To Kill or Cure by Susanna Gregory

replied the physician tiredly. He had changed his wet, muddy clothes, but
     there had been no time to rest – not that he felt like sleeping anyway. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see the student
     falling to his knees, hand clasped to his bleeding side. ‘I cannot imagine where he might have gone – or where someone may
     have taken him.’
    ‘Does he have family in Cambridge? Or friends in another College?’
    ‘His family live in Norfolk. And you always advise against fraternising with scholars from other foundations, lest it leads
     to quarrels, so his closest friends are here, in Michaelhouse.’
    ‘How badly do you think he was injured? Perhaps he has collapsed somewhere.’
    Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Cynric and I have searched every garden, lane and churchyard between here and the place he was
     attacked – and knocked on the door of every house. If he had wandered off and lost consciousness somewhere, we would have
     found him.’
    Michael was worried. ‘Do you think Carton is right – that Blankpayn has done something to him? Blankpayn
is
Candelby’s henchman, and Candelby will do anything to harm the University.’
    ‘I tried to talk to Blankpayn, but he is mysteriously unavailable.’
    ‘Not so mysteriously.
I
would not linger if
I
had stabbed someone. It looked like an accident, but that may not save his neck if Falmeresham is found … harmed. I hope it
     does not mean he
knows
he killed the lad, and is lying low until the fuss dies down.’
    Bartholomew refused to contemplate such an eventuality. ‘Blankpayn’s friends say he has gone to visit his mother in Madingley.
     She summoned me once, for a fever, so I know he
has
a mother.’
    Agitated, Michael paced, his thoughts switching to another matter he was obliged to investigate. ‘After this meeting, I want
     you to examine Lynton’s body. I need to know
exactly
how he died.’
    ‘I have told you already – there is a crossbow quarrel embedded in his chest.’
    ‘That does not correspond to eyewitnesses’ accounts. The Carmelite novices – an unruly gaggle, but not one given to lying
     – say Lynton was riding down Milne Street when his mare began to buck. He tumbled off, and a hoof caught his head as he fell.’
    ‘Then perhaps the horse was frightened by the sound of the bolt impaling its victim. There
is
a cut on Lynton’s head, either from a flailing hoof or from him hitting the ground, so the Carmelites’ account is not entirely
     incompatible with the evidence. However, the fatal injury was caused by the missile, not the nag.’
    Michael sighed. ‘If you say so. But who would want to kill Lynton? Other than you, that is.’
    Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would I want to kill him?’
    Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am not accusing you. However, it may occur to others that Lynton challenged you to publicdebates on several occasions, because he thought your teaching was heretical. You must have found it a nuisance – I certainly
     would have done.’
    ‘On the contrary, I enjoyed the discussions. That is what a university is for, Brother – to pit wits against intellectual
     equals. I learned a lot from sparring with Lynton.’
    ‘I doubt
he
felt the same way. He was not very good at defending his preference for old-fashioned practices over your more efficacious
     new ones, and I suspect the reason
you
enjoyed these dialogues is because you always won.’
    ‘Medicine was not the only subject we aired,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael was wrong. Lynton might have disagreed with his
     theories, but their many disputations had always been conducted without malice or anger. ‘At our last public debate, we talked
     about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem – whether it is correct to assume that velocity is uniformly accelerated.’
    ‘I bet that had your audience on the edge of their seats,’ remarked Michael dryly.
    Bartholomew nodded earnestly. ‘It did, actually. In fact, I was surprised by how