Susanna Gregory is a pseudonym. Before she earned her PhD at the University of Cambridge and became a research Fellow at one of the colleges, she was a police officer in Yorkshire. She has written a number of non-fiction books, including ones on castles, cathedrals, historic houses and world travel.
She and her husband live in a village near Cambridge.
Also by Susanna Gregory
A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES
AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE
A BONE OF CONTENTION
A DEADLY BREW
A WICKED DEED
AN ORDER FOR DEATH
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12442-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2000
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Also by Susanna Gregory
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Historical Note
For Aggie Lewis-Jones
Prologue
Cambridge, January 1349
A SILVER MOON SLANTED ITS BRIGHTNESS INTO THE muddy streets of the Fen-edge town. The clear weather had brought a biting cold, so that even huddled inside his thick warm cloak, Master Wilson of Michaelhouse shivered, and his fingers and toes were so chilled that he could barely feel them. There was a dusting of frost over the rutted filth of the High Street, and the numerous potholes were glazed with a crust of ice, cunningly concealing the slushy mess of raw sewage and rubbish that waited to ooze around carelessly placed feet.
Usually, so late in the evening, the town would be still, the silence broken only by the occasional bark of a dog or the footsteps of the night-watch as they patrolled the town. But, that January, England was in the grip of a terrible disease that had rolled relentlessly across Europe, killing old and young, rich and poor, and the good citizens with the bad. The agonised gasps of the dying and the wails of the bereaved shattered the peace, and in many houses lights burned in the chambers where the sick lay.
Wilson shuddered and drew his cloak more closely around him, stepping quickly over the huddled form of a beggar who lay in the street. Whether the man was merely sleeping or whether he had succumbed to the plague, Wilson could not tell and was not inclined to find out. He hurried on, leaving the High Street to make his way towards the Barnwell Causeway and St Radegund’s Priory, where his lover awaited him.
A shriek of despair from the house of Sheriff Tulyet made his blood run cold. So far, the numerous Tulyet clan had been fortunate, and not one of them had been affected by the foul sickness that turned healthy people to blackened, stinking corpses within a few hours – or days, if they were unlucky. But the pestilence was showing no signs of weakening its grip on the town, and Wilson suspected it had been only a matter of time before the Sheriff’s family lost someone to it. He slipped quickly into the shadows when he saw two people emerging from Tulyet’s house. He recognised them as his Michaelhouse colleagues Matthew Bartholomew and Brother Michael, one a physician and the other a Benedictine monk. Physicians were all but useless against the plague, and people gained far more comfort from the ministrations of the clerics, who were at least able to grant them absolution before they died. Wilson was sure that Brother Michael had been a greater solace to the Tulyets than Bartholomew and his ineffective remedies could ever hope to be.
He pressed himself back into the blackness of a doorway as the two scholars walked past. By day, Wilson kept to his room, seeing no one and running the College by yelling through the firmly closed door. No one knew how the plague spread, but Wilson had heard that people who hid themselves away from the victims were more likely to escape infection than those who walked freely among them. Wilson did not want Bartholomew and Michael to speak to him: even meeting their eyes might be enough to give him the disease. He also did not want them to know that he left his room each night to meet with the lovely Prioress of St Radegund’s Convent. Living in isolation was all very well during the day, when his business was with the rough assortment of men who were Michaelhouse’s scholars and servants, but once night fell, and darkness enveloped the town, Wilson longed for the warmth of human contact and found he needed the companionship and understanding that only the Prioress could provide.
When the trudging, exhausted footsteps of Bartholomew and Michael had faded away and he was alone again, Wilson left his hiding place and continued along Bridge Street. From a house in front of him came a sudden shaft of golden light as a door was flung open. There was no time to duck into the shadows before Adela Tangmer, the vintner’s daughter, dashed out and saw him. Before he could stop her, she had seized his arm, her ugly, horsy face white with shock and grief.
‘Please help me. My mother is dying and she needs a priest.’
Wilson tugged his arm away quickly and took several steps back, trying to distance himself from her. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot help you. I am not a friar.’
‘But as a scholar of the University you have taken holy orders and can therefore grant absolution to the dying. My father told me that you absolved Mayor Horwoode’s wife only last night. Please! My mother does not have many moments left to her.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Wilson, trying to edge around her without coming too close. ‘But Mistress Horwoode’s was a special case.’
‘My mother’s is a special case,’ pleaded Adela. ‘She once committed adultery, and she needs to confess before she dies or she will spend eternity in Purgatory. Only you can help her.’
‘No,’ said Wilson firmly, starting to walk away. ‘I am in a hurry.’
‘I will pay you any amount you ask,’ called Adela desperately, as he began to stride up the street.
Abruptly, Wilson stopped and turned to face her, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Do you think I would risk my life for money? It would not be much use to me if I were to catch the contagion and die.’
‘I have a pomander filled with special spices that you can place over your nose and mouth,’ said Adela immediately. ‘And I will lend you my charm – it has been dipped in the holy well at Walsingham and if you wear it, you will be quite safe.’
Wilson hesitated, so Adela quickly unfastened a healthily heavy purse from her belt and handed it to him. He weighed it in his hand, and then nodded reluctant agreement. He passed from the cracking cold of the January night into the mellow warmth of the house, and then followed Adela into the fearsome hell of a plague victim’s death chamber.
Late September 1353
The autumn sun drenched the fields of ripe corn and barley near the river in a haze of scarlet and gold. Beyond the dusty yellow of the crops were the water meadows, great swaths of marshy grass lined with trees that were tinged amber and orange as their summer foliage began to turn. Across the river were the towers and the thatched and tiled roofs of the University’s Colleges – Michaelhouse,
Trinity Hall, Gonville, Peterhouse and Clare.
The sounds of a fine day were in the air. The exuberant shrieks of children who played in the river’s murky shallows mingled with the bleat of grazing sheep and the distant jangle of bells announcing the office of terce. The air was rich with the scent of freshly mown hay, the crops that still awaited harvesting, and the ever-present sulphurous odour of the River Cam. A lark twittered in the pale blue sky high above, while nearer to the ground, a pair of pigeons cooed contentedly in the ancient oak trees that stood sentinel near the old mill.
Two men strolled along the winding path that ran past the mill and then on to the little village of Newnham Croft beyond. One wore the distinctive blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College, while the other wore the grey habit of a Franciscan friar. They walked slowly, enjoying the peace of a Sunday afternoon away from their various duties and obligations.
‘What has been happening at Bene’t this week?’ asked the friar, leaning down to pick a grass stem on which to chew. ‘Does it still seethe with arguments and plots?’
‘Of course,’ said the scholar. ‘And work on the new accommodation range progresses so slowly that I wonder whether we will be long in our graves before it is completed. If I had known I would be living in an unfinished building for three years, I am not sure I would have accepted a Fellowship at Bene’t.’
The friar smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, and there was more malice than friendship in it. ‘I heard a story about one of your Bene’t colleagues the other day. He sold several bracelets to Harold of Haslingfield, the goldsmith.’
‘And?’ asked the scholar when the friar paused. ‘What of it? Were they stolen property?’
The friar raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Stolen property? What kind of men do you admit as Fellows of Bene’t College, if you can so blithely ask me that sort of question?’
The scholar sighed irritably. ‘You know very well what kind of men are at Bene’t. Tell me about this jewellery.’
‘You are not the only one to question its origins. Harold the goldsmith was offered such an attractive price for these trinkets that he took them to his fellow guild members and to the Sheriff, to see whether anyone might recognise them as the proceeds of crime.’
‘Well?’ snapped the scholar, when the friar paused again. ‘Were they?’
The friar shrugged, knowing he was infuriating his companion with his trickle of information, but enjoying the sensation of power it brought. The scholar wanted to know what was being said about his College and since the University was so unpopular with the citizens of Cambridge, listening to the friar’s idle chatter would be the scholar’s only opportunity to learn what the town thought of Bene’t.
‘No one could say,’ the Franciscan replied carelessly. ‘The Sheriff and the honourable members of the Goldsmiths’ Guild said no such items had been reported as stolen, and that was the end of the matter.’
‘So why are you telling me this?’ demanded the scholar irritably. ‘That one of my colleagues sold a goldsmith jewellery that was not stolen is hardly an intriguing topic of conversation.’
The friar gave his secretive smile, unperturbed by the scholar’s prickliness. ‘I am informing you that a Fellow of Bene’t is dabbling in the gold market. I assumed you would be interested.’
Suddenly, from across the river drifted a mournful, mysterious noise that made both men gaze at each other in alarm. It was a discordant, grating, chilling sound, like dozens of tomcats on a moonlit night, and it stilled the laughing voices of the playing children as abruptly as if a bucket of cold water had been dashed over them. Even the pigeons were momentarily startled into silence.
‘What in God’s name is that?’ breathed the friar, looking around him uneasily.
‘Nothing – in God’s name,’ said the scholar, beginning to laugh, his bad temper at the friar’s piecemeal revelations forgotten. ‘Those inharmonious tones come from the Michaelhouse choir. They practise on Sunday afternoons.’
‘Well, that must keep the congregation’s numbers down,’ said the friar, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I am surprised they are allowed to disturb the peace like that on the Sabbath.’
‘Michaelhouse probably bribes the Sheriff to turn a deaf ear. But never mind those caterwaulers. Did you hear about the Bursar of Ovyng Hostel? He has been drunk in the Brazen George three times this week!’
‘No!’ said the friar in scandalised glee. ‘Has he really?’
The scholar nodded. ‘And the word is that Ovyng’s philosophy teacher is so poorly sighted these days that he cannot even make out the titles on the books he uses in his classes. The Master pretends not to notice, because the philosopher is an old friend, but is it fair of him to take the fees of students and then abandon them to the care of a man who can no longer read?’
The friar shook his head disapprovingly, although his eyes gleamed with spite. ‘I should say not. It is disgraceful!’
‘And one of our porters told me that an Ovyng student stole – stole – a plum cake from the baker in Bridge Street yesterday. What kind of men enrol in the University these days? Thieves, frauds and drunkards!’
‘Especially the so-called scholars at Ovyng and Bene’t,’ said the friar, and both men laughed.
Their voices clattered on, malicious and vindictive, as they continued to walk towards Newnham. Concealed behind the clump of oak trees near the path, two more men wearing the blue tabards of Bene’t College regarded each other sombrely.
‘You see?’ asked one of the other bitterly. ‘He does not care who he chatters to, or what he says about our College. He is a wicked gossip, and, if he is allowed to continue unchecked, he will do Bene’t all manner of harm.’
His colleague nodded slowly. ‘Then we will have to ensure that does not happen,’ he said softly, fingering the dagger at his side.
Chapter 1
Cambridge, November 1353
‘IF YOU DO NOT KEEP STILL, HOW CAN I PULL THE sting out?’ asked Matthew Bartholomew of Brother Michael in exasperation.
‘You are hurting me!’ howled Michael, struggling as the physician bent over him again with a small pair of tweezers. ‘You are jabbing about with those things like a woodpecker on a tree. Have you no compassion?’
‘It is only a bee sting, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused by the fuss the Benedictine was making. ‘And if you sit still for just a moment I can remove it, and all your terrible suffering will be over.’
Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘I have heard of bee stings proving fatal to some people. Are you trying to tell me something in your discreet, physicianly way?’
Startled, Bartholomew laughed aloud. ‘It would take more than a mere bee to make an end of Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and valued agent of the Bishop of Ely – although I have never witnessed such drama in all my life. Even children do not squall and shriek like you do.’
‘That is probably because they do not understand what you are about to do,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Well, come on, then; get it over with.’
Imperiously, he thrust a flabby arm at Bartholomew and turned his head away, eyes tightly closed. Once he had deigned to be co-operative, it was a simple task for the physician to pluck out the offending sting and then daub the afflicted area with a salve of goose grease and juniper berries, although the monk accompanied the operation with an unremitting monologue of complaint.
They were in Bartholomew’s medicine store at Michaelhouse, the College at the University of Cambridge where they held their Fellowships. It was a small, dimly lit chamber, more cupboard than room, that was always filled with the bitter-sour aroma of various potions and salves. Every available scrap of wall space was covered by overloaded shelves, and the workbench under the window was stained and burned where ingredients had spilled as they had been mixed.
It was a damp, gloomy November day, and clouds sagged in a lumpy grey sheet across the small town and the marshy expanse of the F
ens beyond. University term was well under way, and Bartholomew could hear the stentorian tones of his colleague Father William, who was teaching in the hall across the courtyard. Bartholomew was impressed. The previous year a generous benefactor had paid for the windows in the hall and the adjoining conclave to be glazed, and for the Franciscan friar’s voice to carry through the glass to the other side of the College indicated an impressive degree of volume. Bartholomew wondered how the other masters could make themselves heard above it.
‘Right,’ he said, as he finished tending Michael’s arm. ‘That should heal nicely, if you do not scratch it.’
‘But it itches,’ protested Michael immediately. ‘It is driving me to distraction.’
‘It will itch even more if you keep fiddling with it,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘How did you come to be stung by a bee anyway? It is the wrong time of year for bees.’
‘Apparently not for this one,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I bought a cake from a baker in the Market Square, and the thing decided to share it with me. No amount of flapping and running seemed to deter it, and so I was reduced to swatting it when it landed. Then it had the audacity to sting me.’
‘If the bee was crushed, you had the better end of the bargain. But we have been away from our students long enough. I want mine to learn about how Galen developed the Hippocratic theory of the four humours, not about how the Devil founded the Dominican Order, which is what Father William seems to be bawling to his students – and to the world in general – this morning.’
‘Is he really?’ asked Michael, half startled and half amused. ‘I have been in such agonies with this sting that I have not even heard our Franciscan fanatic today – and that should tell you something of the suffering I have endured.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘William should be more discreet about his dislike of Dominicans. Master Kenyngham told me last night that one of our two new Fellows – due to arrive today – is a Dominican.’
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