‘A leech,’ sneered Falmeresham. ‘A common trickster.’
‘Perhaps we can talk another time,’ said Bartholomew hastily, before Arderne could react to the insult. ‘But now, your patients need you, and I must carry Lynton to his College.’
‘Here comes my personal transport,’ said Arderne, turning as a cart clattered rather recklessly into the onlookers. It was painted with herbs, stars and signs of the zodiac, and looked more like something a magician would own than a medicus. He addressed its driver. ‘Help my new patients, but be gentle. My cure is working, and rough treatment might see it all reversed again.’
‘Damned liar!’ spat Falmeresham. ‘A cure either works or it does not.’
Arderne chose to ignore him, but a nondescript man, whom Bartholomew had seen working in the Angel when he had bought his pie – his name was Ocleye – was unwilling to let the matter pass. ‘What can apprentice physicians know about the power of magic?’ he demanded. ‘Your teachers do not choose to initiate you into such mysteries, so you will always remain ignorant of them.’
‘Lynton will not be teaching any mysteries now, magical or otherwise,’ brayed Blankpayn. He had enjoyed his cronies laughing at his first witticism, and was eager to repeat the experience. After another pause, his friends cackled obligingly.
‘Poor Lynton,’ said Carton. He knelt, and Bartholomew thought he was going to pray. Instead he began to tidy the cloak that covered the body, straightening it with small, fussy movements that betrayed his unease at the hostility that was bubbling around them.
Michael had ordered his beadles to stand between the two factions, in the hope of preventing more violence. ‘Who saw the accident?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Lynton came racing along Milne Street at a speed that was far from safe,’ replied Blankpayn immediately. ‘His death serves him right. He might have killed poor Candelby.’
‘Perhaps he intended to,’ said Arderne slyly.
Bartholomew glanced sharply at the healer. Arderne knew perfectly well that such a remark might stoke the flames of hatred. Of course, a brawl would almost certainly result in casualties, some of whom might require the services of a medicus. The physician struggled to mask his distaste for the fellow’s unethical tactics.
‘Did you actually see cart and horse collide, Blankpayn?’ pressed Michael, choosing to overlook Arderne’s comment. The monk was pale, and Bartholomew sensed his growing unease with the situation.
‘I was close by,’ hedged Blankpayn, indicating that he had not. ‘And Candelby told me the whole incident was Lynton’s fault.’
‘I shall question Candelby myself – we do not condemn anyone on hearsay.’ Michael raised his voice. ‘Everyone should go home. There is nothing to see here.’
‘Lies!’ shouted Arderne, startling everyone with his sudden vehemence. ‘How can you say there is nothing to see when I am at work? How dare you denigrate my performance!’
‘Your performance?’ Bartholomew was startled by the choice of words.
‘My miraculous healing of Candelby and Maud. They would be dead by now, had it not been for my timely intervention. I healed them with my magic feather.’
Bartholomew declined to argue with him. He knew from experience that such characters were best ignored until they destroyed themselves with their outrageous boasts. He glanced at Lynton again, itching for the confrontation to be over, so he could talk to Michael.
‘It is time Cambridge was blessed with a decent medical practitioner,’ Arderne went on. ‘The age of amateurs is over, and the people of this fine town will now benefit from the best that modern science can offer. I, Richard Arderne, can cure leprosy, poxes, falling sicknesses and contagions. I can make barren women fertile, and draw teeth with no pain at all.’
‘Can you turn lead into gold, too?’ jeered Falmeresham. Bartholomew poked him in the back.
‘I am working on it,’ replied Arderne, unfazed. ‘And when I succeed – which is only a matter of time – I shall share my good fortune with my loyal patients. But now I must take Maud home before she weeps herself into a fit. Good afternoon to you all.’
He was gone in a flurry of clattering hoofs and wheels, leaving the crowd somewhat bemused.
‘You see?’ murmured Robin, suddenly at Bartholomew’s elbow. The physician jumped, on edge and uncomfortable. ‘How can I compete with that sort of announcement? He will ruin me.’
‘He will not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is only a matter of time before one of his clients points out that he was in pain when a tooth was drawn, or that she is still barren. Then his reputation will–’
‘But that might take weeks,’ cried Robin. ‘And he will destroy me in the meantime.’
Bartholomew did not know what to say, aware that Arderne’s brash confidence would certainly appeal to more people than Robin’s sly deference. He watched the unhappy surgeon slouch away.
‘I shall not mourn Lynton,’ declared Blankpayn. ‘One fewer scholar is good news. I heard old master Kenyngham has gone to meet his maker, too, so it is definitely a good Easter for the town.’
Before Bartholomew could stop him, Falmeresham had launched himself at the taverner, who instinctively drew his dagger. Falmeresham saw it too late to swerve, and his mouth opened in shock as he ran on to the blade. He stumbled to his knees. Blankpayn dropped his knife and began to back away, his face white with horror at what he had done.
‘No!’ breathed Bartholomew. He started to run towards his stricken student, but did not get far. One of the patrons swung a punch that caught him squarely on the side of the jaw. He went down hard, and was forced to cover his head with his hands when there was a sudden, furious rush to join the ensuing affray. He tried to stand, but was knocked down again by someone crashing into him. He heard Michael bellowing, ordering everyone home. Then the bells of St John Zachary started to ring, warning scholars that trouble was afoot. More men started to pour into the street.
Bartholomew managed to struggle upright, looking wildly around for his friends. He could not see Falmeresham, and hoped that Carton had dragged him to safety. Meanwhile, Michael was backed against the broken cart, fending off two masons, who were threatening him with daggers. Bartholomew retrieved the heavy childbirth forceps from the medicine bag he always wore looped across his shoulder, and struck one on the shoulder. The other spun around to fight him, but backed away when he saw a knife was no match for an expertly wielded surgical implement.
Michael gazed at the pushing, shoving mêlée with undisguised fury. He stalked to a trough that was used for watering horses, and in a massive show of strength – for all his lard, he was a physically powerful man – upended it. Green water shot across the street, drenching the legs of anyone close by. There were indignant howls as the skirmishers tried to duck out of the way.
‘Enough!’ roared the monk. His livid face made several scholars slink away before he started to issue fines. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, brawling on Easter Day! Go home, all of you, and do not come out again until you are in a more peaceful frame of mind.’
Bartholomew was astonished when people began to do as they were told. There were some resentful grumbles, but it was not long before the horde had dissipated.
‘Where is Falmeresham?’ demanded Bartholomew of Carton, who was standing uncertainly nearby. ‘I thought he was with you.’
‘I thought he was with you,’ countered the Franciscan alarmed. ‘I saw you dash towards him, but I had no wish to fight Blankpayn and his henchmen, so I hung back.’