Free To Kill or Cure by Susanna Gregory Page B

purse on his belt. Bartholomew could
     see a blazing fire in the room beyond, and several books lay open on a table. Books were expensive, so it was clear that Piron
     was occupied by wealthy students who could afford such luxuries.
    ‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the student with a courtly bow. ‘How kind of you to call. However, I am fully recovered now, and
     have no further need of your services.’
    Bartholomew regarded him blankly, before recalling thatthe lad had consulted him about a troublesome rash. He had prescribed a decoction of chickweed, which was usually effective
     against such conditions.
    ‘I was actually cured by Magister Arderne,’ the lad chatted on. ‘He made me an electuary. I swallowed it all, and woke up
     with fading spots the very next day.’
    ‘An electuary?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. It was an odd thing to prescribe. ‘What was in it?’
    ‘Arderne declined to tell me, but it cost a fortune, so it must have been full of expensive herbs.’
    ‘Indeed it must,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘We are actually here to see your Principal. Is he in?’
    They were led along an airy corridor that was paved with coloured tiles, and into a large room that boasted wood panelling
     and a pleasant view of the garden. It was elegant compared to anything available at Michaelhouse, and it occurred to Bartholomew
     that Tyrington would be taking a step in the wrong direction as far as personal comfort was concerned.
    Tyrington was sitting at a desk, reading. He was a large, squat man with a low forehead and thick dark hair. He stood when
     the visitors were shown in, and smiled. Or rather, leered, because there was something about the expression that was not very
     nice. An image of a lizard Bartholomew had seen in France came unbidden into his mind, and he half expected a long tongue
     to flick out. When one did, he took an involuntary step backwards.
    ‘Gentlemen,’ said Tyrington affably. ‘All our rashes are healed, so we no longer need the services of a
medicus
. My student hired Magister Arderne to do the honours in the end.’
    ‘Everyone calls him Magister,’ said Michael, going to the window to escape the saliva that gushed in his direction. None too
     subtly he ran a hand down the front of his habitto wipe it off. ‘But does he actually hold such a degree? He did not earn it from Cambridge, and our records show he did not
     get it from Oxford, either.’
    ‘Probably Montpellier, then,’ sprayed Tyrington. ‘May I offer you wine? A pastry? We can always find victuals for men from
     a fine foundation like Michaelhouse.’
    Michael was about to accept when it occurred to him that anything provided was likely to arrive with a coating of spittle.
     ‘Actually, we came to ask whether you would consider becoming one of our Fellows. Unless you have had a better offer, of course,
     in which case we understand.’
    ‘But we hope you have not,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Fellows often stayed in post for years, and he did not want what might
     be a lengthy association to start off on the wrong foot because Michael was having such obvious second thoughts. ‘It would
     be an honour to accept you.’
    Tyrington flushed red with pleasure, and the tongue shot out again. ‘You are inviting
me
to take Kenyngham’s place?’
    ‘To fill the vacancy he left,’ corrected Michael pedantically, handing over the letter.
    ‘Yes!’ cried Tyrington. ‘Of course I accept! May I bring my students? There are three of them – all wealthy and well able
     to pay a College’s fees.’
    ‘Three? In this huge building?’ asked Michael. ‘You could have twice that number.’
    Tyrington leered. ‘Yes, but I was loath to supervise more when I was on my own. Education is a sacred trust, and I have always
     refused to accept funds from students if I cannot offer them my very best. A College will be different, of course, because
     teaching is shared.’
    ‘Perhaps Michaelhouse is not the right place for you