‘Pride is a terrible sin,’ proclaimed Suttone in his sepulchral voice. ‘It was pride that drove the scholars of Gonville to build themselves a chapel, and God is showing them the error of their ways by taking away the man who might have paid for it.’
‘I do not follow your logic,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from his knives. ‘Are you saying God does not approve of chapels being built? If that is the case we should raze St Michael’s to the ground, and conduct our offices in the graveyard instead.’
Suttone glared at him. ‘That is different. Michaelhouse men are not hedgerow priests!’
‘Neither are the scholars of Gonville. They are only doing what our founder did for us thirty years ago. What is wrong with a College wanting its own chapel? Would you like to be in a position where you had to vie for space with half a dozen other institutions in St Mary the Great?’
‘Gonville’s building is sinful,’ persisted Suttone staunchly. ‘And it is pride and false humility that will have the Death yapping at our heels again. You mark my words.’
‘It is a pity Warde declared Gonville the winner of the Disputatio yesterday,’ said Kenyngham, aiming to prevent a squabble. He abhorred discord and was always trying to keep the peace in his College – which was no mean feat when there were belligerent and opinionated men like William, Suttone and Langelee to contend with, to say nothing of the lunatic Clippesby. Bartholomew glanced up from his whetting and saw the Master of Music and Astronomy still staring at him. He went back to ignoring him, hoping the Dominican would soon fix his manic gaze on something else.
‘We were shamefully wronged by Warde,’ said William angrily. ‘Even the most stupid of mediators must have seen that we had superior arguments and that we debated with better skill.’
‘Warde is from Valence Marie, so what do you expect?’ said Suttone glumly. ‘I imagine Gonville bribed him to grant them the victory.’
‘They did not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing at the notion that Gonville would stoop to such a low trick – and that Warde would accept the offer. ‘It was a perfectly fair contest, and Warde was right: Gonville did outperform us yesterday.’
‘Gonville won because the Question was about law,’ grumbled William. ‘It was an unfair choice on Tynkell’s part, because all Gonville’s scholars, with the exception of Rougham, are lawyers.’
‘Gonville played us very fairly,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They used Rougham as one of their disputants – and he is not a lawyer, as you pointed out. They could have supplied three lawyers, not two and a physician. What is wrong, Clippesby?’ He was unable to stand the unblinking gaze any longer. ‘You are making me nervous, and I do not want to slip and cut myself.’
‘I do not know why you possess knives,’ said Clippesby coldly. ‘You are supposed to be a physician, not a surgeon, so you should not need such implements. The rats by the river told me that you severed the bargeman’s leg on Wednesday night. It is not natural.’
‘The rats are right, Matt,’ said Langelee from the hearth. ‘You should not perform surgery. First, it is forbidden for those in holy orders to practise cautery, and second, Robin of Grantchester will accuse you of poaching his trade again. We do not want a dispute between you and him to spill over and become a fight between scholars and townsfolk.’
‘I am not bound by the edicts of the Lateran Councils,’ said Bartholomew, referring to a writ of 1284 that forbade clerics to practise surgery. ‘I am not a monk or a friar. And what would you have had me do? Wait for Robin to finish his ale at the King’s Head, while Isnard bled to death?’
‘Isnard would be dead for certain if Robin had got at him,’ agreed Wynewyk. ‘Matt saved his life, so leave him alone, Clippesby.’
‘Now there are four physicians in Cambridge, you should be more careful, Matt,’ advised Michael, not for the first time. ‘You have an odd reputation with your penchant for knives, and you will lose more customers to Paxtone and Rougham if you do not watch out.’
‘What are they like?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘As medical men? I have met them both, of course, and Paxtone seems a decent fellow, although I did not take to Rougham.’
‘Rougham is ambitious and aggressive,’ stated William in his uncompromising manner. ‘I do not like him.’ He folded his arms, as if he considered the discussion over now that he had had his say. This was one of the reasons why he was never allowed to represent Michaelhouse at debates.
‘Paxtone is a good physician,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But Rougham tends to dismiss any theories that are not written down in Latin or Greek.’
‘Does he slice his patients up with sharp knives?’ asked Langelee meaningfully.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, becoming tired of pointing out that his most important duty was to save or cure a patient, and if that involved surgery, then it was his moral obligation to offer that choice. The patient could always decline the treatment, if he did not want it.
‘Then neither should you,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not want you accused of witchcraft. It would be embarrassing for the College if you were put to death or exiled for unseemly practices.’
‘I will bear it in mind,’ muttered Bartholomew, sharpening his knives more vigorously and sorely tempted to practise a little surgery on some of his colleagues.
* * *
‘Has everyone heard the news about the town’s mills?’ asked Michael that evening, after Langelee had produced a cask of wine as an unexpected Sunday treat, and the Fellows were in a more mellow frame of mind as they relaxed in the conclave. Bartholomew’s knives were back in his bag, and he was scanning a tract on the Book of Job by the famous scholar Robert Grosseteste – which was sufficiently uncontroversial to offend no one.
‘What about them?’ asked William drowsily. He had drunk twice as much as everyone else, and it had had a soporific effect on him. This suited his colleagues very well.
‘There is a dispute brewing between them over water,’ said Michael. ‘I detect Edward Mortimer’s hand in it personally, because his uncle’s fulling mill and the King’s Mill worked perfectly harmoniously together until he came back.’
‘Edward Mortimer and that Thorpe are always together,’ said Clippesby, who had a sleepy grass-snake in his lap. ‘A ram at the Market Square said they are lovers, although I do not know whether to believe him. However, the Gonville cat, who gets around at night, informed me that Master Thorpe of Valence Marie will not have his son in his College. Young Thorpe is living with the Mortimers.’
‘Is he now?’ mused Michael. Clippesby was often in possession of valuable information, although the sources he claimed for it were invariably improbable. Most of his conversations sounded like the ramblings of a deranged mind, but experience had taught the monk that Clippesby was often well informed, so he usually made some effort to distil the truth from the wild fantasies that encased it.
‘Master Thorpe told me he was appalled when his son appeared at Valence Marie and demanded to be welcomed home,’ said William, not to be outdone with the gossip. ‘He had no hand in obtaining the King’s Pardon, and he wants no part of his boy.’
‘I visited Master Thorpe yesterday,’ said Langelee, joining in the competition to see who had the most news. ‘He said the Mortimers had told him they planned to get a King’s Pardon for his son and Edward, but he did nothing about it, because he sincerely believed that the King had no reason to grant one – their guilt was too clear. But he underestimated the power of bribery.’
‘The Mortimers did bribe the King’s Bench clerks,’ said Clippesby. ‘One of the swans – who flies near Westminster at this time of year – told me he saw gold changing hands.’
‘Poor Master Thorpe,’ said William. ‘His son is a dangerous man, and it took real courage for the father to disown him. I would not want someone like young Thorpe angry with me.’
Michael nodded, a little impatiently. ‘He is brave. But none of this has any relevance to what I am trying to tell you about the mills. We all know that the King o
wns the King’s Mill, and that a profit-making guild called the Millers’ Society leases it from him.’
‘The Millers’ Society comprises the apothecary Lavenham and his hussy wife Isobel, Cheney the spice merchant, Deschalers the grocer and Bernarde the miller – miserable sinners, every one,’ said Suttone, who enjoyed listing people who would die when the plague next came. ‘And Mayor Morice.’
‘Mayor Morice!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘I could not believe it when that dishonest scoundrel was elected. Look what happened when he was Sheriff! He was so brazen with his corruption that it took my breath away.’
‘It is his fault that Thorpe and Edward are back,’ agreed William. ‘He accepted gold from the Mortimers, in return for a letter saying our town had no objection to the pardons being issued.’
Michael gave an irritable sigh, to indicate that their interruptions were interfering with his tale. He spoke loudly. ‘So, we have the King’s Mill, leased from the King by the Millers’ Society. And Mortimer’s Mill – owned by Thomas Mortimer – is upstream from it. And we all know that Mortimer’s Mill was recently converted from grinding grain to fulling cloth.’ He gazed around, pursing his lips, as if he imagined he had made a significant point.
‘So?’ asked William eventually. ‘What of it?’
Michael grimaced at his slow wits. ‘Fulling needs more water than grinding corn – or so I am told – and the Mortimers keep diverting water for the process, so the King’s Mill cannot operate. They refuse to settle the matter amicably, so it has gone before the King’s Bench for a decision.’
‘Then doubtless there will be more bribery taking place as we speak,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘It seems to me that the King’s clerks will make any decision you like, as long as you have the funds to pay for it. I knew they were corrupt, but—’
‘What did you think of my sermon this morning?’ interrupted William. They had discussed the subject of corruption among the King’s officers at length that afternoon, and he was bored with it. However, he was proud of his work in the church earlier that day, and clearly felt that some compliments were in order.
‘It did not dwell sufficiently on the Death,’ replied Suttone immediately. ‘It is our duty to point out that it will return, and that we will all die unless we repent of our sins.’
‘I repent every day,’ said William, the tone of his voice indicating he did not think he had much to confess. ‘And folk are growing tired of hearing about the Death each Sunday. They want something more inspiring, and my oration today was just that. They need to hear about the fire and brimstone of Hell.’ William knew far more about Hell than Bartholomew felt he should have done.
‘It was about how God killed a man called Uzzah for daring to touch the Ark of the Covenant,’ said Clippesby. ‘I was listening to you, William. The oxen carrying the Ark stumbled, and Uzzah tried to stop it from falling to the ground. He was struck dead for his audacity, but the oxen survived, so it was a tale with a happy ending.’
‘I do not think the cattle are relevant to the story,’ said William stiffly. ‘My point was that anyone who does not treat sacred objects with respect and reverence will be similarly struck down. They will end up roasting in the Devil’s cauldrons, surrounded by screaming demons with—’
‘You were referring to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ interrupted Michael distastefully. ‘Your message was quite clear: anyone who disbelieves in the Hand’s power is ripe for holy vengeance.’
‘Precisely,’ said William comfortably. ‘I would not like my colleagues to vanish in a column of fire for treating holy relics with disrespect.’ He shot a meaningful look in Bartholomew’s direction.
‘I have every respect for holy relics,’ replied Bartholomew, tired of being the one always accused of heresy and irreverence. ‘I would never dare touch a real one. But the Hand is not a real one – it belonged to Peterkin Starre. You were using your sermon as an opportunity to tout for business: you want folk to visit the relic, so you can charge them to see it.’
‘Yes,’ agreed William, pleased with himself. ‘Many folk flock to it with their prayers and petitions, and I am keen to give others the opportunity to—’
There was a knock at the door, and Quenhyth entered. The student marched across the conclave, heading for Bartholomew. There was a book under his arm that he made sure everyone noticed, so they would know that while the other students were chatting or playing games in the hall, he had devoted himself to more serious pursuits.
‘The reading of academic texts on a Sunday is forbidden,’ snapped William when he saw it. ‘You will be bound for Hell if you disregard the proscriptions for this most holy of days.’
‘It is a theological text,’ replied Quenhyth virtuously. With one hand he proffered it for the Franciscan to inspect, while the other went to his mouth for the nails to be gnawed. ‘It is an analysis of the Question: Let us debate whether the Body of Christ became different after His soul separated from it.’
‘You do not need texts to answer that question, boy,’ growled William. ‘I can tell you. No.’
‘A most eloquent argument, Father,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Gonville must be quaking in their boots in anticipation of meeting that kind of incisive logic at the next Disputatio.’
William nodded his pleasure at the compliment, and folded his arms. ‘However, I have read that particular text, as it happens. Well, not the whole thing, I admit – I just went straight to the end and looked at the conclusion. I do not waste my time reading silly twists and turns, not when there are heretics to unveil and the University Chest to protect.’
‘I see you chose well in becoming a scholar,’ said Wynewyk, raising his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Why would a theologian bother with “silly twists and turns” in a scholarly debate?’
‘Quite,’ agreed William, the irony quite lost on him.
‘Sergeant Orwelle is here, sir,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, bewildered by the exchange. His literal mind rendered him no better with irony than did William’s. ‘There has been an incident at the King’s Mill, and you are needed. He says Brother Michael should come, too, since one of the fatalities might be a scholar.’
‘One of the fatalities?’ queried Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘I do not like the sound of this.’
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew and Michael hurried along streets that were dark grey with dusk. It was a cold evening, and the physician could see his breath pluming in front of him as he walked. He wondered whether there would be a frost that night. The previous winter had been one of the coldest anyone could recall, when snows had choked the roads and sealed the town from the outside world for days. The river had frozen, too, and the town’s watermills had been unable to operate, because the millers were afraid the ice would damage their machinery. This had driven up the price of flour, and people had died of starvation before winter had finally loosened its frigid grip.
There was a stiff breeze that Sunday evening, which meant the smoke that rose from hundreds of fires was blown away, rather than hanging over the town in a choking pall. Bartholomew could see the first stars appearing in the dark-blue sky and, when he breathed deeply, he detected not only the sulphurous stink of the marshes that lay to the north, but the more pleasant scent of early spring. He had seen primroses near Isnard’s house earlier that day, little lemon spots on a scrubby bank.
Sergeant Orwelle led the way. He was a grizzled veteran of the French wars, who usually worked at the Trumpington Gate, where he screened any strangers who wanted access to his town. The gate was not far from the King’s Mill, so Bartholomew supposed someone had run to him for help when the ‘incident’ – whatever that was – had unfolded.
‘What happened?’ he asked as they went, with Orwelle setting a cracking pace that had the overweight Michael gasping for breath. Bartholomew wondered whether Orwelle’s haste was because casualties needed urgent medical assistance, or whether he simply wanted to be back at his familiar post and out of the cold. ‘An accide
nt?’
‘I would not say that,’ replied Orwelle, rather obtusely. ‘But then I know little of these things.’
‘What things?’ panted Michael.
‘The dead. You know,’ said Orwelle mysteriously.
Bartholomew began to have misgivings about the whole venture. There was a good deal of heavy machinery in a mill, and he had been called to some very unpleasant crushing accidents in the past. He skidded to a standstill.
‘Are you sure I am needed? I deal with the living, not the dead. If I have a sinister reputation for performing the odd surgical operation, then that is not going to be made better by my exploring mangled bodies at this hour of the night.’
‘You are the University’s Corpse Examiner,’ pronounced Orwelle uncompromisingly. ‘Everyone knows that. You are supposed to look at their deceased. It is your job.’
‘It is not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew indignantly, appalled that the occasional helping hand he gave to Michael should be seen as an official position. ‘I am a physician!’
‘You are both,’ said Orwelle, unmoved. They had reached the Trumpington Gate. ‘This is where we part company, gentlemen. I have no desire to see that again.’
‘You are looking into the murder of Bosel the beggar,’ said Michael, dabbing his sweaty brow with a piece of white linen, as he embarked on another subject. Bartholomew was not the only one who was unwilling to see what awaited him at the King’s Mill. ‘What have you learned so far?’
‘Nothing, despite the fact that I have questioned virtually everyone in the town over the last two days.’ Orwelle sounded dispirited. ‘Sheriff Tulyet says I should investigate Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, because they are known killers.’
Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘It would be stupid to start murdering people as soon as they arrive, and they are not fools. Perhaps someone killed Bosel in the hope that they would be blamed.’
Orwelle was appalled. ‘But there are hundreds of folk who want that pair gone from our streets! I will never narrow it down to one suspect.’ He sighed, and became even more gloomy. ‘The Sheriff says I should look at Thomas Mortimer, too, because Bosel threatened to be a witness against him. He also suggested I probe the affairs of the madwoman – Bess – who arrived here a few weeks ago.’
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