Bartholomew picked at the watery oatmeal without enthusiasm, and relinquished his portion of sour, cloudy ale to Father Aidan, who was eyeing it with undisguised interest. Bartholomew had a sudden longing for some of Mistress Tyler's fine white bread and wondered where she was and whether her daughters were safe.
The bell rang for lectures to begin, and Bartholomew tried to concentrate on his teaching. Bulbeck offered to read aloud from Isaac ludaeus's Liber urinarum for the rest of the morning, and with a grateful smile, Bartholomew escaped his duties. The master mason came to report on the progress on Wilson's tomb, and Bartholomew listened patiently but without full attention to the mason's litany of complaints about the stone: it was too hard; it contained crystals that made cutting difficult; and black was a wearisome colour with which to work and really should only be carved in high summer when the light was good.
Bartholomew asked whether the marble slab should be abandoned and a cheaper, but more easily workable, material purchased instead. The mason gazed at him indignantly and claimed loftily that no stone had ever bested a craftsman of his calibre. Perplexed, Bartholomew watched him strut across the yard and then tried to apply himself to his treatise on fevers. So far, he had written five words and crossed each one out, unable to concentrate without knowing the whereabouts of his portly friend.
He had just decided to go in search of Michael himself, when the monk stepped through the wicket gate, commenting cheerily on the damage to the door and humming his way across the yard.
'Where have you been?' demanded Bartholomew, looking him over to assess any possible damages. 'Are you harmed? What of the riot? Why are you so late? I have been worried!'
'Aha! ' said Michael triumphantly, pulling his arm away.
'Now you know how I feel when you disappear without telling anyone where you are going. Well, like our friend Guy Heppel, I am not a man for foolhardy bravery. I took one look at those mobs last night and took refuge with my beadles in the first University building I came across.
If there were scholars insane enough to be abroad last night, then it would have taken more than me and my men to persuade them back to safety. I spent the night at Peterhouse, safe in a fine feather bed with a bottle of excellent wine to help me sleep. The Master was most hospitable and insisted I stay for breakfast.'
He rubbed at his ample girth with a grin. Bartholomew groaned, feeling exhausted. While he had fretted all night, worrying that Michael might be in the thick of violent fighting, the Benedictine had secured himself some of the most comfortable lodgings in Cambridge.
'Do you have news of what happened?' he asked, thinking that a Peterhouse breakfast must be fine indeed if it could last until so late in the morning. He was sure it had not been watery oatmeal and sour beer.
'I saw the Chancellor on my way here. He and Heppel spent the night cowering in St Mary's Church,' Michael said with a chuckle. 'Courage is not a quality with which us University men are richly endowed, it seems. There was damage, but mostly not major. Only two University buildings came under serious attack: Michaelhouse and Godwinsson, and only Godwinsson sustained any real harm. The students fled to Maud's, so there were no casualties. David's Hostel were out and most of those fiery Scots are currently languishing in Tulyet's prison cells they were rash enough to attempt a skirmish with his soldiers. Master Radbeche was away and Father Andrew was unable to keep them in when the excitement started, although two of them — John of Stirling and Ruthven are still at large.'
He paused in his narrative to assure Father William, who was passing them on his way to terce, that he had survived the night intact.
'Several smaller hostels were set alight,' he continued when William had gone, 'but the fires were doused before they did any real harm. The rioters gained access to about five of them, but you know how poor most of these places are. The would-be looters looked around thinking to find riches galore and were lucky to leave with a couple of pewter plates. If hostels own anything of value at all, it is likely to be a book and the mob had no use for any of those.'
'Is the rioting over, then?'
'Oh yes. A rumour spread that Michaelhouse had shot one of the leaders and it fizzled out like a wet candle.'
'I have been thinking most of the night about the evidence we have gathered so far,' said Bartholomew, tugging at Michael's sleeve to make him walk towards the orchard. 'It is beginning to make sense but there is still much I do not understand.'
'Well, I have given it no thought at all,' said Michael airily, grabbing a handful of oatcakes from a platter in the kitchen as they walked through it. As Agatha turned and saw him, he gave her a leering wink that made her screech with laughter. On their way out, Michael looked at the neat lines of containers filled with water, sand and stones, and spare trestle tables stacked against one wall to be pushed against the back door if necessary.
'If you have been thinking as hard as you say, let us hope these precautions will no longer be necessary,' he said. He became sombre. 'We must put an end to this business, Matt.'
Bartholomew led the way to the fallen tree in the orchard and, as Michael sat on the trunk eating his oatcakes, Bartholomew paced in front of him telling him what he had reasoned.
'We need to consider two things,' he said, running a hand through his hair. 'First, we need to establish the significance of these blue-green rings. And second, We must discover the identity of Norbert.'
'What do you mean, discover his identity?' asked Michael through a mouthful of crumbs. He brushed some off his habit, where they had been sprayed as he spoke.
'He has assumed another identity,' said Bartholomew impatiently. 'Father William told me he became suspicious of Father Andrew's credentials after he had attended one of his masses. He investigated him as only an ex-member of the Inquisition knows how, and discovered that the only Father Andrew from Stirling in Franciscan records died two months ago. William believes Andrew is an impostor.'
That gentle old man?' choked Michael. 'Never! Well, perhaps he might not be Father Andrew from Stirling but I find it hard to believe he is your Norbert.'
'There are, however, four things that suggest Andrew is not all he seems,' Bartholomew continued, ignoring _ Michael's reaction. He scrubbed at his face tiredly and 1 tried to put his thoughts into a logical order. 'First, he said he comes from Stirling. Now, his students, Robert and John, are also from Stirling, claiming to be the sons of a local landlord. I do not want to go into details, but they are nothing of the kind. The towns and villages in Scotland are small and people know each other. I find it hard to believe that Andrew, if he really is from Stirling, would not know that John and Robert's family are not who they claim.'
'Perhaps he does, but is maintaining silence for the sake of these lads,' said Michael. 'It would be in keeping with his character.'
'It is possible, I suppose,' said Bartholomew, disconcerted that the first of his carefully reasoned arguments had been so easily confounded. He tried again. 'Second, when I last visited, Andrew had been writing in his room.
His hands and face were covered in ink, like a child who first learns to write. No real scholar would ever make such a mess.'
'And so, because he does not know how to control his quill, you think he is not a scholar. That is weak, Matt,' warned Michael.
Bartholomew pressed on. 'Third, while all the students have alibis for Kenzie's death and Werbergh's, we did not think to ask the masters. Either Radbeche or Andrew are with the students almost every moment of the day, but where are Radbeche and Andrew when they are not acting nursemaid? We did not think to ask that.'
'That was because we had no cause to ask such a thing,' said Michael with a shrug.
'And fourth.' Bartholomew took a deep breath. 'He was the man at Chesterton tower-house who said there would be a riot last night.'
'What?' exclaimed Michael, leaping to his feet. 'You have not fully recovered your wits, my friend! That is one of the most outrageous claims I have ever heard you make!
And be
lieve me, you have made a fair few!'
'I told you the voice was familiar, but that there was something about it I could not quite place,' said Bartholomew defensively.
'And why is it that you have suddenly remembered this fact now?' asked Michael, not even trying to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
'It is not a case of remembering,' said Bartholomew, controlling his own sudden flare of anger at Michael's casual dismissal of his revelation. 'It is a case of recognition.
Andrew speaks with a Scottish accent. Well, when 1 overheard him in Chesterton making his proclamation about the riot, he did not. He spoke in the accent of an Englishman. It was his voice, I am certain, but I did not recognise it immediately because he usually disguises it.'
'Oh really, Matt!' said Michael, sitting back down again and stretching out his large legs in front of him. 'The late Master Wilson would be spinning in his grave to hear such wild leaps of logic!'
'Logic be damned!' said Bartholomew vehemently. 'It fits, Michael! If you put all we know together, it fits!'
He sat next to the monk and gave the tree trunk a thump in exasperation. 'We know David's is involved in this business somehow. Ivo, who pre-empted yesterday's riot with his broken cart in the High Street, works at David's. Kenzie was killed, and he was at David's. And the Galen, containing the letters from Norbert to me, was from David's.'
Michael shook his head slowly. 'I accept your point that Andrew is not who he claims, but I cannot accept that he is Norbert. He is too old for a start.'
'Grey hair and whiskers always add years to a man,' said Bartholomew. 'It is probably a disguise to conceal his true age.'
'Maybe, maybe.' Michael picked up another oatcake and crammed it into his mouth so that his next words were muffled. 'But tell me about the rings. What have you reasoned there?'
'I have deduced nothing new,' admitted Bartholomew.
'But we should reconsider what we do know. There are three rings. Dominica took two of them — the lovers' rings — from Cecily, kept one for herself and gave the other to Kenzie. One of his friends is certain that the ring Kenzie had originally was of great value. But the ring that was stolen from him by Edred was the third ring and a cheap imitation of the others. At some point someone, perhaps Kenzie himself, exchanged them. Kenzie's original ring then appeared three days after his death on the relic at Valence Marie. Cecily took the other half of the pair back from Dominica when she was sent to Chesterton, and gave it to me.' He removed the ring from his sleeve and looked at it, glinting blue-green in the morning light.
Michael took it from him and twisted it around in his fingers. 'So, what you conclude from all this,' he said, 'is that the Principal of Godwinsson's ring has ended up on Valence Marie's relic via a student from David's.
And that Father Andrew is at the heart of it all, on the basis of William's records and the fact that Andrew is at the same hostel that owns the Galen. Am I correct?'
Bartholomew leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. Now he had repeated his arguments to Michael, they sounded weak and unconvincing, whereas during the night they had seemed infallible.
'Dominica,' said Bartholomew suddenly, snapping upright. 'Where is she? If she is not dead, then where is she?'
'She was ruled by a rod of iron by two extremely unpleasant people,' said Michael. 'She saw her opportunity to escape and took it.'
'I do not think so,' said Bartholomew. 'She is still here.
In fact, I am willing to wager you anything you please that we will find her at David's.'
'In a hostel?' cried Michael in disbelief. 'You are insane, my friend! Adam Radbeche would never stand for such a flouting of the University rules! '
'Well, in that case, you will have no objection to coming with me to see,' said Bartholomew, rising abruptly and striding off through the orchard. Michael followed, grumbling.
'But where is your evidence?' he panted, struggling to| keep up with Bartholomew's healthy pace. 'Where is your proof?'
Bartholomew grinned mischievously. 'I suppose I have none at all, just a feeling, a hunch if you will.'
Michael made as if to demur, but could see the determination in his friend's face and knew there was little he could do to dissuade Bartholomew from visiting David's.
All he could hope to do was to minimise any damage Bartholomew might cause by wild accusations.
The signs of the previous night's rioting were obvious as they hurried along the High Street to Shoemaker Lane, but the damage was mostly superficial and already much J had been cleared away. None of the townspeople's houses* or shops had been attacked. The rioters had concentrated* on University property. Bartholomew was puzzled. If j he were to attack the University he would not choose — , Michaelhouse, one of the largest and strongest of the University's properties or some small and impoverished ^ institution like St Paul's Hostel. He would pick those] places that were known to be wealthy and not particularly; well fortified — like Maud's. He would also attack St Mary's Church, since it was perhaps the most prominent of the University's buildings, and look for the University chest: j where all the valuables were kept. But Michael said that;
St Mary's had not been touched.
He frowned. The only explanation he could find was that the leaders of the riot did not want to inflict serious damage on the University. In which case, what was their motive? Now the curfew on the townspeople would be imposed more harshly than ever, entry into о the town would become more rigidly controlled, and legal trading times would be curtailed. Also, the Sheriff; would have to hang some of the rioters he caught as a deterrent to others, and there would be taxes to nay for the damage. After the previous night's riot, the townspeople would suffer more than the University.
He tried to clear his thoughts as they approached David's. Its strong door had been torn from its hinges and there were scratches along the wall where something had been forced along it. There was no reply to Michael's knock, so they entered uninvited. Bartholomew called Radbeche's name, but his voice bounced back at him through the empty corridor.
He hammered on the door at the end of the passageway that led to the large chamber where lessons took place, and shouted again. There was no reply, so he opened it, stepped inside and looked around.
The cosy room at David's, with its ancient, patterned window-shutters and warm smell of cooking food, was deserted. Bartholomew walked slowly to look over the other side of the table. Master Radbeche lay there, his throat cut so deeply that Bartholomew thought he could see bone beneath the glistening blood.
'Is Dominica there?' came Michael's voice from behind him.
'No,' said Bartholomew shortly. Michael elbowed him out of the way impatiently, but let out a gasp of shock when he saw Radbeche's body.
'Oh, Lord!' he exclaimed in a whisper. 'What happened to him?'
'It seems as though someone cut his throat,' replied Bartholomew dryly. 'With considerable vigour, by the look of it.'
'My question was rhetorical, Matt,' said the monk testily. 'As well you know.' He gazed down at the redheaded philosopher. 'Poor Radbeche! What could he ever have done to warrant such violence? The University! will be a poorer place without his sharp intelligence.'
He shuddered as Bartholomew began to examine!
Radbeche's body. The Principal of David's had beerq dead for several hours — perhaps even before the riot had! started, when Bartholomew had been talking with Lydgatei and Michael in the church. Bartholomew sat back on hi$l heels and looked around the room. He saw that the smalll door that led to the kitchen and storerooms was ajar, and! picked his way across the floor towards it. The doorknobjf was sticky and Bartholomew's hand came away stained redf with blood. He gritted his teeth against his rising revulsionj took a hold of it again, turning it slowly and pushing oper the door. In the kitchen, pans had been knocked froro^ their hooks on the wall and someone had kicked charred«; logs from the fire across the room. Bartholomew walked | to the small storeroom beyond, shoving asid
e a strip of | hanging leather that served as a door.
Alistair Ruthven sat on the floor cradling John of| Stirling in his arms. At first, Bartholomew thought they| were both dead, since their faces were so white and theirl clothes so bloodstained. But, slowly, Ruthven turned a| stricken face towards Bartholomew and tried to stand.
Bartholomew lifted John off Ruthven and set him gently| on the floor.
'Are you injured?' asked Bartholomew, looking to I where Ruthven hovered nervously.
Ruthven shook his head. 'I was not here when this^ happened. John is dead,' he added, looking at his friendl on the floor. He suddenly looked about him wildly. 'Whc could have done this?' he wailed. 'Master Radbeche and John are dead and I only escaped because I pretended tof be dead, too.' His eyes glazed, he stumbled into the halls.
'Stop him!' said Bartholomew urgently to Michael.
With a blood-curdling howl, Ruthven dropped to his knees and brought clenched fists up to his head. 'He will become hysterical,' said Bartholomew warningly. 'Take him outside, quickly. And send word for the Austin Canons to come for John.'
With Michael's large arms wrapped around him, Ruthven staggered along the corridor to the street. Bartholomew bent back to John who, despite Ruthven's claim, was certainly not dead. He suspected that a good deal of the blood had probably come from Radbeche, for when he pulled away the lad's shirt to inspect the wound, it was superficial.
John's eyes flickered open as Bartholomew slid a rug under his head, rummaged in his bag for clean linen and set about binding the gash.
'Am I going to die?' he whispered. 'Or am I dead already?'
'Neither,' said Bartholomew, smiling reassuringly. 'This is little more than a scratch. You will be perfectly all right in a day or two.'
'But all that blood!' He swallowed hard and looked at the physician with a desperate expression.
A Bone of Contention Page 37