‘The last patient is none other than the loathsome Kendale himself,’ said Valence. He gave a feeble laugh. ‘I am not sure we should go, given what Isnard has just told us about him.’
Bartholomew recalled his last encounter with Kendale, when the Principal and his students had accosted him in St Michael’s Lane and initiated a contest about who should have right of way.
‘He has a cheek to think you will help him,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘Neyll told Walter that Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld have all refused to visit, and that you are his last hope. But that is no reason to tend a man like Kendale.’
‘Did Neyll say what is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not usually refuse to see patients, but did not relish the prospect of setting foot in a house full of men who hated members of Colleges.
‘He has a crushed hand,’ explained Valence. ‘An accident. Neyll told me they have stopped the bleeding, but that it needs stitches and possibly set bones.’
‘Then why did you not mention it sooner?’ demanded Bartholomew, aghast. ‘We should have gone there first. You give the impression that it is a routine call, but it is an emergency!’
‘I forgot,’ said Valence. He saw Bartholomew’s sceptical glance. ‘I did!’
There was no point in remonstrating. ‘Tell Michael where I am. And if I do not return by–’
‘I am not letting you visit Chestre alone,’ declared Valence, straightening his shoulders defiantly. ‘Michaelhouse students are not afraid of hostel men.’
Bartholomew tried to dissuade him, but Valence was adamant. He gave way, and they walked briskly down the lane to the grand house currently leased by Kendale. Valence knocked, and while they waited for a reply, Bartholomew studied the building that Cynric said was haunted.
During the day, he would have dismissed the book-bearer’s notion as fancy, but at night there was something vaguely unearthly about the place. It was darker than the surrounding houses, and its roof overhung rather forebodingly. In addition, its windows formed a pattern that looked like two eyes and a leering mouth. When he saw the route his thoughts had taken, Bartholomew shook his head, disgusted with himself for allowing his imagination to run so wild.
Neyll answered the door immediately, and his black eyebrows drew down into a hostile scowl when he saw Bartholomew and Valence. The physician took a step back. Was someone playing a joke, deliberately sending them into an awkward situation?
‘We were beginning to think you were too frightened to come,’ the Bible Scholar growled sullenly. ‘Well? Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming in?’
Inside, Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Kendale and his students had decorated Chestre’s walls with the skulls of animals they had slaughtered. Some were very fearsome, with great curling horns and gaping eye sockets. He saw Valence cross himself and felt the urge to do the same. He might have done, but Neyll was watching, and he had his pride.
The house comprised a large hall on the ground floor, plus two smaller rooms for private teaching or reading. A flight of stairs led to the upper storey, and in the gloom he could see more bones adorning those walls, too; he wondered why Kendale had not settled for tapestries or murals, like everyone else. More steps led to a cellar, which a trail of muddy footprints suggested was in frequent use – probably, he thought, noting the number of telltale splashes on the walls, because it was where they stored their claret.
‘At last!’ exclaimed Kendale. He was sitting by the fire, and his hand was a mess of bloody cloths. All his students were there, and the place reeked of wine. ‘I know we hostel men are not a high priority, but I did not think you would leave me in agony for quite so long.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, genuinely contrite. ‘It has been a busy evening.’
He knelt next to Kendale, and gently removed the dressings. The hand had indeed been crushed – the fingers were bruised, and there were deep cuts across the back of them.
‘I slipped on some ice,’ said Kendale, by means of explanation.
‘This is not the sort of injury that can be sustained by falling,’ remarked Bartholomew absently, inspecting it in the light of the fire.
‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ demanded Kendale. There was an immediate menacing murmur from his students, and two or three came angrily to their feet.
‘Only if you are accusing me of being unable to distinguish between injuries caused by a tumble, and injuries caused by compression,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, declining to be intimidated.
Kendale regarded him silently for a moment, then laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘All right, I did not slip. I caught it in the door.’
‘It must have been quite a door,’ muttered Bartholomew, not believing that tale, either.
‘You are as bad as Meryfeld,’ sneered Neyll. ‘He is all nosy questions, too. The last time he came, he asked so many of them that we had to put a knife to his throat, to shut him up.’
Bartholomew glanced at him, to see whether he was making a joke, but the dour visage told him that the Bible Scholar was no more capable of humour than he was of flying to the moon. And if his claim was true, then it was not surprising the other medici had declined to answer Kendale’s summons.
‘Meryfeld is your physician?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Then why did he not come tonight?’
‘Neyll’s teasing must have frightened him off,’ said Kendale. ‘But does it matter how my hand came to be injured? I want you to mend it, not analyse how it could have been avoided.’
‘Of course it matters,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Knowing how a wound was caused tells me what sort of damage might lie beneath the skin. For example, the hard edges of a door will result in different harm than if your hand was caught between two flat surfaces.’
‘It was not two flat surfaces,’ said Kendale, after a moment of thought. ‘As I said, it was a door.’
Bartholomew was disinclined to argue. He asked for a lamp, then began to suture the larger cuts with stitches any seamstress would have been proud of. Kendale gritted his teeth, although the reek of wine on his breath indicated he should not have been feeling a great deal.
‘Thank you,’ said Kendale, sitting back in relief when the operation was over and the hand was wrapped in clean bandages. ‘And now sit down, and have a drink.’
‘It is late,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I do not–’
‘Drink,’ ordered Neyll, slamming a goblet on the table in front of him and filling it to the brim. ‘In my country, no guest leaves without refreshment. Not even members of pompous, rich Colleges. You, too, Valence. Sit, or we will be deeply offended.’
Bartholomew did not want his refusal to be used as an excuse for a spat, so with a sigh of resignation, he perched on the bench next to Valence and picked up the goblet. ‘To good relations,’ he said, raising it in salute. ‘Between the hostels and the Colleges.’
‘I do not know about that,’ growled Kendale. ‘I am more inclined to toast continued hostilities. It is a lot more satisfying.’
There was a cheer from the students, and the toast was repeated in a feisty roar.
Because he was tired, the wine went straight to Bartholomew’s head. He finished it with difficulty, and started to stand, but Neyll grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down again, while another student refilled the goblet. Meanwhile, Valence was already on his third cupful.
‘We really must go,’ said Bartholomew, trying to struggle away from Neyll’s meaty hand. It was hopeless: the burly Bible Scholar was extremely strong.
‘Why?’ demanded Kendale. ‘You cannot have more patients at this time of the night. Or are you too good to drink in our hostel?’