‘Well, I did no such thing,’ said Falmeresham firmly. ‘Besides, Arderne says the best way to heal is by tapping into the natural forces that lie within a person. He does not have many poisons to hand – most of the pots you see here are for show, and are empty.’
‘You mean magic?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.
‘Yes, magic,’ Falmeresham flashed back. ‘Science cannot explain everything – in fact, it does not explain much at all, and raises more questions than answers. You are always saying the workings of the human body are mysteries science has not yet unravelled, but Arderne has solutions to everything, and it is refreshing. Do you want to see him, or are you here to debate with me?’
‘What a shame,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘Arderne will ruin him – fill his head with nonsense and superstition.’
‘I should have anticipated this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is frustrated when he asks questions that I cannot answer, and it must be exhilarating to find someone with solutions at his fingertips.’
‘And that is the real pity,’ said Michael sadly. ‘His new source of knowledge runs foul and dark.’
Arderne kept Bartholomew and Michael waiting longer than was polite, and when he arrived, he was wiping his lips on the back of his hand, indicating that he had finished feeding before going to see what the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner wanted. Michael had been on the verge of leaving, but Bartholomew had persuaded him to stay, sensing that there were answers to be gleaned from the sinister healer. Both scholars were surprised to see Isabel St Ives behind Arderne. She was dressed, but her long hair cascaded freely down her shoulders, and looked tousled from sleep. Even Bartholomew, not the most observant of men when it came to romantic dalliances, could tell she had spent the night.
‘Should you not be with your mistress?’ Michael asked.
The smile faded from Isabel’s face. ‘She died yesterday, so I am now without a home. However, Magister Arderne has a vacancy for a good nurse, so we have been discussing terms.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, eyeing her disarrayed appearance pointedly. ‘Well, I am sorry about Maud. She was a good woman. She made lovers of our scholars, but at least she was discreet about it.’
‘What do you want, monk?’ asked Arderne coldly. ‘A cure for gluttony? A miracle that will melt away your fat and render you slim again?’
‘I am not a glutton,’ said Michael, startled. ‘And I am not fat, either. I just have big bones.’
‘Speaking of misdiagnoses, you gave Tyrington a remedy for spitting,’ said Bartholomew, cutting across Arderne’s bray of laughter. ‘It contained bryony.’
‘Mandrake,’ corrected Arderne, while Falmeresham frowned in puzzlement. ‘I would never use bryony, because it causes gripes. I used mandrake, which has secret properties, as we all know. Traditional medicine has not unlocked many of its marvels, but I know the plant well enough to be familiar with its benefits. It will cure Tyrington’s unseemly slobbering.’
‘You might have killed him,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘First you prescribe urine to Hanchach, and now some toxic potion to Tyrington.’
Falmeresham gaped at him. ‘Urine? But Hanchach’s health is too fragile for–’
‘What I do is none of your affair, physician,’ snarled Arderne. ‘Leave me and my patients alone, or I shall prescribe something that will make you wish you had never been born.’
‘Threats to cause harm?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is hardly what one expects from a healer.’
‘You can take it how you will,’ grated Arderne. ‘Now get out of my house.’
Falmeresham was dismayed. ‘Please,’ he said, stepping forward and attempting a placatory grin. His frustration at Bartholomew’s inability to answer medical questions did not mean he was prepared to stand by while his former mentor was insulted. ‘There is no need for hostility. We are all interested in the same thing: making people well.’
‘Is that so?’ said Arderne. ‘Then why do University physicians lose so many patients? A dozen deaths have occurred in the few weeks since I arrived, all of which could have been prevented. Cambridge will be better off when these academics pack their bags and leave me in charge.’
‘Where were you last night?’ asked Bartholomew, not deigning to reply. He thought of Edith, and itched to punch the man. He was not often given to violent urges and was astonished by the strength of the rage he felt towards Arderne.
‘Here,’ said Arderne, reaching out to touch Isabel’s hair. She blushed furiously at the display of public affection, and pulled away awkwardly. Then he fixed her with his pale eyes, and she gazed back, like a rabbit caught in the glare of a lantern.
‘We were all here,’ elaborated Falmeresham. ‘Magister Arderne taught me a new way to cure infections of the eyes, and Isabel was listening. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Motelete is dead,’ said Michael.
Arderne shrugged. ‘So I heard, but I am not his keeper. What does it have to do with me?’
Michael found his attitude irritating. ‘Someone was pawing his corpse in the churchyard of St Mary the Great, and I wondered whether anyone here might have something to say about it.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Arderne, affecting a bored look.
‘Such as whether you poisoned him,’ Michael flashed back. ‘Or whether you tried to raise him from the dead a second time, and ran away like a coward when you were almost caught.’
‘It is all right, lad,’ said Arderne, when Falmeresham stepped forward angrily. The ex-student might dislike Arderne insulting Bartholomew, but that did not mean he was willing to remain silent while Michael hurled accusations at his new master. ‘I am used to enduring this sort of rubbish from disbelievers, and I usually treat them with the contempt they deserve by ignoring them.’
‘You had better go,’ said Falmeresham to the scholars. He was struggling to control his temper. ‘I would not have let you in, had I known you were going to be rude.’
‘What about the people outside?’ asked Bartholomew of Arderne. ‘Are you going to leave them there all day? It is raining, and none are dressed for standing around in the cold.’
‘I have suggested they go home,’ replied Arderne, ‘but they remain hopeful of one of my cures. I do not mind them there, because they advertise my trade nicely, and I may deign to heal one later. I do not usually bother with the poor, but they are doing me a service, after all.’
He turned and walked away. Isabel trotted after him like an obedient dog, without so much as a nod to the scholars as she left. Bartholomew wondered whether Arderne had put her in some sort of trance; certainly her behaviour was not normal.
‘I am pleased you are learning so many new things,’ he said to Falmeresham, as the student escorted them to the door. He felt no resentment towards the lad, only sadness that he had proved to be so gullible. He supposed he should have trained him to be less credulous of men who claimed to have all the answers. ‘However, I hope Arderne’s attitude to the poor is not one of them.’
‘You could learn from him, too, if you would open your mind. You have no idea of the extent of his powers. I admit he has his faults, but I am willing to overlook them in the pursuit of knowledge.’
‘Was Arderne telling us the truth about last night?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to discuss it. ‘Was he really in the whole time?’
‘Yes,’ said Falmeresham. ‘He really was. We sat by the fire with Isabel, and he held forth about ailments of the eyes. Did you know that lost sight can be restored simply by licking the eyeball?’
‘I know it is a remedy favoured by witches, but it does not work. And neither does rubbing a gold ring across the eye’s surface, if he included that particular trick in his discourse, too.’