Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Term starts today,’ gasped Michael, struggling to help Bartholomew and Langelee block the back gate with a stack of logs. ‘And I have never known a less scholarly atmosphere. I predict that far more students will immerse themselves in trouble than in a book.’

  Langelee agreed. ‘Tynkell said that licences were issued for eighteen hostels last week alone, and the University has never seen such a massive influx of new members. Nearly all are louts.’

  ‘It is Winwick Hall’s fault,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘It has attracted entirely the wrong kind of applicant, and Thelnetham will soon learn that he has made a mistake.’

  ‘He has been seduced by its grand position on the High Street and handsome uniforms,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps you should refuse to let its people matriculate, Brother. That would show it what the University thinks of its upstart ways.’

  ‘If I did, ninety Winwick men would be mortally offended, and we should have a riot for certain. However, I might postpone the opening ceremony. I hate to cave in, but I have received notice from King’s Hall, Bene’t, Gonville, Peterhouse and Valence Marie saying that they will react with anger if Winwick does anything boastful or glory-seeking.’

  ‘And it will,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Illesy bragged yesterday that he will be first in the procession out. But I shall not yield precedence, and neither will the other Colleges.’

  They turned as William hurried up, holding a letter bearing the familiar clerkly scrawl. His face was as white as snow, and he was closer to tears than Bartholomew had ever seen him.

  ‘This was left at the porter’s lodge,’ he said in a small voice. ‘No one saw it arrive.’

  Langelee read the missive, then tore it into tiny pieces in impotent fury. ‘We are to expect retribution for our deceit,’ he reported tightly, once he was able to speak. ‘But we are to be given one last chance before the full tract is released. A hundred marks is to be left behind St Radegund’s Priory by noon tomorrow.’

  ‘They must know we cannot pay by now,’ said William wretchedly. ‘Why do they persist?’

  ‘They know nothing of the kind, thanks to our pride,’ said Michael grimly. ‘We put on a fine display yesterday, and they were almost certainly here. They think we are loaded with money.’

  ‘Here is Meadowman,’ groaned Langelee, as the beadle dashed towards them. ‘Now what?’

  ‘I have just been told that Jekelyn the porter has gone to St Clement’s Church,’ gasped the beadle. ‘Do you think he is going to set it alight again?’

  It was still dark as Bartholomew and Michael, with Meadowman at their heels, ran towards Bridge Street, although dawn was not far off. The physician could not recall when he had last seen so many people out at such an hour, and it was clear that none had work in mind. He pulled up his hood to cover his face when he heard several cursing Potmoor’s penchant for other people’s property.

  ‘This wind does not help,’ muttered Michael, when one particularly violent blast made even his solid person stagger. ‘It is getting stronger by the moment.’

  ‘It means someone good will die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or so Marjory Starre says.’

  ‘You should know better than to listen to that sort of nonsense,’ said Michael sternly.

  They made the rest of the journey in silence, and arrived to find St Clement’s full of townsfolk, all listening to a pre-dawn rant by Heyford. There was a resentful murmur when three University men joined them, so Bartholomew huddled further inside his hood and retreated to the shadows with Meadowman. Michael was too large for hiding in dark corners, and was too princely a figure to try. He strode to the front, glaring up at the pulpit with his hands on his ample hips. Intimidated, Heyford finished his diatribe very lamely.

  ‘So the University will suffer hellfire and death,’ he said in a much meeker voice than he had been using moments before, ‘but they are for the Lord to inflict. Now, I have kept you all quite long enough. God be with you, and do not forget to leave your donations in the box on the way out.’

  The congregation looked startled by the feeble conclusion: evidently they had expected something rather more rousing. Some began to murmur that it was time to oust an establishment they had never wanted in the first place, but the muttering stopped when Michael took up station at the door and greeted people by name as they shuffled past. Some were members of his choir, while others relied on the University for custom. Most left the church deflated and uncertain, a far cry from the braying mob that Heyford would have set loose.

  Watching, Bartholomew saw what a charismatic figure his friend had become. Authority and age had imbued him with a power he had not possessed a decade before, and it occurred to him that the monk might be right when he claimed he was indispensable to the University. If the mere fact of his presence could silence a feisty orator and compel a would-be mob to exchange pleasantries with him, then perhaps the studium generale would founder without his guidance.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Heyford when his flock had gone. ‘You should not be here.’

  ‘A Benedictine is unwelcome in your church?’ asked Michael archly. ‘I must tell the Bishop, so he can appoint a vicar who does embrace my Order.’

  ‘A Benedictine is welcome,’ said Heyford shortly. ‘The Senior Proctor is not, and nor is any member of your wicked University.’

  Michael sighed irritably. ‘I do not have time for your histrionics today, Heyford, so we shall resume this discussion tomorrow. In the meantime, you can tell me where Jekelyn is.’

  ‘The Winwick porter? How should I know? He is hardly likely to come here. His nasty College is the foundation I most deplore.’

  ‘He is under the altar,’ explained Meadowman, happy to leave the safety of the shadows now that the congregation had dispersed. ‘He crept in when no one was looking, apparently.’

  ‘What?’ cried Heyford, outraged. ‘A holy place? How dare he!’

  He stormed into the chancel and hauled up the altar cloth before the others could stop him. Meadowman’s hand dropped to his cudgel, ready to defend the priest, but Jekelyn sat in a dejected huddle and made no effort to emerge.

  ‘Come out,’ ordered Heyford angrily. ‘You cannot lounge there. It is sacred.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jekelyn, not moving. ‘That is why I came. For sanctuary.’

  ‘Sanctuary from what?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘From me, because I intend to charge you with the murder of Fulbut? We know you attended his party, where you stabbed him before he could be arrested and forced to reveal who hired him to shoot my Junior Proctor.’

  Jekelyn licked dry lips. ‘I suppose my knife might have slipped into his vitals, but he was an evil man, and Heaven will not mourn him.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Michael. ‘But that is not for you to decide. Now come out before I lean in and drag you out by the ears.’

  Jekelyn cowered away from him. ‘No! You cannot touch me here.’

  Bartholomew was studying him thoughtfully. ‘You admit to killing Fulbut, so that is not the crime which troubles you. Is it the fire that plagues your conscience?’

  Jekelyn swallowed hard, and would not look at Heyford. ‘It was not my idea. I should not go to Hell just because I carried out orders.’

  ‘Whose orders?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Uyten’s? I know he told you to murder Fulbut.’

  ‘He gave me up?’ gulped Jekelyn. ‘The bastard!’

  ‘Fulbut was told to disappear permanently,’ Bartholomew continued, while Michael blinked his astonishment that the physician should have been right. ‘But he was homesick and came back, so Uyten arranged to have him killed.’

  Jekelyn looked away. ‘Fulbut’s only loyalty was to his purse, and his presence here put Uyten in danger. He had to die. But I was never happy with burning this church, so I only lit a small fire in the hope that it would be spotted and doused. And it was, so God has to take that into account!’

  ‘You consider burning a church a worse sin than murder?’ asked Michael, startled.

&
nbsp; ‘Of course.’ Jekelyn’s face was earnest. ‘No one will care about me dispatching a mercenary, but damaging a House of God … I heard Father Heyford preach about it and … well, I came here in the hope that St Clement would forgive me.’

  ‘He will not, and you will go to Hell,’ declared Heyford angrily. ‘Nothing can save you.’

  ‘But I could grant you absolution,’ said Michael quickly. ‘In exchange for information and surrender. You will be tried for the murder of Fulbut, but you will not be judged on the arson.’

  ‘Now just a moment,’ began Heyford as relief flooded into Jekelyn’s face. ‘He committed a terrible crime against me, and—’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ interrupted Michael. ‘But you have been whipping up fervour against the University, which is just as bad. And the Bishop will agree when I send him my report.’

  Heyford glowered, but said no more, and Jekelyn began to speak.

  ‘I am amazed,’ said Michael as they hurried out of the church a short while later, leaving Meadowman to take Jekelyn to the proctors’ gaol. Day was breaking, filling the streets with a dull, leaden light. ‘I was sure you were mistaken about Uyten. We had better confront him at once.’

  ‘We cannot.’ Bartholomew was struggling against the weariness that threatened to overwhelm him after yet another virtually sleepless night. ‘He has gone to Ely, remember? I doubt he is back yet.’

  ‘He has ordered murder and arson for the sake of his beloved Winwick,’ said Michael, ‘so I doubt he will abandon it when it might need him most. I suspect he never went.’

  Bartholomew skidded to a standstill. ‘Then he will be furious when he learns his crimes are revealed – the resulting scandal will certainly damage his College’s reputation. He has already killed at least four men to protect it, and might decide that two more are neither here nor there. And we are unlikely to stand much chance against him if he enlists the help of ninety loyal students.’

  ‘They would not dare harm the Senior Proctor.’

  ‘Were it any other College, I might agree, but it is Winwick – a new foundation with members who do not know the University and its ways. It would be reckless to march into the place alone.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ conceded Michael. ‘I shall take some beadles then, although I hate to pull them away from their stations when we are a hair’s breadth from a serious riot. God only knows what it will be like when people start to assemble for the beginning of term ceremony.’

  ‘I thought you were going to cancel it.’

  ‘I shall, but scholars will still congregate, and so will many townsfolk.’

  They ducked as a shower of pebbles sailed towards them, lobbed by a group of matriculands. Catcalls followed, centred around the claims that Bartholomew was a necromancer and Michael had murdered his deputy. Then the leader muttered an order, and the accusing jeers faded into a silence that was far more unnerving. The matriculands began to advance, slowly and with unmistakable menace.

  ‘Stop!’ roared Michael in his most commanding voice. ‘And go home before—’

  ‘He thinks he can tell you what to do,’ interrupted the leader mockingly, and Bartholomew was not surprised to recognise Goodwyn. ‘What do you say to that?’

  There was a howl of outrage and weapons were drawn. Bartholomew fumbled for his childbirth forceps, knowing there was little he could do against so many but determined to put up a fight; Michael produced a stout stick from somewhere about his person. Just when they thought it could get no worse, Goodwyn and his cronies were joined by men from one of the new hostels. The ex-student’s face was bright with vengeful triumph when he saw his little army double in size, and Bartholomew knew that he and Michael would not be allowed to escape alive.

  Then a score of warrior-nobles from King’s Hall happened past. Goodwyn’s mob outnumbered them two to one, but forty cudgels were no match for twenty swords, and King’s Hall knew it. They surged forward with bloodcurdling whoops, scattering Goodwyn and his men in terror. The King’s Hall party was too dignified to give chase, and war cries turned to laughter as their charge petered out. They went on their way without so much as a backward glance at the men they had saved. Bartholomew shot Michael a feeble grin.

  ‘There is nothing like the threat of death to sharpen one’s wits. I do not feel at all tired now.’

  ‘Then use them.’ Michael’s voice was urgent. ‘Did you see what happened just now? Hostel men racing to support Goodwyn’s louts?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘They mingled, Matt! They did not form discrete groups, as they would normally have done, but stood shoulder to shoulder with people who should have been strangers. However, I strongly suspect they were not.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘They knew each other,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘Not a superficial acquaintance from a night in a tavern, but something of longer duration. They are all recent arrivals, which means they must have been friends already. So why did they all suddenly decide to come here?’

  ‘Because Winwick is recruiting, and they are eager for a lucrative career in law.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘We have never been overwhelmed with new students in such numbers before. I think some came in the hope of winning a place at the University, but many have no intention of studying. They roam in packs, doing nothing but drink and carouse. So if they did not come for scholarship, they came for some other purpose, and the way they have behaved from the start suggests to me that the whole thing is orchestrated.’

  ‘You mean someone told them to descend on us?’

  ‘Yes. And as most hail from London, I suggest we discuss this with your nephew.’

  Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You think Richard brought them? But that is ludicrous!’

  ‘Is it? Then why does he stay here when our little town must be dull after the wild delights of the city? Why do so many of these matriculands come from the place where he lived until recently? Why does he know so many of them? And why is he always on hand when trouble arises?’

  ‘He would never do such a thing. And he has stayed for two reasons. First because he, thinks his father was murdered—’

  ‘A recent suspicion. Not one that explains his presence here since August.’

  Bartholomew ignored him. ‘And second, because he wants a Fellowship at Winwick Hall.’

  Michael pointed. ‘Well, there he is now with some of the worst offenders. And look at them – men in their mid-twenties, too old to be aspiring students. They are not here to study. There is mischief afoot, and we need to find out what it is before our poor town explodes into violence.’

  Richard and his cronies numbered roughly a dozen men, all dressed in the latest Court fashion: long hair, shoes with pointed toes, and elaborately embroidered gipons. Bartholomew recognised at least three who had led packs of matriculands at different times, while others had been in the King’s Head two nights before. Michael was right, he thought: these were not men who wanted to study.

  Moreover, something Clippesby had said was niggling at the back of his mind: that the Bene’t hedgehog thought Richard had encouraged the matriculands to try their luck at Winwick Hall. In other words, the Dominican had detected something odd in Richard’s behaviour, even if his saner colleagues had missed it. Then Bartholomew shook himself impatiently. No! This was his nephew – the lad he had known since birth. Richard would never orchestrate such dark mischief.

  Michael strode up to Richard and pulled him to one side. The others immediately stepped forward to intervene, but Richard made a sharp gesture telling them to stay back. They obeyed at once, and Bartholomew felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The fact that his nephew could so effortlessly control a lot of arrogant hotheads told him more than words ever could.

  ‘There are an unprecedented number of matriculands this year,’ began Michael, ice in his voice. ‘Can you tell us what brings them here?’

  ‘Perhaps they have heard of you, Brother,’ s
aid Richard with an insolent smirk. The grin did not quite touch his eyes, though, which were wary. ‘And they came to see you in action.’

  ‘They came because of you,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Goodwyn told us that he knew you from a London tavern, and you are friends with a lot of other louts as well.’

  Richard laughed harshly. ‘I know I am popular, but I do not have hundreds of acquaintances who would follow me into the Fens. And you have it the wrong way around, anyway: I choose to stay because so many of my London companions have elected to study here.’

  Bartholomew felt sick: he could tell Richard was lying. ‘You met Uyten in London – the man whose Provost has sponsored your election to the Guild of Saints, and has promised you a Fellowship at Winwick.’

  ‘What of it?’ shrugged Richard. ‘It is not a crime to know people.’

  ‘Please tell us the truth! Edith will suffer if there is trouble. Cambridge is her home.’

  ‘Yes, and it should not be,’ flared Richard. ‘She should be living in respectable widowhood at Trumpington, not prodding around in Father’s affairs to expose his … oversights.’

  Bartholomew’s first reaction was indignation that Richard should presume to judge Edith, but then he saw the angry confusion in his nephew’s eyes, and irritation gave way to understanding. ‘You tried to burn those documents, then ordered her to stay away from them because you guessed what she might find.’

  ‘I guessed nothing!’ snarled Richard, although the truth was in his eyes. ‘Father was a good man. He founded the Guild of Saints and was generous with alms.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But that does not mean he always stayed on the right side of the law. What happened? Did someone in London tell you that Oswald’s affairs were not always honest?’

  Richard glared and him, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I was made aware of certain rumours, so I hurried here to put an end to them. Unfortunately, a brief glance through that box told me that there might be some justification to the tales.’

  ‘So why did you not destroy its contents – prevent Edith from learning things that have hurt her?’