‘It was the most devastating incident Oxford has ever known,’ replied Michael gravely. ‘Did you not pay attention when I told you about it? We had the news four months ago, and I remember very clearly regaling you with details. I thought you seemed distant at the time, and now I see why: you were not listening.’
‘I am sure I was,’ said Bartholomew. He vaguely recalled the conversation, but it had been about the time when Clippesby had taken a turn for the worse and, as his physician, Bartholomew had been more concerned with him than with Michael’s gossip about a fracas in a distant city.
‘Well, I am sure you were not,’ retorted Michael. ‘Or we would not be having this discussion now. The riot started when scholars began an argument over wine in a tavern called Swindlestock.’
‘I know it,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘I have done battle in it myself – against Polmorva, in fact, when he referred to Merton as a “house of fools”. The landlord threw us into the street, and told us to take our quarrels to University property, and leave his alone.’
‘Well, he was not so fortunate this time. He was hit over the head with a jug. His patrons came to his defence, and the scholars were obliged to take up arms to protect themselves. And then everything flew out of control. The townsfolk also grabbed weapons, and the Mayor urged them to slaughter every student they could find, so Oxford would be rid of the curse of academia once and for all.’
‘I doubt he did any such thing! There are thousands of clerks in Oxford and he could not possibly hope to dispatch them all. Your version of events came from a scholar with a grudge against the town, Brother.’
‘My “version of events” came from Chancellor Brouweon himself, in his official report to Tynkell,’ argued Michael. ‘The fighting continued into the next day, and only stopped when every scholar had been killed, wounded or driven from the city. Eventually, the Sheriff managed to impose calm and the King was informed. Four days later, all privileges and charters were suspended and the whole city was placed under interdict.’
‘The whole city?’ Bartholomew was astounded: these were Draconian measures. ‘When was this interdict revoked?’
Michael nodded in satisfaction. ‘You see? You did not listen back in February, or you would not be asking me this. You would have remembered that the University was pardoned and encouraged to resume its studies almost immediately, but that the town remains under interdict to this day.’
‘Still?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that means the functions of the Church are suspended: no masses can be said, no townsman can have a Christian burial, his children cannot be baptised—’
‘I know what an interdict is. And Oxford’s looks set to remain in force for some time yet.’
‘I suppose this is good for us, though,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I cannot see Islip founding a College in a city under interdict.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, he will not build one in a town rife with unsolved murders, either – which is possibly what someone is hoping. So, I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before Islip arrives.’
‘You think Chesterfelde was killed to harm Cambridge’s chances with the Archbishop?’ Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘It seems a drastic step, and not one that will necessarily work – especially if you discover that Polmorva is the culprit. Exposing an Oxford scholar as a murderer will only serve to make our case stronger, and theirs weaker.’
Michael’s expression was wry. ‘I suspect it is not as simple as that – not when men like Polmorva and Duraunt are involved.’ He overrode Bartholomew’s objection that his teacher would have nothing to do with such a plot. ‘I do not like the fact that as soon as Islip announces his intention to come here we have an invasion of Oxford men. Eight of them is a significant number.’
‘But two are dead,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘And the survivors include three merchants intending to solve a murder; Polmorva and Spryngheuse claiming they came for their safety; and Duraunt investigating his bailiff, despite the fact that you tell me he is the kind of man to believe good of Satan himself.’
‘Duraunt did not come for sinister purposes,’ reiterated Bartholomew firmly.
Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but he is the Warden of a powerful Oxford College, and he is here. That is all I need to know at the moment. But leave him for now, and consider the others. Polmorva is the kind of fellow who enjoys feuds, while Chesterfelde made himself an enemy so bitter that he ended up dead. These Oxford men are clearly not peace-loving citizens.’
‘And the merchants?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Oxford’s burgesses hate scholars just as much as do the ones in Cambridge. Surely it would be in the interests of these three merchants to see Islip found a new College here, rather than in their own city?’
Michael’s green eyes gleamed, pleased by the prospect of a challenge that would require his wits. ‘I have been restless lately. Tynkell does everything I say, and the University is operating exactly as I want it. Michaelhouse thrives under Langelee’s surprisingly enlightened rule, and there is little for me to do there. We solved that crime involving the Mortimers and Gonville Hall recently, and since then I have been bored. Now things are looking up.’
‘Looking up?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by his choice of words. ‘A man has been murdered.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Michael gleefully. ‘And we have clever scholars from Oxford and three cunning merchants involved. This promises to be interesting, Matt. And it will need a man like me to solve it!’
‘Then you had better do it quickly, Brother. Before Islip arrives.’
‘I shall!’ vowed Michael confidently. ‘Believe me, Matt, I shall.’
St Mary the Great was the University Church. Since it was the largest building under the academics’ control, and could accommodate huge numbers of scholars, it was used for public disputations, for when the Fellows were required to vote on issues pertaining to the running of their University, and for when they needed to resolve some of the frequent and bitter disputes that raged between its Colleges, hostels, friaries and convents. The church boasted a stalwart tower that housed their various deeds, documents and stockpiles of coins, and the Chancellor and his clerks had offices located off its aisles.
‘This really is a beautiful place,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to admire the way the sunlight poured through the windows to form delicate patterns on the newly laid chancel floor. ‘The coloured light virtually dances across the flagstones.’
Michael regarded him stonily. ‘You need a night away from your exertions with Matilde. It is not normal, talking about buildings as though they were women.’
He moved away, leaving Bartholomew too bemused to point out that the association between the church and a lady was entirely one of the monk’s own devising. He opened the door to the Chancellor’s office, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that he did not bother to knock. Tynkell was so much under Michael’s spell after his third year in office that when the monk marched into the room as if he owned it, Bartholomew half expected him to leap from his seat and offer it up.
Tynkell had not been lawfully elected to his exalted office, although few people other than Michael knew it. There had been violent objections when Tynkell had first been declared the victor, but these had gradually died away, and now people were reasonably satisfied with the way Michael ran matters. Indeed, Michael’s power was so absolute that Bartholomew had once asked why the monk did not simply declare an election and have himself voted in properly. He replied that he did not have the patience to endure the many dull civic functions that chancellors were obliged to attend – and there was the fact that while he could take the credit when things were going well, he could always stand back when they were not, and let Tynkell weather the consequences.
Tynkell was a thin man with an aversion to water that led to a problem with his personal hygiene. He doused himself liberally with scents in an attempt to disguise the fact that not so much as a drop of wa
ter ever touched his skin, with the result that his office reminded Bartholomew of a rank public latrine sited near a lavender field. Tynkell suffered from digestive ailments, which the physician insisted would ease if the man were to rinse his hands before eating. Tynkell declined to follow the advice, and that morning sat clutching his stomach with one hand while the other played nervously with a pen. He was visibly relieved when Michael entered his domain, and Bartholomew supposed the three men who were with him had been pressing him for the unthinkable: a decision.
‘This is my Senior Proctor,’ said Tynkell, ushering Michael inside. ‘And my Corpse Examiner.’
‘Corpse Examiner?’ asked one of the men. ‘What sort of post is that?’
‘One that is useful,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘He has examined a corpse of your own, as a matter of fact.’
‘Chesterfelde’s,’ said the man. ‘His death was a pity. He was a cheerful fellow, although he did have a habit of quoting the Bible at you in Latin. At least, that is what he said he was doing. He could have been damning us all to Hell for all I know.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you harm him in some way?’
‘Of course not,’ replied the man impatiently. ‘I am trying to illustrate my point. I am a spicer, and have no time for foolery like Latin. French and English were good enough for my father, God rest his soul, and they are good enough for me.’
‘We can hardly read the Bible in French!’ exclaimed Tynkell, shocked. ‘We are at war with France, and it would be an odd thing to do, anyway. Latin is the only tongue for sacred texts – and for proper academic discourse.’
‘Allow us to introduce ourselves again, Brother,’ said another of the trio, interrupting the spicer’s tirade. He spoke with the soft lilt of a man from Wales. ‘I am William of Abergavenny, burgess of Oxford and Master of the Guild of Saints.’ He indicated the spicer, who sat on his left. ‘This is Philip Eu, also a burgess and a past Mayor. And finally, this is Thomas Wormynghalle.’
The absence of any reference to title or claim to fame did not escape Wormynghalle’s notice, just as it did not the scholars’, and Bartholomew immediately sensed there was tension between the three merchants.
‘I will be Mayor next year,’ snapped Wormynghalle, shooting Abergavenny an unpleasant glance, ‘and I was elected a burgess in January. It is about time Oxford had a tanner as Mayor. It is just as respectable a trade as spicery or wine-selling.’
As he gazed challengingly at his companions, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study them. Abergavenny was black-haired and fair-faced, like many Celts, and his eyes held a humorous glint, as if he found much of what he saw amusing. His cloak was embroidered with a tiny vine motif, and Bartholomew surmised that he was a vintner. Eu was tall and thin, and spoke English with a thick French accent. The inflexion was inconsistent, and Bartholomew suspected English was his mother tongue, but that he liked to emphasise the fact that he hailed from old Norman stock. There was a carving of a nutmeg on his ring, which was exquisitely made and a symbol of tastefully understated wealth.
Wormynghalle was Eu’s exact opposite: short, heavily built and pugilistic. He did not wear his fine clothes as comfortably as his companions, and the rings on his fingers and his heavy gold neck-chain were ostentatious examples of his riches. The chain carried a heavy pendant in the shape of a sheep’s head, to represent his trade as a curer of skins; the workmanship was poor, despite the high quality of the medium, and the carving possessed a set of very un-ovine teeth. When inspecting him, Bartholomew was unfavourably reminded of the overweight peacock that lived at Michaelhouse, and was not surprised the man’s companions did not seem to like him. His trade as a tanner would not endear him to men who dabbled in the rarefied worlds of exotic spices and wines, either. Tanning was a foul, stinking business involving bloody, flayed skins and vats of urine.
‘We have come to investigate a murder,’ stated Wormynghalle, when no one replied. ‘The culprit fled to Cambridge, and we intend to hunt him out and take him home with us.’
‘It happened during the St Scholastica’s Day riot,’ elaborated Abergavenny, ‘while the town was in flames and there was murder and mayhem everywhere. It was then that this evil fellow chose to strike down an innocent man.’
‘With a sword,’ added Wormynghalle.
‘That unrest was months ago,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Why search for this culprit now? And how do you know he is in Cambridge anyway?’
‘His victim was left mortally wounded, but not dead,’ explained Eu. ‘The poor man – Gonerby was his name – gasped with his dying breath that he overheard his assailant telling a friend that he intended to hide in Cambridge until the hue and cry had died away. I was there: I heard Gonerby’s words with my own ears. Then he charged us to catch the killer and make him answer for his crime. I am from an ancient family, who believes in the sanctity of oaths and sacred vows—’
‘So do I,’ interrupted Wormynghalle, not to be outdone on the chivalry front.
‘—so I gave my word to Gonerby, as he died, that I would find his murderer,’ finished Eu, looking Wormynghalle up and down in disdain, to deny that he and the tanner shared common ideals.
‘Tell me this killer’s name,’ said Michael. ‘If he is guilty, then he is yours to take to Oxford.’
‘Gonerby did not know it,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘That is why we came ourselves, and did not entrust servants to find him.’
‘Tracking a killer is not easy, and will need men of intelligence and cunning,’ said Wormynghalle, oblivious to the long-suffering glances his colleagues exchanged behind his back. ‘That means us. Besides, Gonerby was popular, and if I catch his killer, everyone will vote for me as Mayor.’
‘Many people died during that riot,’ said Michael. ‘What makes Gonerby’s death worthy of investigation, when others are not?’
‘He was wealthy, popular and influential – a parchment-maker,’ replied Eu, twisting his nutmeg ring around on his finger. ‘We cannot afford to have men like him murdered and their killers going free. What message would that send to the general populace?’
‘We do not want scholars thinking they can slaughter us as they please, and nothing bad will ever happen to them,’ elaborated Wormynghalle, who did not seem averse to stating the obvious. ‘It might encourage others to try their luck.’
‘This is an odd tale,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘You know more about Gonerby’s death – and about his killer – than you are telling, since you cannot possibly hope to snag the culprit with the information you have shared with us. It is simply not enough to allow you to start.’
‘We know the killer is a scholar,’ offered Abergavenny. ‘Gonerby said he wore a student’s dark garb and he heard him say Oxford was too dangerous, so he would study in Cambridge instead.’
‘That does suggest you should look to a University member for your culprit,’ admitted Tynkell. ‘But it does not tell us whether he was an Oxford student who saw Cambridge as a safe haven, or whether he was a Cambridge student who happened to be visiting Oxford at the time of the riot.’
Abergavenny nodded. ‘So, we intend to look at both possibilities. Gonerby’s widow told us we cannot go home unless we bring her a killer. She made us promise to fulfil her husband’s last wish, even if we die in the attempt.’
‘She is a forceful lady,’ said Eu, not entirely admiringly. ‘Just because we three happened to stumble on the dying Gonerby, she decided we should be the ones to hunt down his murderer. I did not want to oblige, but we had made that promise to Gonerby, so it became a point of honour.’
‘I was only speaking to comfort the man in his final agonies,’ said Abergavenny ruefully. ‘But Wormynghalle here made the promise public and Mistress Gonerby held us to it.’ He cast an admonishing, resentful glance at the tanner.
‘I did what was right,’ declared Wormynghalle defensively. ‘How was I to know you were only humouring Gonerby when you swore to avenge him? I was under the impression
that you held the same principles as me, and I was astonished to learn you were ready to renege.’
‘You are deliberately misrepresenting us,’ snapped Eu, seeming to forget he was in the Chancellor’s office and the argument was being witnessed by strangers. ‘Of course I believe in honour and the sanctity of oaths, but this was different. I was trying to calm him, not agree to sacrifice weeks of my life searching for a fellow whose name and description we do not know.’
‘It has cost you little so far,’ said Wormynghalle nastily. ‘You arrived here eleven days ago, and you have spent virtually all that time establishing new business contacts.’
‘We did not promise to hunt this killer to the exclusion of all else,’ said Abergavenny reasonably. ‘And the opportunities that have arisen in and around Cambridge have been irresistible.’
‘For spicers and vintners maybe,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘But not for tanners. Mine is not a trade that benefits from distant agreements – it is cheaper to buy and sell my materials locally.’
Abergavenny smiled to acknowledge his point, then turned to Michael. ‘But we have drawn our personal affairs to a close, and now we are ready to begin our hunt.’
‘But this still does not explain why you did not visit Cambridge sooner,’ said Michael. ‘If this quest is so important, then why the delay? Gonerby has been dead almost four months.’
‘We could not just up and leave,’ declared Eu. ‘We had arrangements to make, and there were important matters that required our attention. We came as soon as we could.’
‘We came when it became obvious we had no choice,’ corrected Abergavenny ruefully. ‘We thought the task an impossible one from the start, and were reluctant to begin something we could not finish. But Widow Gonerby is a forceful woman, and she was backed by the guilds. Gonerby was well liked, and everyone insisted that his last wish should be carried out.’
‘Because the city is under interdict, Gonerby was buried without the appropriate rites and his wife was furious,’ added Eu. He shuddered. ‘I would not like to see her lose her temper again – and she will, if we return without a culprit.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 6