off.’
‘What are you saying? That you think Arderne killed Lynton?’
‘It crossed my mind, although it is difficult to see how.’
Bartholomew did not enlighten her; she was safer not knowing. ‘I have not heard about this duel before, and neither has Michael.’
‘Then you are obviously talking to the wrong people. You should ask your questions of townsfolk, not University men. You will have a lot more honest answers.’
‘I might have a dagger in my back, too. Scholars are not popular with laymen at the moment.’
‘It would all blow over if the landlords were allowed to raise the rents. You must admit that the situation is unfair: once a band of students is in a house, they are free to stay as long as they like – for a pittance. Come to Trumpington for a few days, Matt. Term is not due to start for another week, and Langelee will not begrudge you a respite with your family.’
‘You want me tucked away until people stop being angry about Isnard’s leg?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes – and you must see that I am right. Look at those baker’s apprentices. They are glowering at you, and if I were not here, they would attack.’
Bartholomew glanced to where she pointed, and conceded that the gang of youths was regarding him in an openly hostile manner. As he watched, one stooped and picked something up from the ground. His arm went back, and something started to fly through the air. Bartholomew tried to interpose himself between the missile and Edith, but he was too slow. The stone hit her head with a thump and she crumpled to the ground.
For a moment, the apprentices did nothing but stare, then they took to their heels and fled, their horrified faces showing it was not the outcome they had intended. Heart pounding, Bartholomew knelt next to his sister, relieved beyond measure when she opened her eyes and looked at him. Being a scalp wound, there was a good deal of blood, but her thick hair and padded head-dress had absorbed most of the impact, and she was more shocked than seriously hurt.
He gathered her up in his arms, and carried her to her husband’s Milne Street property, where Oswald Stanmore fussed and fretted until she was compelled to order him away. Although theirs had been an arranged marriage – Stanmore had wanted a wife from an old and respected family, and Edith’s father had been interested in the clothier’s rapidly burgeoning wealth – they were a happy couple, and loved each other deeply. He stood in the doorway and watched Bartholomew stitch the wound, his face a mask of stricken horror. It was some time before he was convinced that there would be no lasting damage, and only then did he agree to let his brother-in-law leave. He followed the physician to the front door.
‘I know my apprentices stood against you in the Market Square yesterday. I have berated them for it, and it will not happen again.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I cannot blame them. It is not an easy choice: their master’s kin or their local friends. I imagine it is not pleasant for you either.’
Stanmore smiled ruefully. ‘That is an understatement! My fellow burgesses say I have divided loyalties, and I find myself “accidentally omitted” from important meetings. Candelby wanted me to bribe you – to pay you for persuading Michael to yield to him over the rents.’
‘What was he offering?’
Stanmore’s smile was grim. ‘More money than you make in a year. However, I declined on your behalf. Now all your patients have defected to Arderne, you cannot afford to lose your Fellowship to charges of corruption.’
‘All my patients have not defected,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Most have remained with me, although they are wary about admitting it. The only notable losses are Hanchach, the three crones who sell cabbages in the Market Square, and a couple of butchers.’
‘And Isnard,’ added Stanmore. ‘He always was a bad judge of character. When he comes to his senses – as he will, in time – you should have nothing to do with him. That will teach him a lesson he needs to learn.’
‘He threatened to kill me just now. He was drunk, but I think he meant it.’
‘God help us! Arderne’s antics are doing you serious damage, and while I am willing to stand at your side, I do not want Edith to do it. Will you agree to stay away from her until this is over? We both want the same thing – her safety.’
Bartholomew nodded, knowing it was the right thing to do, but he deeply resented the necessit
y. For the first time, he began to feel stirrings of genuine anger towards Arderne. He left Stanmore’s house in a growing rage, and had Arderne been out at that precise moment, Bartholomew would have been the second Cambridge physician to challenge him to a trial by combat – his recent experiences with King Edward’s army in France meant he was sure he could give the healer a run for his money. However, it was not Arderne he met, but Michael. The monk took one look at the black expression on his friend’s face, and dragged him into the nearest tavern.
The Brazen George on the High Street was Michael’s favourite inn. It was a clean, comfortable place that offered a choice of several rooms to its patrons. This meant scholars could drink their ale without being in company with townsfolk – and vice versa – and two rear doors meant students could escape if the Senior Proctor or his beadles happened to enter. There was a flurry of movement towards the back that day, although Michael rarely fined anyone for drinking in the Brazen George. It would have been rank hypocrisy, given the amount of time he spent there himself.
When Bartholomew told him what had happened, the monk’s eyes grew round with horror. ‘This is growing more deadly by the moment. You should stay in Michaelhouse until it blows over.’
‘I shall not. I have done nothing wrong, and refuse to skulk like a frightened rabbit. Do you think Arderne will accept my challenge? He accepted Lynton’s.’
‘And then immediately withdrew when he realised Lynton was hardier than he looked. He is not a fool, and will not make the same mistake twice. Keep away from him. It is safer that way.’
‘Safer for whom?’
‘Him,’ said Michael wryly. ‘I have never seen you so angry. You say Edith will suffer no long-term effects, so put this into perspective. It was you these lads were aiming for, not her.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 19
