Tysilia pouted sulkily. ‘I did, Dame Wasteneys. I took it when she was in the latrine.’
‘Perhaps she has more than one,’ said Bartholomew, hauling the semi-conscious woman to her feet. She groaned, and opened bleary eyes. ‘The walk in fresh air will do her good. When you arrive home, give her plenty to drink and make sure she has a good breakfast.’
‘We can give her plenty to drink now,’ offered Tysilia, brandishing the wineskin helpfully.
‘I meant watered ale or milk,’ said Bartholomew, regarding her askance. ‘Do not give her wine; she has had more than enough of that already.’
‘She is not drunk,’ asserted Dame Wasteneys, regarding Bartholomew sternly. ‘She is indisposed. I would not like it said that the Prioress of St Radegund’s was tipsy before prime.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the walk through Cambridge with the Prioress staggering between two meaty novices would do more damage to her reputation than anything he could say. He knew that wine was sometimes more than just a pleasant beverage for some people, and the broken veins and slightly purple nose of the Prioress suggested that she was one of them. He handed Dame Wasteneys a packet containing some cloves, which he used for patients with toothache.
‘Give her some of these to chew. They will mask the scent of the wine.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dame Wasteneys, sketching a brief benediction at him. ‘You are very kind.’
Leaving the nuns to walk back to their convent, Bartholomew and Richard mounted their horses again. Bartholomew was sure that the sudden deluge of spray and pellets of mud that the Black Bishop of Bedminster kicked up with his hoofs, and that landed squarely on the startled Prioress, would do more to dispel the effects of wine than the coldest morning air. Oblivious to her indignant curses, Richard rode towards the town.
* * *
Bartholomew and Richard reached the Trumpington Gate, and waited for the guards to wave them through. The soldier on duty regarded Richard’s snorting black horse doubtfully. Sergeant Orwelle was a thickset man with a limp from a wound received in the service of the King. Bartholomew had recently treated him for rotting teeth, and one of his first tasks as a physician, when he had arrived in Cambridge more than a decade before, had been to remove a horn drinking vessel from the man’s nose, which had managed to become stuck there during some bizarre drinking game. Orwelle felt indebted to Bartholomew – not for the removal of the offending item, but for the fact that the incident had never been mentioned again.
‘Tell Brother Michael I am sorry about his Junior Proctor,’ said Orwelle, patting Bartholomew’s horse on the neck. ‘It was me who found him, you know. I was on patrol, when I saw him hanging. It was a sad sight.’
‘Did you see anything else – such as who did it?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.
Orwelle shook his head. ‘If I had, then that person would now be under lock and key. It does not do for scholars to flaunt their lack of respect for the law in the town. It sets a bad example.’
‘How do you know Walcote was killed by a scholar, and not a townsperson?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Orwelle regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Of course it was a scholar. The townsfolk have nothing against the proctors – quite the opposite, in fact, because it is the proctors who punish students for misbehaving. We like the proctors.’
‘Sheriff Tulyet said Walcote was hanged from the walls of the Dominican Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that true? It is a very public place.’
‘He was around the side,’ explained Orwelle. ‘The front would have been a public place, but Walcote was hanging from a drainage pipe that juts out from the north wall. A line of trees conceals it from the road.’
‘How did you find him, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
Orwelle looked shifty. ‘Do not tell the Sheriff, but I slipped home for a cup of hot ale halfway through my patrol – it was a horrible night, with all that wind and rain. I live near the Dominican Friary, and there is a shortcut along the wall that I always take. I doubt anyone else uses it after dark, and it was lucky I found Walcote when I did, or he would have been there until this morning.’
‘But he was dead when you found him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There were no signs of life?’
‘None,’ said Orwelle. ‘And I have attended enough hangings at the Castle to be able to tell right enough. He was stone cold, too, so he had been hanging there some time before I came across him.’
‘What time did you find him?’
‘When the bells chimed for compline,’ replied Orwelle. ‘You and Brother Michael had left to go to Trumpington for the evening, and I suppose it was a couple of hours after that. Whoever killed him must have done so just after dusk – any earlier, and someone else would have found him; later, and he would have been warm.’
‘Was there anything at all that might help Michael catch the culprit?’ asked Bartholomew.
Orwelle shook his head. ‘The good Brother has already asked me all this. There was nothing. I cut Walcote down, to make certain he was not still living, then I ran to the gatehouse for help.’
‘And what about the trouble between the Austins and the Franciscans?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did they fight all night?’
‘The Franciscans went home when it became clear the rain was not going to stop that evening. They do not dislike the Austins enough to endure a drenching. By the time the Sheriff arrived with Brother Michael, the Franciscans and the Austins were tucked up in their own beds.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was expecting to hear that there had been a riot.’
‘There is unrest because the University is only teaching in the mornings this week,’ said Orwelle knowledgeably. ‘The scholars are bored – they do not know what to do with free afternoons, and so spend them looking for trouble. It is a good thing Lent is almost over.’
‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, hoping the problems would be resolved when lectures returned to normal after Easter.
Orwelle suddenly sniffed the air. ‘What is that dreadful stench? Is there a whore among the crowd waiting to come in?’
‘Not that I can see,’ replied Bartholomew, hoping Orwelle would not associate the powerful smell with Richard’s carefully greased hair. The physician moved backward as Richard’s horse grew restless at the enforced delay.
‘Make sure you keep that thing under control,’ Orwelle instructed Bartholomew, eyeing the animal distrustfully. ‘We do not want it stampeding around the town, upsetting carts and knocking people down.’
Bartholomew raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It has nothing to do with me. Tell Richard.’
‘Oswald Stanmore’s boy?’ asked Orwelle, peering up at the fine figure who sat on his horse with the bandage still around his nose and mouth. The old soldier gave a sudden beam of delight. ‘You and my Tom used to go fishing together. You remember him.’
Richard gazed coolly at the sergeant. ‘Actually, I do not. And I prefer not to dwell on such unsavoury matters as fishing in dirty water.’
Orwelle’s honest face crunched into a puzzled frown. ‘Of course you remember my Tom. It was just before the Death. You and him used to sit together on the river bank, and catch minnows.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Richard, spurring his horse through the gate and into the town beyond.
Shooting an apologetic grin at Orwelle, Bartholomew rode after him, balling his fists so he would not be tempted to knock his nephew from his fine saddle.
‘What are you thinking of?’ he demanded when he had caught up, snatching the reins from Richard’s hands to make him stop. ‘You could have acknowledged Tom Orwelle’s father. You and Tom were friends once.’
‘I cannot afford to be seen cavorting with the sons of common soldiers,’ Richard flashed back. ‘I have an impression to make on this town. I hardly think people will want to employ me if they see me discussing old times with peasants.’
‘You need not be concerned,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. �
�Tom Orwelle died of the plague. His father only wanted a kind word from you about him – the sharing of a fond memory. You have changed, Richard, and I do not like what you have become.’
Richard’s jaw dropped. ‘But I …’ he began.
It was too late. Bartholomew was already riding away up the High Street towards Michaelhouse, leaving his nephew stuttering an unheard apology.
Still angry, Bartholomew rode past the recently founded College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, or Bene’t College as it was known to most people because it stood next to St Bene’t’s Church. Work still continued on the College, which seemed to grow larger every time Bartholomew passed it. It already had two courtyards and a handsome hall building, and was being furnished with more accommodation wings and a substantial kitchen block.
The church was an ancient monument with a square, almost windowless tower that many people believed had been built before William the Conqueror had claimed the English throne in 1066. It was set in a grassy graveyard, and its amber stones were shaded by yew trees. Diagonally opposite it was the Brazen George, a large tavern known for good food and clear ale, which was a favourite of Michael’s. Rows of town houses followed, some grand and well maintained, like the one belonging to the locksmith and his family, and some in sore need of a new roof and a coat of paint, like the one where Beadle Meadowman lived.
Beyond that, the great golden mass of St Mary’s Church rose out of the filth of the High Street. Its new chancel gleamed bright and clean, elegant tracery reaching for the sky like stone lace. Its tower was a sturdy mass topped by four neat turrets that could be seen from many miles away. In a room below the bells was a great chest in which the University stored its most precious documents. To many, the sumptuous church represented all they did not like about the University, and the building was often the target of resentful townspeople.
A short distance from St Mary’s was St Michael’s, a church that had been specially rebuilt by Michaelhouse’s founder Hervey de Stanton to be used by the scholars of the College he had established. Next to the dazzling splendour of St Mary’s, with its Barnack stone and intricate tracery, St Michael’s was squat and grey. It had a low tower, barely taller than the nave, and tiny porches to the north and south. Its chancel was almost as large as its nave, a deliberate feature on Stanton’s part, because he intended Michaelhouse’s scholars to pray in the chancel, while any congregation or members of other Colleges or hostels would use the nave.
Bartholomew considered St Michael’s chancel one of the finest in Cambridge. Its tracery lacked the delicate quality of St Mary’s, but possessed a clean simplicity that Bartholomew loved. The great east window allowed the early morning light to flood in, although for much of the day the church was dark and intimate. A tiny extension to the south was called the Stanton Chapel, and housed the tomb of Stanton himself. Other tombs and monuments lay in peaceful silence among the shadows, with still figures in stone gazing heavenwards, occasionally lit by the odd beam of dusty sunlight.
Just to the left was St Michael’s Lane, a muddy track that led down to the wharfs on the river. On the corner was the handsome red-roofed Gonville Hall, where scholars were already gathering in the street to process to St Mary’s, to celebrate the beginning of a new day with a mass. Some of them nodded to Bartholomew as he passed. Usually, members of different Colleges tended to regard each other with hostility, but Master Langelee of Michaelhouse had recently sold Gonville Hall a piece of property for a very reasonable price, and the scholars of Gonville and Michaelhouse had established a truce. Bartholomew was grateful that at least some factions within the University were not at each other’s throats.
The horse slowed when it was faced with the muck of St Michael’s Lane, picking its way carefully and skilfully around the larger potholes and piles of rubbish. The walls of Gonville loomed to Bartholomew’s left as he turned down the small runnel, appropriately named Foule Lane, on which the mighty front gate of Michaelhouse stood. He hammered on the door, and was admitted by a porter who took the horse, grumbling about the amount of mud that clung to the animal, which would have to be cleaned off.
Michaelhouse’s scholars were already assembling in the yard to process to the mass at St Michael’s, most of them yawning and still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. At their head was Master Langelee, a large, heavy man with no neck, who had decided to become a scholar because life as a spy for the Archbishop of York was not sufficiently exciting. Given that his predecessor had been murdered after attempting to oust Langelee himself from his Fellowship because of an annulled marriage, he had probably been right.
Langelee called an affable greeting to Bartholomew, then strode briskly along the line of scholars to ensure they were sufficiently smart to represent Michaelhouse on the streets of Cambridge. Bartholomew did not much like the burly philosopher, whose belligerence and single-mindedness also made him unpopular with the students, but he had to admit that standards had risen since Langelee had assumed the Mastership. Michaelhouse scholars were inspected each morning, and any student whose tabard was not clean and tidy and whose shoes did not shine to Langelee’s satisfaction was fined fourpence. Scholars who could not afford or declined to pay were put to work as copyists, to add to Michaelhouse’s expanding library.
It was not only outward appearances that had improved. Lectures always started on time, and meals were served promptly. Previously, evenings had been free for the students, but Langelee had initiated a series of discussion sessions that the Fellows took it in turn to lead. The students were obliged to attend at least four each week, and Langelee kept a careful record of anyone who absented himself without permission. The topics were usually light-hearted ones, such as whether worms when cut in half were two animals or one, or whether ale tasted better in the morning or the evening, but nevertheless were valuable practice for the more serious disputations that were a major part of academic life. As long as Langelee did not take part in the discussions himself – he was not possessed of the sharpest mind in the University, and even the rawest, most inexperienced student invariably bested him – Bartholomew felt the students were benefiting enormously. There was also the fact that their busy schedules allowed very little time for causing mischief in the town. It had been many months since the proctors had paid a visit to Michaelhouse in pursuit of a student who had misbehaved.
The Michaelhouse Fellows were already waiting in their places at the front of the procession. The fanatical Franciscan Father William was first, nodding approvingly as Langelee berated one student for having hair that was too long. William’s habit was easily the filthiest garment in Michaelhouse, but even Langelee’s heavy-handed hints could not induce the friar to wash it. Like all Franciscans’ robes, the habit was grey, but William’s was so dark that he was occasionally mistaken for a Dominican. William detested the Black Friars, and Bartholomew found it extraordinary that he would risk being misidentified just because he had an aversion to hygiene.
Standing next to William, and already muttering prayers that would prepare him spiritually for the mass that was to come, was the gentle Gilbertine Thomas Kenyngham. Kenyngham had performed the duties of Master for several years, and had been a kindly and tolerant leader. However, Bartholomew was rapidly coming around to the opinion that the students fared better under the sterner hand of Langelee, although he was amazed to find it so.
Michael waited next to them, the dark rings under his eyes indicating that the previous night had not been an easy one for him. He gave Bartholomew a wan smile as the physician stepped into his place.
Behind Michael were the newest Fellows. The Dominican Clippesby stood with the Carmelite friar, Thomas Suttone. Clippesby was talking in loving tones to a dead frog he had somehow acquired, and Suttone was trying to wrest it away from him before Langelee saw it. Langelee was not particularly tolerant of the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies, mostly because he did not know how to respond to them.
Suttone was a long, bony man with short white hai
r that contrasted oddly with Clippesby’s wild locks. He had some of the largest teeth that Bartholomew had ever seen in a person, and was a sombre individual, wholly devoid of humour. He was not an unkind man, but his unsmiling demeanour did not make him popular with his colleagues. Even the dour, uncompromising William was not serious all the time, and enjoyed a little light-hearted banter of an evening, especially if it were at the expense of the Dominicans.
Suttone and Clippesby began a covert push–pull competition over the frog, determination to possess it clearly written in the features of both. Bartholomew and Michael watched the tussle warily, hoping that Clippesby would not have one of his tantrums if Suttone were the victor, because when Langelee locked Clippesby in his room ‘for his own safety’ the other Fellows were obliged to take over his teaching responsibilities. The struggle, however, ended abruptly when the frog broke in two. Clippesby regarded his part in surprise, and then generously presented it to Suttone, whispering that there was little anyone could do with half a frog and that Suttone should take both bits. Michael snorted with laughter as Clippesby clasped his hands in front of him in genuine innocence, while Suttone was left holding a mess of spilled entrails that he was unable to explain to the disgusted Langelee.
Considering that the Fellows of Michaelhouse comprised a Benedictine, a Dominican, a Franciscan, a Carmelite and a Gilbertine, the College was remarkably strife-free. Bartholomew sincerely hoped it would continue, and that his colleagues would not be drawn into the rivalries and disputes in which the religious Orders indulged. William posed the greatest threat, with his naked hatred of Dominicans, but, fortunately, Clippesby was not sufficiently sane to provide him with a satisfactory target. Sometimes he objected to the hail of abuse the Franciscan directed towards him, but most of the time he seemed unaware that there was a problem.
Thinking of the unease between the Orders reminded Bartholomew of why Michael had left Edith’s house early the previous night. He glanced at the monk, noting again that he looked exhausted and out of sorts.
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