‘So, Isabel has a fancy for Arderne,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked home, Carton and Falmeresham trailing behind them. The two younger men were quarrelling in low voices. Falmeresham was angry because Carton was making rude comments about the healer he had come to revere, and Carton was apparently disgusted that his friend should be so easily deceived.
Bartholomew considered the predicament of Isabel St Ives. She was about to lose her mistress, her home and her employment, and was in an acutely vulnerable position. He hoped the arrogant Arderne would not take what he wanted, then abandon her. ‘There is no accounting for taste.’
‘I imagine most women consider him handsome, and he is very charismatic,’ said Michael. ‘I know from personal experience that ladies find that particular combination of traits attractive in a man. But speak of the Devil, and he will appear. Here comes the fellow himself.’
The healer was not alone. Blankpayn was announcing in a loud voice that Arderne had cured him of leprosy – although Bartholomew noticed that no one wanted to stand too close to him even so – and Candelby was still showing off his ‘broken’ arm. Carton asked Falmeresham in an uncharacteristically acerbic voice whether he would like to join them and flaunt his mended liver.
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, as Arderne swaggered towards them. ‘I want a word with him.’
‘Do not tackle him here,’ warned Michael in alarm, seeing the determined set of the physician’s jaw. ‘We are heavily outnumbered, and this is neither the time nor the place for a confrontation.’
‘I do not care,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have been patient, but he has gone too far.’
Falmeresham was also worried, and tugged on his arm. ‘Come down this lane, so you avoid meeting him. I can see you are itching to accuse him of bringing about the death of Mistress Bowyer, and that would be unfair. It is your fault she is dying, not his.’
Bartholomew stared at him in astonishment, Arderne momentarily forgotten. ‘What?’
‘You touched her and gave her medicines, when he said it was best to leave her alone,’ explained Falmeresham. ‘I have seen him work miracles, so there is no doubt in my mind that it was your interference – albeit well-intentioned – that brought about Maud’s decline.’
Bartholomew decided it was time for Falmeresham to hear a few facts. ‘Arderne bought sheep entrails from Putrid Peter on Monday, and performed some sleight of hand to make you think they were your own. He could not possibly have drawn your liver through that small cut in your side. It is a medical impossibility, and were I allowed to teach you anatomy, you would see I am right.’
Falmeresham took a step away. ‘Magister Arderne said you would try to turn me against him, by denigrating his achievements. I did not believe him, but I see he was right.’
Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘You take his word over mine? After all these years?’
‘He does not,’ said Carton quickly. ‘He is still unwell, and–’
Falmeresham pulled away from him. ‘On the contrary, I have never felt better. While I was recovering, I spent hours talking to Magister Arderne, and was amazed by the depth of his knowledge. Everything he said makes sense. You say there is a lot about the body that you do not understand, but he knows everything. He always has answers and never says he does not know.’
‘Then he is a fool, as well as a fraud,’ said Michael tartly.
Falmeresham regarded him coldly. ‘You are the fool, Brother, for not seeing what is staring you in the face. You have grown so used to Doctor Bartholomew’s failures that you are unnerved by a man who is flushed with success.’
‘Watch yourself, lad,’ warned Michael. ‘I appreciate you have had an unpleasant experience, but it does not give you the right to be insolent. I suggest you go home and think about what you “saw” when you were with Arderne. Consider it logically, in the light of your training, then ask yourself whether these miracles are credible. Arderne is not a saint, infused with the power of Heaven.’
‘I disagree,’ said Falmeresham quietly. ‘And I want to learn more from him. He asked me to be his assistant, and I think I should accept his offer.’
Bartholomew was dismayed, knowing the lad was making a terrible mistake. ‘At least finish this term. Then you will have your degree.’
Falmeresham edged away. ‘I cannot waste another moment – it would be irresponsible to the people I can cure in the future. Will you stop me?’
Bartholomew seriously considered locking him up until he came to his senses. ‘Not if you think you are doing the right thing.’
‘I am,’ said Falmeresham. ‘My eyes have been opened, and a whole new world has unfolded. I shall always appreciate what you have taught me, though – it is not your fault the academic study of medicine falls so far short of what might be achieved.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away, recalling his own excitement after hearing a lecture by the Arab physician who would later become his teacher. He understood exactly how Falmeresham felt.
‘You should stop him,’ said Carton, horrified. ‘I do not want him to go to Arderne. He may–’
‘May what?’ asked Michael, when the commoner stopped speaking abruptly.
Carton shrugged, and refused to look at him. ‘May learn facts that will do him no good.’
It was an odd thing to say, but Bartholomew was too preoccupied with Falmeresham to think about it. He turned away when the student reached his hero and began talking. Arderne shot a gloating smile in the physician’s direction, and put a possessive arm around the lad’s shoulders.
‘I think we will go home the back way,’ said Michael, pulling Bartholomew in the opposite direction. ‘I do not feel like walking down Bridge Street today.’
CHAPTER 9
The tinkle of the College bell woke Bartholomew the following morning, and he sat up to find the students who now shared his room had risen, dressed, and left. A heavy sleeper, he had not heard a thing. He appreciated having the chamber to himself as he washed in the bowl of cold water Cynric had left for him, shaving quickly with one of his surgical blades. The clothes he had worn the day before were not too crumpled from where he had left them in a heap in the corner, so he donned them again, hopping from foot to foot in an effort to keep his bare feet off the cold stone floor.
He trotted into the yard, pulling his tabard over his head. It was not a pleasant day. There was a sleety drizzle in the air, and the wind whipped in from the Fens like a knife. There was not a student, commoner or Fellow who was not shivering as he waited for Langelee to lead the procession to the church for daily prayers, and the only warm person was Agatha, who watched the assembly from the comfort of her wicker throne next to the kitchen fire.
Suddenly, there was a piercing scream that had the new students exclaiming their alarm, but it was only the porter’s peacock being let out of its coop. It strutted boldly into the open, then scuttled inside again when it saw the state of the weather. The hens were made of sterner stuff, and were scratching about in the mud, scuttling diagonally every so often, as the wind caught them.
‘Who is still missing?’ demanded Langelee, looking round irritably. ‘Someone is not here. Who?’
‘Honynge and Carton,’ said William, looking around irritably. ‘Honynge was still in bed when I passed his door, but he said he was coming. Do you want me to hurry him up?’
‘Deynman will do it,’ said Langelee. ‘Where is Carton? He is not usually late.’