‘But Galen has been dead for hundreds of years, and–’
‘It must have been another Galen, then. I took the first draught of that tonic last night, and I shall have another this morning. Arderne says I will be walking around the town this time tomorrow, and back at work the day after that.’
‘If you rush your recovery, you will relapse. I know you trust Arderne, but let your body tell you what to do. Start by sitting outside for an hour, and do not try walking until you are strong enough. If you need me, send to Michaelhouse and I will come.’
‘I know you will, but I cannot afford to lose body parts to over-ready knives, like Isnard did. Good day to you, Bartholomew – and please do not tell Arderne you came. I would not like him to withdraw his assistance.’
Bartholomew left dismayed and angry. How could Arderne possibly hope to fulfil all the promises he was making? And what would be the cost of his reckless boasts? No matter what Arderne claimed, it was not a good idea to feed urine to a man who had been so gravely ill – or to anyone for that matter – and Bartholomew liked the glover, and wanted to see him well again. Should he go back and try to reason with him? But he knew there was no point: Arderne had fixed Hanchach with his ‘compelling eyes’ and that was that. Preoccupied and unhappy, Bartholomew began to retrace his steps to Michaelhouse. He was so absorbed that he did not see Isnard until the bargeman attracted his attention with a large clod of earth.
‘I want a word with you,’ said Isnard coldly, while the physician shook the soil from his hair.
Isnard was brandishing one of his crutches, and Bartholomew hoped he would not swing it with sufficient vigour that he would lose his balance and fall. Isnard was always toppling over, mostly because of his fondness for ale, but he heartily resented being helped up, and onlookers were never sure what to do when he lay floundering. He was drunk that morning, and looked as if he had been imbibing all night.
‘You saw the state of your leg that day,’ said Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well what the ‘word’ was about. ‘It was mangled beyond recognition. The bones would never have knitted – and you would have been dead of fever long before that happened anyway.’
‘You are wrong,’ slurred Isnard. ‘Arderne said so. You maimed me, so you could collect a fee.’
‘I never charged you, as you know perfectly well. And Kenyngham and the other Michaelhouse Fellows paid for your medicines.’
Isnard’s ale-reddened face softened for a moment. ‘Dear Kenyngham. However, I imagine he bought me the remedies because he knew what you had done, and he wanted to make amends.’
‘You can think what you like about me,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘But do not malign him. He would never have looked the other way if he thought I had done something wrong.’
‘You destroyed my life!’ shouted Isnard, ignoring his point. ‘I have given Arderne five marks already, but he said you did such a terrible job with the amputation that he will probably be unable to cure me. It is not his fault – he is doing his best. It is yours.’
With sudden fury, he lobbed the crutch at Bartholomew. The physician ducked, and it plopped into the river, where it was caught in the current and began to bob away.
‘Now look what you have done,’ howled Isnard. ‘You made me lose my stick.’
Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘Let me help you inside before you hurt yourself.’
‘Stay away from me,’ shrieked Isnard. ‘And if you cross my path again, I shall kill you.’
CHAPTER 7
Isnard was not the only one who expressed his disapproval of the physician that morning. As Bartholomew walked from the Mill Pond to Michaelhouse, two rivermen cast unpleasant looks in his direction. He heard one tell the other that it was common practise among University physicians to hone their skills on hapless townsmen, so they would know what they were doing when a scholar needed treatment. Then he added that the operation to remove Isnard’s leg had been performed by Deynman, which Bartholomew might have found amusing, had he not been so appalled by the way the town was turning so fast against him.
He did not feel safe by the river, so he abandoned the towpath and cut up one of the narrow alleys to Milne Street. When a woman called Yolande de Blaston wished him good morning, he regarded her suspiciously, and looked around to see if she had been charged to waylay him, so he could be pelted with mud – or worse.
‘Do not worry about bad-tempered apprentices, Doctor,’ said Yolande. She was a part-prostitute and part-laundress, and knew virtually every man in the town for one reason or another. ‘If they give you any trouble, you come and tell me, and I will sort them out for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew weakly.
‘I said the same to that Motelete – the student Arderne raised from the dead. The pot-boys from the Angel had him cornered, and were going to kill him in revenge for Ocleye. I sent them off with a flea in their ear, although Motelete is a lad who knows how to look after himself, and I suspect he would have been able to fend for himself. Still, he thanked me prettily enough.’
‘Motelete?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he would fare very well against pot-boys.’
‘He had bloodied a couple of noses,’ countered Yolande. ‘It surprised me, too, because he is a gentle youth. Would you like me to stop Arderne spreading lies about you? I was going to do it yesterday, but Doctor Rougham said I should ask you first – he said if I knock out Arderne’s teeth in your name, the fellow might make trouble for you. Did I tell you I am expecting again, by the way? Number twelve – you missed number eleven, because you were in France.’
Bartholomew was suitably impressed, and recalled that most of her offspring bore uncanny likenesses to prominent townsmen and scholars. Her husband did not object to the way she earned extra pennies to support their growing brood, and there were few households in Cambridge that were as content and happy as the Blastons. He persuaded her that punching healers was not a good idea for pregnant ladies, although it was not easy, because she had taken an intense dislike to Arderne. He took his leave of her, and had not gone more than a few steps before he met his sister.
‘Have you had news about Falmeresham?’ she asked, worried to see him looking so preoccupied and careworn.
He shook his head. ‘But people do not just disappear. He must be somewhere.’
‘They fall in the river though, and are swept away, never to be seen again. I appreciate that is not what you want to hear, but it is true.’
‘I know,’ he said shortly, refusing to think about it.
‘Agatha threw a loaf of bread at Arderne yesterday – in the Market Square – because he was braying that your amputation of Isnard’s leg was unnecessary. It was a loaf she had baked herself, so he is lucky to be alive.’
Uncharitably, Bartholomew wished she had lobbed it a little harder. ‘I cannot imagine what I have done to offend him.’
‘He rails against Rougham and Paxtone, too, and he was rude about Lynton when he was alive. Lynton was so angry that he challenged him to a trial by combat.’
Bartholomew started to laugh. ‘Lynton? I doubt he knew one end of a sword from another.’
‘Well, you are wrong – he was quite accomplished. He was training to be a knight when he realised he had an aptitude for scholarship and decided to become a physician instead. I do not think he honed his skills very often, but he certainly knew how to wield a weapon. Surely you must have noticed the confident way he rode his horse, and how he never went out without a proper dagger?’