‘I think he has lost more than enough blood already,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering how Lynton could possibly imagine that bleeding could hold any benefits for the dying man – other than perhaps to hasten his end.
‘Will he live?’ asked one of the spectators unsteadily, fixing Bartholomew with anguished eyes. Like the man who lay dying, he wore the distinctive blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College. He crouched next to his colleague, helplessly rubbing one of the cold, limp hands.
‘If we make an incision in the foot, the blood will drain down and will lessen the flow from the chest,’ said Lynton with great conviction. He pushed Bartholomew’s hands away from the compress and applied the required pressure himself. ‘I will stem the bleeding here, while you make the cut. You are the one who dabbles in cautery, not me.’
‘But I do not practise phlebotomy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it will make no difference to this man anyway. A priest will be able to do more for him than physicians.’
‘But we must save him,’ protested Lynton. He glanced at the dying man, and then leaned towards Bartholomew confidentially, keeping his voice low. ‘His name is Raysoun, and his friend is John Wymundham, both Fellows of Bene’t. They are two of my most lucrative patients.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, also in a whisper. ‘But there is nothing we can do. Raysoun’s back is broken, he has already lost too much blood, and he is having difficulty breathing.’
‘But I cannot afford to lose him,’ said Lynton insistently. ‘You must do something.’
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, and instead glanced up to indicate to Michael that he should prepare to give Raysoun last rites. As the monk readied himself, the man’s colleague – Wymundham – grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder in a grip that was unexpectedly strong for a man who gave an initial impression of being somewhat effete.
‘You cannot give up on him!’ he cried desperately. ‘Look! His eyes are opening! He lives!’
Raysoun was gazing blankly at the sky, but his eyes were unfocused and Bartholomew thought him too badly injured to be aware of his surroundings. Wymundham bent close to him, gripping the hand he held so fiercely that Bartholomew was certain Raysoun would have objected, had he been able to feel it.
‘Everything will be all right,’ Wymundham whispered comfortingly. ‘You had a fall, but you will live to make theologians of our students yet.’
‘You must bleed him before it is too late, Bartholomew,’ said Lynton, although with less fervour than before. ‘I sent for the surgeon – Robin of Grantchester – but he is busy amputating a leg and cannot be disturbed. You must do it.’
‘But Raysoun is dying,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Nothing we can do will save him, and if we bleed him, all we will do is risk causing him pain.’
Lynton gazed down at his patient, and Bartholomew thought he was going to argue. But the older physician merely nodded – as though he had known the futility of any treatment, but was just going through the motions – and then climbed to his feet and moved away, leaving Raysoun to Michael. Bartholomew went to stand next to him.
‘What happened?’ he asked, while Michael began intoning prayers for the dying. The injured man’s friend seemed about to shove the monk away, but instead began exhorting Raysoun to stand up and walk back inside the College with him.
‘Apparently, he fell from the scaffolding,’ said Lynton. ‘No one saw it happen, but the carpenters say he was clambering about up near the roof shortly before a passer-by found him lying in the road.’
‘If he fell from the scaffolding, then why is he bleeding from his chest?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It looks to me as though he landed on his back, not his front.’
Lynton pointed to a bloodied metal tool that lay on the ground. ‘This was embedded in him when I arrived. I imagine he must have impaled himself on it as he fell.’
‘But how?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
‘I do not know,’ said Lynton, a little impatiently. ‘But look around you. The builders have scattered their implements very carelessly – I can see at least two more of those pointed things from here.’
‘Awls,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Carpenters use them for making holes in wood.’
‘Whatever,’ said Lynton, uninterested. ‘But the workmen should be forced to take more care. I will have a word with the Sheriff about this when I finish here – that half-finished building is dangerous. It is only a matter of time before someone is hurt by falling scaffolding.’
‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at the ramshackle array of planks that sheathed the growing College. ‘Perhaps part of the road should be closed until the work is completed.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ said Lynton with a sigh. ‘But it is a shame such precautions are too late for poor Raysoun.’
On the ground, Wymundham seemed to be having some kind of conversation with the dying man, putting his ear close to his lips. Michael lowered his own voice, aware that Raysoun might be making a confession that could mean a shorter sojourn in Purgatory. Bartholomew was surprised that Raysoun was even conscious, but supposed that a few moments of clarity before death were not impossible.
‘I will miss him,’ said Lynton, crossing himself as Michael smeared chrism on the dying man’s forehead and mouth. ‘I prescribed a weekly purge that was temperate in the first degree – very expensive.’
‘Why?’
‘To soothe his liver after he had over-indulged his penchant for wines.’
‘He drank heavily?’ Bartholomew had certainly noticed the smell of drink on the dying man as he had administered the medicine, and the half-empty wineskin that lay nearby had not escaped his attention, either.
Lynton made a curious gesture – half nod, half shrug. ‘Recently he did. It did not agree with him, which is why he was obliged to summon me so often. But regardless of what he meant to me financially, it is hard to watch a man die knowing I am powerless to save him. It reminds me of the Death, which claimed so many of our patients, when all our years of training and experience as physicians were worse than useless.’
Bartholomew did not reply, because, for once, he understood Lynton’s sentiment completely.
Raysoun took a deep, rasping breath before a rattle in the back of his throat told the silent onlookers that he had breathed his last. Wymundham stared down at him in disbelief, then released a blood-chilling howl of grief. Sensing that he might become hysterical, Bartholomew took his arm and quickly guided him back inside his College, intending to deliver him into the hands of colleagues who would look after him. Michael and Lynton could deal with the body of Raysoun. He looked around for the porters, but they had joined the crowd outside, and so he walked with Wymundham across the courtyard to the building that was clearly the hall.
Bartholomew had never been inside Bene’t before, and was impressed by the sumptuousness of those buildings that had been completed. The walls were made of good-quality stone purchased from the quarries at Barnack near Peterborough, and were a pleasing amber hue. Inside, the floors of the hall were polished wood – not just flagstones strewn with dried rushes like Michaelhouse’s – and were liberally scattered with fine wool rugs. Large chests with handsome iron bindings stood at one end of the room, while the tables at which the scholars ate and which they used for lessons were carved from oak that had been buffed to an impressive sheen.
Wymundham slumped in a chair at the high table and put his head in his hands, sobbing loudly. Bene’t was deserted, so Bartholomew went behind the serving screen, and found a jug of wine and some cups. He filled one and took it back to Wymundham, urging him to drink. Eventually, the man’s weeping subsided, and he rubbed away his tears with a hand stained with his friend’s blood. Bartholomew saw a basin filled with water on one of the windowsills, dipped a napkin in it, and gave it to the scholar so that he could clean his face. At Bartholomew’s silent kindness, Wymundham began to weep afresh. The physician sat with him, waiting for him to compose himself.