‘Motelete is out there. Shall we ask him about his resurrection again?’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael with a weary sigh. ‘I cannot see any other way through the ungodly maze of facts we have accumulated.’
Motelete had abandoned the academic tabard that identified him as a scholar of Clare, and was wearing a surcoat of dark green with multicoloured hose. He was in company with a fair-headed girl and a youth who looked so much like her that Bartholomew assumed they were siblings. The lad looked bored and resentful, but Motelete and the woman seemed to be enjoying themselves.
‘Motelete’s companion is named Will Sago,’ said Michael, watching them. ‘He is one of the Angel’s pot-boys. Now why would Motelete be in such company?’
‘It is not Sago he is interested in,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘It is Sago’s sister.’
When Lister brought more Lombard slices, Michael asked why he was allowing a student and a pot-boy to drink together, when it might bring trouble. Lister pulled a resentful face.
‘Candelby’s lads have taken to patronising my inn of late – they come to spy, of course. How else would Candelby know the occasional academic visits my humble establishment?’
Everyone in Cambridge knew the Brazen George catered to scholars, and Bartholomew suspected Candelby had ordered his servants to frequent the place as a way to intimidate Lister into banishing them, rather than to gather intelligence.
‘The lass is Siffreda Sago,’ Lister went on. ‘And the student is Motelete, who was raised from the dead by that remarkable Arderne. Sago is there to make sure she does not lose her virtue, although Motelete will have her soon, watchful brother or no.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Motelete courts townswomen, bloodies noses in brawls, and outwits chaperons. He does not sound like the quiet, timid student described to us at Clare – the one who would never have harmed Ocleye, who never visited taverns, and who cried for his mother.’
‘He is said to have changed since his resurrection,’ explained Lister. ‘I am not surprised – it must have been an eerie experience.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked outside, where Motelete hurriedly removed his hand from down the back of Siffreda’s gown.
‘Wine is good for me,’ he said, gesturing to the jug on the table in front of him. ‘Magister Arderne said I should drink lots of it, to make sure I do not fall into death again.’
‘That is the kind of physician any man would be pleased to own,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Mine is always telling me to abstain, which is a wretched bore.’
Motelete smiled. ‘I would rather have Arderne than any medicus alive. He is a genius, and I shall always be in debt to him for saving me. Would you like to see my neck? You will recall it was marred by a great gash that saw me lose all my blood, but now there is virtually no mark at all.’
It was an offer no physician could decline. Bartholomew examined the bared throat, and saw a cut that had scabbed over and was healing nicely. In a few days, it would fade to a faint pink line, and a month might see it vanish altogether.
‘Do you remember being dead?’ he asked.
Motelete shook his head. ‘People keep asking me that – did I see Christ, was I in Purgatory, was my soul weighed? All I recall is being very cold, and when Magister Arderne commanded me to rise, it was difficult, because I was stiff. He says all corpses undergo a phase of stiffness.’
They talked a while longer, mostly about the fact that Motelete was not wearing his prescribed uniform, and that even scholars newly risen from the grave were not exempt from the University’s rules. Motelete was not entirely won over by Michael’s logic, but agreed to go home to Clare – without his sweetheart – when the monk mentioned that he had the authority to demand a fine of up to six pence from students who preferred taverns to their schools.
As soon as Michael was satisfied that Motelete was heading in the right direction, Bartholomew headed for a stinking alley known as Butchery Row. It was behind the Market Square, identifiable by its rank stench and large population of bluebottles. Children sold rhubarb leaves at either end so customers could use them to keep buzzing flies from their faces as they browsed the wares on sale.
‘I want to find out whether any meat-sellers have hawked livers that were knobbly and green,’ he explained to Michael, ‘because the organ Falmeresham saw cannot possibly have been his own.’
‘This place always makes me glad I am not a woman,’ said Michael, holding his sleeve over his nose with one hand, and flapping furiously with the other. ‘They are obliged to come here every day, and it turns my stomach.’
‘There is Agatha, buying meat for your dinner. She does not seem to mind the flies or the smell.’
‘No fly would dare alight on her,’ retorted Michael, flailing harder as they ventured deeper inside the shadowy alley. ‘And nor would any smell.’
‘Arderne delivered my love-potion yesterday,’ Agatha announced as she approached. The sack hefted over her shoulder was huge, and probably contained the best part of a sheep. ‘It contains real mandrake, and we all know there is nothing like mandrake for making folk fall in love.’
‘It is also a powerful poison,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed for the man who might drink it. ‘It can induce wild fancies, but the dosage must be very carefully measured.’
‘Who is it for?’ asked Michael warily.
She grinned mischievously. ‘You will know soon enough. Do not worry, Matthew. I will not give him too much of it.’
‘I shall hold you to that,’ said Bartholomew, hoping her idea of ‘too much’ was the same as his own. ‘Edith told me you threw a hunk of bread at Arderne yesterday. If you dislike him enough to lob loaves, then why did you buy his remedy?’
Agatha was thoughtful. ‘I hurled the bread because he insulted you, and I was going to refuse his charm when it arrived. But when he delivered it, and looked at me with those eyes of his, I could not stop myself from reaching for my purse. He is a clever man, though, despite his sharp tongue. He cured Motelete and Falmeresham of death, and he healed Blankpayn’s leprosy.’
‘I have not seen a genuine case of leprosy in England for years,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘Arderne said it was leprosy. I know all about it, because Blankpayn is my cousin.’
‘Blankpayn?’ asked Michael in astonishment, while Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised. Agatha was related to at least half the county.
Agatha became defensive. ‘I know he is not kin of which to be proud, but you cannot choose your relations, so I am stuck with him. He says he did not harm Falmeresham on purpose, though.’
‘We know,’ said Michael. ‘I was witness to the fact that it was an accident myself, and there was no need for him to have run away. However, that does not justify him neglecting to mention Falmeresham’s whereabouts when he knew we were worried.’
‘He is a spiteful fool,’ agreed Agatha venomously. ‘He has no wits, not like me.’
‘I do not suppose he told you anything else, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Perhaps about Candelby and the crossbow he keeps to repel thieves and scholars? Blankpayn will never talk to me, but he might have confided in you.’
‘He does confide,’ acknowledged Agatha, liking the notion that she might possess information the monk did not. ‘But Candelby did not shoot anyone on Sunday. His crossbow is never loaded, and as they take a few moments to arm, I never bother with them personally. I prefer a sword.’