Paxtone held Bartholomew’s arm, and used it as a prop while he recovered his breath. ‘You were racing along like Thomas Mortimer’s cart,’ he gasped.
‘That was what I was thinking about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer escaping justice because Bosel is dead. His nephew buying a King’s Pardon.’
‘My College’s lawyers discussed those King’s Pardons at length yesterday. They concluded that if we appeal against them, we are essentially saying that His Majesty is wrong – and that might be construed as treason. We will be fined far more than we can pay, just to teach us never to challenge the royal courts, no matter how wicked and corrupt their decisions.’
‘It is a depressing state of affairs.’
‘It is an appalling state of affairs, but a decision has been made in the King’s name, and we must live with the consequences. I heard you were instrumental in catching Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, so you had better be careful of them.’
‘I played a very small part in their downfall. There were others who did far more to bring them to justice than me – Michael, my brother-in-law, Sheriff Tulyet, Master Langelee, various soldiers from the Castle, and even Michael’s grandmother, Dame Pelagia.’
‘They were overheard bragging to some of Edward’s cousins in the Market Square the other day. They said they intended to repay everyone who played any role in their capture. Your name was among the many they listed, so do not think they have forgotten whatever it was you did. It is a pity you allowed your book-bearer to accompany your sister to Huntingdon. If you ever needed his ready sword it is now.’
‘I can look after myself.’
Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I know. But you can allow a friend to show a little concern. Remember that if anything happens to you, I shall be left with Lynton and Rougham – and neither of them will discuss Arab medicine with me.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘We can learn a great deal from the Arab world. For example, did you know that there is a hospital in Egypt that can house eight thousand patients simultaneously? It teems with physicians, apothecaries and folk to cater to the patients’ daily needs. If a man is sick in the stomach, then a physician who knows about stomachs will tend him. If he has a hardened spleen, then the physician who studies spleens will come.’
‘I do not think that is a good system. Your expert in spleens may concentrate on the one part of the body he loves to the exclusion of all else, and ignore other, more serious, ailments.’
‘Perhaps,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I would like to know more about this place – how many inmates are cured and how many die. However, for now, I am only going to visit Isnard.’
‘I heard you performed his surgery,’ said Paxtone disapprovingly. ‘You must not demean yourself by undertaking such base tasks. Would you sharpen your students’ pens or replace the wax on their writing tablets? No! And you should not dabble in cautery, either. It is a filthy business, and best left to the likes of Robin of Grantchester, who is a filthy man.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, irritated that Paxtone should preach at him. ‘That is why so many of his patients do not survive his operations. I do not want Isnard to die, when I know I can save him.’
‘We should not argue,’ said Paxtone, seeing he was close to overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. ‘I am only trying to warn you. I do not want Rougham to use your fascination with surgery to discredit you. He is jealous of you, and would love to see you fall from grace.’
‘That is what Michael says, but he can have no quarrel with me. I have done him no harm.’
‘Let us discuss Isnard instead,’ said Paxtone with a sigh, seeing they would not agree. ‘What method did you employ to prevent the fever that usually follows the removal of a limb? Did you attempt to rebalance the humours by purging and bleeding?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is important to restore the balance of humours, but my teacher Ibn Ibrahim maintained that this is best achieved by a poultice of yarrow and ensuring the injury is free to drain. Tightly wrapped wounds fester, because they trap evil humours. Rather than drawing them off by purges, I find it is better to let them ooze away of their own accord.’
Paxtone was sceptical, and they were still debating the issue in a friendly way when they reached Isnard’s house. Bartholomew tapped on the door, aware of voices within. Isnard had more visitors. He was surprised to see Walter, Michaelhouse’s porter, there with his cockerel tucked under his arm.
‘I thought Isnard might like to see Bird,’ said Walter, standing when the physicians entered. ‘He often brings a smile to a sick man’s face.’
‘I am not sick,’ said Isnard, who was sitting up in his bed and looking more hale and hearty than the pallid Walter. ‘I am temporarily incapacitated.’ He pronounced the last two words carefully, evidently unused to them. ‘At least, that is what Master Bottisham says. Robert de Blaston the carpenter is going to make me a leg of wood. He is even carving a foot on it, with proper toes.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, easing away from Walter when he became aware that the cockerel had fixed its mean little eyes on him, evidently sizing him up as something to peck.
‘Thank you for bringing him, Walter,’ said Isnard. ‘But next time, I would prefer a wench. Even Agatha would do. I have not set eyes on a woman for five days now, and I am desperate.’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Walter archly, offended that Bird should be regarded as second best to a woman. Walter had no time for ladies, which was why he was so well suited for life in a College like Michaelhouse, where, with the exception of Agatha, they were forbidden to enter.
‘Yes,’ said Isnard. ‘I would like to hear the choir. Can you ask Michael to bring them? I have a fancy for a little music.’
‘You are wrong,’ murmured Paxtone to Bartholomew. ‘The man is not healing after all. In fact, he is deranged and out of his wits. I can think of no other explanation for anyone willingly subjecting himself to the unholy caterwauling that passes for music among the Michaelhouse choir.’
‘Bishop Bateman’s death will be a blow to Gonville Hall,’ said Michael, not without malice, after the noon meal the following day. ‘His patronage was useful, and they will miss it now he has gone – especially since they have just started to build that chapel.’
He was sitting in the conclave at Michaelhouse, a pleasantly comfortable chamber with a wooden floor and tapestries that took the chill from the stone walls. The College’s books were housed both there and in the hall, attached to their shelves by thick chains to ensure no one made off with them; books were rare and expensive, and no institution risked having them stolen. Each week, one of the Fellows was detailed to dust them and conduct an inventory, to make sure none were missing.
Because the weather was still cold for the time of year, the conclave’s window shutters were closed, even though it was the middle of the day. The fire in the hearth sent a homely orange glow around the room, accompanied by the earthy scent of burning peat. There had once been glass in the windows, but a series of accidents had resulted in too many breakages, and Langelee had finally thrown up his hands in despair, claiming that the College could not fund repairs each time there was a mishap. Michaelhouse’s Fellows were forced to make a daily choice between a light room that was cold, or a dark one that was warm.
The Fellows often gathered in the conclave on Sundays, to while away the hours until it was time to eat or sleep, while the students tended to claim the larger, but less comfortable hall next door. Michaelhouse had eight Fellows, including the Master, and all were present that afternoon. Some were trying to read by the flickering light of a wall torch, and others were just enjoying the opportunity to relax after a morning of masses.