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 pronounce 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 Principal 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 damn hand in a glass 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 massive 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 amassing 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 damn 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 Godwinsson. Ts this Kenzie's ring, do you think? Did he lose it when he was skulking around Godwinsson 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 Godwinsson. 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
