Susanna GREGORY - To Kill or Cure

Arderne’s eyes bored into his, and the physician saw the intense rage that burned in them. ‘I did raise him from the dead, and even you were a witness. You cannot deny what you saw.’

‘What I saw was a lad who was cold and stiff – as would I be, had I been obliged to lie still for two days. However, Motelete was not left entirely to the mercy of the elements, because someone had covered him with blankets. When I saw them, I thought one of the Clare students had put them there for sentimental reasons, but now I see that you did it – or he did it himself.’

Arderne’s eyes continued to blaze. ‘His throat was cut. Even you could not fail to see that!’

‘How could I see it? You appeared before I had conducted a proper examination. Your arrival was perfectly timed – doubtless you had been watching the church, making sure no one did anything to spoil your pending performance.’

Michael took up the tale. ‘When you saw a Corpse Examiner about to begin his work, you knew you had to act quickly – you could fool laymen, but not a qualified physician. Doubtless you originally intended to raise Motelete at his requiem mass, when there would have been a large audience to admire your skill, but you settled for performing to Clare and a few burgesses instead.’

‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ snarled Arderne.

‘After your miracle, I saw a superficial injury to Motelete’s throat, but there was no evidence of a gaping wound,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There was blood aplenty, but you are a man who frequents butchers’ stalls, and pigs’ blood is cheap. If you and Motelete are the experienced fraudsters I believe you to be, then you both know how to scatter the stuff around to make a convincing case.’

‘I was with Candelby when Motelete was killed,’ said Arderne. ‘I was nowhere near Motelete.’

‘You did not need to be near him,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He knew exactly what to do. You engineered the brawl with your confrontational statements, and he swallowed some potion to slow his heart and breathing. Before he swooned, he made the scratch, and doused himself in blood.’

‘Meanwhile, there is Motelete himself,’ added Michael. ‘After his “cure” he let his guard down, and the shy scholar became a thing of the past. He took a lover, drank in taverns, and Falmeresham caught him stealing from you. His duties were over, and he was waiting for his next assignment.’

‘Old Gedney saw through him, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He detected a wildness the others missed. What happened, Arderne? Did he demand more money? Is that why you poisoned him?’

‘You have vivid imaginations,’ declared Arderne coldly. ‘You cannot prove any of this.’

‘Actually, they can,’ said Falmeresham quietly, ‘because I will be their witness. You are a fraud, and I should never have let myself be deceived. You played on my hopes that there might be more to medicine than watching patients die, but you have no more answers than anyone else.’

‘Go away, boy,’ said Arderne contemptuously. ‘This does not concern you.’

Falmeresham addressed the monk. ‘You are right in that Arderne’s association with Motelete pre-dates Cambridge. They were together in Norwich and London, too. Their servants told me.’

‘ There is the killer!’ Arderne jabbed an accusing finger. ‘Falmeresham was jealous of Motelete.’

Falmeresham’s cheeks burned, and his expression turned vengeful. ‘It was Arderne in the graveyard with Motelete’s corpse, Brother. He ordered me to lie, because–’

‘Shut up!’ roared Arderne. His dagger was out. ‘Still your tongue or I will cut it out.’

‘Fetch your beadles, Michael,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his own knife and intending to keep the healer occupied until the monk returned with reinforcements. Arderne had backed down from a physical encounter with Lynton, so was clearly no warrior. ‘Go!’

‘Wait!’ shouted Arderne, when the monk tried to sidle past him. ‘No beadles. Let me explain. I was trying to help Motelete. I had nothing to do with his death. Tell him, Falmeresham.’

Falmeresham hesitated, giving the impression that he would rather like to land Arderne in trouble with a lie. Michael fixed him with a glare.

‘Arderne and I were home with Isabel that night,’ he admitted, rather ruefully. ‘Then Motelete came in, gasping and retching. Arderne waved his feather, chanted spells and even provided some of his precious urine, but nothing worked. Then he made me carry the body here, to this graveyard.’

‘Cemeteries are imbued with power, because they are haunted by the dead,’ explained Arderne. ‘Not that I expect you to understand such mysteries. I did all in my power to save Motelete.’

‘It was your feather I saw!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, in sudden understanding. ‘I thought it was a dagger, and that murder was about to be committed. But it was a long, blade-like feather.’

‘I wondered why you came at us so violently,’ said Falmeresham. He turned back to Arderne, his voice accusing. ‘You say you tried everything, but you did not use charcoal mixed with milk, even though it was obvious from the blisters on Motelete’s mouth that the substance was caustic.’

‘You know nothing,’ snapped Arderne. ‘Even I cannot cure everyone.’

‘You said you could,’ Falmeresham shot back. ‘And you used all the tricks at your disposal to help Motelete, but you were useless. Doctor Bartholomew has saved people who have swallowed too much bryony. You could not.’

‘So, I am fallible,’ snarled Arderne. ‘Welcome to the real world.’

‘You are worse than fallible,’ shouted Falmeresham. ‘You are an ignoramus. And I can prove it.’

Arderne fingered his knife. ‘How?’ he asked dangerously.

‘Because of Isnard’s leg. After it was cut off, I was given the task of burying it. So I dug it up, to see for myself which one of you was right. It was hopelessly smashed, and would never have healed. Doctor Bartholomew was right to amputate, and I can show it to anyone who doubts him.’

‘You damned whelp!’ yelled Arderne, racing at him with his dagger. Bartholomew dived forward, but the ground was slippery and he lost his footing to fall flat on his face. Arderne tripped over him, and gave a great shriek of pain when he landed with his full weight on one arm.

‘Broken,’ said Bartholomew, extracting himself and inspecting it. ‘Would you like me to set it, or Robin?’

‘Stay away from me,’ howled Arderne. He looked for his knife, but it was lost in the grass.

‘All your “cures” come from a book written by witches,’ said Falmeresham accusingly. ‘I saw it last night. You are a heretic, and Motelete told me you have killed people before. He said you–’

‘Lies!’ shrieked Arderne.

‘He said you left Norwich and London because people died,’ finished Falmeresham. ‘And he said that is usually why you are obliged to move on. But you will not be going anywhere this time.’

‘Damn you!’ shouted Arderne furiously. ‘Damn you all!’

Michael summoned his beadles, and ordered them to escort Arderne to the proctors’ gaol. Once there, Arderne demanded medical attention, on the grounds that he could hardly set his own arm. Bartholomew obliged when Arderne rejected Robin, then screeched and wailed through the entire procedure. His cries echoed down the High Street, and the townsmen who heard them – word had spread fast that the healer had been arrested – exchanged glances of disapproval.

Afterwards, ears still ringing, Bartholomew visited Isnard, who was in too great a fever to know who was bathing his head and feeding him soothing tonics. Meanwhile, Michael went to Arderne’s lodgings, and when he returned to Michaelhouse that evening, he had plentiful evidence of illicit practices. A dirty boy who kept house for the healer, and who was greatly relieved when informed he would no longer be working for him, told Michael that Arderne had left London because he had murdered a rival leech. A hue and cry had been raised, but the healer and his servants had escaped. Arderne, Michael decided, would wait in gaol until he could be handed to the relevant authorities.