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There was an uncomfortable silence. No one was quite sure what Langelee had actually done for the Archbishop of York, and the occasional oblique remark like that one did nothing to dispel the notion that his duties had had very little to do with religion.

‘What happened to the wound after Motelete started walking around?’ asked Langelee, when no one said anything. ‘Did it disappear completely?’

‘When I wiped away the blood, all that remained was a scratch,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But I must have been mistaken. People do not–’

‘Corpses are always rising up when they lie at the tombs of saints,’ interrupted William.

‘But this did not happen at the tomb of a saint,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It happened in a half-derelict church, and was instigated by a man with a feather. I do not trust it – and I do not trust Arderne. I have no idea how he did it, but I cannot believe a miracle was involved.’

‘I have heard of cases where a person was pronounced dead, then started hammering on his coffin as it was lowered into the ground,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps Motelete was one of these – he looked dead, but there was life still in him.’

‘Such cases are very unusual,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely happy with that explanation, either. He knew, with every fibre of his being, that Arderne was a fraud, so how could he have detected a rare condition when a fully qualified physician had missed it? Or was Bartholomew losing his touch? He thought back to the many other corpses he had assessed, and sincerely hoped he had not misdiagnosed death before.

‘How do you know they are unusual?’ asked William. ‘The churchyards might be full of contorted skeletons, all scratching furiously at the soil in their desperation to escape.’

‘Please, Father!’ cried Wynewyk with a shudder. ‘That is an unnecessarily grotesque image to put in our minds before we go to sleep.’

‘Well, whatever happened, it is good for Motelete,’ said Langelee, bringing an end to the discussion. ‘And I am delighted for him and for Clare. They may have lost Tyrington – and that horrible Wenden, who was killed last month – but they have managed to keep hold of Motelete.’

‘Then let us hope he stays alive,’ said William. ‘I am told the town is furious that he lives, when Ocleye remains dead. It would be a pity if he was murdered a second time.’

CHAPTER 5

When the oil in the lamp ran out and the conclave was plunged into darkness, Langelee suggested his colleagues go to bed, because they could not afford to burn more fuel that night. Unusually, the students had retired before them, despite the fact that there was oil aplenty in their lantern, and Bartholomew supposed none of them had felt like talking after Kenyngham’s funeral. The Fellows walked in a silent procession through the hall, down the stairs and into the yard, where they stood in a circle, reluctant to relinquish each other’s company and be alone with their thoughts. The moon was out, dodging between clouds, and the buildings loomed black against the night sky. The College was strangely quiet, and there was none of the usual sniggering and arguing that could be heard most evenings as the students readied themselves for sleep.

‘We should not linger here,’ said Wynewyk, glancing around uneasily. ‘Arderne delivered a love-potion to Agatha today, and she is refusing to say which poor devil has attracted her interest.’

‘It will not be you,’ said William baldly. ‘You have always declared a preference for men.’

‘Is it you, then?’ asked Wynewyk archly. He eyed the friar in distaste, his gaze lingering on the filthy habit and unsanitary hands. ‘I would think she was more discerning.’

‘I would not take her anyway,’ declared William. ‘I am a man of God, and I have foresworn sinful relations. Besides, she is not my type – she is too opinionated.’

‘If it is me she wants, she will be disappointed,’ said Langelee. ‘I have a strong mind, and will resist Arderne’s concoctions with no trouble at all.’

‘What do you think is in it, Matthew?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘I have read that mandrake has the ability to make men fall passionately in love.’

‘It can also kill them, because it is poisonous,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘However, it is expensive, and I do not see Arderne wasting it in potions that will not work anyway.’

Yet when the laundress appeared in the yard, hollering for the College cat to do its duty with a mouse, the Fellows bade each other a hasty goodnight and headed for their quarters at considerable speed. Langelee was the only one with a chamber to himself, although it was not much bigger than anyone else’s. Wynewyk roomed with three civil lawyers, and William had two Franciscan novices. Bartholomew would normally have had Falmeresham for company, but although Cynric had unrolled the lad’s mattress and set his blankets ready, the pallet remained empty and was a sharp and painful reminder that he was still missing.

The sight of it made the physician restless, so he lit a lamp, intending to work until he fell asleep. Most scholars could not afford the luxury of a private lantern, but Bartholomew’s travels in France the previous year had put him at the Battle of Poitiers. He had fought, although neither well nor badly enough to have attracted attention, but the King had been grateful for his services to the injured afterwards, and had paid him well. Unfortunately, his reward was rapidly dwindling, because he was in the habit of offering free remedies to his poorer patients. Falmeresham constantly warned him against the practice but Bartholomew thought there was no point in ministering to the sick if he did not also provide them with the means to facilitate their recovery. Langelee, of course, was delighted by the goodwill Bartholomew’s generosity was earning Michaelhouse, especially at a time when the town was beginning to rise up against the University.

The physician was writing a treatise on fevers. He had intended it to be a short guide for students, but it had expanded well beyond that, and was reaching mammoth proportions. He picked up a pen, but his thoughts kept returning to his absent student, and eventually he grabbed his cloak and set off across the yard.

‘Where are you going?’ asked his book-bearer, who was enjoying a cup of wine in the porters’ lodge with the morose Walter. Cynric was a small, compact Welshman with grey streaks in hair that had once been black. He had been with the physician ever since a chance encounter during a riot in Oxford, and was more friend than servant. ‘It must be almost nine o’clock – very late.’

‘To look for Falmeresham.’

‘Again? Then I had better come with you.’ Cynric’s voice told Bartholomew there was no point in saying he wanted to go alone. The Welshman excelled at sneaking around in the dark, and his eyes were already gleaming at the prospect of a nocturnal adventure.

Walter’s long, gloomy face was a mask of disapproval. ‘Master Langelee said not to let anyone out after dark, because the town is uneasy. He does not want trouble.’

‘There will be no trouble,’ said Cynric confidently. ‘Not as long as I am with him.’

Reluctantly, Walter opened the gate and ushered them out. Cynric waited just long enough to satisfy himself that it had been properly secured again, then raised enquiring eyebrows.

‘I was going to search the bushes in the graveyard of St John Zachary,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he crawled there, to escape the mêlée.’

‘I have already looked, boy,’ said Cynric gently. ‘Twice. But we can do it again, if you like. We should be careful not to be seen, though. It will look odd if we are caught poking around in a cemetery at this time of night.’