To Kill or Cure by Susanna Gregory Page B

leg was crushed under
     a cart, he cut it off and saved my life.’
    ‘If
I
had been here, there would have been no need for amputation,’ declared Arderne. ‘My feather would have cured your leg, just
     as it did Candelby’s arm. Could
you
have salvaged Candelby’s limb, Bartholomew? Or would you have lopped it off?’
    ‘There is no way to know,’ replied Bartholomew calmly. ‘I did not examine Candelby’s injury, so I am not in a position to
     offer an opinion about it.’
    ‘That is a good point,’ said Agatha, elbowing her way through the listening patrons to stand next to him. ‘And the same might
     be said for Isnard’s leg. You were not there, Magister Arderne, so how can you pontificate on what was, or was not, the right
     thing to do?’
    Arderne shot her a pained look. ‘I most certainly
can
pontificate, madam.
I
am a professional man with a wealth of experience. I do not hide behind excuses, but boldly offer my views when they are
     sought. And I could have saved your leg, Isnard. There is no doubt about it.’
    ‘Really?’ asked Isnard. ‘I do not suppose you can make it grow back again, can you? This wooden one is all verywell, but it keeps falling off as I make my way home from the alehouse.’
    ‘I could try,’ replied Arderne. ‘My feather has worked miracles before, and will do so again. A cure will be expensive, but
     if you really want your leg back, you will not begrudge me the money.’
    ‘I
do
want it back!’ cried Isnard eagerly. ‘More than
anything
.’
    Bartholomew fought to suppress the anger that was burning within him. It did not take a genius to see that Isnard was gullible,
     and it was cruel to prey on his weakness. ‘It has gone, Isnard,’ he said quietly. ‘And it will never come back. Do not squander
     your money on tricks.’
    ‘Tricks?’ echoed Arderne. ‘How dare you! You have never seen me work, so you have no idea what I can do. My brother is the
     great John Arderne. Surely you have heard of
him
?’
    ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tartly. ‘Is he in the habit of dispensing false hope, too?’
    ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Arderne, eyes blazing. ‘You are not even a surgeon, but a physician who has no right
     to perform amputations. You are a disgrace to your profession!’
    ‘Hey!’ snarled Agatha. ‘This is one of
my
Fellows, and anyone who insults him answers to
me
.’
    ‘My apologies, madam,’ said Arderne with a bow. He was not a fool, and knew when it was wiser to retreat. ‘I spoke out of
     turn.’
    ‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Agatha, still glaring. ‘I am going to finish my ale now, but I shall be keeping an eye on you, so you
     had better behave yourself.’
    She stamped away, and most of the patrons followed, eager to discuss Arderne’s remarkable claims among themselves, so it was
     not long before the healer was left alone with Bartholomew, Michael and Isnard. Candelby wasitching to join them, but Agatha had cornered him, and was demanding to know the whereabouts of Blankpayn. The taverner was
     shaking his head rather desperately, trying to convince her that he did not know.
    ‘Where did you earn your degree,
Magister
Arderne?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew or Isnard could resume the subject of missing limbs. ‘Paris? Montpellier?’
    ‘I do not hold with book-learning,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘My great body of knowledge comes through observation and experience.’
    ‘Why use the title, then? If you despise formal training, you should not need its trappings.’
    ‘It is a form of address that people like to bestow on me,’ replied Arderne smoothly. ‘I do not want to offend them by declining
     it.’
    ‘Are you really John Arderne’s brother?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject when he saw the man would have glib answers
     to account for all his deceits. ‘I met him once in Montpellier, at a lecture on bladder stones. He told me—’
    ‘I have not seen him in years,’ said Arderne, rather