‘Now just a moment,’ said Isnard, hobbling over to join them. ‘Bartholomew is a decent man. When my leg was crushed under a cart, he cut it off and saved my life.’
‘If I had been here, there would have been no need for amputation,’ declared Arderne. ‘My feather would have cured your leg, just as it did Candelby’s arm. Could you have salvaged Candelby’s limb, Bartholomew? Or would you have lopped it off?’
‘There is no way to know,’ replied Bartholomew calmly. ‘I did not examine Candelby’s injury, so I am not in a position to offer an opinion about it.’
‘That is a good point,’ said Agatha, elbowing her way through the listening patrons to stand next to him. ‘And the same might be said for Isnard’s leg. You were not there, Magister Arderne, so how can you pontificate on what was, or was not, the right thing to do?’
Arderne shot her a pained look. ‘I most certainly can pontificate, madam. I am a professional man with a wealth of experience. I do not hide behind excuses, but boldly offer my views when they are sought. And I could have saved your leg, Isnard. There is no doubt about it.’
‘Really?’ asked Isnard. ‘I do not suppose you can make it grow back again, can you? This wooden one is all very well, but it keeps falling off as I make my way home from the alehouse.’
‘I could try,’ replied Arderne. ‘My feather has worked miracles before, and will do so again. A cure will be expensive, but if you really want your leg back, you will not begrudge me the money.’
‘I do want it back!’ cried Isnard eagerly. ‘More than anything.’
Bartholomew fought to suppress the anger that was burning within him. It did not take a genius to see that Isnard was gullible, and it was cruel to prey on his weakness. ‘It has gone, Isnard,’ he said quietly. ‘And it will never come back. Do not squander your money on tricks.’
‘Tricks?’ echoed Arderne. ‘How dare you! You have never seen me work, so you have no idea what I can do. My brother is the great John Arderne. Surely you have heard of him?’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tartly. ‘Is he in the habit of dispensing false hope, too?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Arderne, eyes blazing. ‘You are not even a surgeon, but a physician who has no right to perform amputations. You are a disgrace to your profession!’
‘Hey!’ snarled Agatha. ‘This is one of my Fellows, and anyone who insults him answers to me.’
‘My apologies, madam,’ said Arderne with a bow. He was not a fool, and knew when it was wiser to retreat. ‘I spoke out of turn.’
‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Agatha, still glaring. ‘I am going to finish my ale now, but I shall be keeping an eye on you, so you had better behave yourself.’
She stamped away, and most of the patrons followed, eager to discuss Arderne’s remarkable claims among themselves, so it was not long before the healer was left alone with Bartholomew, Michael and Isnard. Candelby was itching to join them, but Agatha had cornered him, and was demanding to know the whereabouts of Blankpayn. The taverner was shaking his head rather desperately, trying to convince her that he did not know.
‘Where did you earn your degree, Magister Arderne?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew or Isnard could resume the subject of missing limbs. ‘Paris? Montpellier?’
‘I do not hold with book-learning,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘My great body of knowledge comes through observation and experience.’
‘Why use the title, then? If you despise formal training, you should not need its trappings.’
‘It is a form of address that people like to bestow on me,’ replied Arderne smoothly. ‘I do not want to offend them by declining it.’
‘Are you really John Arderne’s brother?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject when he saw the man would have glib answers to account for all his deceits. ‘I met him once in Montpellier, at a lecture on bladder stones. He told me–’
‘I have not seen him in years,’ said Arderne, rather quickly. ‘However, I am his superior in the world of medicine. I am better than anyone in Cambridge, too.’
‘Like Lynton?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You are better than him?’
‘Of course! He was a relic from a bygone age, and that made him dangerous.’
‘So, you think Cambridge is better off without him?’ pressed Michael.
Arderne regarded him with an expression that was impossible to interpret. ‘Without question. And now I must be about the business of healing. I have a patient who wants a leg.’
‘Make it grow back, then,’ challenged Bartholomew. He knew from the desperately hopeful expression on Isnard’s face that the bargeman would never listen to reason. ‘But he will not pay you a penny until you have succeeded – right down to the last toe.’
Arderne shot him a black look. ‘That is not how it works. Do you wait until every patient is fully recovered before demanding recompense?’
‘He does, actually,’ said Isnard. ‘And sometimes he forgets to ask altogether.’
‘Well, I am not so careless,’ declared Arderne in a voice loud enough to ring through the tavern like a bell. People stopped their own conversations to listen to him. ‘I am a professional. Do you have enough gold to pay me, Isnard? Miracles do not come cheap.’
Bartholomew was appalled. ‘Isnard will lose everything he has,’ he said to Michael. ‘Do something!’
‘Isnard’s greatest failing is his propensity to believe anything he hears, especially if it is something he wants to be true. I can no more stop him from making Arderne rich than I can make him sing a soft Te Deum.’
There was a babble of excited conversation as Arderne strutted from the Angel tavern with Isnard limping at his side. The miraculous saving of Candelby’s arm had captured public imagination, and folk wanted to be there when Arderne did it again. They started to follow him, and Bartholomew glimpsed the healer’s grin of satisfaction when he realised his self-promoting declarations had worked. It was not many moments before the tavern was deserted, except for Candelby and his pot-boys. The servants began to clean up the mess left by the abrupt exodus, and the taverner himself came to see why two scholars should dare linger in his domain.
‘I have nothing to say to you, monk – unless you have come to your senses, and are here to tell me that I may charge what rent I choose in my own properties?’
‘I do not own that sort of authority, as I have explained to you before,’ said Michael. ‘It would involve a change in the Statutes, and that would require a vote by the University’s Regent Masters.’
‘Then leave my tavern,’ said Candelby, beginning to walk away.
Michael caught his arm. ‘I am here about another matter – nothing to do with rents.’
‘What?’ demanded Candelby. ‘The fact that I charge scholars more for my pies than I charge townsmen? Your Statues cover the price of ale and grain, but they do not mention the price of pies. I can do what I like as far as pies are concerned.’
‘How do you know what our Statutes allow?’ asked Michael, rather coldly.
Candelby’s expression was hostile. ‘Because I have made myself familiar with them. They are keeping me from charging my tenants a fair rent, after all.’
‘I hear you lost a pot-boy in the brawl yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly in the hope of disconcerting him.
Candelby glared. ‘Ocleye was a good fellow. I intend to offer a reward to anyone who provides information that exposes the vicious scholar who stabbed him.’
Michael was horrified. ‘Please do not! It will result in a rash of unfounded accusations, because some folk will say anything for free pennies. You are almost certain to be led astray, and arresting the wrong man will lead to trouble. Your stance over the rents has already brought us to the brink of civil war, and this will make matters worse.’