The Hand of Justice by Susanna Gregory Page B

the wax on their writing tablets? No! And you should not dabble in cautery, either.
     It is a filthy business, and best left to the likes of Robin of Grantchester, who is a filthy man.’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, irritated that Paxtone should preach at him. ‘That is why so many of his patients do not survive
     his operations. I do not want Isnard to die, when I know I can save him.’
    ‘We should not argue,’ said Paxtone, seeing he was closeto overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. ‘I am only trying to warn you. I do not want Rougham to use your fascination
     with surgery to discredit you. He is jealous of you, and would love to see you fall from grace.’
    ‘That is what Michael says, but he can have no quarrel with me. I have done him no harm.’
    ‘Let us discuss Isnard instead,’ said Paxtone with a sigh, seeing they would not agree. ‘What method did you employ to prevent
     the fever that usually follows the removal of a limb? Did you attempt to rebalance the humours by purging and bleeding?’
    ‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It
is
important to restore the balance of humours, but my teacher Ibn Ibrahim maintained that this is best achieved by a poultice
     of yarrow and ensuring the injury is free to drain. Tightly wrapped wounds fester, because they trap evil humours. Rather
     than drawing them off by purges, I find it is better to let them ooze away of their own accord.’
    Paxtone was sceptical, and they were still debating the issue in a friendly way when they reached Isnard’s house. Bartholomew
     tapped on the door, aware of voices within. Isnard had more visitors. He was surprised to see Walter, Michaelhouse’s porter,
     there with his cockerel tucked under his arm.
    ‘I thought Isnard might like to see Bird,’ said Walter, standing when the physicians entered. ‘He often brings a smile to
     a sick man’s face.’
    ‘I am not sick,’ said Isnard, who was sitting up in his bed and looking more hale and hearty than the pallid Walter. ‘I am
     temporarily incapacitated.’ He pronounced the last two words carefully, evidently unused to them. ‘At least, that is what
     Master Bottisham says. Robert de Blaston the carpenter is going to make me a leg of wood. He is even carving a foot on it,
     with proper toes.’
    ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, easing away from Walter whenhe became aware that the cockerel had fixed its mean little eyes on him, evidently sizing him up as something to peck.
    ‘Thank you for bringing him, Walter,’ said Isnard. ‘But next time, I would prefer a wench. Even Agatha would do. I have not
     set eyes on a woman for five days now, and I am desperate.’
    ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Walter archly, offended that Bird should be regarded as second best to a woman. Walter had
     no time for ladies, which was why he was so well suited for life in a College like Michaelhouse, where, with the exception
     of Agatha, they were forbidden to enter.
    ‘Yes,’ said Isnard. ‘I would like to hear the choir. Can you ask Michael to bring them? I have a fancy for a little music.’
    ‘You are wrong,’ murmured Paxtone to Bartholomew. ‘The man is not healing after all. In fact, he is deranged and out of his
     wits. I can think of no other explanation for anyone willingly subjecting himself to the unholy caterwauling that passes for
     music among the Michaelhouse choir.’
    ‘Bishop Bateman’s death will be a blow to Gonville Hall,’ said Michael, not without malice, after the noon meal the following
     day. ‘His patronage was useful, and they will miss it now he has gone – especially since they have just started to build that
     chapel.’
    He was sitting in the conclave at Michaelhouse, a pleasantly comfortable chamber with a wooden floor and tapestries that took
     the chill from the stone walls. The College’s books were housed both there and in the hall, attached to their shelves by thick
     chains to ensure no one made off with them; books