‘Mistress Bowyer has washed her hands of him,’ he said. ‘He only wanted her for her money, poor soul. Wait here while I fetch her housekeeper, Isabel St Ives. She will tell you whether the mistress is well enough to receive well-wishers.’
Michael looked around appreciatively when the guard had gone. ‘Fine rugs on the floor, gold goblets on the windowsills – Maud is wealthier than I thought. She is probably right to be suspicious of Candelby: I imagine he was courting her for her riches.’
‘She owns houses, too,’ said Bartholomew, remembering something his sister had told him. ‘Perhaps those are what attracted him.’
It was not long before a pretty woman in her thirties came to greet them. Isabel St Ives wore a white goffered veil over her hair, and her blue surcoat – an ankle-length dress – was slightly baggy, suggesting it had been handed down from someone larger. Bartholomew recalled something else his sister had said – that Isabel had started to work for Maud after the plague, when both had lost husbands to the disease. He had seen her before, because it had been Isabel who had tried to comfort her mistress at the scene of the accident in Milne Street.
‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Isabel politely. ‘I am afraid my mistress is still too unwell to receive guests, but thank you for coming to enquire after her health again.’
‘You are welcome,’ said Michael, with a gracious bow. ‘However, there is another purpose to my visit. I would like to ask her about the accident. As Senior Proctor, I am obliged to make a report to the Chancellor, but it is proving difficult to trace reliable witnesses.’
‘Unfortunately, it is a blur in her mind, and her fever is making it worse. I saw some of what happened, though – I was nearby at the time. I will answer questions, if you think it might help.’
‘I need to understand exactly what happened to Lynton,’ said Michael carefully. ‘I would like to know who killed Ocleye, too. The other death – Motelete’s – transpired to be no death at all.’
‘So I heard,’ said Isabel. ‘A true miracle. However, the accident was odd, and I am not surprised you are having trouble establishing a clear order of events from eye witness accounts.’
‘How was it odd?’ asked Bartholomew. He had taken a liking to Isabel’s pretty face and pleasant manner. Unlike many University men, he had not taken major orders, and so women were not forbidden to him. He was still not supposed to fraternise with them, but there were ways around that particular prohibition, and he was not averse to female company, like some of his colleagues. He had even come close to marrying once, and still loved Matilde, despite the passing of time. He supposed he always would, and wondered whether she would ever return to Cambridge – and whether she would consent to be his wife if she did. Although common sense told him Matilde was gone forever, part of him refused to believe he would never see her again, and he had not given up hope that one day she would reappear and tell him that she loved him, too.
‘It was odd because there was no reason for Lynton to have ridden his horse at Candelby,’ Isabel was saying. Bartholomew’s attention snapped back to the present. ‘As far as I could tell, he suddenly slumped in his saddle, and the horse cavorted sideways, as though something startled it.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’ asked Michael.
‘Only that a crowd gathered very quickly, and folk stood according to affiliation – either with townsmen or with students. Usually, they are mixed together, but that was not the case on Sunday.’
‘Because they were anticipating trouble,’ surmised Michael grimly. ‘Were any of these townsmen armed – armed with real weapons, I mean, like swords or crossbows?’
‘I did not see any. However, it would not surprise me to learn that Candelby did something to Lynton’s mare – that Lynton is innocent of all blame for the accident.’
‘Why would Candelby do that?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Because Lynton owned a lot of houses, and was doing with them what Candelby yearns to do – rent them to those who can afford higher prices. It may have been simple jealousy.’
‘Matt tells me Lynton was Maud’s physician,’ said the monk. ‘We all know Lynton preferred wealthy patients to poor ones, and your mistress must be one of the richest women in the town.’
‘She is. And Lynton’s consultations may be another reason Candelby wished him harm.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘She probably consulted butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers, too, but that should not induce a suitor to drive carts at them.’
‘Lynton was a conscientious, thorough man, and his sessions with my mistress were often lengthy. Perhaps Candelby objected to the amount of time another man spent in her presence.’
‘Then Candelby’s jealousy addled his wits,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Lynton would never have done anything untoward with a patient. He was too old for a start.’
‘Quite,’ said Isabel. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’
‘Did you see Arderne mend Candelby’s arm?’ asked Michael.
Isabel nodded. ‘I rushed to my mistress’s side when I saw she was hurt; Candelby was clutching his wrist. Then Magister Arderne arrived and said Candelby’s bones needed to be set immediately. He waved a feather over him, and he was healed instantly. It was a miracle.’
‘It was?’ asked Bartholomew. He found he was disappointed in her, because she had seemed too sensible to be deceived by cheap tricks.
She was surprised by the scepticism in his voice. ‘Of course. Magister Arderne is a remarkable man, quite capable of marvellous deeds. However, I wish he had applied his talents to my mistress instead. She has not been well since the accident, and I am very worried about her.’
‘You do not seem to like Candelby,’ said Michael. ‘And Maud has forbidden him to visit. Why?’
‘I tolerated him when I thought he made her happy, but the accident opened her eyes to his true character, so I can say what I like about him now. We were both shocked and disgusted by the way he gloated over Lynton’s death.’
‘What is wrong with your mistress?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I noticed a splinter in her shoulder. Did Arderne remove it?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, but it was basic surgery, and he did not apply his magic, which is why she is not recovering. I do not mean to offend you, Doctor Bartholomew, but medicine is not very effective unless it is also accompanied by spells and incantations. I learned that during the plague, when physicians failed to save my family.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.
‘Will you see her?’ Isabel asked impulsively. ‘Despite my beliefs, you were a friend of Lynton’s, and my mistress may be pleased to see you. I would give anything to see her smile again.’
Isabel led Bartholomew and Michael upstairs to a pleasant chamber lit by a fire; the shutters were closed, lending the room a warm, cosy feel. However, even the herbs set in bowls on the windowsills could not disguise the stink of sickness and corruption, and Bartholomew went to the bed with a heavy heart, already knowing what he would find.
The splinter had been driven deep into Maud’s shoulder, but it had been carelessly removed, leaving slivers behind. The wood had been tainted with filth from the street, so the wound was badly infected. Had the injury been on an arm or a leg, Bartholomew would have recommended its removal, before bad humours could permeate the rest of the body, but he could not amputate a shoulder, and Maud was going to die.
‘I cannot cure her,’ he whispered to Isabel. ‘I am sorry.’
Isabel’s expressive face registered her distress, but she smiled at him anyway. ‘I know you would have done, if you could. It is not your fault you cannot help her now, just as it was not your fault when you could not help her last year.’