‘Well?’ Michael asked, when Tynkell had gone. ‘What can you tell me about Spynk?’
Bartholomew sat heavily on a bench. ‘Just that he was killed with the same type of knife as Carton. Both were stabbed in the back, which suggests some degree of stealth.’
‘Who would slaughter a Franciscan friar and a merchant? Cecily?’
‘Cynric thinks so. I have no idea.’
‘The Sorcerer is still my favourite suspect. If only we knew his name.’
‘Langelee gave me his list of potential candidates. It included virtually every prominent scholar and townsman in Cambridge.’ Bartholomew jumped when there was a sudden clamour outside, followed by the sound of smashing. They ran out of the office to find that one of the Lady Chapel’s fine stained-glass windows was now a mass of coloured shards on the floor.
Michael groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just repaired that after the last riot.’
He stalked outside, and was alarmed to see that a sizeable crowd had gathered. For a brief moment, Bartholomew thought he glimpsed the giant and Beard on the fringes, but when he moved to get a better view, they were not there. He found himself near the man who wore a rose in his hat, whom he had noticed during the near-lynching of the Market Square crone. The fellow made a moue of disgust when people began to yell at each other, and moved away, clearly having better things to do with his time. Bartholomew climbed on a tombstone so he could see what was going on over the heads of those in front. Michael stood next to him, hands on hips.
‘Tell me what is happening, Matt,’ he ordered wearily.
‘There is a squabble in progress. It seems William broke the window, to register his objection that the corpse of a self-confessed diabolist lies within. And Arblaster is berating him for destroying an attractive piece of artistry.’
‘From the vicious tone of the screeching, I would say Arblaster is doing more than “berating”, while William sounds deranged.’
Bartholomew stood on tiptoe. William was on one side of the ruined window, backed by a number of Franciscans from the friary; Mildenale lurked behind him, whispering in his ear. William’s eyes flashed with zeal, although his other colleagues seemed ill at ease. Heltisle was with them, his porters and Eyton at his back. The St Bene’t’s priest looked distressed, and was trying to pull Mildenale away from William, but Mildenale kept freeing himself, determined to continue his muttered diatribe.
On the other side of the window was Arblaster; his hands were stained, as though he had been busy with dung before breaking off to quarrel with William. Jodoca was next to him. She held a piece of the broken glass and her face was crumpled with dismay. Coven member she might be, but it was clear she deplored the destruction William had wrought. Refham and Joan were behind her, and so was Cecily. Joan was glowering, because Cecily was clinging to Refham’s arm, and Refham was grinning at the unsolicited female attention in a foolish, leering kind of way. Not far away was Spaldynge, slovenly and wild-eyed. Dark hollows in his cheeks suggested that his mental health continued to deteriorate.
‘Where are the Sheriff ’s men?’ grumbled Michael. ‘I broke up the last Church versus Sorcerer spat, and Dick promised to tackle the next one. It is bad for University–town relations if I keep doing it. And bad for our windows, too.’
‘You may have no choice, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not a soldier in sight.’
‘Who is hollering now?’ demanded Michael, cocking his head. ‘Someone else has just joined in.’
‘Heltisle. He is accusing Isnard of being a necromancer, because of his penchant for sleeping in graveyards. Eyton is pointing out that these naps are drunken stupors and have nothing to do with witchery. Isnard is furious at the slur on his character, and people are taking sides about that now.’
Bartholomew saw Mildenale abandon William and go to stand behind Heltisle, lending him his support. He did not whisper at him, but the Master of St Bene’t College seemed to draw strength from his presence even so.
‘We shall cleanse the town of witches once and for all,’ Heltisle bellowed. He regarded Isnard in disdain. ‘Beginning with this vile specimen.’
‘A wicked heretic,’ Mildenale agreed, clasping his hands and gazing skywards. ‘God overlooked him during the plague, so He sent a cart to crush his leg instead, as a punishment for his sins. The Church despises such men, and they will all be damned to the fires of Hell.’
There was a murmur of consternation, mostly because Isnard was no worse a sinner than anyone else, and if he was damned, then so were a lot of people.
‘Now just a moment,’ said Arblaster, shocked. ‘There is no need for that sort of talk.’
There was a rumble of agreement, from folk on both sides of the debate.
‘Why should you care?’ snarled Heltisle. ‘As a coven member, you should be happy to go to Hell.’
‘Arblaster is a witch?’ cried Mildenale, staring at the dung-master with an appalled kind of disgust. ‘Then we should excommunicate him. William? Get me a Bible, a candle and a bottle of holy water.’
There was a stunned silence. Excommunication was a serious matter, and while priests often used it as a threat, it was rarely carried through. Even William looked uneasy at the notion that he might have to participate in one.
‘Hey!’ shouted Arblaster, outraged. ‘I still go to church on Sundays! And do I ever complain about the fact that the vicar is usually too drunk to officiate, and will pardon any sin for a glass of claret?’
‘You moan about it every week,’ muttered Refham. ‘But who is counting?’
‘So what if I organise the occasional gathering of like-minded people at All Saints?’ Arblaster went on, getting into his stride. ‘It does not make me material for excommunication, and I object to this … this discrimination!’
‘Perhaps you are the warlock,’ said Spaldynge, pointing a dirty forefinger at Heltisle. ‘You are the one with the mysteriously missing goats, and Goldynham was trying to escape from your churchyard.’
‘How dare you!’ cried Heltisle. He turned to Younge. ‘Punch him! He insulted me and Bene’t!’
Younge leapt forward with a grin of delight. Michael was about to intervene when Sheriff Tulyet arrived, accompanied by mounted soldiers. Heltisle was among the first to slink away from the mêlée, and Bartholomew saw several clods of dirt follow him; his tirade had earned him enemies.
‘Did anyone hit him?’ asked Michael, jigging this way and that to see what was happening.
‘No, but not from want of trying.’
Bartholomew returned to the College, leaving Michael to discuss peace-keeping tactics with Tulyet. He was tired after his disturbed night, and for the first time was glad of the silence that came with the absence of students. He fell asleep almost immediately, to dream of Goldynham, Thomas and Carton. He started awake several times, sure one of them was in the room with him.
Eventually, real voices impinged on his consciousness. He recognised Michael’s and Langelee’s, but the others were unfamiliar. They were in the monk’s chamber on the floor above, and it sounded as though some sort of party was in progress. Men were laughing, and he could hear the clank of goblets as toasts were made. Sun tilted through the window at an angle that told him it was already mid-afternoon. Why had Michael let him rest so long, when there were killers to be caught and the Sorcerer was planning some grand ceremony the following night?
He sat up to find he was not alone. Cynric was sitting at the desk in the window, working on a grammar exercise. He was not usually so assiduous with his studies, and Bartholomew could only suppose the treasures found in the witches’ handbook had encouraged him to hone his skills. Still, his shuffling presence explained Bartholomew’s dreams about having company in his chamber.
‘You were asleep so long that I was beginning to think Mother Valeria had put a spell on you,’ said Cynric, rather disapprovingly. ‘She has disappeared, you know.’
‘Disappeared as in gone up in a puff of smoke? Or disappeared as in n
o one can find her?’
‘The latter, because all her belongings are gone, too.’ Then Cynric reconsidered, never one to pass up the opportunity to speculate on something supernatural. ‘Although the former is still a possibility. Just because no one actually saw her explode does not mean she did not do it.’
‘She told me she was leaving. I do not blame her. She is no longer safe here, what with William, Mildenale and Heltisle persecuting witches, and the Sorcerer about to challenge rivals.’
There was a gale of manly laughter from the room upstairs, but Michael’s infectious chuckle did not form part of it. Langelee’s guffaw did, though, and Bartholomew supposed the Master had just related some tale from his past that was more suitable for secular ears than monastic ones. The monk was no prude, but he only indulged in ribald jokes with people he knew really well.
‘You might want to rescue him,’ suggested Cynric, seeing what the physician was thinking. ‘Tell him he is needed on important business. He is with visitors from the Bishop, and feels obliged to entertain them, although he cannot afford the time. And I do not like the look of them, personally.’
‘Why not?’
Cynric pursed his lips. ‘You will know why when you see them.’
Bartholomew headed for the stairs, reaching Michael’s door just as another explosion of mirth issued forth. There was a strong smell of wine, as if some had been spilled.
‘That,’ said Michael coldly, ‘is not amusing.’
‘It is,’ countered Langelee. His voice was inappropriately loud. ‘I laughed until my sides hurt.’
‘I am sure you did,’ said Michael venomously. ‘But that does not make it funny.’
‘Relax, Brother,’ came another voice. ‘You worry too much. The Bishop is not concerned, and that is good enough for me.’
Bartholomew pushed open the door and entered. He was startled and disconcerted to see that Michael’s guests were the giant and his bearded friend. For a moment, he was too astonished to speak, but the room’s occupants were not very interested in his arrival anyway. The giant glanced once in his direction, then immediately turned his attention to the wine jug, sloshing some claret into his goblet and some on Michael’s beautifully polished floorboards. Langelee held out his cup, then toasted the man; a red stain appeared down his chin and on his tabard. The Master was drunk. It did not happen often these days, but when it did, it was best to avoid him, because his lively bonhomie had a habit of turning dangerous very fast.
‘Matt,’ said Michael, standing with obvious relief. ‘I expect you have come to tell me I am needed elsewhere.’ He was halfway through the door before he remembered his manners and gave a pained smile. ‘Have you met John Brownsley, bailiff to the Bishop, and his companion Osbern le Hawker?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the pair coolly. ‘On several occasions.’
‘I do not believe so,’ said Beard. He seemed genuinely surprised that the physician should think otherwise. ‘I would have remembered, because the Bishop often talks about the University’s Corpse Examiner and I have been keen to make your acquaintance. My name is Brownsley, by the way.’
The giant – Osbern – nodded a greeting, but not one that showed any recognition. He tried to scuff the spilled wine from the floorboards with his boot, grinning conspiratorially at Langelee as he did so. Bartholomew was confused. It was clear Osbern and Brownsley did not connect him with the encounters in Sewale Cottage or the rescue of Refham, yet he was sure they were the same men.
‘We arrived this morning,’ Brownsley went on smoothly. ‘And neither of us has been here before. Perhaps you visited the Bishop in Ely at some point? It is possible you may have seen us there.’
‘Have some wine,’ said Langelee, before the physician could take issue with him. ‘The Bishop sent it, and it is excellent stuff. He is never a man to stint on such things.’
‘He is generous to his supporters,’ agreed Osbern. ‘Less generous to those who oppose him.’
‘I hear he persecutes those,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Abducts their women and demands ransoms for their return. Or he sends ruffians to burn their homes and steal their cattle. Spynk and Danyell told me.’
‘Did they now?’ said Brownsley flatly. He was not amused, and Bartholomew wished the Master would shut up before he said something that might induce the Bishop’s ruffians to harm him.
‘They are both dead now,’ Langelee blustered on. He grinned, rather evilly. ‘I do not suppose the Bishop decided to still their tongues, did he? I imagine their demise is very convenient for him.’
Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. Is that why Beard and the giant had been in Margery’s garden the previous night? Killing one of the men who had complained about their master to the King and forced him into exile? But why had Spynk been there in the first place?
‘De Lisle had nothing to do with those unfortunate incidents,’ said Brownsley. It was impossible to read his expression. ‘If you do not believe me, then ask him.’
Langelee roared with laughter. ‘But I cannot find it in my heart to judge de Lisle too harshly. After all, he is only doing what other barons do, and it is not easy to make ends meet when you have a large retinue to fund. It would not be right to let loyal servants perish from want, would it?’
‘It would not,’ agreed Osbern jovially. ‘This cask is empty, Brother. Do you have another?’
‘No,’ said Michael shortly. ‘You will have to have ale instead.’
‘Why are you here, Brownsley?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘You have not told us yet.’
‘We have been in London, trying to protect the Bishop’s good name against liars,’ replied Brownsley. ‘Men like Spynk and Danyell, in fact. Afterwards, we were supposed to travel to Avignon, but there was a change of plan, and we were obliged to come north again first.’
‘What change of plan?’ asked Langelee, intrigued.
Brownsley’s smile was enigmatic. ‘He asked us to bring him some money when we visit him at the papal court. We collected all we could, but life with the Pope is probably expensive, and we decided he might need a bit more than we had with us. So we are on our way to Ely, to beg some from the abbey.’
‘You will have no success there,’ predicted Langelee. ‘They have that big cathedral to maintain, and have only just finished setting a fancy wooden octagon on top of it. I doubt they have money to spare.’
‘No?’ asked Brownsley, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the conversation had been skilfully manoeuvred to this point. ‘Then what about the University? It is in his See, and even a casual glance around shows there is money here.’
‘Michaelhouse is as poor as a church mouse,’ declared Langelee immediately. ‘A bit of cash will come our way when we sell Sewale Cottage, but we shall have to spend it all again when we buy the Refham shops.’
Brownsley and Osbern exchanged a glance. ‘We heard Sewale Cottage was up for sale,’ said Brownsley pleasantly.
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. He smiled, to make his question sound more friendly – there was no point in deliberately antagonising powerful men. ‘You said you have only just arrived in Cambridge.’
Brownsley grinned back, although there was no warmth in the expression. ‘We must have heard it as we rode here. But Sewale Cottage is a nice house in a good location. I would not sell it, if I were you.’
‘Unfortunately, it is too small to be of any use to us,’ said Langelee. ‘And the Refham property will be much more valuable in the long run. We have no choice but to hawk the place.’
‘De Lisle would rather you kept it,’ said Brownsley softly. ‘He will make it worth your while.’
Langelee’s wine-reddened face creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Are you saying the Bishop wants to buy Sewale Cottage, too? But why? No, do not answer! It is not our business, and I was foolish to ask. Of course we will accept a bid from him. We are up to nineteen marks at the moment.’
‘The Bishop does not want to buy it,’ said Brownsley.
‘He cannot – the King has frozen his assets. However, he wants it to remain in University hands and will be pleased if you accede to his request.’
‘But we need the money for other things,’ objected Langelee. ‘And pleasing him is not one of our priorities, I am afraid. He may still be Bishop, but he is not here, and I doubt he will return.’
‘Oh, yes he will,’ declared Osbern hotly. ‘And when he does, his enemies will be very sorry.’
‘De Lisle has no enemies here,’ said Michael, hastening to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘And I am sure we can come to an arrangement that suits us all. Is that not so, Master?’
But Langelee’s good humour had evaporated. ‘We might. But then again, we might not. I do not take kindly to bullies, and anyone who tries to intimidate me can expect to be intimidated back.’
‘I am glad you came when you did, Matt,’ said Michael, after Bartholomew had mumbled some tale about the monk being needed at St Mary the Great, thus bringing the uncomfortable gathering to an end. ‘I have always found Brownsley and Osbern rough company, and knew it was only a matter of time before they and Langelee fell out. They are too similar in their characters.’
‘Perhaps Spynk and Danyell were telling the truth about the way they were treated by the Bishop’s retinue. I know for a fact that Osbern and Brownsley are guilty of criminal behaviour, because they are the pair who have been searching Sewale Cottage – and probably digging holes in its garden, too.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you sure?’
Bartholomew nodded as he led the way to his own chamber, where Cynric was still poring over his Latin. ‘So Margery had something the Bishop wants, and because they have not found it, Brownsley and Osbern have come to order Michaelhouse not to sell the place.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 33