A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  Stanmore’s business premises were protected by a high wall and sturdy gates. No harm had come to them that Bartholomew could detect, although the house next door had been attacked and looted. Stanmore employed a small number of mercenaries to protect his ever-increasing trade and it would be a foolish man who would risk targeting his property. Bartholomew, with an ease born of familiarity, walked across the yard and ran lightly up the wooden stairs to the fine solar on the upper floor.

  Bartholomew had always liked the room Stanmore used as an office. A colourful assortment of rugs were scattered across the floor and it always smelled of parchment, ink and dyed cloth.

  Stanmore sat at a table near the window, dictating a letter to his secretary. The merchant dismissed the clerk as Bartholomew poked his head round the door, then greeted his brother-in-law warmly. He sent for wine, and gestured that Bartholomew should sit on one of the cushioned window seats where he would be fanned by the breeze.

  ‘Guy Heppel told me your premises had been attacked,’ said Bartholomew, sipping at some fine red wine. He glanced down at it, noting how clear it was and the richness of its colour. He decided Michael was wrong after all – if Bartholomew acquired a taste for good wine, clear ale and edible food, he would starve to death at Michaelhouse.

  ‘Guy Heppel was mistaken,’ said Stanmore, sitting opposite him and offering him an apple from a large dish. ‘I had my men posted on the walls with arrows at the ready; the rioters prudently went elsewhere – next door among other places.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas about why the town is in such turmoil?’ asked Bartholomew. Stanmore’s wide network of informants meant that he was often party to information inaccessible to University men and it was always worth asking what he had heard.

  Stanmore shook his head slowly. ‘Ostensibly, the riots were about the death of that student and the skeleton in the Ditch,’ he said, ‘but I cannot believe they were the only reasons. The whole town has been growing increasingly uneasy during the past two weeks or so. A student was killed by an apprentice last month in a street fight and his death did not provoke such a violent reaction.’

  ‘Michael was thinking along the same lines this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, neither of us can imagine why anyone should want to instigate such chaos.’

  He rubbed a hand through his hair, staring down at the wine in his cup. ‘Damage was done to both town and University property and there were arrests on both sides. It is difficult to see what anyone might have gained – scholar or townsperson. Do you have any ideas yourself?’

  Stanmore blew out his cheeks. ‘None that I can prove,’ he replied. ‘But Master Deschalers’s house next door was systematically sacked last night – not looted on the spur of the moment, but carefully burgled and only items of the greatest value taken. Oh, things were broken and thrown around to make it look as if it had been sacked, of course. But the reality was that nothing was stolen except that which was most valuable and easily spirited away.’

  ‘You think someone caused a riot to burgle Deschalers’s house?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

  Stanmore made an impatient sound. ‘Of course not, Matt! But it would not surprise me if you discovered Deschalers’s was not the only house looted last night. If several such burglaries took place, then someone might have benefited considerably.’

  Bartholomew regarded him soberly, and finished his wine. ‘If the word is spread that the riots were started to allow burglars to operate, then sensible people will hide their valuables. It might deter thieves from sparking off another night of chaos to do it again.’ He set the cup down on the window-sill and stood.

  ‘True,’ said Stanmore, following Bartholomew down the stairs to see him out. ‘And the threat of burglary might be enough to keep people off the streets. Who would be foolish enough to leave their homes, knowing that they were being enticed out deliberately?’

  ‘I doubt it was the wealthy merchants, with houses worth looting, who were out rioting last night,’ said Bartholomew, looking backwards at him. ‘It was the apprentices and the poor people with little to lose. I do not think burglars would start a riot to steal a few cracked plates and a handful of tallow candles.’

  ‘Times are hard, Matt,’ said Stanmore primly. ‘Since the Death, there is a shortage of everything – including plates and candles. Such items are valuable these days.’

  ‘If you were poor, would you burgle Deschalers’s mansion or Dunstan the Riverman’s hovel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If caught, you would be hanged in either case.’

  ‘True enough,’ admitted Stanmore. ‘Suffice to say I am glad I am not in the Sheriffs shoes today. I would not know where to start investigating all this.’

  Bartholomew glanced up at the dusky sky, and swore softly. ‘The Sheriff! Damn! I promised him I would go to the Castle and examine the bodies of those who died last night.’

  ‘Better hurry, then,’ said Stanmore, ushering him out of the gate. ‘The curfew is early tonight, and I would not break it if I were you.’

  Bartholomew walked briskly away from Stanmore’s house towards the Castle. The land on which Cambridge stood was flat, but at the northern end, there was a small rise on which William the Conqueror had chosen to build a wooden keep in 1068. The small rise became Castle Hill, and the wooden keep had developed into a formidable fortress with a thick curtain wall and several strong, stone towers.

  As he walked, Bartholomew saw the streets were virtually deserted, and cursed himself for agreeing to examine the bodies that day. He did not feel safe walking alone along streets that usually thronged with people, nor did he like the fact that the only people he did see were heavily armed.

  ‘Matthew!’ came a voice from the shadows. ‘You should not be out so late. The curfew bell will sound in a few moments, and you are heading in entirely the wrong direction.’

  ‘Good evening, Matilde,’ said Bartholomew, turning with a warm smile to the woman who emerged from the house of one of the town’s brewers. ‘You should not be out, either.’

  As soon as he had spoken, he realised how stupid his words were. Matilde was a prostitute, and the hours of darkness were, presumably, when she conducted much of her business. Known as ‘Lady Matilde’ because, according to popular rumour, she had once been a lady-in-waiting to a duchess but had been dismissed for entertaining one too many gentlemen in her chambers, she had come to Cambridge to ply her trade in peace. Unlike the other prostitutes, Matilde was well-spoken, and her manners were gentle. Bartholomew had never asked her whether the story were true – not because he thought she might not tell him, but because he liked her aura of mystery and enigma.

  Matilde was, to Bartholomew’s mind, the most attractive woman in Cambridge. She had long hair that reached her knees in a glossy veil, and a small, impish face that was simultaneously beautiful and mischievous. He found he was staring at her and had not heard a word she had been saying.

  ‘I am going to the Castle,’ he said, trying to mask the fact that he had not been paying attention. ‘Can I escort you somewhere?’

  ‘I have just told you that I am going home,’ said Matilde, laughing at him. ‘Have you not been listening to me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to walk towards The Jewry – the part of the town that had once been inhabited by a little community of Jews before their expulsion from England some sixty years before – where Matilde lived. It was on his way, and would not be an inconvenience. ‘I have had a long day, Matilde, given the number of people who were injured last night.’

  She gave him a sympathetic look, and they walked for a while in silence. Bartholomew was aware that he was dirty and dusty, but that she smelled clean and fragrant.

  Her hair shone, even in the faint light of dusk. Next to her the Tyler sisters paled into insignificance, like distant stars compared to the sun. Not for the first time in their friendship Bartholomew wished that she had chosen a different profession, and that he might ask her to accompany him for walks by the river, o
r even to the Founder’s Feast. He was surprised when she replied, realising with a shock that he must have spoken the invitation aloud.

  ‘I do not think that would be a good idea, Matthew,’ she said. ‘What would Master Kenyngham say when he saw you had invited a courtesan to dine at his college?’

  Master Kenyngham would not know a courtesan if one appeared stark naked at his high table, thought Bartholomew, but his colleague Father William would, and then there would be trouble. But Bartholomew was tired, he was missing Philippa more than he thought possible, and he was about to go and inspect corpses in the dark for the Sheriff. He decided he did not care what Father William might say, and since the invitation had apparently been issued, he could hardly withdraw it.

  ‘Please come,’ he said. ‘It is the only occasion in the year that Michaelhouse provides food fit for eating, and the choir are going to sing some ballads.’

  He hesitated. ‘If you have heard them in church, that might put you off. But apart from the singing and the speeches, the day might be quite pleasant – much more so than the Festival of St Michael and All Angels will be.’

  ‘I heard that you have already invited Eleanor Tyler to the Founder’s Feast,’ said Matilde. ‘Are you sure that my presence will not be awkward for you?’

  He gazed at her in astonishment. He had totally forgotten his invitation to Eleanor – not that it mattered, since he was allowed two guests – but it was remarkable that Matilde should know.

  ‘She has been telling anyone who will listen that she is to be the guest of the University’s senior physician for Michaelhouse’s Founder’s Feast,’ said Matilde, smiling at his confusion. ‘It is quite the talk of the town.’

  ‘It is?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘To be honest, I think she more or less invited herself. I suppose she wanted to see the College silver, or hear the music.’

  ‘That is what you think, is it?’ asked Matilde, eyes sparkling with merriment. ‘Oh, Matthew! You are a good man, but I do not think this University of yours is teaching you very much about life!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly offended. ‘I have travelled as far as Africa and the frozen lands to the north, and I have seen great cathedrals and castles, and the aftermath of wars, not to mention…’

  ‘That is not what I meant,’ said Matilde, still smiling. ‘I do not doubt your experience or your learning. You just seem to know very little of women.’

  ‘I know enough,’ said Bartholomew, although his recent experience with Philippa made him suspect Matilde was right. ‘Some of my patients are women. But will you come? To the Founder’s Feast?’

  Matilde reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Yes, I will. Although if you have second thoughts in the cold light of day, you must tell me. I will not be offended.’

  Bartholomew had said as much to Hedwise Tyler after he had invited her to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels. His head reeled. Had Philippa’s rejection of him addled his mind? In the course of a single day, he had issued invitations to three separate women, one of whom was a prostitute, to visit Michaelhouse. While he might be expected to get away with one, three would certainly catch the eye of the fanatical Father William, not to mention the other Fellows. The best Bartholomew could hope for was that his colleagues would have some sort of collective fainting fit, only recovering their wits when the day was over and the women safely off the College premises. His mind still whirling, Bartholomew made his way to the Castle on the hill.

  The Castle had the air of being in a state of siege.

  There was no soldier, inside or out, who was not fully armoured and armed. Archers lined the curtain walls in anticipation of an attack, and the great gates that normally stood open were closed, the wicket door heavily guarded. Bartholomew saw that there was a guard near the portcullis mechanism, ready to release it at a moment’s notice. It was no secret in the town that the chains that held the portcullis needed to be replaced – such chains were yet another item impossible to buy since the plague – and it was generally believed that if the portcullis were lowered, the chains would not be strong enough to allow it to be raised again. Sheriff Tulyet, Bartholomew realised, must be anxious indeed if he were considering using it.

  Bartholomew was allowed through the barbican, and then into the Castle bailey. Soldiers milled around restlessly, some preparing to leave on patrol, others returning.

  Every one of the towers that studded the curtain wall seemed to be a focus of frenetic activity. Ancient arms were being dragged out of storage to substitute for those that had been lost or damaged the night before; fletch ers and blacksmiths laboured feverishly in the failing light to meet the Sheriffs demands for repairs and replacements.

  The bodies Bartholomew had been asked to examine were in one of the outbuildings in the bailey. The building was little more than a shack; inside it was dank, airless and stiflingly hot. Bartholomew felt the sweat begin to prickle on his back after only a few seconds. There were no windows, and the Castle clerk who had been assigned to record Bartholomew’s evidence brought a lamp so they would be able to see what they were doing.

  ‘Five bodies were recovered from the burned houses on the High Street,’ said the clerk as he sharpened an ancient quill. ‘But they were all reclaimed by the Austin Canons from St John’s Hospital on the grounds that they were already dead. The Canons use a house on the main street as a mortuary.’ He paused in his sharpening, favouring Bartholomew with a look that indicated fervent disapproval.

  ‘They think the smell from the tannery above might negate any ill-effects the odours from the bodies might produce,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I know what they think,’ snapped the clerk. ‘They were at great pains to explain it all to me when I complained. My wife’s sister lives next door.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘The building was burned to the ground last night. I hope…’ He wondered what he could say. The clerk came to his rescue.

  ‘The fire spread the other way, thank the Lord.’ He crossed himself automatically, testing the tip of his quill for sharpness at the same time with his other hand. ‘But she does not like living next to corpses. It is all very well for the Canons to say there are no ill-effects, but how would they know?’

  Bartholomew suspected the clerk had a point, and had argued with the Canons at the time that the stench from the tannery probably masked dangerous odours, rather than neutralised them. But debating the point with the clerk would lead nowhere. He gestured for the man to kindle the lamp and lead him to the bodies that awaited their attention.

  For a moment, both men stood together staring down at the neat row of sheeted figures that lay on the beaten-earth floor. Then, anxious to complete his task as soon as possible, Bartholomew knelt next to the first one, and drew back the rough cover. Memories surged forward unbidden as he found himself looking into the face of the French student he had fought, and whom Mistress Tyler had stabbed. He made a pretence at searching for other wounds, glad that the clerk’s mind was on his writing, but feeling as if guilt must shine from every pore in his body. He muttered that the cause of death was due to a single stab wound in the back, covered the body, and moved on thankfully to the next one.

  If anything, this was a worse encounter, for it was the corpse of the friar he had mistaken for Michael. He found his hands were shaking, and blinked the sweat from his eyes. For a moment he thought he might faint, and had to close his eyes tightly before he could regain control of himself.

  ‘Have you identified this friar?’ he asked, partly for information, but mainly because he wanted to hear the clerk’s voice in this room of death.

  ‘Brother Accra from Godwinsson,’ said the clerk, consulting a list.

  Godwinsson again! ‘How can you be sure?’ Bartholomew snapped, rattled. He continued a little more gently. ‘His skull is crushed beyond all recognition.’

  ‘He was identified by a scar on his knee,’ said the clerk, apparently oblivious to Bartholomew’s outburst. ‘Princi
pal Lydgate and a Brother Edred were the witnesses. They both claimed there was no doubt.’

  Bartholomew covered the friar’s mangled head with its blanket, and braced himself for the next one. It was the potter he had tended that morning. He glanced along the row of bodies and saw that there were nine, and not eight after all.

  ‘This man is dead from crushing injuries caused by a cart,’ he told the clerk. ‘I saw him alive this morning, but did not think much to his chances.’

  The fourth body was so badly burned that Bartholomew could not recognise the features. A sudden picture of old Master Burney came into his head as he remembered the tannery workshop collapsing in the High Street. Other visions flitted through his mind too: the Market Square alive with fire, and someone staggering across it as the flames leapt up his body until he fell. Bartholomew peered more closely at the corpse in the dim light, but there was nothing familiar in the hairless, blackened head. He moved on.

  Of the next four, one was a student, and the others townsmen. All had died of knife wounds, great gaping red slashes that had splintered the bone beneath. The last was the body of a woman with long fair hair. Bartholomew was appalled to see that she had been much misused. Her face was battered beyond recognition, and she had been raped. He told the clerk who did not write it down.

  ‘Better to write that she died from a head injury, Doctor.’

  ‘That is what you say killed her?’ Bartholomew frowned at him across the gloomy room. ‘The wound to her head was the fatal one,’ he said, ‘but she has also been raped. What purpose is there in suppressing the truth?’

  ‘The purpose is to prevent grounds for another riot,’ said a voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned to see Richard Tulyet, the Sheriff, leaning against the door frame.

  Tulyet, small, slight and efficient, gazed in distaste into the outbuilding and waited for Bartholomew to come out.