The Church of St John Zachary, where Motelete’s body lay, was a small building that stood on the corner of Milne Street and one of the many lanes that led down to the river. It served as chapel to Clare and Trinity Hall, but was closer to Clare. It stood in a leafy graveyard that was in desperate need of pruning, but that was unlikely ever to see a pair of shears. It was technically a parish church, and therefore the responsibility of the town, but most of its congregation had died during the plague, and the few who remained objected to spending vast sums on a place that was used mostly by the University. Meanwhile, the two Colleges saw no reason to divert their own resources to repair someone else’s property.
The lack of care showed not only in the wilderness of the cemetery, but in the building itself. Its stained glass had been broken long ago, and the stone tracery in its windows had crumbled. The only way to keep weather and thieves out was to board them up, so all the south-facing windows were permanently sealed with thick wooden planks. The north side was in a better state of repair because it formed part of Clare’s boundary wall, and the scholars did not want a ruin in their grounds. Here all the windows had shutters, although they were sturdy and could only be opened from the outside – the Fellows were worried about townsmen gaining access to their compound, and the shutters protected their College, not the church. The only exception was the window in the Lady Chapel, which was left open when the scholars were at their prayers, to allow light into what was otherwise a very dark place.
The roof also needed urgent attention, but the spiral stairs that gave access to it had collapsed the previous winter, meaning repairs were out of the question. The fall had resulted in a chaos of rubble in the stairwell, which no one had bothered to remove. The churchwardens had placed ropes across the entrance, to stop anyone from trying to use it, then put the mess from their minds. It was not uncommon to hear the hiss and patter of falling plaster during services, and Bartholomew often wondered how long it would be before the rest of the building gave up the ghost, too.
Kardington did not bother with the main door, which stood on Milne Street, but used the window in the Lady Chapel to enter the church. Crude wooden steps had been built to allow Clare scholars to climb up to the chest-high windowsill from their garden, but there was only a table on the other side, and some major leaps downwards were required. Michael objected vociferously, first about the height of the jump, and then about the fact that the opening was rather narrow for a man of his girth. In the end, he decided the manoeuvre could not be safely accomplished, so Spaldynge was obliged to escort him to the front door instead.
While he waited for the monk to arrive, Bartholomew looked around him. It was cold in the building – far colder than outside – and he shivered. The roof leaked so badly that there was barely a dry spot in the whole chapel, and the once-bright wall paintings were all but indistinguishable. There was a smell of rotting thatch, damp and incense, and the physician found it hard to imagine what the place had looked like in its heyday.
Motelete was in the Lady Chapel, which was in a slightly better state of repair than the rest of the building. He lay in the parish coffin, covered by thick blankets, as if some sensitive soul had not wanted him to be cold. Bartholomew stared down at the still, pale face, and felt an overwhelming sorrow that someone so young should have died. The clothes around Motelete’s neck were stained with so much blood that it was clear one of the great vessels in the throat had been severed. His skin was white and waxy, too, another sign of death by exsanguination.
‘I doubt we will find a crossbow bolt here,’ said Michael softly in the physician’s ear. ‘Even I can see that he died from his throat being cut. Do you agree?’
Bartholomew nodded, and pulled back the clothes to inspect the wound. It was difficult to see much, because the chapel was gloomy and gore had dried around the boy’s neck. He was about to ask for a lamp when there was a rattle of brisk footsteps, and he glanced up to see Arderne striding towards them. The healer was not alone; Candelby and several burgesses were at his heels, while Robin of Grantchester hovered tipsily at the rear.
‘Magister Arderne,’ said Kardington in surprise. He spoke Latin. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I heard the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to inspect the body of the boy Robin failed to save,’ boomed Arderne, once Spaldynge had translated. ‘So, I came to watch.’
‘I did my best,’ bleated Robin. Several Clare students exchanged grim looks, and Bartholomew suspected more clods of mud were likely to be flying the surgeon’s way. ‘But the cut was fatal, and the situation hopeless.’
Arderne sneered. ‘You could have tried to stem the bleeding. You did not bother, so you killed him with your ineptitude. Tell him, Bartholomew.’
‘Robin may have arrived too late to make a difference,’ hedged Bartholomew, unwilling to be used as a weapon to attack a colleague. ‘Patients can die very quickly with these sorts of–’
‘Rubbish!’ snapped Arderne. ‘You are siding with him because he is your friend. Robin was there the moment this lad was viciously assaulted, because he was hoping to earn a fee. He claims to be a surgeon, so he should know how to stop a wound from bleeding.’
‘You see?’ said Spaldynge to his colleagues, his voice thick with disgust. ‘What did I tell you? There is not a medical practitioner in Cambridge who knows what he is doing.’
‘There is now,’ declared Arderne. ‘If you can afford me, of course. I do not come cheap.’
Disgusted with the man’s self-aggrandisement, Bartholomew turned his attention to the corpse, and was about to resume his examination when Arderne elbowed him out of the way.
‘Let me,’ ordered the healer. He leaned down. ‘Here is the gash that caused his demise – you can see the incised vessels quite clearly. However, I have rescued men from a state of death before. I may be able to bring this lad back to life.’
‘Do not play games, Arderne,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware of the hopeful looks that were being exchanged between Motelete’s classmates.
Arderne ignored him. He removed a feather from his bag, and passed it several times up and down the body. ‘Yes, I sense life here.’
Bartholomew was too exasperated to contradict him.
The healer tapped Motelete sharply on the chest. ‘Open your eyes,’ he commanded. ‘I know you can hear me, so show us you are alive. Come on, lad. Wake up!’
Bartholomew gaped in shock when the corpse’s eyes flew open and Motelete sat up.
Thomas Kenyngham, founding Fellow of Michaelhouse and one of its most popular Masters, was buried that afternoon. He went into a vault in St Michael’s chancel, to join several other scholars who rested there. It started to rain the moment the funeral procession began, a heavy, drenching downpour that turned the streets into rivers of mud and soaked through the mourners’ clothes. The church was bursting at the seams, because many people had loved Kenyngham’s quiet gentleness, and it was not only Michaelhouse scholars who wanted to pay their last respects.
Before the ceremony began, Bartholomew had slipped away to the old man’s bier. Motelete’s return from the dead had unsettled him so much that he performed a small, discreet examination while his colleagues greeted the many guests who had been invited to attend. Only when he was absolutely certain that Kenyngham was truly dead did he leave the coffin and return to his other duties. Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows.