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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘That stupid Honynge says the Dominicans are right about Blood Relics,’ said William to Pechem, oblivious to the monk’s exasperated disapproval of the Warden’s stance. ‘Can you credit it? The man is an ass! However, I have had my revenge.’

  ‘What have you done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. William was not a subtle person, and his vengeance was likely to be something crude that would cause another quarrel.

  ‘As Junior Fellow, he is obliged to manage the Illeigh Hutch,’ said William. He explained to Pechem. ‘Hutches are chests containing money that can be borrowed by our students. In return for coins, they leave something of equal or greater value – a book, a piece of jewellery, and so on.’

  ‘And?’ asked Michael warily. ‘What did you do? Remove all the money, so he will look foolish when a student asks for some and he finds it is empty?’

  William’s face fell. ‘How did you guess?’

  Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘He will know someone is playing tricks, and may reciprocate with something vicious. I doubt he is the kind of man to take a joke.’

  Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘I think we can salvage something from the idea, though. Go and put it all back, Father, but include the gold coronet from the Stanton Hutch, too. Honynge will conduct an inventory, and discover an addition. Then we shall see how honest he is.’

  ‘We shall declare it stolen,’ crowed William, delighted. ‘And then it will be found in his room!’

  Bartholomew was appalled. ‘This is an ill-conceived plan – and dangerous, too, to risk something so valuable. He might manage to spirit the thing away. And then what will we say? That it was last seen by William, who hid it in the Illeigh Hutch to trap a thief?’

  ‘That is a clever notion, Matt,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We do not have to declare it was Honynge we wanted to catch out, do we?’

  Grinning like a madman, William raced away to do as Michael suggested. Bartholomew gave up trying to reason with the monk, and started to think about Arderne instead. He was still deep in thought when Carton approached, Falmeresham at his side. Carton was holding his friend’s arm, alarmed that he was walking about when Bartholomew had recommended rest after his ordeal.

  ‘Isabel St Ives has just been,’ said Carton. ‘Maud Bowyer is worse, and wants you to visit as soon as possible. It sounded urgent, so I thought I should find you myself, but Falmeresham insisted on accompanying me, even though he should be in bed.’

  ‘I came because Maud has no right to summon you,’ said Falmeresham, freeing his arm. ‘She is Magister Arderne’s patient, and he will not like it if you interfere. Isabel should not have come.’

  ‘Isabel thinks the same, actually,’ said Carton to Bartholomew. ‘She believes her mistress should be left to Arderne, too. But Maud wants you, and Isabel cannot ignore a direct order.’

  ‘Arderne is a good man,’ said Falmeresham, rather defiantly. ‘If Maud can be healed, he will do it. She does not need the services of another medicus.’

  ‘Arderne cannot be a good man, or he would not be saying spiteful things about the town’s other practitioners,’ said Carton snidely.

  ‘You mean Robin of Grantchester?’ asked Falmeresham. ‘It is about time someone reviled him – he is a menace. And Rougham is no better, with his archaic skills. They should be denounced.’

  ‘What about Doctor Bartholomew?’ demanded Carton archly. ‘Should he be denounced, too?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Falmeresham. ‘But it is not Arderne who is doing that. It is Isnard.’

  ‘Because Arderne told him to. He raised Isnard’s hopes by saying he might be cured, but dashed them cruelly when it proved impossible. Then he blamed Doctor Bartholomew, even though it was his failure.’

  ‘But Arderne might be right about amputation,’ argued Falmeresham. ‘We are taught certain injuries are irreparable, and specific diseases are incurable. But I saw Arderne healing several such complaints with my own eyes. I think he possesses skills superior to anyone in Cambridge.’

  ‘Visit Maud, Matt,’ said Michael, cutting into the debate before it could erupt into a serious quarrel. ‘She trusts you, even if your students do not.’

  ‘I trust what works,’ countered Falmeresham. ‘My mind is open to anything new.’

  Bartholomew took Falmeresham with him when he went to tend Maud, seeing it as a chance to teach the student something about fatal fevers. Michael insisted on accompanying them, lest a lone physician and his apprentice prove too tempting a target for mud-slingers and bone-lobbers, and Carton followed without being invited, loath to let his friend out of his sight.

  When they arrived at the handsome house on Bridge Street, Maud was indeed worse. The smell of decay was stronger, and Bartholomew knew she did not have long to live. Isabel was almost in tears.

  ‘You have done enough damage already,’ said Isabel accusingly, watching Bartholomew kneel by the bed and examine the patient. ‘I would never have called you, had my mistress not insisted. I summoned Magister Arderne first – although she objected. He waved his feather, but said you had destroyed all hope of a cure, because you had laid tainted hands on her. It is your fault she is dying.’

  ‘Arderne says tainted hands are the reason why he could not save Ocleye, either,’ added Falmeresham, rather unhelpfully.

  Bartholomew regarded Isabel unhappily. Her eyes were red from crying, but there was a hard, cold glint in them that he had not seen before. He had a feeling he was about to acquire yet another enemy. ‘I gave her a potion to relieve her pain,’ he said quietly. ‘And that is all.’

  ‘You put your hand against her cheek to feel her fever,’ countered Isabel. ‘And you raised the bandage to inspect the wound. Arderne said that was enough to cause the damage, because evil miasmas went from you to her.’

  ‘Claptrap,’ declared Carton angrily. Falmeresham glared at the friar, and with a shock, Bartholomew saw his student believed Arderne’s wild claims.

  ‘You can discuss this later,’ said Michael softly, nudging the physician with his elbow. ‘Tend Maud, Matt. You know you can do more for her than a leech with a feather.’

  Bartholomew began to administer a powerful potion that would ease her pain. After a few moments, the lines of suffering around her eyes and mouth began to fade. He mixed more of the remedy, and gave it to Isabel with instructions on how to use it.

  ‘But it will not make her live?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This often happens with wounds caused by jagged splinters – small fragments remain behind, and they fester. The medicine will ease her end, but no more.’

  ‘I can hear you,’ said Maud, in a voice that was unexpectedly strong. She opened her eyes. ‘Or rather, I can hear voices. Are you talking about me?’

  ‘We are talking about Master Lynton,’ said Isabel, saying something she thought might please her. ‘He was a good friend of Doctor Bartholomew, who has come to see you.’

  Maud smiled. ‘Did you know Lynton and I were close? We grew up together – born in adjoining manors. I should have married him, but we left it too late; he became a scholar, and I took another husband. He was a fine warrior in his day – tall, strong and true of hand. Still, at least we enjoyed each other after I became a widow.’

  ‘It is difficult to imagine him as a knight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or a lover.’

  Her smile became wistful. ‘He was an enigma, and one I shall love to my dying day. Arderne tells me that might come sooner than I would like. What do you say, Bartholomew?’

  ‘I imagine that is true for most people.’

  She smiled again. ‘You have a clever tongue. And now tell me the truth.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I doubt you will see another Sunday.’

  ‘Arderne said I would not see another hour, and that it is your fault that I am doomed. I do not believe him, though. You told me the truth – and did not demand five shillings for it.’

  ‘Magister Arderne alway
s charges for consultations,’ said Falmeresham defensively. ‘He says offering services free of charge suggests they are not worth paying for.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew sharply. It was impolite to argue with a patient, especially one who was dying, and he was surprised at Falmeresham.

  ‘Arderne is shallow and mean,’ said Maud. ‘I know you summoned him because you are desperate to help me, Isabel, but I do not want him here again. Doctor Bartholomew’s medicine is working, and the pain is less now. I ask for no more.’

  She began to drowse, and Isabel opened the door, indicating it was time for the visitors to leave. ‘Magister Arderne is coming back later, and I do not want him to find you here,’ she said. ‘You will quarrel, and it might upset her.’

  ‘Maud just said she does not want him,’ said Bartholomew, loath to abandon anyone to the healer’s dubious ministrations.

  ‘He is not coming to see her,’ said Isabel with a smile that was a little wanton. ‘He is coming to see me. But I shall make sure he does not come up here, if that is what she wants.’

  ‘So, Isabel has a fancy for Arderne,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked home, Carton and Falmeresham trailing behind them. The two younger men were quarrelling in low voices. Falmeresham was angry because Carton was making rude comments about the healer he had come to revere, and Carton was apparently disgusted that his friend should be so easily deceived.

  Bartholomew considered the predicament of Isabel St Ives. She was about to lose her mistress, her home and her employment, and was in an acutely vulnerable position. He hoped the arrogant Arderne would not take what he wanted, then abandon her. ‘There is no accounting for taste.’

  ‘I imagine most women consider him handsome, and he is very charismatic,’ said Michael. ‘I know from personal experience that ladies find that particular combination of traits attractive in a man. But speak of the Devil, and he will appear. Here comes the fellow himself.’

  The healer was not alone. Blankpayn was announcing in a loud voice that Arderne had cured him of leprosy – although Bartholomew noticed that no one wanted to stand too close to him even so – and Candelby was still showing off his ‘broken’ arm. Carton asked Falmeresham in an uncharacteristically acerbic voice whether he would like to join them and flaunt his mended liver.

  ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, as Arderne swaggered towards them. ‘I want a word with him.’

  ‘Do not tackle him here,’ warned Michael in alarm, seeing the determined set of the physician’s jaw. ‘We are heavily outnumbered, and this is neither the time nor the place for a confrontation.’

  ‘I do not care,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have been patient, but he has gone too far.’

  Falmeresham was also worried, and tugged on his arm. ‘Come down this lane, so you avoid meeting him. I can see you are itching to accuse him of bringing about the death of Mistress Bowyer, and that would be unfair. It is your fault she is dying, not his.’

  Bartholomew stared at him in astonishment, Arderne momentarily forgotten. ‘What?’

  ‘You touched her and gave her medicines, when he said it was best to leave her alone,’ explained Falmeresham. ‘I have seen him work miracles, so there is no doubt in my mind that it was your interference – albeit well-intentioned – that brought about Maud’s decline.’

  Bartholomew decided it was time for Falmeresham to hear a few facts. ‘Arderne bought sheep entrails from Putrid Peter on Monday, and performed some sleight of hand to make you think they were your own. He could not possibly have drawn your liver through that small cut in your side. It is a medical impossibility, and were I allowed to teach you anatomy, you would see I am right.’

  Falmeresham took a step away. ‘Magister Arderne said you would try to turn me against him, by denigrating his achievements. I did not believe him, but I see he was right.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘You take his word over mine? After all these years?’

  ‘He does not,’ said Carton quickly. ‘He is still unwell, and—’

  Falmeresham pulled away from him. ‘On the contrary, I have never felt better. While I was recovering, I spent hours talking to Magister Arderne, and was amazed by the depth of his knowledge. Everything he said makes sense. You say there is a lot about the body that you do not understand, but he knows everything. He always has answers and never says he does not know.’

  ‘Then he is a fool, as well as a fraud,’ said Michael tartly.

  Falmeresham regarded him coldly. ‘You are the fool, Brother, for not seeing what is staring you in the face. You have grown so used to Doctor Bartholomew’s failures that you are unnerved by a man who is flushed with success.’

  ‘Watch yourself, lad,’ warned Michael. ‘I appreciate you have had an unpleasant experience, but it does not give you the right to be insolent. I suggest you go home and think about what you “saw” when you were with Arderne. Consider it logically, in the light of your training, then ask yourself whether these miracles are credible. Arderne is not a saint, infused with the power of Heaven.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Falmeresham quietly. ‘And I want to learn more from him. He asked me to be his assistant, and I think I should accept his offer.’

  Bartholomew was dismayed, knowing the lad was making a terrible mistake. ‘At least finish this term. Then you will have your degree.’

  Falmeresham edged away. ‘I cannot waste another moment – it would be irresponsible to the people I can cure in the future. Will you stop me?’

  Bartholomew seriously considered locking him up until he came to his senses. ‘Not if you think you are doing the right thing.’

  ‘I am,’ said Falmeresham. ‘My eyes have been opened, and a whole new world has unfolded. I shall always appreciate what you have taught me, though – it is not your fault the academic study of medicine falls so far short of what might be achieved.’

  Bartholomew watched him walk away, recalling his own excitement after hearing a lecture by the Arab physician who would later become his teacher. He understood exactly how Falmeresham felt.

  ‘You should stop him,’ said Carton, horrified. ‘I do not want him to go to Arderne. He may—’

  ‘May what?’ asked Michael, when the commoner stopped speaking abruptly.

  Carton shrugged, and refused to look at him. ‘May learn facts that will do him no good.’

  It was an odd thing to say, but Bartholomew was too preoccupied with Falmeresham to think about it. He turned away when the student reached his hero and began talking. Arderne shot a gloating smile in the physician’s direction, and put a possessive arm around the lad’s shoulders.

  ‘I think we will go home the back way,’ said Michael, pulling Bartholomew in the opposite direction. ‘I do not feel like walking down Bridge Street today.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The tinkle of the College bell woke Bartholomew the following morning, and he sat up to find the students who now shared his room had risen, dressed, and left. A heavy sleeper, he had not heard a thing. He appreciated having the chamber to himself as he washed in the bowl of cold water Cynric had left for him, shaving quickly with one of his surgical blades. The clothes he had worn the day before were not too crumpled from where he had left them in a heap in the corner, so he donned them again, hopping from foot to foot in an effort to keep his bare feet off the cold stone floor.

  He trotted into the yard, pulling his tabard over his head. It was not a pleasant day. There was a sleety drizzle in the air, and the wind whipped in from the Fens like a knife. There was not a student, commoner or Fellow who was not shivering as he waited for Langelee to lead the procession to the church for daily prayers, and the only warm person was Agatha, who watched the assembly from the comfort of her wicker throne next to the kitchen fire.

  Suddenly, there was a piercing scream that had the new students exclaiming their alarm, but it was only the porter’s peacock being let out of its coop. It strutted boldly into the open, then scuttled inside again when it saw the state of
the weather. The hens were made of sterner stuff, and were scratching about in the mud, scuttling diagonally every so often, as the wind caught them.

  ‘Who is still missing?’ demanded Langelee, looking round irritably. ‘Someone is not here. Who?’

  ‘Honynge and Carton,’ said William, looking around irritably. ‘Honynge was still in bed when I passed his door, but he said he was coming. Do you want me to hurry him up?’

  ‘Deynman will do it,’ said Langelee. ‘Where is Carton? He is not usually late.’

  ‘There,’ said Wynewyk, pointing towards the front gate. The porter had just opened it, and Carton was slipping quickly inside. ‘Where has he been?’

  ‘Reciting masses,’ replied the friar, when Langelee repeated the question to him. ‘In St Michael’s. I came back when I heard the bell.’

  Yet he was very wet, and had clearly been out longer than the time it would have taken to walk from church to College. Bartholomew was about to demand the truth, but the Master was speaking.

  ‘Right,’ Langelee shouted. ‘The rest of you gather around me. Come on, hurry up!’

  Everyone formed a tight huddle, with him in the centre, waiting expectantly for what sounded as though it was going to be an important announcement. Bartholomew wondered if he had found a way to dispense with Honynge, and was going to confide it while the man was not there.

  ‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, after several moments of silence.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Langelee. ‘I just thought you could keep the rain off me while we wait.’

  There was a chorus of weary groans. Bartholomew started to laugh, although William failed to see the humour in the situation, and began a litany of bitter grumbles that saw the Dominicans to blame for the Master’s jest and the foul weather at the same time.

  ‘I am glad I am not a Black Friar,’ said Tyrington, standing close to the physician and speaking in a low voice. ‘William is not entirely sane when he starts ranting about them, and I would not like that sort of venom directed at me. How can you let him spout such poison? The students will hear it, and might think it is true.’