In front of them, wielding a brightly coloured feather, was a tall, thin man who wore the red robes of a surgeon. He had long black hair, and a neat beard. His pale blue eyes were unusually – disconcertingly – bright, and he carried himself with an arrogant confidence.
‘Do not let him near me,’ cried Candelby, when he saw Bartholomew and Michael approach. He waved his uninjured hand at them, but it was not clear to which of them he referred. ‘He might try to make an end of me while I am weak and defenceless.’
There was a growl from the onlookers. Some thought Candelby was right to be cautious, while others resented the slander directed against two of the University’s senior scholars. Bartholomew saw some unfriendly shoving start to take place between a gaggle of Carmelite novices and half-a-dozen burly men who worked at the mills.
‘They would not dare,’ declared the red-robed man confidently. ‘Not while I am here to protect you. I am Magister Richard Arderne, and I protect my patients with my life.’
‘Actually, Candelby is my patient,’ said another voice. ‘So it is my right to protect him.’
A small, grimy fellow stepped from the crowd to hover at Arderne’s side. It was a major tactical mistake for Robin of Grantchester to place himself near the new medicus, because comparisons were inevitable, and none of them worked to his advantage. Robin’s gown was filthy, and his hands and face were not much better. His hair was oily and unkempt, and he bared his brown, rotten fangs in a grin that was decidedly shifty. The bag over his shoulder contained his tools, and some were so thick with old blood they were black. Robin was comparatively wealthy, because of the surgical monopoly he held, but he still looked like a vagrant.
‘I do not want you touching me, Robin,’ said Candelby, alarmed. He glanced at the sobbing woman at his side. ‘Or Maud. Magister Arderne has offered to mend us, and we have accepted.’
‘Fortunately, you paid the retainer I recommended last week,’ said Arderne comfortably. ‘I said at the time that you never know when you might need the services of a healer, and you were wise to part with the ten shillings that grants you unlimited access to my skills.’
‘Ten shillings?’ echoed Bartholomew, staggered by the colossal sum.
Arderne ignored him and addressed the onlookers. ‘Does anyone else want to insure himself against future illness or accident? I sew wounds with no pain, and cure common ailments with minimal fuss. Of course, I am expensive, but quality costs.’ He looked Robin up and down disparagingly, to indicate what he thought of the cheaper alternative.
‘I will send an apprentice with the coins later,’ said the town’s leading mason. ‘Accidents happen, as Candelby and Maud can attest, so it is sensible to be ready for them.’
‘No!’ breathed Robin, appalled. ‘You are mine; you have been with me since the Death.’
‘And you half-killed me the last time I was obliged to summon you,’ said the mason baldly. ‘But I saw Magister Arderne at work on Saturday, and I was deeply impressed.’
‘If Candelby and Maud are in your care, then help them,’ said Bartholomew to Arderne in a low voice. Touting for business while patients suffered was unprofessional in the extreme. ‘She looks as if she might faint.’
‘She will not,’ declared Arderne with considerable confidence. ‘I have shaken my magical feather at her, and a complete recovery is guaranteed.’
‘I might swoon,’ countered Maud in a voice that was hoarse from weeping. A woman, who appeared to be her maidservant, had hurried to her side and was comforting her. ‘I do not feel well, and want to go home. Who will take me?’
‘I shall,’ said Arderne grandly, pushing Robin away when he started to step towards her. ‘I have already sent a boy for my personal transport, and it will be here soon.’
She nodded gratefully, while Bartholomew thought a pain-dulling potion would have done her more good than the wave of a feather. Still, bloody wounds were the domain of surgeons, not physicians, and Bartholomew did not want to cause trouble by pressing a scholar’s opinions on a man who had so clearly won the approval of the town.
‘I cannot bear him,’ muttered Robin, shooting Arderne a furious glare. ‘His “personal transport”, indeed! If he means his cart, then why does he not say so?’
While Michael tried to disperse the crowd, Bartholomew knelt next to the crumpled figure covered by the cloak. He could tell from the tufts of dandelion-clock hair poking above it that the victim was indeed his elderly colleague Master Lynton from the College of Peterhouse. Despite Bartholomew’s frustration with Lynton’s narrow-mindedness in medical matters – and Lynton’s horror at what he called Bartholomew’s love of heretical medicine – they had never been serious enemies, and had rubbed along well enough together. Bartholomew gazed at the kindly face with genuine sorrow, sharply reminded of his own distress for Kenyngham. He pulled more of the cloak away, wondering what had actually killed him. What he saw made his stomach lurch in shock.
Bartholomew was so intent on examining Lynton that he did not hear Arderne come to stand behind him. He leapt in alarm at the hissing voice so close to his shoulder, and hastily tugged the cloak to conceal his colleague’s wounds. He did not want anyone else to see them, given the volatile mood of the people who milled around the scene of the accident.
‘I understand Cambridge has four physicians, every one of them a charlatan,’ Arderne was saying, his pale eyes burning curiously. Bartholomew stood quickly, not liking the way the man hovered over him. ‘Which one are you?’
‘Well, he is not Lynton,’ sneered a red-faced taverner named Blankpayn. He owned a disreputable alehouse called the Lilypot, and was Candelby’s most fervent supporter. ‘Because Lynton is dead.’
Blankpayn was accompanied by three lads who worked in his tavern, plus several of his regular customers. The patrons were rough, greasy men with ponderous bellies, who looked as if they would do anything for a free drink. There was a pause as slow minds digested what Blankpayn had said, followed by hearty laughter as their companion’s wit eventually hit home. Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He needed to talk to Michael about Lynton, and did not want to waste time bandying words with men who wanted to quarrel with him.
‘He is Doctor Bartholomew, from Michaelhouse,’ replied Falmeresham coldly. Carton was plucking at his friend’s sleeve, trying to pull him away from the confrontation. Falmeresham freed himself impatiently. ‘And he is no charlatan, so watch your tongue.’
There was a murmur of support from the Carmelites and a group of scholars from Clare. Bartholomew was alarmed to see the crowd had separated into two halves. He put his hand on Falmeresham’s shoulder, silently ordering him to say no more.
‘You are a surgeon?’ asked Bartholomew politely. He pointed to Arderne’s red robes, fighting the urge to walk away from the man and talk to Michael. It would be deemed rude, and he did not want to antagonise anyone.
‘I am a healer,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘No mere sawbones – and no urine-gazer, either. I am superior to both trades, because my remedies are efficacious and I know what I am doing.’