The students were not the only ones who appreciated the opportunity to talk. So did Bartholomew, because it allowed him to collar Aungel and issue yet more instructions about how the medical students were to be taught after he left. He was about to launch into a monologue regarding how to approach the tricky subject of surgery – physicians were supposed to leave it to barbers, but he liked to dabble and encouraged his pupils to do likewise – when his attention was caught by what Theophilis was saying in his slyly whispering voice.
‘The Chancellor granted the stationer special licence to produce more copies of the Chicken Debate this morning. All profits are to go to the University Chest.’
Michael gaped his shock. ‘But de Wetherset cannot decide how and when that treatise is published, and he certainly cannot pocket the proceeds for the University! They belong to Clippesby – and, by extension, to Michaelhouse.’
‘He told me that Clippesby had agreed to it,’ explained Theophilis. ‘The Vice-Chancellor arranged it with him, apparently.’
He glanced at the Dominican, who was feeding wet bread to the two hens he had contrived to smuggle into the hall. As a relative newcomer, Theophilis still found Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies disconcerting. The other Fellows were used to animals and birds joining them for dinner, although Bartholomew had banned rats in the interests of hygiene and cows in the interests of safety.
‘Well, Clippesby?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Did you treat with Vice-Chancellor Heltisle behind my back?’
Heltisle was the first ever to hold the office of Vice-Chancellor, a post de Wetherset had created on the grounds that the University was now too big for one man to run. De Wetherset was right: it had doubled in size over the last decade, and involved considerably more work. Appointing a deputy also meant that Michael could not swamp him with a lot of mundane administration, as he had done with his puppet predecessors – a ploy to keep them too busy to notice what he was doing in their names. De Wetherset passed such chores to Heltisle, leaving him free to monitor exactly what the monk was up to.
Clippesby nodded happily. ‘He told me that the money would be used to build a shelter for homeless dogs. How could I refuse?’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Your dogs will not see a penny, and you are a fool to think otherwise. Heltisle loathes Michaelhouse, because we are older and more venerable than his own upstart College. He will do anything to harm us.’
Clippesby smiled serenely. ‘I know, which is why I added a clause to the contract. It states that unless the kennel is built within a week, he will be personally liable to pay me twice the sum raised from selling the treatise.’
The other Fellows gazed at him in astonishment. Clippesby was notoriously ingenuous, and was usually the victim of that sort of tactic, not the perpetrator.
‘And Heltisle signed it?’ asked Michael, the first to find his tongue.
Clippesby continued to beam. ‘I do not think he noticed the addendum when he put pen to parchment. He was more interested in convincing me that it was the right thing to do.’
Michael laughed. ‘Clippesby, you never cease to amaze me! Heltisle will be livid.’
‘Very probably,’ acknowledged Clippesby. ‘But the dogs will be pleased, and that is much more important.’
‘I hope you do not expect me, as Junior Proctor, to draw Heltisle’s attention to this clause when the week is up,’ said Theophilis uneasily.
‘I shall reserve that pleasure for myself,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming in anticipation.
For the rest of the meal, the monk made plans for the unexpected windfall – the gutters on the kitchens needed replacing, and he wanted glass in the conclave windows before winter.
While Michael devised ways to spend Clippesby’s money, Bartholomew studied Theophilis. Because Michael had given him his Fellowship and started him on the road to a successful academic career, Theophilis claimed he was in the monk’s debt. In order to repay the favour shown, he had offered to spy on the Chancellor and the Vice-Chancellor on Michael’s behalf. It was distasteful, and Bartholomew wondered yet again if Michael was right to trust him.
‘Heltisle will not have fallen for your ruse,’ warned Father William, a burly, rough-looking man with a greasy halo of hair around an untidy tonsure. His habit had once been grey, but was now so filthy that Bartholomew considered it a health hazard. ‘He will have added some clause of his own – one that will make us the losers.’
‘He did not,’ Clippesby assured him. ‘I watched him very closely, as did the robin, four spiders and a chicken.’
‘Which chicken?’ demanded William, eyeing the pair that pecked around Clippesby’s feet. ‘Because if it is the bird that expounded all that nominalist nonsense, then I submit that its testimony cannot be trusted.’
‘She, not it,’ corrected Clippesby with one of the grins that made most people assume he was not in his right mind. He bent to stroke one of the hens. ‘Gertrude is a very sound theologian. But as it happens, it was her sister Ma who helped me to hoodwink Heltisle.’
This was too much for William. ‘How can a debate between two fowls be taken seriously?’ he scoffed. ‘It is heresy in its most insidious form. You should be excommunicated!’
Clippesby was a firm favourite among the students, far more so than William, so there was an instant angry growl from the body of the hall. Aungel, so recently a student himself, rushed to the Dominican’s defence.
‘Many Greek and Roman philosophers used imaginary conversations between animals as a vehicle to expound their theories,’ he pointed out sharply. ‘It is a perfectly acceptable literary device.’
‘But those discussions were between noble beasts,’ argued William. ‘Like lions or goats. But Clippesby chose to use hens.’ He virtually spat the last word.
‘Goats?’ blurted Theophilis. ‘I hardly think they can be described as noble.’
‘What is wrong with hens?’ demanded Clippesby at the same time.
‘They are female,’ replied William loftily. ‘And it is a fact of nature that those are always less intelligent than us males.’ He jabbed a grubby finger at Gertrude. ‘And do not claim otherwise, because I saw her eating worms the other day, which is hardly clever.’
‘But you eat worms, Father,’ said Clippesby guilelessly. ‘There is one in your mouth right now, in fact – it was among the peas.’
There followed an unedifying scene during which William spat, the chickens raced to examine what was expelled, Clippesby struggled to stop them, and the students howled with laughter. Aungel joined in, while Theophilis watched in tight-lipped disapproval. Michael could have ended the spectacle with a single word, but he let it run its course, feeling it served William right.
‘How do you like University life, Theophilis?’ asked Bartholomew, once the commotion had died down and everyone was eating again, although no one was very interested in the peas. ‘Are you happy here?’
‘Yes – I enjoy teaching, while spying on the Chancellor and his deputy for Michael is pleasingly challenging. However, the tension between scholars and the town is worrisome.’
‘Relations are strained at the moment,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But the hostility will subside. It always does.’
‘Perhaps it has in the past, but that was when Michael was in charge,’ said Theophilis, pursing his lips. ‘Now we have de Wetherset, who has a mind and opinions of his own. For example, Michael wanted to pass an edict forbidding scholars from speaking French on the streets, but de Wetherset blocked it, which was stupid.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘It would have removed one cause for resentment. However, in de Wetherset’s defence, there are a lot of scholars who do not know English – and tradesmen will not understand them if they speak Latin. I understand his reservations.’
Theophilis lowered his voice. ‘De Wetherset wants to rule alone, like he did the last time he was Chancellor. He chips away at Michael’s authority constantly, so that Michael grows weaker every day. Moreover, Heltisle supports him
in all he does, which is why de Wetherset created the post of Vice-Chancellor, of course – for an ally against Michael.’
‘De Wetherset will never best our Master,’ said Bartholomew confidently. ‘So it does not matter if he has Heltisle to support him or not – Heltisle is irrelevant.’
‘I hope you are right, because if not, de Wetherset will take us to war with the town, and I fear—’ Theophilis broke off when a soldier from the castle hurried in and a student conducted him towards the high table.
‘You are needed at the market square,’ the man told Bartholomew breathlessly. ‘Bonet the spicer has been murdered, and the Sheriff wants your opinion about it.’
It was not far from the College to the market square, where Jean Bonet occupied a handsome house overlooking the stall where he sold his costly wares. He had lived in Cambridge for many years, but his nationality had only become a problem since the Winchelsea massacre and the King’s call to arms. He lived alone, and was reputed to be fabulously wealthy.
Bartholomew arrived at the spicer’s home to find three men waiting for him. One was Sheriff Tulyet, who owed at least part of his shrieval success to the good working relationship he had developed with Michael. He had been horrified when Suttone had resigned, lest the new Chancellor proved to be less amenable. He was right to be concerned: relations had grown chilly with de Wetherset at the helm, despite Michael’s efforts to keep matters on an even keel.
Tulyet was dwarfed by the two knights who were with him. They were Sir Norbert and Sir Leger, sent by the King to oversee the town’s military training. The pair were much of an ilk – warriors who had honed their trade in France, with the scars to prove it. Sir Norbert was larger and sported an oily black mane that cascaded over his shoulders. He was a dim-witted brute, never happy unless he was fighting. His friend Leger was fair-headed and a little shorter, but far more dangerous, because he possessed brains to go with his brawn.
‘You took your time,’ Norbert growled when Bartholomew walked in. ‘No doubt you would have been faster if it had been a scholar who asked you to come.’
‘Perhaps he just does not want to help us solve the murder of a Frenchie,’ shrugged Leger slyly. ‘Who can blame him?’
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ objected Bartholomew. He did not care what the two knights thought, but Dick Tulyet was his friend, and he did not want him to think he had dallied.
Tulyet indicated the body on the floor. ‘We believe this happened last night – the alarm was raised when no one opened his shop this morning. Clearly, he has been stabbed, but can you tell us anything that might help us find out who did it?’
Bartholomew was sorry the spicer had come to such an end. There had been no harm in him, and he had been careful to keep a low profile once the town – and the University, for that matter – had decided that anyone even remotely foreign should be treated with suspicion and contempt. He was on the floor of his solar, and had been trying to run away when his attacker had struck – the wound was in his back, and his arms were thrown out in front of him. Bartholomew glanced around carefully, reading the clues in what he could see.
‘The killer came while Bonet was eating his supper,’ he began. ‘There is no sign that the door was forced, so I suspect he answered it in the belief that whoever was calling was friendly.’
‘He was clearly no warrior then,’ said Norbert in smug disdain. ‘Or he would have known to consider any visitor a potential threat.’
‘No, he was not a warrior,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘And I cannot imagine why anyone would kill a peaceable old man. However, I can tell you that the culprit is a coward of the most contemptible kind – the same kind of vermin who has no problem slaughtering unarmed women and children in French villages.’
Tulyet stepped between him and the knights when hands went to the hilts of swords.
‘What can you tell us about the wound, Matt?’ he asked quickly, to defuse the situation before there was trouble. ‘Was it caused by a knife from the dinner table?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Bonet was killed by a blade with two sharp edges – a dagger, rather than a knife.’ He nodded to a bloody imprint on the floor. ‘It lay there for some time after the murder, which probably means the killer left it behind when he fled the scene of the crime. Who found the body?’
Tulyet sighed. ‘Half the population of Cambridge – they burst in en masse when it became clear that something was amiss. My sergeant did his best to keep order, but Bonet was French, so his home was considered fair game for looters. His servants say all manner of goods are missing, and the murder weapon must be among them.’
‘You will never find it then,’ said Norbert, giving the impression that his sympathies lay firmly with the English thieves rather than the French victim. ‘The culprit will know better than to sell it here, so you should consider it gone permanently.’
‘We have asked for witnesses,’ added Leger quickly, seeing Tulyet’s disapproving scowl. ‘But no one saw a thing – or at least, nothing they are willing to admit.’
‘Because Bonet was a Frenchie.’ Norbert was about to spit when he caught Tulyet’s eye and thought better of it. ‘Cambridge folk think as I do – that the world is a better place without so many of them in it.’
‘Then go outside and ask again,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘Because Bonet was not just some “Frenchie” – he was a burgess who lived among us for years. I want his killer caught and hanged.’
‘Even if a scholar did it?’ asked Leger deviously, and smirked. ‘The Chancellor will not approve of you executing his people. It will likely spark a riot.’
It was not a discussion Tulyet was about to have with them. He glared until they mumbled acknowledgement of his orders and slouched out. Bartholomew breathed a sigh of relief. The solar was spacious, but Leger and Norbert overfilled it with their belligerently menacing presence.
‘They might be good at teaching archery,’ he told Tulyet, ‘but they are always trying to pick quarrels with scholars, and one day they will succeed. Then we will have a bloodbath.’
‘I know,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘But Leger is clever – he makes sure all their aggression is couched in terms of patriotic zeal, thus making it difficult for me to berate them. They are a problem I could do without, especially as de Wetherset seems intent on destroying all that Michael and I have built.’
‘Perhaps the situation will improve when the horror of Winchelsea fades in everyone’s mind,’ said Bartholomew, sorry to see the lines of strain in his friend’s face. ‘We cannot hate France and all things French for ever.’
‘I think you will find we can,’ said Tulyet wryly, ‘so do not expect a lessening of hostilities anytime soon. But tell me more about poor old Bonet. You say he was killed with a dagger. So was Paris the Plagiarist. Do we have a common culprit?’
‘I cannot say for certain, but it seems likely, given that both were French. Will it serve to unite town and University, do you think? We have lost a scholar and you a burgess.’
‘Unfortunately, what Norbert said is true: most townsfolk do think the world is a better place with fewer Frenchmen in it. Ergo, I do not see us joining you on Bonet’s behalf, or your scholars standing with us to catch Paris’s killer.’
Unhappily, Bartholomew suspected he was right.
CHAPTER 2
‘Two weeks,’ grumbled Michael the following morning. The scholars had attended Mass, broken their fast and then the Fellows had repaired to the comfortable room adjoining the hall that provided them with a refuge from students. ‘You and I were in Suffolk for two weeks over the Easter vacation, and we returned to find our entire world turned upside down!’
He was talking to Bartholomew, who sat by the fire with him. Three other Fellows were also in the room: William was by the window, practising the lecture he was to give that day; Clippesby was on the floor, conversing with an assortment of poultry; and Aungel was at the table reading an ostentatiously large medical tome, one specifically chosen to show
his colleagues that he took his new teaching duties seriously. The last Fellow, Theophilis, had gone to St Mary the Great to spy on the Chancellor for Michael.
Bartholomew cast his mind back to the tumultuous fortnight that he and the monk had spent in Clare, where they had learned that Cambridge was not the only town plagued by murderers and people with grudges. It had only been a month ago, but felt longer, because both had been so busy since – Michael with his new responsibilities as Master, and Bartholomew determined to make the most of his last term in academia.
‘Not all the changes have been bad,’ he said. ‘You have made improvements—’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Michael impatiently. ‘There is no question that I am a fine Master, and if I ousted William we would easily be the best College in the University. However, I was referring to Chancellor Suttone and his inexcusable flight. How could he abandon us without so much as a backward glance?’
‘We should have predicted that his terror of the plague might override his sense of duty. He was obsessed with the possibility of a second outbreak.’
Michael glared into the flames. ‘He still should have spoken to me before resigning. When I think of all the trouble I took to get him in post . . .’
‘I imagine he went then precisely because you were away – if he had waited, you would have talked him out of it. He never could stand up to you.’
Michael continued to scowl. ‘I shall never forgive him. And it is not as if the Death is poised to return. There have been no rumours of it, like there were the last time.’
‘Actually, there have,’ countered Bartholomew soberly. ‘In the Italian—’
‘No,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I will not allow it to sweep among us. Not again.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘And how will you stop it exactly? Or have you set your ambitions on more lofty roles than mere bishoprics or abbacies, and aim to play God?’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 3