‘No blisters in the mouth?’ he whispered. ‘Or tiny wounds in the head or chest?’
Bartholomew did not like to admit that it was the possibility that he misdiagnosed death that had driven him back to the old man’s body.
‘Of course not,’ he snapped, his distress over Kenyngham and his unease over the Motelete affair making him uncharacteristically irritable. ‘No one harmed him.’
Michael frowned unhappily. ‘So you said, but I cannot put that letter from my mind. Supposing it is not a hoax – that the writer has good reason to urge me to look into the matter?’
‘Then why does he not come forward openly? As I said at the time, Brother, it is just someone trying to cause trouble. Do not let him succeed.’
Michael did not look entirely convinced, but he forced a smile. ‘Then let us hope you are right. There is bitterness enough already, without one of Cambridge’s most-loved residents being brutally slain.’
‘Bitterness? Over what?’
‘Over the fact that Motelete could be raised from the dead, but Ocleye could not. Candelby asked Arderne what could be done for his pot-boy after he had finished with Motelete. I followed them to St Bene’t’s, where Arderne said the only reason he could do nothing to help Ocleye was because a Corpse Examiner had laid tainted hands on him first.’
‘Surely people do not believe such nonsense?’
‘Townsmen do, because it is another reason to be angry with us. But regardless of what people think about that claim, Motelete is powerful proof that Arderne possesses talents you do not. Bringing someone to life after two nights in a coffin is a remarkable achievement.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Spaldynge mentioned that, too, in one of his vicious diatribes against physicians. Arderne told Spaldynge that he could have saved the whole town from the plague, and Spaldynge believes him. He hates us more than ever now.’
Michael rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. ‘We should discuss this later – the Gilbertine Friars have just arrived, and we must go and talk to them.’
The rain had stopped by the time the rite was over, and people milled in the churchyard. They ranged from the Mayor and his burgesses, all wearing at least one garment of black to indicate not only their sense of loss but their adherence to courtly fashion, to a small army of beggars who had benefited from Kenyngham’s generosity. Isnard was there, too, tears flowing down his leathery cheeks as he told people how Kenyngham had sent him money for food when he had been too ill to work. He led the Michaelhouse Choir in an impromptu Requiem, which came to a sudden and merciful end when Langelee whispered that free ale was waiting for them back at the College.
Bartholomew did not feel like going home, and lingered in the cemetery talking to his medical colleagues, Rougham of Gonville and Paxtone of King’s Hall. Rougham was a bulky, belligerent man who had once opposed Bartholomew’s methods violently, but who had since buried the hatchet. They were not friends, but they rubbed along amiably enough, and even consulted on difficult cases. Paxtone was kinder, friendlier and much more likeable, although he was firmly of the belief that no medical theory was worthwhile unless it had been written down for at least three hundred years; newer ideas were regarded with deep suspicion before being summarily disregarded. Paxtone was not as fat as Michael, but he was still a very large man, who looked even more so because his bulk was balanced atop a pair of impossibly tiny feet.
‘I do not feel well,’ said Paxtone, rubbing his stomach. It was the wrong thing to say to two physicians, because they immediately began to ask questions, Bartholomew about the nature of his diet, and Rougham about his horoscope. It occurred to Bartholomew that he should be concerned about one physician being unwell so soon after the murder of another, but he pushed the notion from his mind. Paxtone was a glutton, and had probably overeaten again. His malady was nothing sinister.
‘You need a clyster,’ said Robin. His soft voice made them all jump because they had not seen him approach, and had no idea he had been listening. ‘I have devised a new recipe that includes extra lard, and I rinsed my pipes in the river only last month. I will perform the operation, if you like.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Paxtone, unable to suppress a shudder. The notion of having an enema from the unsavoury Robin was the stuff of nightmares. ‘It is kind of you to offer, but I ate a bag of raisins last night, and we all know what Galen says they do to the digestive tract.’
‘Do we?’ asked Robin warily. ‘What?’
‘I am more sorry about Kenyngham than I can say,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘And I am sorry about Lynton, too. He was not an innovative practitioner, but I shall miss him nonetheless.’
‘So will I,’ said Paxtone, grateful to be talking about something other than clysters. ‘He was studying Heytesbury’s writings, and was going to deliver a special lecture on them next term. It is a pity we will never hear what more he had to say on the matter.’
‘What matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The mean speed theorem?’
Paxtone nodded. ‘You and he discussed it a month ago in St Mary the Great, and he enjoyed it so much, that he was going to ask you to meet him at the Disputatio de Quodlibet. Did he tell you?’
Bartholomew shook his head. Only the very best thinkers were invited to take part in the Disputatio de Quodlibet, the University’s most prestigious forum for scholastic debate, and he was flattered that Lynton had chosen him as a sparring partner – or would have done, had someone not put a crossbow quarrel in his heart.
‘The mean speed theorem is a popular subject these days,’ Paxtone went on. ‘But unfortunately, I cannot see men wanting to pursue it now Lynton is dead. It is a great pity.’
‘Arderne is not here, thank God,’ said Robin, looking around at the other mourners. ‘I thought he might put in an appearance, given that he sees every gathering as an excuse to promote himself at the expense of the rest of us.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Rougham sharply.
‘He has been telling folk that none of us are any good,’ elaborated Robin. ‘He has even gone as far as whispering to some people that their loved ones would still be alive had I not intervened.’
‘He has made derogatory remarks,’ acknowledged Paxtone, graciously not pointing out that they were probably accurate in Robin’s case, ‘but I ignore them. Besides, his claims about his own skills are rash and stupid – he cannot possibly achieve some of the things he says he can do.’
‘He claimed he could raise Motelete from the dead, and look what happened,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Are you sure the boy was really a corpse?’ asked Rougham sceptically. ‘I have my doubts.’
‘He was dead,’ said Robin firmly. ‘I put a glass against his mouth to test for misting, I looked in his eyes, and I saw the wound on his neck. Arderne must have used witchcraft to raise him.’
‘Do not say that!’ cried Paxtone in alarm. ‘Once one medicus is accused of being a warlock, it is only a matter of time before we all join him on the pyre. Keep such thoughts to yourself, Robin.’
‘Perhaps he did manage something remarkable with Motelete,’ conceded Rougham reluctantly, ‘but his cure of Candelby is bogus. The man’s arm was not broken in the first place.’
‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to where Candelby was flexing the afflicted limb in front of a dozen awed burgesses. ‘He would not, though.’
‘It is a pity Arderne could not help Maud Bowyer,’ said Paxtone. ‘Word is that the poor woman is not at all well. She refuses to let Candelby in to see her.’