‘Who saw what happened?’ he asked, taking in the scene at a glance: Lenne’s body covered by the cloak of a kindly onlooker, Isnard writhing in his pool of gore, and Mortimer grim-faced and defiant. ‘Who witnessed this accident?’
‘It was no accident,’ said Isnard between gritted teeth. ‘He tried to kill us.’
‘I saw,’ piped up Bosel, enjoying himself. ‘Thomas Mortimer is a murderer.’
‘They ran under my wheels,’ declared Mortimer. He glared around, challenging anyone to say otherwise. Bartholomew saw some folk look away, reluctant to engage in open conflict with a member of the influential Mortimer clan. The family could destroy smaller businesses simply by whispering a few carefully phrased sentences in the relevant places, and few townsmen were prepared to make an enemy of the likes of Thomas.
‘Michael?’ asked Tulyet hopefully. ‘Matt? Did you see?’
He was disappointed when they shook their heads. Two men, braver or more foolish than the rest, stepped forward and began to clamour that the miller was drunk. One had seen the cart – sans driver – pelt down the High Street immediately afterward, but only Bosel claimed to have seen the accident itself. Bartholomew was inclined to accept Isnard’s account – that he and Lenne had been talking at the side of the road when the cart had ploughed into them – but saw that Tulyet would be hard pressed to prove either side of the story. Tulyet questioned Mortimer carefully, but the man was determined not to bear the blame for the incident, and was sullen and uncommunicative. All he did was reiterate that the fault lay with Lenne and Isnard.
Eventually, Quenhyth arrived with the stretcher and three students to help carry it, and Bartholomew prepared to accompany the bargeman home. Isnard was beginning to shiver, so he removed his own cloak to cover him. He was pleased when Quenhyth and his cronies did the same without being asked.
‘How much?’ the student asked in a whisper. He began to gnaw at his nails, an unpleasant habit he had acquired as his studies at Michaelhouse became more onerous. Bartholomew gazed at him blankly, and Quenhyth stifled a sigh of exasperation. ‘How much can you charge Isnard for our services? He will need a surgeon, so you can hire Robin of Grantchester and add that to the fee, too. Plus a little extra for your use of us as stretcher-bearers.’
Bartholomew gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. ‘This man sings in our College choir. And we do not haggle over fees with seriously injured people in the street anyway. It is not seemly.’
‘Seemly!’ sighed Quenhyth despairingly. ‘I suppose this means you will pay for his salves and horoscopes, but we will not see a penny in return. Michaelhouse will never raise enough money to buy that book by Roger Bacon if you do not charge your patients properly.’
Bartholomew had had this particular discussion with Quenhyth before. The lad was not one of Michaelhouse’s wealthier scholars, and regarded his teacher’s casual attitude to fee collection as a personal affront. But it was neither the time nor the place for a debate about finances, and Bartholomew decided not to respond to his comments. Instead, he indicated that the students were to lift the stretcher. They staggered as they began the journey to the river: the bargeman was heavy.
‘Give Rougham my apologies,’ Bartholomew said to Michael as he prepared to follow. ‘He will understand why I cannot dine with him at Gonville today. You should consider yourself fortunate, Brother: you can now eat two groats’ worth of meat instead of one.’
‘What of Isnard?’ asked Michael, ignoring his friend’s attempt at levity. He was fond of the gruff bargeman who had served in his choir for so many years.
Bartholomew lowered his voice so Isnard would not hear. While he believed in honesty where patients were concerned, and rarely flinched from telling them the truth, he saw no advantage in frightening folk into losing hope just before painful and traumatic surgery. ‘He will lose his leg, and possibly his life.’
The stricken expression in Michael’s eyes turned to something harder and more dangerous. ‘Damn Mortimer! I will see he pays for this! I will bring the full force of the law down upon him.’
‘You can try,’ said Tulyet, overhearing. ‘But you will not succeed. No one has admitted to seeing what happened – Bosel does not count – and Mortimer claims that Isnard and Lenne ran under his wheels. We will never prove who was at fault here, because we have no independent witnesses.’
‘Someone must have seen something,’ said Bartholomew. He gestured around him. ‘The street was full of people.’
‘Perhaps so, but no townsman will denounce a Mortimer – not if he values his business.’
‘But Mortimer was drunk!’ objected Bartholomew, indignant that the miller was about to evade justice on the grounds that his family intimidated people. ‘He should not have been driving a cart, and it is his fault that Lenne is dead and Isnard may follow.’
‘I know,’ said Tulyet softly. ‘And justice dictates that he should pay for it. But we have no case in law. I doubt whether Mortimer will be punished for this.’
‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bartholomew hotly.
‘Yes, often,’ agreed Tulyet sombrely. ‘But it is all we have between us and chaos, so do not dismiss it too harshly.’
‘And do not confuse it with justice, either,’ added Michael acidly. ‘They are not the same.’
‘No, they are not,’ said Bartholomew angrily. He turned and hurried to his patient’s side as the first real cries of agony began to issue from the injured bargeman.
‘You look tired, Matt,’ said Michael the following day. It was dawn, and they had just celebrated prime in St Michael’s Church. Their colleague Father William had conducted the ceremony, gabbling the words so fast that it was over almost before it had started. William was not popular with the students, because he was fanatical and petty, but they all admired his speedy masses.
Bartholomew and Michael took their places in the sedate procession of scholars that moved quietly through the gradually lightening streets, heading towards a breakfast of baked oatmeal and salted fish. They crossed the High Street and turned down St Michael’s Lane, passing Gonville Hall as they went. Part of Gonville’s protective wall had recently been demolished, because its Fellows intended to build a chapel in its place. A plot had already been measured out, marked with ropes and stakes, and foundation stones were laid in a long, even line. Judging by its dimensions, the church would be an impressive edifice once completed.
‘Will Isnard live?’ asked Michael quietly, when his friend did not reply.
‘It is too soon to say,’ replied Bartholomew, stifling a yawn. He had spent most of the previous night at the bargeman’s house and had not managed more than an hour of sleep. ‘His leg was so badly crushed that I was obliged to remove it below the knee. But it will be some days before we know whether he will survive the fever that often follows such treatment.’
‘You amputated his leg?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘God’s teeth, you play with fire! You are not a surgeon, and Robin of Grantchester has already made several official complaints about you poaching his trade. You also seem to forget that cautery is not a skill held in great esteem by your fellow physicians; they claim you bring them into disrepute when you employ knives and forceps, instead of calendars and astronomical charts.’
‘Isnard would be dead for certain if I had allowed Robin at him,’ said Bartholomew, too weary to feel indignation that his three fellow physicians – Rougham of Gonville, Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall – should presume to tell him how to practise medicine.
‘I know that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I was not thinking of Isnard – there is no question that you have done him a favour by dispensing with the unsavoury Robin – I was considering you. It was different when only you and Lynton were in Cambridge, and people could not afford to be particular. But now there are four of you, you must be more careful. Several of your most affluent patients have already left you.’