A Bone Of Contention Part 14

'Even the great physician Bernard Gordon, who taught at Montpellier, found it difficult to distinguish between subtle variations of pulse beats,' he said, a.s.suming Bulbeck was concerned that he was taking too long to grasp the essence of Galen's hypothesis.

Bulbeck gnawed at his lower lip. 'It is not that,' he said.

He hesitated, aware that Gray and Deynman were waiting for him near the door. He made up his mind. 'It is this notion of heavenly bodies. I know you are sceptical of the role played by the stars in a patient's sickness - and the little I have seen of medical practice inclines me to believe you are right. So why must we waste time with such nonsense? Why do you not teach us more about uroscopy or surgery.'

'Because if you want to pa.s.s your disputations and graduate as a physician, you will need to show that you can calculate the astrological charts that can be used to determine a course of treatment. What I believe about the worth of such calculations is irrelevant.'

'The medical faculty at Paris told King Philip the Sixth of France that the Death was caused by a malign conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter,' said Gray brightly from the doorway.

'I know,' said Bartholomew. 'And this malign conjunction was said to have occurred at precisely one o'clock on the afternoon of 20 March 1345. The physicians at the medical school of Montpellier wrote Tractatus deEpidemia, in which they explained that the reason some areas were worse affected than others was because they were more exposed to evil rays caused when "Saturn looked upon Jupiter with a malignant aspect".'

'But you do not believe that,' pressed Bulbeck. 'You think there is some other explanation.'

Bartholomew thought for a moment, uncertain how much to tell his students of his growing dissatisfaction with traditional medicine. He had been accused of heresy more times than he could remember for his unorthodox thinking, and was ever alert to the possibility that too great an acc.u.mulation of such charges might result in his dismissal from the University. In the past, he had not much cared what his colleagues thought about his teaching, a.s.suming that the better success rate he had with his patients would speak for itself. But he had moderated his incautious att.i.tude when he realised that his excellent medical record would be attributed to witchcraft if he were not careful, and then his hard work and painstakingly acquired skills would count for nothing.

'No, I do not believe that heavenly bodies were entirely responsible for the plague,' he said eventually. 'And I do not think that consulting a patient's stars will make much difference to the outcome of his sickness. I have found that my patients live or die regardless of whether I consult their stars to treat them or not.'

'Father Philius at Gonville Hall believes astrology is the most powerful tool that physicians have,' said Gray, leaning nonchalantly on the door frame. 'He says treatment without astrological consultation is like treating a patient without seeing him at all.'

'I am well aware of Philius's views,' said Bartholomew irritably. 'I have debated them with him often enough. But Philius will be at your disputations, Tom, and if you cannot convince him that you know your astrology, you will not pa.s.s, even if you are the best physician the world has known since Hippocrates.'

Bulbeck looked despondent, and Bartholomew recalled how he had felt when his Arab master in Paris had insisted that he learned astrology, even though he had not believed in its efficacy. So Bartholomew had learned his traditional medicine, and answered questions about poorly aligned constellations in his disputations. But he had also learned Ibn Ibrahim's unorthodox theories on hygiene and contagion, and so his patients had the benefit of both worlds.

Despite his scepticism, he was aware that the patient's mental state played an important role in his recovery. On occasion, Bartholomew's treatments had failed because a person had genuinely believed he could not be cured as long as Bartholomew had failed to consult the planets.

Guy Heppel, the Junior Proctor, would probably prove to be one of them; the physician knew that he would have to relent in the end, and at least make a pretence of studying the man's astrology if he ever wanted to p.r.o.nounce him well. He said as much to Bulbeck, who looked more glum than ever.

The student trailed out of the conclave and followed his friends through the hall. By the time he had reached the yard, however, Bartholomew saw he had already thrown off his gloom and was arguing loudly with Gray about how much a physician could justifiably charge for an extensive astrological consultation. Bartholomew realised that if he let Gray loose on Heppel's stars as he had planned, he would have to ensure the Junior Proctor was not charged a month's wages for the dubious privilege.

Bartholomew wandered back to his own room, which was not much cooler than the conclave. He spent most winter nights trying to invent new ways of keeping warm and now it seemed as though he would also have to invent means to stay cool in the summer.

He sat at the table and sharpened a quill to begin working on his treatise on fevers, but no sooner had he written a few words than his eyelids grew heavy and he began to dose. He was awoken when Davy Grahame arrived to deliver the book by Galen that the Princ.i.p.al of David's had promised to lend him. Bartholomew was to keep it for as long as he wanted, said Davy, and then enquired with ill-concealed envy about the fine collection of philosophy and theology texts at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew showed him where the books were chained to the wall in the hall, and left him happily browsing through them.

Bartholomew returned to his room, then pushed open the shutters to allow what little breeze there was to circulate. Abandoning his treatise, he sat again at the small table and opened the Galen. He smiled when he saw it was not the Prognostica, as Master Radbeche had thought, but the Tegni. He wondered whether anyone from David's had ever bothered to look at the book at all. But Bartholomew did not mind Radbeche's mistake.

It was a luxury to have a book to read in the comfort of his own room, as opposed to begging an uncomfortable corner in another college, or listening to someone else reading aloud.

Unfortunately, David's Hostel's cherished tome was not a good copy of the Tegni, and the scribe's writing was difficult to decipher. But, a book was a book, and far too valuable a commodity to be judged harshly. Bartholomew began to read, slowly at first as he struggled with the ill-formed letters and frequent errors, but then faster as he became familiar with the clerk's idiosyncratic style, delighting in the richness of the language and the purity of Galen's logic.

Absorbed in his book, Bartholomew did not know Michael was behind him until a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. He leapt from his chair, then slumped back again, clutching his chest and glaring at the chuckling Michael.

'Most sensible masters have decided no learning can be achieved in such heat,' said Michael, hurling himself on to Bartholomew's bed, which protested with groans from its wooden legs. 'I sent my lot away before noon. They are supposed to be thinking about the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo, although I doubt that much creation theology is running through their minds at this precise moment.'

'Mine are supposed to be learning about stomach disorders caused by dangerous alignments of the stars,' said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. 'Although I would rather tell them not to waste their time, and advise people not to drink from the river instead. It would save their prospective patients a good deal of suffering, and, in many cases, effect a quick cure.'

'You are mistaken, Matt,' said Michael. 'You may be happy to treat those who live in the hovels along the river banks, but your students will want to treat the rich, whose lips would never deign to touch river water. Keep your heretic thoughts to yourself and let the fledgling physicians learn about the astrology of the wealthy who will expect more of them than advice about water.'

Bartholomew opened his mouth to argue, but he knew that Michael was right. He fetched the wine he had bought the day before and poured some for Michael, who drank it quickly and held out his cup for more.

'Have you seen de Wetherset since last night?' Bartholomew asked, settling back on his chair and sipping distastefully at the warm wine.

Michael nodded, pouring himself a third cup. 'Apparently Thorpe has this d.a.m.n hand in a gla.s.s case, all wrapped round with satin. De Wetherset thinks the box is so elaborate that it must have been made in advance, which suggests to me that Thorpe is in the process of perpetrating some ma.s.sive fraud, not to mention the question of where the hand came from in the first place.

De Wetherset pointed out the pin, but Thorpe maintains it must have become lodged there at some point during its twenty-five year sojourn in the river. He even intimated that the pin was put there by divine intervention, to prevent the sacred bones from falling apart!'

He gave a snort of laughter, and looked to see if there was more wine in the bottle. 'De Wetherset could do nothing to convince Thorpe the thing was a fake and it is too late now in any case. The rumours are abroad that a saintly relic is in Valence Marie, and they are ama.s.sing a veritable fortune by charging an entrance fee to see it.'

'It will all die down,' said Bartholomew. 'Give it time.'

'We do not have time,' snapped Michael suddenly.

'Thorpe is a fool to make Valence Marie such a centre of attention with the town so uneasy. It will be an obvious target if there is another riot. And the d.a.m.n thing is a fake! I would be charitable and suggest it got into the Ditch by chance if it were not for the ring and the pin.'

'The ring,' mused Bartholomew. He felt around in his pocket, and pulled out the broken one he had found at G.o.dwinsson. Ts this Kenzie's ring, do you think? Did he lose it when he was skulking around G.o.dwinsson waiting for Dominica to appear? Or is Kenzie's ring now adorning the severed hand in Valence Marie?'

Michael swilled the dregs of the wine around in the bottom of his cup before draining it in a gulp. 'We could ask the Scottish lads to have a look at the one at Valence Marie,' he said. 'They might recognise it.'

'Would that be wise? Can we trust them not to start some rumour that Kenzie's severed limb is in Valence Marie? Then we might really have a problem on our hands. So to speak.'

'They might have a point,' said Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head firmly. 'Impossible. First, Kenzie's hands were not big enough to be the one at Valence Marie - believe me, I would have noticed if someone of Kenzie's height had hands the size of that skeleton's: it would have looked bizarre to say the least.

Second, Kenzie was not wearing his ring when he was killed - he was asking Werbergh and Edred if they had it before he died.'

'Perhaps he found it after he had his conversation with Werbergh and Edred, and was wearing it when he was murdered,' said Michael with a shrug.

'I suppose he might,' said Bardiolomew after a moment, 'although there is the ring I found in G.o.dwinsson. That might have been the one Kenzie lost.'

Michael made an impatient click with his tongue. 'The ring you found is probably nothing to do with all this. It might have been in that derelict shed for weeks - even months - before you picked it up. There could be all sorts of explanations as to why it was there - not least of which was that it was thrown away precisely because it is broken. When I looked out of the window, I saw a scullion emptying waste there. The whole yard is probably a repository for rubbish.'

'It certainly smelled that way,' said Bartholomew, grimacing. 'But regardless of whether Kenzie did or did not have his ring when he died, the hand at Valence Marie does not belong to him. I will stake my reputation on it.'

'Well now,' said Michael, regarding his friend with an amused gleam in his eye. 'It is not often you are so absolutely unshakeable over the deductions you make from corpses. You usually insist on a degree of leeway in your interpretations. So, I suppose I will have to believe you. But I am not the issue here - the David's students are. And we have a problem: the David's lads are the only ones who might recognise the ring as Kenzie's, and yet we cannot risk them identifying it as his, because a riot would follow for certain.'

'Dominica would recognise it if, as Kenzie's friends suppose, it was a gift from her,' said Bartholomew.

Michael wrinkled his nose disdainfully at the notion.

'And how would we get the permission of her parents to let her come?' he said.

The sun went behind a cloud briefly, cooling the room for an instant, before emerging again and beating down relentlessly on the dried beaten earth of the courtyard.

Bartholomew leaned forward and thought. 'Let us a.s.sume she did give Kenzie the ring,' he said. 'Where would she have got it from? I doubt she had the money to go out and buy it herself. Therefore, she must have owned it already - it had probably been given to her by her parents. I am certain that Lydgate and his wife know exactly what jewellery their daughter owns, especially valuable pieces. If Lydgate or Cecily go to see this hand, they might recognise the ring.'

'That is even more outrageous,' said Michael. 'You are even less likely to get Lydgate to view this hand than his daughter. He would refuse outright if we asked.

Sensible Cecily, meanwhile, has not yet returned to her husband, and if she has any intelligence at all, she never will. And not only that, neither of them knows that Kenzie was their daughter's lover, remember?'

Bartholomew was thoughtful for a moment. 'Your last point is irrelevant - it does not matter whether they know the ident.i.ty of Dominica's lover or not for them to be able to identify the ring.'

'Your point is irrelevant,' Michael flashed back. 'Even if Lydgate can identify the ring as Dominica's, he would not tell us about it. And, as I said, sweet Cecily is still away.

Lydgate has not exactly been scouring the countryside for his loving spouse; I have the feeling that he is as relieved to be apart from her as she, doubtless, is happy to be away from him.'

'I cannot make any sense out of all this, but one thing is patently clear.' Bartholomew fiddled with the laces on his shirt. 'If the ring on Valence Marie's relic really is the one that Kenzie lost - and I do not believe he miraculously found it after speaking with the G.o.dwinsson friars only to die without it a few hours later - then the link between Kenzie and the fraud relating to this relic is beyond question.'

'I do not deny that,' said Michael. 'It is the nature of the link that eludes me.'

Both were silent as they reconsidered the few facts they had, until Bartholomew stood, and began to drag on his tabard.

'In all the excitement of finding that disgusting hand, we forgot the reason why we were at Valence Marie in the first place,' he said. 'We still need to talk to the French students about the rape and murder of Joanna.'

'We have managed to make enemies of the Princ.i.p.als of G.o.dwinsson and Valence Marie both,' said Michael. 'I doubt very much if Thorpe will cooperate with you. He will a.s.sume you are still trying to prove his relic a fake - and after our experience earlier, I would be happier if you stayed well away from Valence Marie and their nasty bones.'

Bartholomew hesitated, recalling vividly the unmistakeably hostile atmosphere at Valence Marie. After a moment, he brightened. 'You are right about Thorpe, but there are others. One of the Fellows there is Father Eligius, and he is one of my patients. We have always been on friendly terms. He will help me if I ask.'

Michael eyed him dubiously. 'I know Eligius, too, and he looked to me like one of those most convinced of the hand's authenticity. He appeared positively fanatical. I cannot see that he would help you if he thought the outcome might be the discovery that the relic is a fake regardless of your motives for asking the questions. And I cannot see him abandoning loyalty to his fellow members of College to allow you to prove some of them committed murder.'

'I will try anyway,' said Bartholomew, picking up his bag from the floor. He slipped the Galen into it so he would have something to read if Eligius kept him waiting. 'I have patients to see. I can try Eligius afterwards.'

'Try if you must,' said Michael, leaning back on the bed and closing his eyes, 'but be careful. I would go with you, but it is too hot, I am tired from patrolling last night, and I have no reason to believe you will be successful in discovering the murderer of this woman.'

Bartholomew shrugged off Michael's apathy and left the College for the High Street. Two of the more seriously injured riot victims still needed his attention, and he wanted to see Mistress Fletcher, one of the first people he had treated in Cambridge, now dying of a disease of the lungs despite all his efforts. He tapped lightly on her door and climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the upper chamber where she lay in her bed. Her husband and two sons sat with her, one strumming aimlessly on a badly tuned rebec. They stood as Bartholomew entered and Fletcher moved towards him.

'Please, Doctor,' he said. He gestured at his wife lying on the bed, her breathing a papery rustle. 'She needs to be bled.'

Bartholomew experienced a familiar feeling of exasperation at the mention of bleeding. It was an argument he had had with many of his patients, most of whom believed bleeding would cure virtually anything.

He looked down at the sick woman with compa.s.sion, and his resolve hardened. She was dying anyway and invasive treatments now would merely serve to make her last few days miserable. He had brought a strong pain-killer that would help her through to the end without too much discomfort. He sent one of her sons for a cup of watered wine then crumbled the strong powder into it. Kneeling next to her, he helped her sip it until she had drunk it all. She lay back, the potion already easing the pain in her chest, and smiled gratefully.

'We could call Robin of Grantchester,' said Fletcher.

'He bleeds people for a penny, and applies leeches for two pennies.'

'It is very cheap,' added one of her sons hopefully.

'I am sure it is,' said Bartholomew, determined that the unsanitary surgeon would never set his blood-encrusted hands on poor Mistress Fletcher while he had breath in his body to prevent it.

The sick woman made a weak gesture and her husband bent to hear her. 'Please let Doctor Bartholomew treat me as he sees fit. He has already eased my chest. I want no leeches and no bleeding.'

Her husband stood again, awkwardly. 'I am sorry,' he said to Bartholomew. 'But this is difficult for us. I would do anything to give her a little more time.'

'She does not want it,' said Bartholomew gently. 'Not like this.'

Fletcher gazed down at his wife and said nothing.

Seeing his patient asleep, her breathing less laboured than it had been, Bartholomew took his leave.

The street was almost as deserted as it had been the previous night: there were few who cared to venture out into the burning heat of the mid-afternoon sun. After only a short distance, the tickle of perspiration begin to p.r.i.c.k at Bartholomew's back and he felt uncomfortably hot. He removed the tabard and shoved it into his bag. Guy Heppel could fine him for not wearing it, but the comfort of shirtsleeves would be worth it.

After visiting the two riot victims, Bartholomew walked towards Valence Marie, hoping to waylay Father Eligius as he left Valence Marie to attend terce at St Botolph's Church. Bartholomew was subdued because of his helplessness in treating Mistress Fletcher. He wondered what it was that caused wasting sicknesses in the chest and how they could be prevented. The more patients he saw and experience he gained, the more he realised how little he knew; the lack of knowledge depressed him.

When Father Eligius told him Valence Marie's French students had left that morning for London, Bartholomew grew even more dispirited. He walked past the town boundary, making his way across the meadows that led down to the river behind the Church of St Peter-without Trumpington Gate. Reaching a cl.u.s.ter of oak trees, he stopped, dropped his bag, and sat with his back against one of the st.u.r.dy trunks. He squinted up into the branches, where the breeze played lazily with green leaves beginning to turn yellow. It was cooler in the meadow than in the town and the air smelled cleaner. It was also peaceful, with just the occasional raucous screech from a pair of jays that lived in one of the oaks and distant high-pitched chatter from children playing in the river to break the silence.

He thought about Kenzie, a young Scot who had had the misfortune to fall in love with a woman whose father would never accept him, and who was forced to keep his relationship secret. So who had killed him? Was it Dominica's angry father? Was it her mother? Since it did not take a great feat of strength to brain a man from behind, Bartholomew knew that a woman could have slain Kenzie as easily as a man. Perhaps Cecily's guilt was the real reason for her sudden flight from home.

Were the killers the friars from G.o.dwinsson, who were the last people known to have seen Kenzie alive? Was his death a random killing by someone intent on theft? And if so, was it Kenzie's ring that adorned Valence Marie's relic? But why had the two French students been ushered out of G.o.dwinsson when Michael had asked to speak to them? Perhaps they were the murderers, and not the friars at all.

And what of poor Joanna? She had been buried at dawn that morning in a cheap coffin paid for by the town, like the other town victims of the riot. Bartholomew had attended the funerals after ma.s.s at St Michael's, but he had been the only mourner for Joanna. While the family and friends of the other victims stood around the graves in St Botolph's churchyard, Bartholomew had stood alone, watching the verger shovel dry earth on top of Joanna.

He wondered whether her friends and family even knew that she was dead. If no one had cared enough to attend her funeral, certainly no one cared enough to avenge her murder. Michael had said it was none of the University's affair, and anyway, the University was not in the business of hunting down its students for a crime on a victim that no one claimed; and Tulyet had neither the time nor the manpower.

Bartholomew stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes. G.o.dwinsson, David's, Valence Marie and Maud's. All four seemed to be interconnected somehow with the murders of Kenzie or Joanna. And the dead child? Somehow he had been overlooked in all this. He had been buried the day before, his bones bundled up in a dirty sheet and thrust into a shallow grave in St Bene't's churchyard. A small mound of brown earth marked the site now, but in a few weeks it would be gone, and he would be forgotten again, just as he had been all those years before.

That thought brought a picture of Norbert into his mind, and Bartholomew smiled. It had been his only serious act of disobedience in Stanmore's household but one that he still felt was just. Did Lydgate know that Bartholomew had finally revealed his long-kept secret?

Although the crime was twenty-five years old, there were still many who would remember it, and the hunt that had taken place for Norbert the following day. Bartholomew winced. That had been an unpleasant day for him, wondering whether vengeful villagers would return with Norbert captive to reveal who had let him escape.

Bartholomew wondered what he should do next. Should he follow the advice of Michael and Tulyet, and forget Joanna? The French students at Valence Marie had gone, so the only way forward was for him to talk to the two at G.o.dwinsson. He knew their names and their faces, which meant he would not have to ask to see them through Lydgate. He stood up and reached for his bag, determining upon a course of action. The ailing Mistress Fletcher lived close enough to G.o.dwinsson to allow Bartholomew to be nearby a good deal without arousing suspicion. He could even see G.o.dwinsson from the windows on her upper floor. Starting tomorrow, he decided he would stay with Mistress Fletcher until he saw the Frenchmen leave, then follow until they reached a convenient place for him to confront them.

He retraced his steps through the meadow towards the High Street. Absorbed in thoughts of Mistress Fletcher's lungs and in ways to find Joanna's killer, he was so engrossed that he walked past Matilde without noticing her. It was only when she repeated his name, a little crossly, that he came out of his reverie and saw her.

'You are in a fine mood today,' she said, noting his grave face as he turned. 'I thought you were pretending not to know me!'

He smiled then. 'Oh no! Never that.'

But many men would, he knew. There were few who would converse openly with one of the town prost.i.tutes in the middle of the High Street, at least, not during daylight hours. There were even fewer who would invite one to the most auspicious College event of the year, risking instant dismissal from their fellowships. He thrust that thought to the back of his mind, and listened to Matilde's amusing account about how a number of stray cats had raided the Market Square fish-stall while its owner had slipped away to view the relic at Valence Marie.

It occurred to Bartholomew, as he talked with Matilde, that she might very well know Joanna, the murdered prost.i.tute with hair like Philippa. Bartholomew had no idea how many prost.i.tutes worked in Cambridge, but he did know that they had an unofficial guild and held meetings during which they exchanged information and advice.

When he asked her, Matilde looked taken aback.

'I know of no sister called Joanna,' she said. Bartholomew smiled to himself; he had forgotten Matilde referred to the other prost.i.tutes as sisters. 'What did this Joanna look like?'

Bartholomew was at a loss for words. Joanna's face had been so battered that to describe it was impossible. He remembered in vivid detail the wounds she had suffered during the rape, and the savage blow to her head that had killed her, but telling Matilde that would get him nowhere. 'She was tall and had long, fair hair,' he said lamely.

Matilde spread her hands. 'None of the sisters is called Joanna,' she repeated. 'I thought perhaps you may have been referring to one or two ladies in the villages who ply their wares here occasionally, but none of them has long, fair hair. Why do you want her? Perhaps I can help.'

Realising how her words might be interpreted, she blushed. Bartholomew, seeing her embarra.s.sment also looked away, feeling the colour mounting in his own cheeks. After a brief silence they looked at each other again, and smiled, so that the uneasy atmosphere was broken.

'Joanna was killed in the riots,' he said. 'I wondered whether you might know her.'

Matilde looked shocked. 'No sister was foolish enough to be out when the riots were on, Matthew,' she said. 'All those men prowling around in gangs? Heavens, no! We may have been overwhelmed by business, but none of it would have been paid for. As soon as we saw what was happening, we put out the word that any sensible woman should remain indoors.'

'Do you know what all this rioting was about? Michael, Sheriff Tulyet, my colleagues at Michaelhouse, and even my brother-in-law, are at a loss as to why there is such an atmosphere of disquiet in the town.'

Matilde did not answer immediately, but looked away down the High Street. Bartholomew stared at her, admiring yet again her delicate beauty. She wore a plain blue dress that accentuated her lithe figure, and her unblemished skin, glossy hair and small, white teeth bespoke of health and vitality. She was also one of the few people Bartholomew knew who always seemed to have clean hands, and one of fewer still who did not have a perennial crust of dirt beneath her finger-nails. When she finally started to answer, Bartholomew found he had been so absorbed in looking at her, that he had all but forgotten what he had asked.