The students laughed harder and longer than the rejoinder really warranted, which told Bartholomew that he was not the only one who disliked the Junior Proctor. Or perhaps it was just that they were protective of Clippesby, who had always been a great favourite of theirs. Thus snubbed, Theophilis fell silent, although he continued to record all that was said about Ma’s new and intriguing definition of hermeneutic nominalism.
Bored with theology, Aungel began to whisper to Bartholomew. ‘I hope Brother Michael will not win a bishopric or an abbacy very soon, because if he leaves the University, Theophilis will become Senior Proctor, and he will not be very good at it. He is too deceitful. For a start, we do not even know his real name.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Aungel shrugged. ‘No one calls their child Theophilis, so he must have chosen it for himself. “Loved by God” indeed! He should let us be the judge of that. Incidentally, Chancellor de Wetherset has been going around saying that Michael is no longer allowed to investigate murders. I hope he is wrong, or Paris will never have justice.’
‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have killed Paris?’
‘Oh, plenty,’ replied Aungel, ‘including one that claims de Wetherset, Heltisle and Aynton did it, because his plagiarism brought disgrace to the University. Which it did, of course. They do not do that sort of thing at Oxford.’
‘We do not do that sort of thing here,’ averred Bartholomew. ‘Paris was an aberration.’
‘A dead aberration,’ said Aungel, ‘although even he deserves vengeance.’
A short while later, Bartholomew and Michael discussed their plans for the day, which did not include training Heltisle’s new beadles, as Michael’s time with them the previous evening led him to declare them a lost cause.
‘They are useless,’ he spat. ‘Not worthy to be called beadles, so I shall refer to them as “Heltisle’s Horde” from now on. Worse, monitoring them took my attention away from my real duties, and there was nearly a skirmish because of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was the town’s turn to practise at the butts, but some of our scholars tried to join in. Dick managed to keep the peace, but only just. But to business. We shall go to the castle first, as he sent word that Leger and Norbert are home and available for questioning. Perhaps they will recognise the daggers.’
‘I wish someone would,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I thought Joan might, and I was disappointed when her memory failed her.’
‘Perhaps she will remember today. I hope so, as there will be serious trouble unless we can present some answers soon. Last night, the town again accused the University of killing Wyse. I managed to avert trouble, but it was not easy.’
‘How are the peregrini?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Still safe?’
‘For now, although they must leave tomorrow, because there will be a bloodbath if they are caught here. Of course, if it transpires that the Jacques murdered Paris, Bonet and the Girards, we shall have to hunt them down and bring them back.’
‘But only the Jacques,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not the old men, women and children.’
‘So perhaps we had better speak to them again before they go,’ Michael went on. ‘And tonight, we shall both have to make an appearance at the butts.’
‘Not you – as a monk, you are exempt from wasting your time there.’
‘Exempt from training, but not from supporting the efforts of my colleagues,’ sighed Michael. ‘If I stay away, the triumvirate will accuse me of being unpatriotic.’
‘Not the triumvirate,’ growled Bartholomew. ‘Heltisle. He is the poisonous one, aided and abetted by the insidious Theophilis.’
‘Aided and abetted by Aynton,’ countered Michael. ‘De Wetherset must be sorry he appointed them, because they are losing him support hand over fist.’
‘They are losing you support, too,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Their antics reflect badly on all the University’s officers, not just the Chancellor.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But to win a war, you must make some sacrifices, so I shall let them continue for now. Do not look so worried! I know what I am doing.’
Bartholomew hoped he was right, and that overconfidence would not see the downfall of a man who really did have the University’s best interests at heart.
The castle lay to the north of the town. It had started life as a simple motte and bailey, but had since grown into a formidable fortress. It stood atop Cambridge’s only hill, and was enclosed by towering curtain walls. Its function was usually more administrative than military, but the King’s call to arms had resulted in a flurry of repairs and improvements. The chains on the portcullis had been replaced, unstable battlements had been mended, and the dry moat was filled with sharpened spikes.
‘Do you really think the French will raid this far inland, Dick?’ asked Bartholomew.
Tulyet shrugged. ‘We are not difficult to reach from the sea, and it is better to be safe than sorry. However, an invasion worries me a lot less than the presence of Jacques in the Spital. True, our local hotheads are more likely to kill them than listen to their seditious ideas, but they make me uneasy, even so.’
Michael was more concerned with his own troubles. ‘I have been ordered to leave the Spital murders to Aynton.’
Tulyet eyed him keenly. ‘Because he will never find answers, thus leaving the killer to go free? If de Wetherset and Heltisle are the guilty parties, that would suit them very nicely.’
Michael’s expression was wry. ‘I did wonder if one of them had his own reasons for wanting an unskilled investigator on the case.’
‘I sincerely hope this is an order you intend to flout,’ said Tulyet.
Michael smiled. ‘Naturally, although I shall need some help from you. I do not want Aynton knowing about our findings, lest he impedes the course of justice, either by design or accident. When he comes to you for information, would you mind misdirecting him?’
‘With pleasure. Now, did anyone recognise the dagger you showed around yesterday?’
‘Prioress Joan thought it was familiar,’ replied Michael. ‘She could not recall why, but I suspect she has seen it – or one similar – on someone’s belt.’
‘And where has she been staying?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘In the Spital, with the Jacques!’
‘She has promised to reflect on the matter,’ said Michael, ‘so perhaps she will surprise us and produce a name.’
‘Leave Paris’s blade with me when you go,’ instructed Tulyet. ‘I will show it and the one from the Girards to the garrison. However, my money is on the culprit being at the Spital. I went there again at dawn, just to keep the Tangmers and their guests on their toes.’
‘Did you learn anything new?’ asked Michael.
Tulyet nodded. ‘The Jacques intended to slip away this morning, leaving the rest of the peregrini to fend for themselves, but Delacroix fell ill during the night. He accuses Father Julien of poisoning him, which is possible, as the priest will not want his flock to be without men who can protect them.’
‘And is Delacroix poisoned?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or just unwell?’
‘He cannot stray more than two steps from the latrines, so who knows? Are you ready for Leger and Norbert? We should tackle them before they decide to go hunting again.’
The two knights were in the hall, the vast room that served as a refectory for Tulyet’s officers, staff and troops. They had taken seats near the hearth, where a fire blazed, even though the day was warm. They lounged comfortably, boots off, armour loosened, and weapons arranged on the bench next to them. Neither acknowledged Tulyet as he approached, which was a deliberate affront to his authority.
‘I have questions for you,’ said Tulyet, sweeping the arsenal on to the floor with one swipe of his hand before sitting down and indicating that Bartholomew and Michael were to perch next to him.
The faces of both knights darkened in anger as their precious swords and daggers clattered on the flagstones.
Bartholomew hoped Tulyet knew what he was doing, feeling it was rash to antagonise such brutes. It was the first time he had studied them closely, and he could not help but notice the array of scars, thickened ears and callused hands, especially on Norbert. All were signs of lives spent fighting.
‘What questions?’ snarled Leger, retrieving his sword and inspecting it for damage.
‘We can begin with what you discussed with the Girard men the morning they were murdered,’ said Michael. ‘Then you can tell us why you did not bother to mention it to us.’
The pair exchanged glances. Leger’s expression was calculating, but there was a flash of panic in Norbert’s eyes.
‘Who told you—’ the bigger knight began belligerently.
‘That does not matter,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘The point is that you were seen, and I demand an explanation.’
‘You demand ?’ echoed Leger incredulously. ‘We are representatives of His Majesty, personally appointed by him to oversee Cambridge’s preparations for war.’
‘And I am his Sheriff,’ retorted Tulyet. ‘So I outrank you. Now, answer our questions or I shall send you back to the King in disgrace.’
Norbert bristled, but Leger was intelligent enough to know that Tulyet meant it, and began to answer the question, albeit sullenly. ‘We did not know they were Spital lunatics at the time. We just saw them walking along, and we could tell, just by looking, that they were warriors, so we asked why they had not been to the butts.’
‘How did they respond?’
‘We could barely understand them,’ shrugged Leger. ‘One was mute, while the other had a toothache that mangled his words. Our English was not equal to the conversation, so we forced them to use French, which was better, but only marginally.’
It was impossible to tell if the two knights had fallen for the Jacques’ ruse, although Bartholomew wondered why the Girards had gone out in the first place, as it was a reckless thing to have done.
‘Did they tell you they were from the Spital?’ he asked.
‘No, they said they were fletchers, and thus exempt from the call to arms,’ growled Norbert. ‘It is only now that we learn they were lunatics – and lying lunatics into the bargain.’
‘We are going to the Spital this afternoon, to assess the rest of them,’ added Leger. ‘If they seem as rational as the pair we met, I want them all at the butts.’
‘I would not recommend putting weapons in the hands of madmen,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘They might run amok and turn on you. And that is my professional medical opinion.’
It was pure bluster, but the knights agreed to leave the Spital men in peace anyway.
‘Now, let us discuss the fire,’ said Tulyet. ‘Where were you when it began?’
Norbert regarded him coolly. ‘I hope you are not accusing us of setting it.’
‘Just answer the question,’ barked Tulyet.
Norbert came to his feet fast. Tulyet did not flinch, even though the other man towered over him. Prudently, Leger gestured that his friend was to sit back down.
‘We cannot recall, Sheriff,’ he said with a false smile. ‘Our remit is to train troops, so we spend a lot of time trawling taverns for likely recruits. We were in the King’s Head at one point on Wednesday morning, but I cannot tell you precisely when.’
‘The King’s Head is near the Spital,’ remarked Bartholomew.
Leger ignored him and continued to address Tulyet. ‘So you will just have to take our word that we were elsewhere at the salient time. That should not present too great a difficulty, given that we are fellow knights.’
‘Why should he believe you?’ asked Michael acidly. ‘You failed to report meeting two of the victims not long before their murders, which hardly presents you in an honest light.’
‘It slipped our minds,’ shrugged Leger. ‘It was a discussion about nothing, so why should we remember? Or do you think we should tell the Sheriff every time we exchange words with men of fighting age? If we did, none of us would get any work done.’
He regarded the monk with sly defiance, and it was clear that pressing the matter further would be a waste of time, so Tulyet showed them the weapons that had killed Paris and the Girards. Leger gave them no more than a passing glance, but Norbert took them and studied them carefully.
‘Such fine craftsmanship,’ he breathed appreciatively. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘One was planted in the back of an elderly priest,’ replied Michael pointedly. ‘The other was used to murder defenceless lunatics.’
Norbert handed them back to Tulyet. ‘Then the killer is a fool for leaving them behind. And if he is a fool, even you should be able to catch him.’
There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet took their leave.
‘Do you believe they “forgot” their encounter with the Girards?’ asked the physician when they were out in the bailey again. ‘Because I do not. Moreover, they cannot prove where they were, and I can certainly see them dispatching a family with ruthless efficiency.’
‘So can I,’ replied Michael. ‘Leger’s answers were too glib, and I sense there was more to the encounter than they were willing to confess.’
‘I agree,’ said Tulyet, ‘although I am not sure it involves murder. They are not poisoners – they would have stabbed everyone, including the children.’
‘So are they on your list of suspects or not?’
‘They are,’ said Tulyet. ‘Just not right at the top. But I shall show both weapons to the garrison, and if Leger and Norbert ever owned them, I will find out – soldiers notice such things. And if that yields no answers, I shall flash them around the town. Someone will recognise them, I am sure of it.’
But Bartholomew had a bad feeling the Sheriff’s confidence was misplaced.
Bartholomew and Michael headed for St Radegund’s. To reach the convent, they had to pass through the Barnwell Gate, which was manned that day by some new and vigilant sentries, who had been given the choice of a week’s military service or the equivalent time spent in gaol as punishment for brawling with scholars. Among them was Verious the ditcher. All were under the command of the sullen Sergeant Orwel and his helpmeet Pierre Sauvage. Orwel sported a new hat that was black and rather feminine, leading Bartholomew to suppose he had stolen it from the nuns the previous day.
‘Stop,’ Orwel ordered roughly, whisking the headpiece out of sight when he saw the physician staring at it. ‘The Barnwell Gate is closed today.’
‘Is it?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Then why has that cart just driven through?’
‘You cannot pass, Brother,’ said Verious apologetically. ‘Sir Leger thinks there are French spies in the area, and we are under orders to keep them out.’
‘We are not French spies,’ said Michael. ‘Moreover, we want to leave, not come in.’
Verious became flustered, unwilling to annoy the man who provided his choir with free victuals or the physician who never charged him for medicine when he was ill. He turned to the others for help. ‘Brother Michael makes a good point. He is—’
‘I am in charge here,’ snapped Orwel. ‘And I say the gate is closed. Sir Leger told me that anyone might be a French spy, even folk we know.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor!’
‘I do not care what you call yourself,’ growled Orwel. ‘Now bugger off.’
There was a murmur of consternation, as the others saw membership of the choir and complimentary medical care flash before their eyes. They backed away, aiming to put some distance between themselves and the gruff sergeant, but Orwel barked at them to stand fast.
‘But Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew cannot be spies,’ protested Verious, distraught. ‘If they were, they would be slinking about on tiptoe.’
Bartholomew struggled not to laugh at this piece of logic.
‘Sir Leger said to stop all scholars from leaving town,’ Orwel persisted, although only after he had
given Verious’s remark serious consideration. ‘Or have you forgotten that one of them murdered poor Wyse?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Verious. ‘But these two did not do it. The culprit will be some foreigner – a man from King’s Hall or Bene’t College, which are full of aliens.’
‘Sir Leger gave us our orders,’ stated Orwel stubbornly. ‘So we must follow them.’
‘Sir Leger this, Sir Leger that,’ mocked Michael. ‘Can no one here think for himself?’
‘Sir Leger recommended that we stay away from doing that, so he can do it for us,’ replied Verious, quite seriously. ‘We are all relieved, as thinking for ourselves has led to a lot of trouble in the past.’
This time, Bartholomew did laugh, although Michael failed to see the funny side.
‘Stand aside before you make me angry,’ he snapped. ‘Matt and I need to visit the nuns. And do not smirk like that, Verious. Our intentions are perfectly honourable.’
‘Of course they are,’ said Verious, and winked.
‘When the King calls us to arms, I shall be first over the Channel,’ confided Sauvage, somewhat out of the blue. ‘Then I shall avenge Winchelsea by slaughtering entire villages.’
‘“Entire villages” were not responsible for Winchelsea,’ argued Michael impatiently. ‘That was a small faction of the Dauphin’s—’
‘Every Frenchman applauds what was done,’ interrupted Orwel fiercely. ‘So they all deserve to die. Now are you two going to piss off, or must we arrest you?’
‘Arrest Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew?’ cried Sauvage, horrified. ‘You cannot do that! They will tell the Sheriff and he will be furious with us – they are his friends.’
‘Besides, you will die if you try to take Doctor Bartholomew somewhere he does not want to go,’ added Verious. ‘He fought at Poitiers, where Cynric said he dispatched more of the enemy than you can shake a stick at. And look at my nose. You see where it is broken? Well, he did that. I tell you, he is lethal!’
Verious and Bartholomew had once come to blows, although it had been more luck than skill that had seen the physician emerge the victor. He was about to say so, disliking the notion that he should own such a deadly reputation, when Orwel stepped aside.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 18