‘He was a good horseman,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He had never given his colleague’s penchant for knives much thought, assuming them to be decorative rather than functional. He considered the new information carefully, and decided it added weight to his contention that Arderne had killed Lynton – Lynton had been shot because he had not submitted passively to Arderne’s torrent of abuse, and had tried to do something to stop it.
‘Arderne accepted Lynton’s challenge eagerly,’ Edith went on. ‘And why not? What danger could an elderly scholar pose? Then he found out that Lynton knew how to fight, and he began to make excuses – delaying the time they were due to meet, finding fault with the locations Lynton suggested, and so on. And now – conveniently for Arderne – Lynton is dead. Rumour is that the horse killed him, but he was too skilled a rider to have simply fallen off.’
‘What are you saying? That you think Arderne killed Lynton?’
‘It crossed my mind, although it is difficult to see how.’
Bartholomew did not enlighten her; she was safer not knowing. ‘I have not heard about this duel before, and neither has Michael.’
‘Then you are obviously talking to the wrong people. You should ask your questions of townsfolk, not University men. You will have a lot more honest answers.’
‘I might have a dagger in my back, too. Scholars are not popular with laymen at the moment.’
‘It would all blow over if the landlords were allowed to raise the rents. You must admit that the situation is unfair: once a band of students is in a house, they are free to stay as long as they like – for a pittance. Come to Trumpington for a few days, Matt. Term is not due to start for another week, and Langelee will not begrudge you a respite with your family.’
‘You want me tucked away until people stop being angry about Isnard’s leg?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes – and you must see that I am right. Look at those baker’s apprentices. They are glowering at you, and if I were not here, they would attack.’
Bartholomew glanced to where she pointed, and conceded that the gang of youths was regarding him in an openly hostile manner. As he watched, one stooped and picked something up from the ground. His arm went back, and something started to fly through the air. Bartholomew tried to interpose himself between the missile and Edith, but he was too slow. The stone hit her head with a thump and she crumpled to the ground.
For a moment, the apprentices did nothing but stare, then they took to their heels and fled, their horrified faces showing it was not the outcome they had intended. Heart pounding, Bartholomew knelt next to his sister, relieved beyond measure when she opened her eyes and looked at him. Being a scalp wound, there was a good deal of blood, but her thick hair and padded head-dress had absorbed most of the impact, and she was more shocked than seriously hurt.
He gathered her up in his arms, and carried her to her husband’s Milne Street property, where Oswald Stanmore fussed and fretted until she was compelled to order him away. Although theirs had been an arranged marriage – Stanmore had wanted a wife from an old and respected family, and Edith’s father had been interested in the clothier’s rapidly burgeoning wealth – they were a happy couple, and loved each other deeply. He stood in the doorway and watched Bartholomew stitch the wound, his face a mask of stricken horror. It was some time before he was convinced that there would be no lasting damage, and only then did he agree to let his brother-in-law leave. He followed the physician to the front door.
‘I know my apprentices stood against you in the Market Square yesterday. I have berated them for it, and it will not happen again.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I cannot blame them. It is not an easy choice: their master’s kin or their local friends. I imagine it is not pleasant for you either.’
Stanmore smiled ruefully. ‘That is an understatement! My fellow burgesses say I have divided loyalties, and I find myself “accidentally omitted” from important meetings. Candelby wanted me to bribe you – to pay you for persuading Michael to yield to him over the rents.’
‘What was he offering?’
Stanmore’s smile was grim. ‘More money than you make in a year. However, I declined on your behalf. Now all your patients have defected to Arderne, you cannot afford to lose your Fellowship to charges of corruption.’
‘All my patients have not defected,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Most have remained with me, although they are wary about admitting it. The only notable losses are Hanchach, the three crones who sell cabbages in the Market Square, and a couple of butchers.’
‘And Isnard,’ added Stanmore. ‘He always was a bad judge of character. When he comes to his senses – as he will, in time – you should have nothing to do with him. That will teach him a lesson he needs to learn.’
‘He threatened to kill me just now. He was drunk, but I think he meant it.’
‘God help us! Arderne’s antics are doing you serious damage, and while I am willing to stand at your side, I do not want Edith to do it. Will you agree to stay away from her until this is over? We both want the same thing – her safety.’
Bartholomew nodded, knowing it was the right thing to do, but he deeply resented the necessity. For the first time, he began to feel stirrings of genuine anger towards Arderne. He left Stanmore’s house in a growing rage, and had Arderne been out at that precise moment, Bartholomew would have been the second Cambridge physician to challenge him to a trial by combat – his recent experiences with King Edward’s army in France meant he was sure he could give the healer a run for his money. However, it was not Arderne he met, but Michael. The monk took one look at the black expression on his friend’s face, and dragged him into the nearest tavern.
The Brazen George on the High Street was Michael’s favourite inn. It was a clean, comfortable place that offered a choice of several rooms to its patrons. This meant scholars could drink their ale without being in company with townsfolk – and vice versa – and two rear doors meant students could escape if the Senior Proctor or his beadles happened to enter. There was a flurry of movement towards the back that day, although Michael rarely fined anyone for drinking in the Brazen George. It would have been rank hypocrisy, given the amount of time he spent there himself.
When Bartholomew told him what had happened, the monk’s eyes grew round with horror. ‘This is growing more deadly by the moment. You should stay in Michaelhouse until it blows over.’
‘I shall not. I have done nothing wrong, and refuse to skulk like a frightened rabbit. Do you think Arderne will accept my challenge? He accepted Lynton’s.’
‘And then immediately withdrew when he realised Lynton was hardier than he looked. He is not a fool, and will not make the same mistake twice. Keep away from him. It is safer that way.’
‘Safer for whom?’
‘Him,’ said Michael wryly. ‘I have never seen you so angry. You say Edith will suffer no long-term effects, so put this into perspective. It was you these lads were aiming for, not her.’
‘That makes me feel better.’
‘Easy, Matt. Remember that Lynton fought back against Arderne, and now he is dead.’
‘I thought you considered Candelby a more viable suspect for Lynton’s murder.’
‘I do, but that does not mean I am happy for you to take needless risks. Even if Arderne is innocent of shooting Lynton, he is still a very dangerous man.’
‘Then that is even more reason for taking steps to neutralise him. He gave Hanchach urine to drink last night, and God only knows what other toxic potions he is distributing in his ignorance.’ Bartholomew changed the subject when he saw Michael look worried. The monk had enough to occupy him, without being burdened by the physician’s concerns, too. ‘Where have you been this morning?’