'Well enough,' said Bono, 'although I cannot imagine that he will remain so if he does not amend his beliefs.
During the Death he suggested that the contagion was carried by animals! Can you credit such a foolish notion?'
'Animals?' queried Philius, startled. 'On what premise?'
That he conducted certain tests to show it was not spread by the wind. He concluded that it must have been carried by animals.'
Bartholomew frowned. It was possible, he supposed, but he had not been in contact with animals during the dreadful winter months of 1348 and 1349, and he had been a victim of the plague. He wished Ibn Ibrahim was with them now that he might question him closer.
The Arab usually had well-founded reasons for making such claims.
The man is a heretic,' said Matthieu. "I would keep your apprenticeship with him quiet if I were you. Do you know he practises more surgery than ever now?'
Bartholomew was silent. He too was using a greater number of surgical techniques, and the more he used them, the more he found them useful. He listened to the others discussing how surgery was an abomination that should be left to the inferior barber-surgeons. As the discussion evolved, Bartholomew began to feel a growing concern that his own teaching and beliefs would be considered as heretical as those of Ibn Ibrahim, and that he soon might have to answer for them.
The discussion moved from surgery to contagion, and Bartholomew found himself attacked again because of his insistence that a physician might spread contagion if he did not wash his hands. Bono shook his head in disbelief, while Matthieu merely laughed. Father Philius said nothing, for he and Bartholomew had debated this many times, and had never found common ground.
By the time the daylight began to fade and Gonville Hall's bell rang to announce the evening meal was ready, Bartholomew felt drained. He declined the invitation to stay to eat, and walked back along Milne Street towards Michaelhouse. As he reached the gates, the porter told him he was needed at the Castle. Wearily he set off, wondering why Tulyet should have summoned him so near the curfew, and whether he would have the strength to deal with the hostile Sheriff.
As he climbed Castle Hill, a sergeant hurried towards him with evident relief.
'You came!' he said, taking Bartholomew's arm and setting a vigorous pace towards the Castle. "I thought you might not — under the circumstances.'
What do you mean?' asked Bartholomew, disengaging his arm.
The de Belem girl was a friend of yours, and the Sheriff is doing little to search out her killer,' he said, glancing around nervously. He added more firmly, 'He was a good Sheriff, but these last few weeks he has changed.'
'How?' asked Bartholomew.
The sergeant shrugged. 'Family problems, we think.
But none of us know for certain. Here we are.'
They arrived at the gate-house, and Bartholomew was escorted inside. Torches hung in sconces along the walls so that the entire courtyard was filled with a dim, flickering light. The towers and crenellated curtain walls were great black masses against the darkening sky.
The soldier steered Bartholomew to the Great Hall against the north wall. In a small chamber off the stairs a man lay on a dirty straw pallet, groaning and swearing.
Other soldiers stood around him, but moved aside as Bartholomew entered.
'A stupid accident,' said the sergeant in response to Bartholomew's unasked question. "I told him to take down the archery targets, and Rufus here did not hear me shout that practice was over.'
Rufus slunk back into the shadows, aware that the eyes of all his colleagues were on him accusingly. "It was an accident!' he insisted.
Bartholomew knelt and inspected the wound in the injured man's upper arm. The arrowhead that was embedded there was barbed, and Bartholomew hesitated. Two options were open to him: he could force the arrowhead through the arm and out the other side, or he could cut the flesh and pull the barbs free. The second option was clearly the better one for the injured man, since the arrowhead was not embedded sufficiently deeply to warrant forcing it through the arm. But it would involve surgery, and Bartholomew had just spent an entire day hearing how physicians that stooped to use methods suited to barbers were heretics. The injured man opened pleading eyes.
Bartholomew took one of the powerful sense-dulling potions he carried, mixed it into a cup of wine near the bed and gave it to the man to drink. When he saw the man begin to drowse, he indicated to the others that they should hold his patient down. He took a small knife and, ignoring the man's increasingly agonised screams, quickly cut the flesh away from the arrowhead and eased it out. The man slumped in relief as Bartholomew held the arrow for him to see. Bartholomew bound the arm with a poultice of healing herbs, gave him a sleeping potion, and said he would return later to ensure no infection had crept in.
Bartholomew was escorted to the gate by the sergeant.
Thank you,' he said, handing Bartholomew an odd assortment of coins. 'Will he live, do you think? Will he keep the arm?'
Bartholomew was surprised by the question. "It is not a very serious wound, and there seems to be no damage to the main blood-vessels. There should be no problem if it does not become infected.'
'Father Philius came this morning. He said he could do nothing, and that we needed Robin of Grantchester, the barber-surgeon. Robin offered to saw the arm off at the shoulder for five silver pennies payable in advance, but we could not raise one between us and he refused to give credit. We decided to ask you to come when the Sheriff left for the night.' He smiled suddenly, revealing an impressive collection of long, brown teeth. 'Agatha, your College laundress, is a cousin of mine, and she told me you are flexible about payments for your services.'
Bartholomew smiled back, and shook the sergeant's proffered hand before taking his leave. Agatha was right: although Bartholomew kept careful records about the medicines he dispensed, he kept no notes of payments due, and more often than not, he forgot what he was owed. It was a bone of contention between Bartholomew and Gray, who argued that there were those who would take advantage of such carelessness. Master Kenyngham, however, saw that Bartholomew was popular among his patients, and encouraged Bartholomew's casual attitude towards remuneration on the grounds that it made for favourable relations between Michaelhouse and the town.
As he walked back to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew's doubts about his methods began to recede. Few patients who underwent amputations survived, especially amputations performed by the unsavoury Robin, who was so slow that many of his patients died from bleeding or shock before he had finished. He always demanded advance payments, because so few patients survived his ministrations and he had learned that it was difficult to extract payments from grieving relatives. In the young soldier's case, there had been no cause to amputate anyway, when all that was needed were a few careful incisions.
As he walked down Castle Hill, he was accosted by a breathless urchin.
"I was sent for you,' he gasped. There has been an accident. You are needed, Doctor. You must come with me!'
Bartholomew followed the lad, wondering what else would happen before he could go home. The boy trotted along the High Street and cut behind St Mary's Church.
The first inclination Bartholomew had that something was not right was when the lad suddenly darted off to one side. Bartholomew watched in surprise as he disappeared between the bushes. Realising that he had been led into a trap, he turned and began to run back towards the main road.
A line of men emerged, cutting off his escape.
Bartholomew put his head down and pounded towards them. They faltered, and for a moment he thought he would be able to force his way through them. Then he felt something akin to a brewer's cart slam into him and he went sprawling onto the wet grass. Something landed on top of him with such force that all the breath was driven from his body. He struggled frantically and uselessly.