‘We do not need you to tell us what to do,’ snapped Heltisle, struggling to hide his dismay when he realised his solution would be impossible to implement.
‘Yet the town must learn that we are not to be trifled with,’ said de Wetherset thoughtfully. ‘So we shall put on a good show at the butts tonight. Then they will see we are a force to be reckoned with, militarily speaking.’
‘Not tonight, Chancellor,’ Michael reminded him. ‘It is the town’s turn to practise.’
‘I know that,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It is the point – they cannot witness our superior skills unless they see us in action, and the only way to do that is by joining them.’
‘That would be a serious mistake,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘We cannot have armed scholars and armed townsfolk in the same place. It would be begging for trouble!’
‘How dare you argue with the Chancellor!’ snapped Heltisle, then glowered at Michael. ‘Moreover, this would not be an issue if you had secured the University a good bargain at the butts. I shall summon Tulyet here later, with a view to renegotiating.’
‘You can try,’ said Michael, ‘although I doubt he will respond to messages ordering him to report to you. Besides, the butts are town property, and he lets us use them out of the goodness of his heart. Be wary of unreasonable demands.’
‘I know what I am doing,’ retorted Heltisle tightly, not about to lose another battle to Michael’s greater understanding of the situation. ‘And I will prevail.’
‘Incidentally, Heltisle has hired another half-dozen beadles for you, Brother,’ said de Wetherset with a conciliatory smile. ‘Do not worry about the cost, as we shall pay for them with the funds set aside for sick scholars.’
Bartholomew was shocked and angry in equal measure. ‘And what happens to students who fall ill or suffer some debilitating accident? How will they survive until they are back on their feet again?’
‘Their friends will have to bear the burden,’ replied de Wetherset, and turned back to Michael before Bartholomew could remonstrate further. ‘Increasing our little army will show the town that we are not to be bullied. You can teach them their trade, and Bartholomew can help you.’
‘Me?’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘But I have classes to take.’
‘If that were true, you would be lecturing now,’ sneered Heltisle. ‘But you are here, so they cannot be that important. Besides, you only teach medicine, which is a poor second to theology and law.’
‘I am training physicians,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Who will be a lot more useful than theologians or lawyers when the plague returns.’
‘They were not very useful last time,’ retorted Heltisle. ‘At least lawyers could make wills, while theologians knew how to pray. Besides, I do not believe the Death will return.’
‘I do,’ said de Wetherset, and crossed himself. ‘So did Suttone, which is why he left us.’
‘Is it?’ asked Heltisle slyly. ‘Or was there another reason?’
Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying?’
Heltisle smirked. ‘My lips are sealed. You must find another source of gossip.’
‘Ignore him, Matt,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘It is not the first time Heltisle has hinted that Suttone resigned for unsavoury reasons of his own. But it is a lie – a shameful attempt to hurt someone who is not here to defend himself. He aims to besmirch Michaelhouse and unsettle us at the same time.’
‘I wish de Wetherset had not appointed him,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The power seems to have driven him mad, and all he cares about is besting you. And to be frank, I am not sure de Wetherset is much better. How dare he raid the funds reserved for the sick and poor! It is an outrage! Moreover, it is sheer lunacy to alienate Dick.’
‘It is, and de Wetherset knows it. However, he was elected on a promise to stand up to the town, so that is what he is doing. He will posture and strut to show the University gaining the upper hand, but once he has won a few battles, he will settle down.’
Bartholomew hoped he was right, and that irreparable harm was not done in the process. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked. ‘Leave the murders to Aynton and concentrate on training these new beadles?’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘Of course not! I shall continue to do my duty as I see fit, and Meadowman can lick Heltisle’s men into shape. We shall speak to Leger and Norbert with Dick, as planned, then make enquiries about the triumvirate, and find out what they were really doing on Wednesday.’
‘You do not believe what they told you?’
‘I do not believe anything without proof, and I am suspicious of their need to shut themselves up together. I suspect they were just plotting against me, but we should find out for certain.’
They reached the Great Bridge, where Tulyet was waiting, angry because Sergeant Orwel had reported that Leger and Norbert had taken themselves off hunting and were not expected back until the following day.
‘It is our turn at the butts tonight, and they are supposed to supervise,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘I suppose this is their revenge for me refusing to let them do it yesterday.’
‘You think you have troubles,’ sighed Michael, and told him about his confrontation with the Chancellor and his deputy.
Tulyet grimaced. ‘Their antics are absurd, but I will not allow them to destroy all we have built. I shall find an excuse to avoid them until they no longer feel compelled to challenge me at every turn. Now, what about the knife that killed Paris? Do you have it?’
Michael handed it to him. ‘Matt says there are similarities to the one that claimed the Girards’ lives. What do you think?’
Tulyet examined it carefully. ‘He is right. I would bet my life on the hilts being made in the same area, while the blades are crafted from steel of matching quality. However, I have never seen their like manufactured in this country.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Could they be French?’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘It would be my guess, but I cannot be certain. Perhaps Leger and Norbert will know. They were a-slaughtering there until recently.’
‘Leger is not stupid enough to admit to anything incriminating,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Norbert, on the other hand . . .’
‘Of course, my two knights are not the only ones with French connections,’ said Tulyet. ‘Do not forget that the peregrini hail from there.’
They agreed what each would do for the rest of the day: Tulyet to see what more could be learned about Wyse’s killer, and Michael and Bartholomew to re-question everyone on their list of suspects. Tulyet would show the blade that had killed the Girards around, and Michael would do the same with the one found at the scene of Paris’s murder.
‘Good hunting,’ said Tulyet, as he strode away.
The first thing Bartholomew and Michael did was return to St Mary the Great to ask if any clerks or secretaries could confirm the triumvirate’s alibis. None could, but someone suggested they ask a Dominican friar who had been near de Wetherset’s office at the time in question, repairing a wall painting. Bartholomew and Michael hurried to his priory at once, only to learn that the artist had been absorbed in his work and had not noticed the triumvirate’s comings and goings at all.
As they passed back through the Barnwell Gate, they met a group of thirty or so nuns who had played truant from the conloquium, brazenly flouting Michael’s order for them to stay at St Radegund’s. The working sessions that day were aimed at sisters who struggled to balance the books, which was dull for those for whom arithmetic was not a problem. Ergo, a few of the more numerate delegates had organised a jaunt to the town – a foray to the market to shop for bargains, followed by a guided tour of the Round Church.
Leading the little cavalcade was Joan, wheeling Dusty around in a series of intricate manoeuvres that drew admiring glances from those who appreciated fine horsemanship. She looked more like a warrior than a nun, with her powerful legs clad in thick leather riding boots, and her monastic wimple covered by a func
tional hooded cloak. Her delight in the exercise was obvious from the glee on her long, horsey face.
Behind her was Magistra Katherine, clinging to the pommel of her saddle for dear life, although her mount was a steady beast with a dainty gait. Like its rider, it seemed to regard those around it as very inferior specimens, and it carried itself with a haughty dignity.
Abbess Isabel was astride her donkey, and Bartholomew nearly laughed when he saw that someone had dusted it with chalk to make it match its owner’s snowy habit. She rode with her hands clasped in prayer, eyes lifted to the skies, and looked so saintly that people ran up to beg her blessing. Katherine smirked sardonically at the spectacle.
At the end of the procession was Sister Alice, although as her dubious accounting skills were what had led the Bishop to investigate her priory in the first place, she was someone who might have benefited from lessons in fiscal management. She was scowling at the other nuns, her expression so venomous that those who were asking for Abbess Isabel’s prayers crossed themselves uneasily.
The ladies had evidently found much to please them at the market, as they had hired a cart to tote their purchases back to St Radegund’s. It was driven by Isnard, while Orwel walked behind it to make sure nothing fell off. The boxes were perfectly stable, but the sergeant steadied them constantly, at the same time contriving to slip a hand inside them to assess whether they held anything worth stealing.
‘The offer still stands, Brother,’ called Joan. ‘You may borrow Dusty here whenever you please. The roads make for excellent riding at the moment, as they are hard and dry.’
‘It is tempting to gallop away, and let de Wetherset and Heltisle run the University for a week,’ sighed Michael, ‘by which time everyone will be frantic for me to return. But I know where my duty lies.’
‘Are you still exploring the Spital murders?’ asked Katherine, struggling to keep her seat as her proud horse decided it could do better than Dusty and began to prance.
‘The Chancellor has asked Commissary Aynton to do it instead,’ replied Michael, artfully avoiding the question.
‘Then perhaps you will do us the honour of joining the conloquium,’ said Katherine. ‘Not today – you will learn nothing from watching Eve Wastenys struggle to teach the arithmetically challenged – but tomorrow, when we discuss the Chicken Debate. You will discover that female theologians have some very intelligent points to make.’
‘Some of them do,’ muttered Joan, and glared at Alice, who had baulked at exchanging pleasantries with the Senior Proctor and had ridden on ahead. ‘But other nuns’ tongues are so thick with poison that it is best not to listen to anything they say.’
Katherine hastened to elaborate. ‘Last night, Sister Alice announced to the entire gathering that Lyminster reeks of horse manure and should be suppressed.’
‘Her venom towards us springs purely from the fact that Magistra Katherine is the Bishop’s sister,’ said Joan in disgust. ‘Even though Katherine had nothing to do with the decision to depose her. This malevolence is grossly and unjustly misplaced.’
‘I will speak to her,’ promised Michael. ‘You are right to be vexed: her behaviour is hardly commensurate with a Benedictine. Incidentally, Goda has confirmed your alibi for the fire – she says she saw you in the stables.’
Joan smiled toothily, natural good humour bubbling to the fore again. ‘I am relieved to hear it! I should not like to be on anyone’s list of suspects.’
Katherine grimaced. ‘What about me? Or is it just God and His angels who can verify my whereabouts? Are you on speaking terms with them, Brother? If so, they will assure you that I was engrossed in Clippesby’s treatise.’
‘I tried to read that,’ said Joan, ‘but I only managed the first page. He should have had horses discussing these philosophies, as I could not imagine chickens doing it. Perhaps you will recommend that he uses something more sensible next time, Brother.’
‘But he chose chickens for a reason,’ explained Katherine earnestly, while Bartholomew smothered a smile that Joan could not envisage talking hens, but had no issue with talking nags. ‘Namely to demonstrate that two small, simple creatures can grasp the essence of—’
‘I have never been much of a philosopher,’ interrupted Joan, making it sound more like a virtue than a failing. ‘My steeds do not care about such matters, and if my nuns do . . . well, I can refer them to you.’
And with that, she began to show off Dusty’s side-stepping skills, while Katherine fought to prevent her own mount from doing likewise. Between them, they hogged the whole road, although as they were nuns, no one swore or cursed at them. While they were occupied, Abbess Isabel abandoned her circle of admirers and came to talk.
‘Have you caught the plagiarist’s killer yet, Brother?’ she asked, crossing herself with a thin, unnaturally white hand. ‘I cannot get his dead face out of my mind, and I know his soul cries out for vengeance.’
‘You will have to rely on Commissary Aynton to supply that,’ said Michael, but then produced the dagger from his scrip. ‘Here is the blade used to stab him. Is it familiar?’
The Abbess stared at it for a long time, but eventually shook her head. ‘Will you be able to identify the killer from it?’
‘Perhaps. It is distinctive, so someone may recognise the thing.’
‘Then I shall pray for your success,’ said Isabel. ‘Right now, in fact. Goodbye.’
She jabbed her donkey into a trot, and was off without another word. A train of folk ran after her, still begging for her prayers, but she barely glanced at them, and seemed keen to put as much space between her and Michael as possible.
‘That was peculiar,’ remarked Bartholomew, watching her disappear. ‘I wanted her to repeat exactly what she saw when she stumbled across Paris’s body, but she was gone before I could ask.’
‘She did leave rather abruptly,’ acknowledged Michael, ‘almost as if she had something to hide. Yet I do not see her stabbing anyone. You can see just by looking that she is holier than the rest of us.’
‘And if you do not believe it, ask her,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘However, I can see her killing Paris. She is a fanatic, and they tend to consider themselves bound by different rules than the rest of us.’
Michael scoffed at the notion of the pious nun being a murderer, but they were prevented from discussing it further by Joan, who had finished showing off with Dusty, and came to find out what they had said to disconcert Isabel. Michael showed her – and Katherine – the dagger. Joan leaned down to pluck it from the monk’s hand, although Katherine fastidiously refused to touch it.
‘It is an ugly thing,’ Katherine declared with a shudder. ‘No wonder Isabel fled! I do not like the look of it myself, and I am used to such things, as my brother collects them.’
‘The Bishop collects murder weapons?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘When he can get them,’ replied Katherine. ‘And they—’
‘Actually, this is familiar,’ interrupted Joan, frowning. ‘I am sure I have seen it before.’
‘Seen it where?’ demanded Michael urgently. ‘Or, more importantly, carried by whom?’
Joan closed her eyes to struggle with her memory, but eventually opened them and shook her head apologetically. ‘It will not come, Brother. And even if it did, you would have to treat it with caution, as one weapon looks much like another to me. However, I shall keep mulling it over. Perhaps something will pop into my head.’
‘I doubt it will,’ predicted Katherine. ‘And you would do better to reflect on spiritual matters. Or, better yet, praying that the conloquium will be a success, even when women like Sister Alice stain it with spite.’
‘Oh, I pray for that all the time,’ said Joan, ‘although it does not seem to be working.’
CHAPTER 8
Although Bartholomew and Michael spent the rest of the day quizzing and re-questioning witnesses, they learned nothing new. As evening approached, Michael went to watch Heltisle’s new beadles embark on their firs
t patrol, while Bartholomew dismayed his students by informing them that they were going to study – it was rare that classes continued after the six o’clock meal, and they had been looking forward to relaxing.
They grumbled even more when it became clear that they were going to work in the orchard, as it was chilly there once the sun had set. But Bartholomew’s room was too small to hold everyone, and Theophilis had bagged the hall for Clippesby, who had agreed to present a preview of his next treatise. This would feature the philosophising hens again, and was a more in-depth look at some of the issues raised in his first exposition.
The Dominican’s lecture sparked a vigorous debate, and Theophilis in particular asked a great many questions. It ended late, although not as late as Bartholomew, who lost track of time entirely and only stopped when his lamp ran out of oil, plunging the orchard into darkness. As a result, there were yawns and heavy eyes aplenty when the bell rang for church the following morning.
After their devotions, Michael led everyone back to the College for breakfast. With the resilience of youth, the students quickly rallied, and the hall soon rang with lively conversation, most of it about Clippesby’s latest hypotheses. Michael summarised them for Bartholomew and his medics, then made some astute observations of his own. Theophilis jotted everything down on a scrap of parchment.
‘For Clippesby to incorporate in his final draft,’ he explained as he scribbled. ‘What was that last point again, Brother?’
‘There is no need to make notes for me, Theophilis,’ said Clippesby politely. ‘I can remember all these suggestions without them.’
‘What, all of them?’ asked William, astonished and disbelieving in equal measure.
‘I have help.’ Clippesby indicated the two hens that he had brought with him, which hunted among the rushes for scraps of dropped food. ‘Ma and Gertrude act as amanuenses.’
‘Can they write, then?’ asked Theophilis with a smirk to let everyone know he was having fun at the Dominican’s expense.
‘Of course not!’ said Clippesby, regarding him askance. ‘They are chickens.’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 17