‘I hope you will not fight,’ said Bartholomew anxiously. King’s Hall was jealous of its rights and privileges, and loved nothing more than to defend them with a show of arms.
‘I shall try to prevent it, but Winwick tries our patience sorely.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away, then his attention was caught by a group of matriculands, who were throwing stones at a butcher’s cart. The town boys reacted with fury, and there was an ugly mêlée until Marjory Starre hurled a bucket of slops over them all. The combatants flew apart with cries of disgust. When two outraged matriculands stalked towards her, Bartholomew hastened to intervene. There was a moment when he thought they would fight him, but several members of the Michaelhouse Choir came to stand next to him, and the matriculands beat a hasty retreat. Marjory began to chortle.
‘I have been standing here for ages, waiting for an opportunity to lob. The Devil himself could not have aimed better. Did you see their faces?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘And you should not do it again. They might hurt you.’
‘Nonsense,’ she declared. ‘They would not dare. And it was good to strike the first blow, for they will be the ones to cause trouble on Tuesday, you mark my words.’
‘At the beginning of term ceremony?’
She nodded. ‘When the wind will howl for the death of another good man, and we shall have blood flowing in our gutters.’
Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and although Bartholomew knew it was a trick such people often used to make their prophecies sound more convincing, he was unable to suppress a shudder. ‘It has already howled for another good man: Hemmysby.’
‘It has not finished yet,’ she hissed. ‘Not by a long way. It blew for Knyt and it blew for Hemmysby – not for Elvesmere and Ratclyf, obviously, as they were not good men – but it will howl a third time before peace reigns again. Perhaps it will be for you. Or for His Majesty’s favourite – the man who founded Winwick Hall.’
Bartholomew regarded her in horror. The King would never forgive the University or the town if anything happened to his Keeper of the Privy Seal, and a monarch was in a position to wreak bitter and very inconvenient revenge with heavy fines and penalties.
‘But better John Winwick than you,’ she went on. ‘He does not physick the sick. Would you like a protective charm? I will let you have one for free – payment for all the medicine you give me.’
‘It is kind, but—’
‘You need one,’ she interrupted. ‘Some folk wish you harm after what you did for Potmoor. Here, take it. It is the most powerful amulet I own.’
It was a fist-sized stone on a string, etched with runes, and was so obviously heathen that he declined to take it. ‘You might need it yourself if your predictions come true,’ he said.
‘Oh, they will,’ Marjory assured him, slipping the stone into his bag. ‘I have never been more certain of anything in my life. I have heard about those poisonings, by the way.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the abrupt change of topic. ‘Have you?’
‘Yes, and in my humble opinion, Potmoor is the most likely culprit.’ She did not sound humble at all as she continued to pontificate. ‘He is often at Winwick Hall, where Ratclyf and Elvesmere were murdered, and he loves Olivia Knyt, the wife of another victim. You might want to ask what went in the medicine she made to soothe her husband’s “colic”.’
‘Bryony root,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Eyer had said.
‘Do you cure colic with bryony root? No, you do not. There are other connections to Potmoor as well. Lawrence is his tame physician, and who was the first to arrive when Olivia decided more help was needed? Lawrence!’
‘I do not think—’
‘You like him because he seems kindly. Well, I have met many a villain with pretty manners, so do not be deceived. Moreover, Surgeon Holm told me that he heard Lawrence arguing with Hemmysby the day before Hemmysby died – on the evening of the first day of the debate.’
‘Arguing about what?’
‘Hemmysby thought Winwick was being given too loud a voice in the Guild. The row was quite heated, apparently. You watch yourself, Doctor. Trust no one.’
Bartholomew was disturbed by his conversation with Marjory, partly because it was worrying that Lawrence had not seen fit to mention his row with Hemmysby, but also for her prophecies. She had a reputation for being right about such matters, and while he did not believe she had supernatural powers, he certainly believed she was astute – and party to gossip that rarely reached members of the University. He had no doubt that the trouble she foretold would come to pass.
He was disconcerted when he ran into Potmoor almost immediately. The felon nodded amiably enough, although his expression turned suspicious when Bartholomew studied him carefully for any sign of injury. There was none that he could see, so did that mean Potmoor was innocent of stealing the jug from King’s Hall?
As he walked away, Bartholomew grew despondent. He and Michael had scant leads to follow for the murders, and the next day was Monday, when the culprit expected to be paid for William’s tract. What would happen when Michaelhouse failed to comply? Would the culprit really destroy a foundation by making the thing public? The Fellows would be barred from the University if they were excommunicated, so what would he do? Leave Cambridge and hunt down Matilde? Whisk Julitta away to a place where neither was known, and live together as man and wife? But what about Edith? He could not abandon her when she was so steeped in grief.
Thinking about his sister reminded him that he should visit her. It was a good time to speak to Richard, too, and make him understand how much his dissipation and selfishness were upsetting his mother. He arrived to find his nephew out, but Edith was pleased to see him, and plied him with cakes while she talked about her continuing trawl through Oswald’s box. She had discovered several more unpaid bills, and one transaction that had been brazenly dishonest.
‘He must have been ill at the time,’ she said defensively. ‘Not thinking clearly.’
‘These date from two years ago,’ said Bartholomew, leafing through the pages she handed him, and noting that the cheated customer was Heyford. The vindictive tone of the accompanying notes suggested that the vicar had been overcharged in revenge for denigrating merchants. ‘Oswald was in perfect health then.’
Both jumped when there was a sudden roar of voices.
‘Choir practice,’ said Edith, rolling her eyes. ‘Michael is an intelligent man, so why does he waste his time with those talentless rogues? The only one who can hold a tune is Noll Verius.’
‘He does not want to deprive them of free bread and ale. They have come to rely on it.’
‘Unfortunately, a lot of matriculands have joined, too, and while some are in need of a meal, most go just to test his authority. They are certainly wearing him down – I have never seen him look so tired. He has his choir, the beginning of term ceremony, the murders, not to mention preparing his lectures. I hope you are helping him, Matt.’
Bartholomew met the monk at Michaelhouse a little later, listening anxiously to a report that a band of townsmen had been eyeing the College at dusk the previous evening. Walter the porter, pet peacock under his arm, believed they had been reconnoitring in readiness for an attack.
‘They probably think we have lots of money,’ he said gloomily. ‘But they will be in for a shock. We have so little that Master Langelee could not pay me this week.’
Bartholomew wondered how long the College servants would stay once they were not paid the following week either. Would the Fellows be obliged to perform their duties, cramming portering or cooking into a timetable so tight that they did not know how to manage as it was?
‘Beadle Meadowman has a lead on Fulbut,’ Michael said, when Walter had gone. ‘He says he will send me word later this evening. Where are you going?’
‘To look in Hemmysby’s room for crumbs. I should have done it yesterday, but there was no time.’ Briefly, Bartholomew told hi
m what Clippesby had said about the sparrows. Then because it was on his mind, he reported Marjory’s tale about the quarrel between Hemmysby and Lawrence.
‘But it does not mean Lawrence is the killer,’ he finished. ‘Holm may have invented it.’
‘Possibly,’ said Michael. ‘But let us hunt for the remains of this tart. Who knows? Perhaps we shall find it in a parcel bearing Lawrence’s writing, and we shall solve all our mysteries tonight.’
While Bartholomew searched, Michael flopped wearily on to a chair. It creaked ominously.
‘Why do carpenters make furniture so fragile these days?’ the monk grumbled. ‘I am hardly a heavy man, yet things buckle beneath me as though they were made of straw.’
‘Perhaps you are not as slender as you think.’
‘My heavy bones require me to eat a certain amount to keep them wholesome. You are the first to stress the importance of a healthy appetite.’
‘Yours is rather too healthy, Brother.’
‘Rubbish! That is like saying that a library has too many books, or that Aristotle uses too many words. However, there is certainly one instance where “too many” is bad, and that is students. I have more than I can properly teach, and your classes are absurdly large.’
‘One will be smaller when I dismiss Goodwyn,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Edith has offered to lend me the money to repay his fees, so he can start packing the moment it arrives.’
‘Wait a day or two before parting with any cash. I saw him talking to Illesy today. They both looked very guilty when they saw me watching, and do you know why?’
‘Not really.’
‘Because Winwick has been poaching – stealing wealthy students from other foundations. Trinity Hall, Peterhouse, Valence Marie, Bene’t and Gonville have all complained. However, I am more than happy to turn a blind eye if they relieve us of our malcontents. If they go willingly, we shall not be obliged to refund what they have given us.’
Bartholomew lay flat on the floor to look under the bed. ‘I can see a box,’ he said, wriggling forward to reach it. ‘It must have slipped down here by accident, and ended up pushed right back against the wall. No wonder we did not see it when we searched the last time.’
While he was in this undignified position, Walter poked his head through the window to recite a message from Meadowman: the beadle had located Fulbut’s lodgings at last, and had learned that the mercenary was expected to be in them later that night. Michael leapt to his feet.
‘He is alive? I was sure he had been executed to prevent him from revealing who paid him to shoot Felbrigge.’
He took two or three steps towards the door, but stopped, startled, when he saw Clippesby standing there with his favourite hen on his shoulder. He had not seen the Dominican arrive, and wondered how long he had been listening. Such unnerving stealth reminded him why Clippesby managed to eavesdrop on so many private conversations.
‘Ethel thought you had forgotten her concerns about the sparrows, Matt,’ the Dominican said reproachfully. ‘She expected you to do something about them yesterday.’
Cobwebs clung to Bartholomew’s tabard as he scrambled upright, the box in his hand. He opened it and looked inside. A fruity aroma arose, and a few crumbs adhered to the bottom, still comparatively fresh. Clippesby came to peer at it, head cocked towards the chicken as he did so.
‘Ethel says that is definitely the one Hemmysby ate from on Wednesday,’ he reported. ‘It contained a raisin tart, and he tossed the remains out of the window for the birds. Are there enough fragments left to test for poison, Matt? Preferably without sacrificing some innocent creature?’
Bartholomew nodded and looked at Michael. ‘But how will it help us if they do contain dormirella? There is nothing on this container to tell us how it came to be here.’
‘It was sent – a gift,’ supplied Clippesby. ‘Ethel saw it arrive. It was not the only one either. You received a parcel at the same time, Brother.’
Michael frowned. ‘Did I? Then Walter must have forgotten to give it to me.’ His jaw dropped. ‘Are you suggesting that it contains tainted food? That someone wants me to die?’
‘Ethel thinks so,’ replied Clippesby, hugging her. ‘She says both parcels came anonymously.’
Michael looked alarmed. ‘I am often sent edible treats by those who want to curry favour with the Senior Proctor, and I thought nothing of it.’
Bartholomew hurried to his storeroom and set about assessing Hemmysby’s crumbs, while Michael fetched the Lombard slices. It did not take long to set up the necessary experiments.
‘How long before we know?’ asked Michael in a low voice.
‘Several hours,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There is plenty of time to catch Fulbut first.’
Dusk was approaching by the time Bartholomew and Michael set out for the mercenary’s house. Fulbut lived out past the King’s Head, an insalubrious tavern on the Trumpington road, noted for seditious talk and brawls. Cynric accompanied them, unwilling to miss an opportunity to hone his martial skills with a notorious soldier of fortune.
As they passed the inn, Bartholomew was surprised to hear French among the general babble emanating from within. The King’s Head was the exclusive domain of townsmen who spoke the vernacular, not the language of the aristocratic elite. He glanced through an open window and saw a large group of matriculands there, all armed to the teeth and making a good deal of self-important noise. The landlord would normally have refused to serve them, but he had been intimidated by sheer force of numbers. His regulars looked on with glowering resentment.
‘There will be trouble once the locals get more ale inside them,’ predicted Cynric. ‘And look by the hearth. Richard is there with your sister’s apprentices.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘She will be heartbroken if anything happens to them – she loves them like her own children. And you are right: a fight is all but inevitable.’
‘A trouncing might do your nephew good,’ said Michael. ‘He needs some sense knocked into him. Unfortunately, we cannot intervene. Our priority must be laying hold of Fulbut.’
‘You go ahead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will join you there after I have spoken to Richard.’
‘He will not listen to you, boy,’ predicted Cynric, as the monk hurried away. ‘He has grown nasty, and made your sister cry today with a cruel remark. I wanted to punch him, but he was drunk and I was afraid he would fight me. And I should hate to skewer him in front of her.’
Not for the first time, Bartholomew’s temper rose against his nephew. Without further ado he marched into the tavern, shaking off Cynric’s restraining hand. Fortunately, he was generally regarded as an exception to the no-scholars rule in the King’s Head, because many of its patrons were his patients, while others were members of the Michaelhouse Choir. He was not greeted with open arms, but neither was he glared at or threatened. Moreover, Isnard was there, and the bargeman had always been protective of him.
‘An ale, landlord,’ Isnard called. ‘The Doctor is a friend of mine.’
‘A friend?’ sneered a butcher, one of the few people there who was neither chorister nor the recipient of free medical care. ‘I thought you had more taste.’
A dangerous expression suffused Isnard’s face, reminding Bartholomew of the many times he had been summoned to patch the bargeman up after fights in this very tavern.
‘Mind your tongue, you,’ snapped Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Sit down and drink with us.’
Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. ‘I am just here to send Edith’s lads home.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Isnard. ‘Because then those would-be students will outnumber us, and we might lose if we challenge them to a battle. Get rid of them instead. I will help. Hey, you lot! Get your scabby arses out of here!’
‘Now you have torn it, Isnard,’ muttered Cynric, as several matriculands came angrily to their feet with knives in their hands. ‘There will be a scrap for certain.’
‘Stop,’ ordered Bar
tholomew, stepping between the youths and the feisty bargeman. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. ‘There will be no brawling tonight.’
‘And who will stop us?’ sneered the leader. It was Uyten from Winwick, cocksure, defiant and very drunk. His tooth-bereft mouth and battered ears were stark reminders that he was no stranger to violence. ‘You? I do not think so! Get out of my way.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘But it will cost you your place at Winwick. There is no room in the University for troublemakers.’
Something in the physician’s steady gaze must have penetrated Uyten’s ale-inflamed mind, because the lad returned the stare angrily for a moment, but then turned to pick up his cloak.
‘This piss is not worth drinking anyway,’ he said, pouring the remains of his drink on the floor with calculated disdain. ‘We shall go to the Cardinal’s Cap instead.’
He waited to see if anyone would react, but when the locals only stared back in stony silence, he indicated with a flick of his head that his friends were to follow him outside. They began to file through the door – until Richard brought them all charging back in again with a mocking jeer.
‘My uncle is right, Uyten. Winwick will not want doltish louts among its members. And neither shall I, when I am a Fellow there.’
‘Doltish, am I?’ snarled Uyten. ‘What about you, in company with apprentices?’
He injected so much contempt into the last word that Edith’s boys leapt up, hauling out daggers, cudgels and a variety of sharpened tools as they did so. The butcher and his friends hurried to stand with them, while the matriculands drew swords. It was not going to be mere fisticuffs this time, Bartholomew saw with mounting horror, but an affray that would result in serious injuries and perhaps even death. And it was Richard’s fault. His temper snapped.
‘Enough!’ he roared, so loudly that it stilled the clamour of taunts from both sides. He stabbed a forefinger at his startled nephew. ‘You! Take Edith’s boys home at once, and if I see any of them out after dark again, they can look for another apprenticeship.’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 29