A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, and nodded. ‘There was one other thing neither of us mentioned to de Wetherset,’ he said.

  Michael nodded as they knocked on Michaelhouse’s gates to be allowed in. ‘I thought you had noticed,’ he said. ‘The ring on the relic had a blue-green stone, just like the colour of Dominica’s eyes.’

  The next day dawned in a golden mist that was soon burned away by the sun. By the main meal at ten o’clock, it was so hot that Bartholomew had to tend to two students who were sick and dizzy from dehydration. As a special dispensation, and, because he had no wish for his scholars to be fainting around him as he ate, the Master announced that it would not be necessary to wear tabards in the College during lectures or meals until the evening. The austere Franciscans pulled sour faces at the slackening of discipline, although Bartholomew found the Master’s announcement eminently sensible.

  By noon, the heat was so intense that Bartholomew, teaching in the College conclave, found it difficult to concentrate, and was very aware that his students were similarly afflicted. The conclave was a small room at the far end of the hall, and Bartholomew preferred teaching there than in the hall itself, where he had to compete for space with the other Fellows. The conclave, however, was bitterly cold in the winter when the wind howled through gaps in its windows, and unbearably hot in the summer when the sun streamed in. He tried blocking the sunlight by closing the shutters but that made the room unpleasantly stuffy. With the shutters open, the occasional breath of breeze wafted in, but students and master melted in the sunlight.

  Gray drowsed near the empty fireplace, Deynman’s attention alternated between the insects in the rushes and picking at a hole in his shirt, and even Tom Bulbeck, Bartholomew’s best student, appeared uninterested. The topic of the day was Galen’s theories about how different pulse rates related to the heavenly spheres – a subject that even Bartholomew found complex and overly intricate.

  Finally, he gave up, and, pulling uncomfortably at his sweat-soaked shirt, allowed the students their liberty for the rest of the day, accompanied with strict rejoinders about obeying the curfew.

  Bulbeck hovered as the others left. Bartholomew smiled at him encouragingly.

  ‘Even the great physician Bernard Gordon, who taught at Montpellier, found it difficult to distinguish between subtle variations of pulse beats,’ he said, assuming Bulbeck was concerned that he was taking too long to grasp the essence of Galen’s hypothesis.

  Bulbeck gnawed at his lower lip. ‘It is not that,’ he said.

  He hesitated, aware that Gray and Deynman were waiting for him near the door. He made up his mind. ‘It is this notion of heavenly bodies. I know you are sceptical of the role played by the stars in a patient’s sickness – and the little I have seen of medical practice inclines me to believe you are right. So why must we waste time with such nonsense? Why do you not teach us more about uroscopy or surgery.’

  ‘Because if you want to pass your disputations and graduate as a physician, you will need to show that you can calculate the astrological charts that can be used to determine a course of treatment. What I believe about the worth of such calculations is irrelevant.’

  ‘The medical faculty at Paris told King Philip the Sixth of France that the Death was caused by a malign conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter,’ said Gray brightly from the doorway.

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And this malign conjunction was said to have occurred at precisely one o’clock on the afternoon of 20 March 1345. The physicians at the medical school of Montpellier wrote Tractatus de Epidemia, in which they explained that the reason some areas were worse affected than others was because they were more exposed to evil rays caused when “Saturn looked upon Jupiter with a malignant aspect”.’

  ‘But you do not believe that,’ pressed Bulbeck. ‘You think there is some other explanation.’

  Bartholomew thought for a moment, uncertain how much to tell his students of his growing dissatisfaction with traditional medicine. He had been accused of heresy more times than he could remember for his unorthodox thinking, and was ever alert to the possibility that too great an accumulation of such charges might result in his dismissal from the University. In the past, he had not much cared what his colleagues thought about his teaching, assuming that the better success rate he had with his patients would speak for itself. But he had moderated his incautious attitude when he realised that his excellent medical record would be attributed to witchcraft if he were not careful, and then his hard work and painstakingly acquired skills would count for nothing.

  ‘No, I do not believe that heavenly bodies were entirely responsible for the plague,’ he said eventually. ‘And I do not think that consulting a patient’s stars will make much difference to the outcome of his sickness. I have found that my patients live or die regardless of whether I consult their stars to treat them or not.’

  ‘Father Philius at Gonville Hall believes astrology is the most powerful tool that physicians have,’ said Gray, leaning nonchalantly on the door frame. ‘He says treatment without astrological consultation is like treating a patient without seeing him at all.’

  ‘I am well aware of Philius’s views,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘I have debated them with him often enough. But Philius will be at your disputations, Tom, and if you cannot convince him that you know your astrology, you will not pass, even if you are the best physician the world has known since Hippocrates.’

  Bulbeck looked despondent, and Bartholomew recalled how he had felt when his Arab master in Paris had insisted that he learned astrology, even though he had not believed in its efficacy. So Bartholomew had learned his traditional medicine, and answered questions about poorly aligned constellations in his disputations. But he had also learned Ibn Ibrahim’s unorthodox theories on hygiene and contagion, and so his patients had the benefit of both worlds.

  Despite his scepticism, he was aware that the patient’s mental state played an important role in his recovery. On occasion, Bartholomew’s treatments had failed because a person had genuinely believed he could not be cured as long as Bartholomew had failed to consult the planets.

  Guy Heppel, the Junior Proctor, would probably prove to be one of them; the physician knew that he would have to relent in the end, and at least make a pretence of studying the man’s astrology if he ever wanted to pronounce him well. He said as much to Bulbeck, who looked more glum than ever.

  The student trailed out of the conclave and followed his friends through the hall. By the time he had reached the yard, however, Bartholomew saw he had already thrown off his gloom and was arguing loudly with Gray about how much a physician could justifiably charge for an extensive astrological consultation. Bartholomew realised that if he let Gray loose on Heppel’s stars as he had planned, he would have to ensure the Junior Proctor was not charged a month’s wages for the dubious privilege.

  Bartholomew wandered back to his own room, which was not much cooler than the conclave. He spent most winter nights trying to invent new ways of keeping warm and now it seemed as though he would also have to invent means to stay cool in the summer.

  He sat at the table and sharpened a quill to begin working on his treatise on fevers, but no sooner had he written a few words than his eyelids grew heavy and he began to dose. He was awoken when Davy Grahame arrived to deliver the book by Galen that the Principal of David’s had promised to lend him. Bartholomew was to keep it for as long as he wanted, said Davy, and then enquired with ill-concealed envy about the fine collection of philosophy and theology texts at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew showed him where the books were chained to the wall in the hall, and left him happily browsing through them.

  Bartholomew returned to his room, then pushed open the shutters to allow what little breeze there was to circulate. Abandoning his treatise, he sat again at the small table and opened the Galen. He smiled when he saw it was not the Prognostica, as Master Radbeche had thought, but the Tegni. He wondered whether anyone from David’s had ever bothered t
o look at the book at all. But Bartholomew did not mind Radbeche’s mistake.

  It was a luxury to have a book to read in the comfort of his own room, as opposed to begging an uncomfortable corner in another college, or listening to someone else reading aloud.

  Unfortunately, David’s Hostel’s cherished tome was not a good copy of the Tegni, and the scribe’s writing was difficult to decipher. But, a book was a book, and far too valuable a commodity to be judged harshly. Bartholomew began to read, slowly at first as he struggled with the ill-formed letters and frequent errors, but then faster as he became familiar with the clerk’s idiosyncratic style, delighting in the richness of the language and the purity of Galen’s logic.

  Absorbed in his book, Bartholomew did not know Michael was behind him until a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. He leapt from his chair, then slumped back again, clutching his chest and glaring at the chuckling Michael.

  ‘Most sensible masters have decided no learning can be achieved in such heat,’ said Michael, hurling himself on to Bartholomew’s bed, which protested with groans from its wooden legs. ‘I sent my lot away before noon. They are supposed to be thinking about the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo, although I doubt that much creation theology is running through their minds at this precise moment.’

  ‘Mine are supposed to be learning about stomach disorders caused by dangerous alignments of the stars,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘Although I would rather tell them not to waste their time, and advise people not to drink from the river instead. It would save their prospective patients a good deal of suffering, and, in many cases, effect a quick cure.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘You may be happy to treat those who live in the hovels along the river banks, but your students will want to treat the rich, whose lips would never deign to touch river water. Keep your heretic thoughts to yourself and let the fledgling physicians learn about the astrology of the wealthy who will expect more of them than advice about water.’

  Bartholomew opened his mouth to argue, but he knew that Michael was right. He fetched the wine he had bought the day before and poured some for Michael, who drank it quickly and held out his cup for more.

  ‘Have you seen de Wetherset since last night?’ Bartholomew asked, settling back on his chair and sipping distastefully at the warm wine.

  Michael nodded, pouring himself a third cup. ‘Apparently Thorpe has this damn hand in a glass case, all wrapped round with satin. De Wetherset thinks the box is so elaborate that it must have been made in advance, which suggests to me that Thorpe is in the process of perpetrating some massive fraud, not to mention the question of where the hand came from in the first place.

  De Wetherset pointed out the pin, but Thorpe maintains it must have become lodged there at some point during its twenty-five year sojourn in the river. He even intimated that the pin was put there by divine intervention, to prevent the sacred bones from falling apart!’

  He gave a snort of laughter, and looked to see if there was more wine in the bottle. ‘De Wetherset could do nothing to convince Thorpe the thing was a fake and it is too late now in any case. The rumours are abroad that a saintly relic is in Valence Marie, and they are amassing a veritable fortune by charging an entrance fee to see it.’

  ‘It will all die down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Give it time.’

  ‘We do not have time,’ snapped Michael suddenly. ‘Thorpe is a fool to make Valence Marie such a centre of attention with the town so uneasy. It will be an obvious target if there is another riot. And the damn thing is a fake! I would be charitable and suggest it got into the Ditch by chance if it were not for the ring and the pin.’

  ‘The ring,’ mused Bartholomew. He felt around in his pocket, and pulled out the broken one he had found at Godwinsson. ‘Is this Kenzie’s ring, do you think? Did he lose it when he was skulking around Godwinsson waiting for Dominica to appear? Or is Kenzie’s ring now adorning the severed hand in Valence Marie?’

  Michael swilled the dregs of the wine around in the bottom of his cup before draining it in a gulp. ‘We could ask the Scottish lads to have a look at the one at Valence Marie,’ he said. ‘They might recognise it.’

  ‘Would that be wise? Can we trust them not to start some rumour that Kenzie’s severed limb is in Valence Marie? Then we might really have a problem on our hands. So to speak.’

  ‘They might have a point,’ said Michael.

  Bartholomew shook his head firmly. ‘Impossible. First, Kenzie’s hands were not big enough to be the one at Valence Marie – believe me, I would have noticed if someone of Kenzie’s height had hands the size of that skeleton’s: it would have looked bizarre to say the least.

  Second, Kenzie was not wearing his ring when he was killed – he was asking Werbergh and Edred if they had it before he died.’

  ‘Perhaps he found it after he had his conversation with Werbergh and Edred, and was wearing it when he was murdered,’ said Michael with a shrug.

  ‘I suppose he might,’ said Bardiolomew after a moment, ‘although there is the ring I found in Godwinsson. That might have been the one Kenzie lost.’

  Michael made an impatient click with his tongue. ‘The ring you found is probably nothing to do with all this. It might have been in that derelict shed for weeks – even months – before you picked it up. There could be all sorts of explanations as to why it was there – not least of which was that it was thrown away precisely because it is broken. When I looked out of the window, I saw a scullion emptying waste there. The whole yard is probably a repository for rubbish.’

  ‘It certainly smelled that way,’ said Bartholomew, grimacing. ‘But regardless of whether Kenzie did or did not have his ring when he died, the hand at Valence Marie does not belong to him. I will stake my reputation on it.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Michael, regarding his friend with an amused gleam in his eye. ‘It is not often you are so absolutely unshakeable over the deductions you make from corpses. You usually insist on a degree of leeway in your interpretations. So, I suppose I will have to believe you. But I am not the issue here – the David’s students are. And we have a problem: the David’s lads are the only ones who might recognise the ring as Kenzie’s, and yet we cannot risk them identifying it as his, because a riot would follow for certain.’

  ‘Dominica would recognise it if, as Kenzie’s friends suppose, it was a gift from her,’ said Bartholomew.

  Michael wrinkled his nose disdainfully at the notion.

  ‘And how would we get the permission of her parents to let her come?’ he said.

  The sun went behind a cloud briefly, cooling the room for an instant, before emerging again and beating down relentlessly on the dried beaten earth of the courtyard.

  Bartholomew leaned forward and thought. ‘Let us assume she did give Kenzie the ring,’ he said. ‘Where would she have got it from? I doubt she had the money to go out and buy it herself. Therefore, she must have owned it already – it had probably been given to her by her parents. I am certain that Lydgate and his wife know exactly what jewellery their daughter owns, especially valuable pieces. If Lydgate or Cecily go to see this hand, they might recognise the ring.’

  ‘That is even more outrageous,’ said Michael. ‘You are even less likely to get Lydgate to view this hand than his daughter. He would refuse outright if we asked. Sensible Cecily, meanwhile, has not yet returned to her husband, and if she has any intelligence at all, she never will. And not only that, neither of them knows that Kenzie was their daughter’s lover, remember?’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Your last point is irrelevant – it does not matter whether they know the identity of Dominica’s lover or not for them to be able to identify the ring.’

  ‘Your point is irrelevant,’ Michael flashed back. ‘Even if Lydgate can identify the ring as Dominica’s, he would not tell us about it. And, as I said, sweet Cecily is still away. Lydgate has not exactly been scouring the countryside for his loving spouse; I have the
feeling that he is as relieved to be apart from her as she, doubtless, is happy to be away from him.’

  ‘I cannot make any sense out of all this, but one thing is patently clear.’ Bartholomew fiddled with the laces on his shirt. ‘If the ring on Valence Marie’s relic really is the one that Kenzie lost – and I do not believe he miraculously found it after speaking with the Godwinsson friars only to die without it a few hours later – then the link between Kenzie and the fraud relating to this relic is beyond question.’

  ‘I do not deny that,’ said Michael. ‘It is the nature of the link that eludes me.’

  Both were silent as they reconsidered the few facts they had, until Bartholomew stood, and began to drag on his tabard.

  ‘In all the excitement of finding that disgusting hand, we forgot the reason why we were at Valence Marie in the first place,’ he said. ‘We still need to talk to the French students about the rape and murder of Joanna.’

  ‘We have managed to make enemies of the Principals of Godwinsson and Valence Marie both,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt very much if Thorpe will cooperate with you. He will assume you are still trying to prove his relic a fake – and after our experience earlier, I would be happier if you stayed well away from Valence Marie and their nasty bones.’

  Bartholomew hesitated, recalling vividly the unmistakeably hostile atmosphere at Valence Marie. After a moment, he brightened. ‘You are right about Thorpe, but there are others. One of the Fellows there is Father Eligius, and he is one of my patients. We have always been on friendly terms. He will help me if I ask.’

  Michael eyed him dubiously. ‘I know Eligius, too, and he looked to me like one of those most convinced of the hand’s authenticity. He appeared positively fanatical. I cannot see that he would help you if he thought the outcome might be the discovery that the relic is a fake regardless of your motives for asking the questions. And I cannot see him abandoning loyalty to his fellow members of College to allow you to prove some of them committed murder.’