Bosel watched intently from the shadows thrown by a buttress. When Godric had gone, he moved forward, alert to the fact that Cambridge was a dangerous place at night and that beggars were not the only ones who lurked unseen in the darkness. He reached the grave and crouched next to it, hoping the Franciscan had buried something valuable – something that could be sold to raise a few coins for ale or a good meal. He was disappointed to discover parchment, and swore softly as he reburied it. He considered taking it to Robin, but only briefly. For all Bosel knew, the jumble of letters might comprise a curse, and only the foolish meddled with those sorts of things. He patted the earth back into place and wondered where he might find richer pickings that night.
As he pondered, he became aware that he was not the only one in the churchyard. He could hear voices as two people argued with each other. Knowing that conversations held among graves at the witching hour were unlikely to be innocent, and that witnesses might well be dispatched, Bosel shot back into the shadows, hoping he had not been seen. He waited, his body held so tensely that every muscle ached with the effort. When no cries of pursuit followed, he began to relax. Then he grew curious, wanting to know what business pulled folk from warm beds on such a damp and chilly night. He eased around the buttress carefully and silently, until he could see them.
He recognised both immediately. One was Thomas Deschalers the grocer, who was the wealthiest merchant in the town. He was also the meanest, although in the last couple of weeks he had deigned to toss Bosel a few coins, and had even taken to having bread and old clothes dispensed from his back door of a morning. The other was a popular Carmelite scholar called Nicholas Bottisham. Bosel liked Bottisham: he was generous, and never too busy to bless beggars if they called out to him. Bosel could not help but wonder what the gentle friar and the arrogant merchant could have to say to each other.
‘I do not know about this,’ Bottisham was saying uneasily. ‘Even you must appreciate that it is an odd thing to ask me to do.’
‘I know.’ Deschalers sounded tired. ‘But I thought—’
He stopped speaking abruptly when the night’s stillness was broken by the sound of marching feet, the clink of armour and the creak of old leather.
‘It is the night watch!’ exclaimed Bottisham in an alarmed whisper. ‘I do not want them to find me here with you, when I should be at my prayers inside. The answer to your question is no.’
Deschalers released what sounded like a groan. ‘But I assure you, with all my heart—’
Bottisham cut across his entreaties. ‘No – and that is the end of the matter. But I must go, or my colleagues will wonder what I have been doing.’
And then he was gone, leaving the grocer standing alone with his shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat. Bosel pushed himself deeper into the shadows as Deschalers trudged past, sensing that this would not be a good time to make an appeal for spare change. The conversation was exactly the kind folk usually wanted to keep to themselves, and Bosel knew better than to reveal himself. He shuddered, supposing it was something involving money or power, neither of which Bosel knew much about. He decided to forget what he had seen. It was safer that way.
CHAPTER 1
Cambridge, March 1355
Thomas Mortimer the miller was drunk again. He had managed to climb on to his cart and take the reins, but only because his horses were used to his frequent visits to the town’s taverns, and knew to wait until he was safely slumped in the driver’s seat before making their way home. His fellow drinkers at the Lilypot Inn raised dull, bloodshot eyes from their cups to watch, but these were men for whom ale was a serious business, and the spectacle of an inebriated miller struggling into his cart did not keep their attention for long.
It claimed someone’s, however. Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and Benedictine agent for the Bishop of Ely, who taught theology at Michaelhouse when his other duties allowed, fixed the miller with a disapproving glare.
‘If Mortimer were a scholar, I would have him off that cart and imprisoned for driving dangerously, not to mention public drunkenness,’ he declared angrily. ‘But he is a townsman, and therefore outside my jurisdiction. The Sheriff and the burgesses will have to deal with him.’
‘They have done nothing so far,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse, who strode at Michael’s side. ‘He knocked his rival miller across that snowdrift outside Bene’t College two weeks ago, and he will kill someone if he continues to drive when he can barely stand upright. The burgesses listened politely to my complaints about him, but said they do not want to offend the Mortimer clan by ordering Thomas off his cart.’
Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘They are afraid that if they do, then the Mortimers will refuse to donate money for repairing the Great Bridge.’
The two scholars had just left Merton Hall, where they had taken part in a lively debate on the neglect of mathematics in academic studies, and were on their way to Gonville Hall. They had been invited to dine there by William Rougham, one of Bartholomew’s medical colleagues. Bartholomew did not like Rougham, whom he found narrow-minded and dogmatic, but he felt obliged to suppress his feelings as well as he could, given that he and Rougham comprised exactly half of the total complement of physicians in Cambridge. So many medics had died during the plague that they were still in short supply, despite the best attempts of the University to train more.
It was a pleasant early spring day, with the sun dipping in and out of gauzy white clouds and trees beginning to turn green with buds and new leaves. A crisp breeze blew from the east, bringing with it the scent of freshly tilled soil from the surrounding fields. Bartholomew inhaled deeply, savouring the sweetness of the air at the northern outskirts of the town. A few steps ahead lay the Great Bridge, a teetering structure of stone and wood, and beyond this the air was far less fragrant. Fires from houses, Colleges, hostels and businesses encased Cambridge in a pall of smoke, almost, but not quite, strong enough to mask the stench of human sewage, animal manure and rotting rubbish that lay across the streets in a thick, fetid, greasy brown-black blanket.
The Great Bridge was heavily congested that morning. It was a Wednesday, and traders from the surrounding villages streamed towards the Market Square to sell their wares – sacks of grain and flour, noisy livestock, brown eggs wrapped in straw, winter vegetables past their best, and rough baskets and mats woven from Fenland reeds. Agitated whinnies, baleful lows and furious honks and hisses expressed what the animals thought of the tightly packed, heaving throng that jostled and shoved to cross the river.
It was not just farmers in homespun browns or brightly clad merchants who wanted access to the town that day. The sober hues of academic tabards and monastic habits – the blacks, browns and whites of Dominicans, Carmelites, Franciscans and the occasional Benedictine – were present, too. Scholars from Michaelhouse, Valence Marie, Bene’t College and countless other institutions were pouring out of Merton Hall to join the press, all anxious to be home in time for their midday meal.
As people pushed in their haste to be across the bridge, the crush intensified. A pair of tinkers with handcarts became jammed at the narrow entrance, and their irritable altercation was soon joined by others, who just wanted them to shut up and move on. Bartholomew watched the unfolding scene uneasily. The Great Bridge was not the most stable structure in the town, and collapses were not unknown. It was in desperate need of renovation, and he wished the burgesses would stop discussing how expensive it would be and just mend the thing.
‘We will be late,’ said Michael loudly, annoyed by the delay. ‘And Gonville Hall might start eating without us.’
‘The bridge should not be subjected to this level of strain,’ said Bartholomew. His attention was fixed on the central arch, which he was certain was bowing under the weight of a brewer’s dray and its heavy barrels of ale. ‘It is not strong enough.’
‘Rougham told me that the meal at Gonville today will cost a whole groat for each person,’ fretted M
ichael, thinking about what he stood to lose if they took much longer to cross. ‘He says there is a side of beef to be shared between just ten of us, not to mention roast duck, fat bacon and half a dozen chickens. And there will be Lombard slices to finish.’
‘Did you see that?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pointing in alarm. ‘A spar just dropped from the left-hand arch and fell into the water!’
‘One of the carts knocked it off,’ said Michael dismissively. He reconsidered uneasily. ‘However, if it is going to tumble down, I hope it does not do so until we are over. I do not want to walk all the way around to the Small Bridges in order to reach Gonville. There will be nothing left to eat by the time we get there.’
Bartholomew regarded his friend askance, amazed that the monk could think about his stomach when they might be about to witness a disaster. Michael had always been big – tall, as well as fat – but his girth had expanded considerably over the last five years. Satisfaction with his lot as Senior Proctor – he was, by virtue of his own machinations, one of the most powerful men in the University – had occasioned a good deal of contented feeding. This meant that the tassels on the girdle around his waist hung a good deal shorter than they should have done, owing to the ever-expanding circumference they were obliged to encompass.
Michael had been to some trouble with his appearance that day, in honour of the debate and the meal that was to follow. His dark Benedictine habit was immaculate, and he wore a silver cross around his neck, in place of the wooden one he usually favoured. His plump fingers were adorned with jewelled rings, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his perfectly round tonsure.
By contrast, Bartholomew’s black curls had recently been shorn to an uncompromising shortness by an overenthusiastic barber, so he looked like one of the many mercenaries – relics of the King’s endless wars with France – who plagued Cambridge in search of work. His clothes were patched and frayed, but of reasonable quality, thanks to the generosity of a doting older sister. His hands were clean, his fingernails trimmed, and frequent College feasts had not yet provided him with a paunch like the ones sported by so many of his colleagues. His profession as a physician saw to that, giving him plenty of exercise as he hurried around the town to visit patients.
‘Here we are,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm as their part of the crowd suddenly surged forward, much to the chagrin of people who were waiting on the other side. There were indignant yells and a considerable amount of vicious shoving that saw more than one bloodied nose. The monk thrust the toll-fee into the hand of a grubby soldier without breaking his stride.
‘Walk near the edge, Brother,’ advised the soldier, assessing the monk’s bulk with a critical eye. ‘You are less likely to drop through there, than in the middle.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking the unnatural rocking motion under his feet as they began their traverse. ‘We should have hired a boat.’
‘They are all engaged,’ replied Michael, nodding to where the rivermen were running a brisk trade below. Even boys with home-made skiffs were busy, ferrying small animals and light packs across the green, filthy water.
The Great Bridge was not very big, despite its grand name, and it did not take long to cross it, as they were forced to move quickly by the press from behind. Once on the other side, most people continued straight down Bridge Street, aiming for the Market Square, although some went to homes in the maze of alleys and streets that radiated out from the town’s main thoroughfares. Bartholomew glanced behind him, still half expecting to see the bridge crumble beneath the mass of humanity. He noticed some folk entering the nearby Church of St Clement, and wondered whether they were going to offer thanks for a safe crossing.
‘There is Thomas Mortimer again,’ he said, as the miller’s cart clattered towards them at a speed that was far from safe. He leapt back as it passed uncomfortably close before lurching towards the High Street. ‘It is not yet noon. I know the Lilypot is popular with men who love their ale, but even they tend not to be drunk this early.’
‘It is because the Mortimer family is so prosperous at the moment,’ said Michael, aiming for Gonville Hall with single-minded purpose. ‘Thomas owns the only fulling mill this side of Ely and his brother runs the town’s biggest bakery. They are making a fortune, and Thomas has good cause to celebrate. Still, their success will cause trouble eventually: the other burgesses will resent their riches and there will be all manner of jealous rivalries. I am just glad it is not I who will be called upon to sort them out. I have my hands full with the upcoming debate.’
‘The one on Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew, increasing his pace to keep up with him. The monk did not usually walk fast, but was evidently prepared to make an exception when good food was waiting. ‘When Michaelhouse will compete with Gonville Hall in the end-of-term debate – the Disputatio de quodlibet? Why should that take your time?’
‘Because any large gathering of scholars means trouble for a proctor, as you well know. Even a serious academic occasion, like the Disputatio, may give rise to rioting or just plain bad behaviour.’ Michael grinned, pushing his concerns aside for a moment as he considered another aspect of the occasion. ‘Michaelhouse has not been invited to take part in a quodlibetical debate of this magnitude since the Death, and defeating Gonville will give me a good deal of pleasure. They are excellent scholars, and I shall enjoy pitting my wits against equal minds.’
‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, ignoring the monk’s arrogant confidence. ‘Mortimer has just driven into Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie. He cannot control his cart in that state. You must say something before he kills someone, Brother – regardless of jurisdiction.’
‘It is my jurisdiction now a scholar is involved,’ declared Michael grimly, hurrying towards Mortimer’s horses, which had been startled by the sudden and unexpected presence of a scholar under their feet, and were rearing and bucking.
Bartholomew hauled Warde away from the flailing hoofs, while Michael snatched the reins from Mortimer’s inept hands and attempted to calm the horses.
‘Watch where you are going!’ Warde shouted furiously, fright making him uncharacteristically aggressive. He leaned close to the miller, taking in the bloodshot eyes and glazed expression, before pointing an accusing finger. ‘You are drunk!’
‘I am not,’ slurred Mortimer. All three scholars were treated to a waft of breath thick with the fruity scent of ale as he spoke. ‘I have only rinsed the dust from my throat. Ferrying bales of cloth from the quays to my fulling mill is thirsty work.’
Michael was unimpressed. ‘Then rinse it with weaker ale,’ he snapped. ‘You cannot careen all across the street as if you are the only man using it.’
Infuriated by the reprimand, Mortimer snatched the reins from the monk and flicked them sharply so that the leather cracked across the horses’ flanks. One reared again, then both took off at a rapid canter. Bartholomew watched them go, then turned to Warde. The Valence Marie Fellow was a tall man with yellow-grey hair that he kept well oiled with goose fat. He had a reputation for brilliant scholarship and boundless patience with his students, and the physician both liked and admired him.
‘I have had a tickling throat for the past week,’ said Warde with a rueful smile. ‘But the shock of near-death under Mortimer’s wheels has quite put it from my mind: I no longer feel the urge to cough. Perhaps he has cured me. Or perhaps the prayers I have offered to sacred relics for my recovery have finally been answered. However, I can assure you that my relief has nothing to do with the potions Rougham prescribed for me. I should never have engaged him over you, Bartholomew.’
‘Then why did you?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘Matt is a much better physician.’
‘Because Rougham was present when the malady first afflicted me,’ said Warde apologetically. ‘He offered me his services and that was that. I was stuck with him.’
Warde chatted about how he was looking forward to the forthcoming Disputatio fo
r a few moments, then headed for St Clement’s Church, where he said a special mass was being held to honour a much-loved saint. Bartholomew wanted to know which saint could attract the enormous congregation that was gathering, but Michael was impatient for food, and pulled him down the High Street towards Gonville Hall, where his whole groat’s worth of meat was waiting. They had not gone far when there was a scream and a sudden commotion. Voices were raised and people began to run, converging on bodies that lay scattered in the road.
The first thing Bartholomew saw was Thomas Mortimer, sitting on the ground with his legs splayed in front of him and a startled expression on his face. Of the horses and cart there was no sign, and the physician assumed they had galloped off on their own. The second thing he spotted was the crumpled form of an old man with a broken neck. And the final thing was a fellow named Isnard, who lay in a spreading pool of blood.
‘God damn you to Hell, Thomas Mortimer!’ Isnard roared, trying to reach the bewildered miller and give him a pummelling with his fists. His face registered bemused shock when he found he could not stand, and he grabbed his bleeding leg with both hands. ‘Look what you have done!’
Bartholomew knelt next to the old man, sorry to recognise him as the barber who had shorn him of hair just the previous day. The merest glance told him there was nothing he could do, so Michael eased him out of the way to begin his own ministrations, muttering a final absolution and anointing the body with the phial of chrism he kept for such occasions. Although Michael was a monk, rather than a priest, he had been granted special dispensation to offer last rites during the plague, and had continued the practice since.
Bartholomew turned his attention to Isnard, an uncouth bargeman who sang in Michaelhouse’s choir. He was as tall as the physician but almost as broad as Michael, which made him a formidable opponent in the many brawls he enjoyed in the town’s various taverns. He earned his living on the river, using his massive strength to service the boats that travelled through the Fens to supply Cambridge with grain, stone, wool and other goods. His thin hair was plastered in greasy strands across the top of his head, but this was more than compensated for by the luxuriant brown beard that hung almost to his belt.
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