The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 2

‘And there were doucettes and a rose pudding to follow,’ enthused Michael gleefully the following Saturday, as he walked with Bartholomew and Michaelhouse’s Master of Civil Law, John Wynewyk, to the Church of St Mary the Great. ‘Along with more Lombard slices than I have ever seen in one place, although I prefer the almond variety to the date.’

‘We will be late,’ warned Wynewyk, more interested in the debate they were about to engage in than his colleague’s detailed analysis of the repasts he had enjoyed at various academic and religious institutions during the week. ‘I do not want Gonville to win the Disputatio de quodlibet by default, just because we fail to arrive on time.’

‘All right,’ muttered Michael, not pleased to have his culinary reminiscences cut short. ‘I am going as fast as I can. I thought you would be interested in what is eaten at the high tables of other Colleges, since you hold Michaelhouse’s purse strings these days. Gonville keeps a remarkably fine table, and Michaelhouse … well, Michaelhouse does not.’

‘Langelee trusts me to spend our funds sensibly,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘That means peas for pottage and flour for bread, not cream and sugars for custards.’

Although the monk complained constantly that Michaelhouse’s fare was inferior to that of other institutions, and his colleagues had learned to take his grumbles with a grain of salt, Bartholomew thought his gripes were currently justified. For some unaccountable reason the standard of College food had plummeted dramatically during the last two weeks, and even the least discerning scholars had been prompted to comment on it. Bartholomew supposed that Wynewyk had been obliged to use the funds usually earmarked for victuals for some other – doubtless equally deserving – purpose, and just hoped the situation would not be permanent. It was not pleasant to be hungry all the time.

He was about to ask, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them. With the memory of Isnard’s shattered leg fresh in his mind, Bartholomew darted to one side of the road, with his friends not far behind; even the obese Michael could move quickly when life and limb were under threat. A horse galloped past, too fast for a narrow thoroughfare like St Michael’s Lane. It reached the end of the street and its rider wheeled it around, to return at a more sedate trot.

‘Rob Thorpe,’ said Michael heavily when he recognised the culprit. Wynewyk immediately raised his hood and bowed his head, and Bartholomew saw that Thorpe’s reputation had gone before him. Even men like Wynewyk, who had not been in Cambridge when the lad had embarked on his spree of violence, were unwilling to attract his attention. ‘So, it is true. You have indeed decided to return to the town you used so badly.’

Thorpe had changed during the two years that he had been in exile. He was no longer a bony, gangly youth with immature fluff framing a childish face. He was a man, with a man’s strength and a man’s confidence, even though he was not yet twenty. He was clean shaven, and wore a close-cut quilted tunic with buttoned sleeves – called a gipon – over which was thrown a shoulder-cape fastened with a gold pin. His hose were soled, rendering shoes unnecessary, and his hood turban was one of the most elaborately decorated Bartholomew had ever seen. It comprised a triangle of scarlet worsted with a hole for the head, and the two ends fell elegantly over his shoulders in the fashion currently popular at the King’s Court.

‘I have been meaning to pay you a visit, monk,’ said Thorpe insolently. The smile that played around his full, red lips did not reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to Bartholomew, and he bowed his head in a gesture that was more insulting than polite. ‘And you, too, Bartholomew, although I did not think you would still be here.’

‘Where else would I be?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised by the statement.

‘I thought you would have been burned at the stake for using unorthodox and dangerous remedies,’ Thorpe replied nastily. ‘But perhaps people are more forgiving these days. Times change, I suppose.’ The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael curtly. ‘You must know you are not welcome in Cambridge. You were found guilty of several vicious murders, and you are fortunate you were not hanged. You are not the kind of man we want in our town.’

‘I have come to visit old friends,’ replied Thorpe, unruffled by the monk’s hostility. His eyes were spiteful as he addressed the physician. ‘I intend to pay my respects to your family soon – your sister Edith and her husband Oswald Stanmore. I am sure they will be delighted to see me after all these years.’

‘“All these years”?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘It has only been twenty-six months.’

Bartholomew knew delight would be the last thing on his family’s mind if they were visited by Thorpe. Stanmore was a wealthy clothier, and Thorpe had been one of his apprentices. He and Edith had taken the lad into their house and treated him like a much-loved son. Their sense of betrayal when they discovered they had nurtured a killer was still not forgotten.

‘You will have to wait for that pleasure,’ said Bartholomew, relieved that they were away and did not plan to return to Cambridge for some weeks. With luck Thorpe would be gone by then. ‘They are not here.’

Thorpe shrugged, although Bartholomew sensed he was disappointed. ‘It does not matter. I have been waiting for a long time to reacquaint myself with my old master and his wife, so a few more days are nothing. When did you say they will return?’

‘I did not,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘But Hunting-don is a long way from here, so I doubt it will be very soon.’

‘Huntingdon is not far,’ flashed Thorpe with sudden anger. ‘France is a long way from here – and that is where I was condemned to go. No one would speak for me at my trial – not my father, not the Stanmores, and not you scholars. I will repay you all for that.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘No one spoke for you, because you were guilty – by your own admission. You cannot blame others because you were caught and punished. You are a man now, so act like one, and accept responsibility for what you did.’

Thorpe became smug. ‘But my case has now been reviewed by His Majesty’s best law-clerks. I have been granted a King’s Pardon – which means no one can hold those crimes against me ever again.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘I shall hold crimes against whomever I like. However, I do not want to talk to you when I have important matters to attend. Move that miserable nag out of my way and let me past.’

They all looked around as a second horseman arrived, also riding too fast for the small lane. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised him, too, and Wynewyk huddled even deeper into his cloak.

‘Edward Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew, taking in the sober clothing and soft features of the exiled baker’s son – the second of the two felons to be pardoned and permitted to return to the scene of his crimes. Like Thorpe, Mortimer had grown sturdier and stronger during the time he had been away. Bartholomew remembered him as a dreamy lad, bullied by his domineering father, but there was no weakness in his face now. It was cold, hard and determined, and Bartholomew saw the malleable youth had long gone.

Michael was puzzled as he looked from one felon to the other. ‘You two did not know each other before the King’s Bench ordered you to abjure the realm – on the same day, but in separate trials – so why are you together now? Is it because no one else will entertain your company?’

Thorpe’s eyes glittered at the insult, and Bartholomew suspected Michael had touched a raw nerve. Mortimer simply smiled.

‘I belong to a large and powerful family, Brother; they are always pleased when another Mortimer swells their ranks. My father, uncles and cousins are thrilled to have me back.’

The jealous glance Thorpe shot his way confirmed to Bartholomew that the younger man’s kin had indeed been less than pleased about his return. The physician understood why. Thorpe’s father was Master of a large and wealthy College, and would not want a murderous son hovering in the background, spoiling his chances of promotion. For Mortimer it was different: his family was rich, influential and not afraid to consort with those on the fringes of legality. Edward was doubtless telling the truth about his reception: the Mortimers would be only too happy to swell their ranks with a seasoned criminal.

‘I have no wish to linger here,’ said Thorpe, affecting indifference to the discussion. He forced a grin at Mortimer. ‘I will buy you an ale at the Lilypot.’

With a mock salute, he kicked hard at his horse’s sides. It reared, then cantered up St Michael’s Lane and turned towards the Great Bridge, scattering pedestrians as it went. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Mortimer followed, and realised his heart was pounding, not because he was afraid, but because the pair brought back memories of an adventure he would sooner forget. He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Neither seemed reformed by exile; on the contrary, they appeared to be nastier than ever.

‘The infamous Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Wynewyk, rubbing his hands together as though the encounter had chilled him. He pushed his hood away from his face. ‘The town has been full of talk about their misdeeds ever since they arrived back. I looked up their trial in the Castle’s records, and, as an expert on civil law, I can tell you there is no doubt at all that their conviction was sound. The evidence against them was irrefutable.’

Michael nodded. ‘I cannot imagine how they managed to persuade the King’s clerks to review their sentences, or why a Pardon was granted.’

‘I suppose money changed hands,’ said Wynewyk. ‘That is what usually happens in cases like this. But it is odd that they should arrive in Cambridge just before Bosel the beggar – chief witness against Mortimer’s uncle – should be murdered. I doubt it is coincidence.’

‘Dick Tulyet said they were both at a meeting of the town’s burgesses when Bosel died,’ said Michael, although his eyes were troubled. ‘And I do not see why they would pick on Bosel anyway.’

‘Because he was poor and friendless, and no one will invest too much time or energy in hunting his killers,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is entirely possible that Bosel was an experiment – to see what would happen when they committed their first new murder. All their alibi from Tulyet does is tell us they were not present when Bosel actually ingested the poison.’

Michael sighed. ‘Dick thinks they may have persuaded that madwoman to give it to him, but I disagree. She seems too witless to entrust with such a task.’

‘I have heard so many rumours about that pair that it is difficult to separate fact from fiction,’ said Wynewyk, beginning to walk again. ‘What really happened? Are they the Devil’s spawn, as Agatha the laundress claims? Or are they poor misguided children, as Master Kenyngham would have me believe?’

‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They are just men who killed without remorse or hesitation, solely to realise their own plans for revenge and riches.’

‘They were caught – thanks to some clever investigating by me – and confessed to their crimes,’ elaborated Michael rather smugly. ‘Did you know that Thorpe’s father is Master of the Hall of Valence Marie? It is hard to believe: a high-ranking scholar spawning a murderer.’

‘Master Thorpe is the man who first found the sacred Hand of Valence Marie,’ mused Wynewyk, changing the subject. ‘I heard the Hand came from a local saint, and is imbued with great power.’

‘The Hand was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ corrected Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is not imbued with any kind of power, sacred or otherwise.’

‘That is not what most folk believe,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is stored in the University Chest in the tower of St Mary the Great, and people petition it all the time. Many of them have had their prayers answered. To my mind – and theirs – that makes it a genuine relic.’

Bartholomew was exasperated when he turned to Michael. ‘I told you to destroy the thing three years ago, Brother. You had the chance: you could easily have tossed it into the marshes. But you insisted on keeping it, and now it is too late. It has become an object of veneration – again.’

‘Again?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘It has been worshipped before?’

‘Briefly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When it was first dredged from the ditch outside Valence Marie. But we proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was hacked from Peterkin Starre – because his corpse happened to be available at the time – and it is not and never has been sacred.’

‘The fascination with it will not last,’ insisted Michael, although he sounded uneasy. ‘These things come and go, and what is popular today is forgotten tomorrow. And anyway, it is not my business to decide what should and should not be destroyed. I pass that responsibility to the Chancellor.’

Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘I am not a complete innocent, Brother! Everyone knows Chancellor Tynkell does exactly what you say, and there is only one man who determines what happens in the University these days: you. If you wanted these bones destroyed, they would have vanished by now.’

Michael grinned, unabashed by the reprimand and amused that his friend had so accurately described his relationship with the Chancellor. Tynkell was indeed becoming a figurehead, with Michael holding the real power. Tynkell had expressed a desire to resign and allow Michael to take the reins, since he was already making most of the important decisions, but the monk demurred. He liked things the way they were – it was useful to have someone to blame when anything went wrong.

‘Tynkell does listen to my advice,’ he confessed modestly. ‘But destroying the Hand would have been an extreme reaction – and one that could never be reversed. I thought it might come in useful one day, and that it would be safely anonymous in the University Chest.’

‘Not safely anonymous enough, apparently,’ grumbled Bartholomew, unappeased. ‘Wynewyk is right: there are always pilgrims around the tower these days. It will not be long before we have a wave of religious zeal to quell, and there is no reasoning with folk once they have decided upon issues of faith. The Hand has always been dangerous. Look what happened to Thorpe’s father over the thing.’

‘What?’ asked Wynewyk, intrigued. ‘Anything to do with his son?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But, as you just said, Master Thorpe was the one who found the Hand in the ditch outside his College. The King and the Bishop of Ely were so angry with him for starting what might have become a powerful cult that they forced him to leave Valence Marie and take a post at a grammar school in York.’

‘York,’ said Wynewyk with distaste. ‘I have heard it smells of lard. But Master Thorpe is not in York. He is here, in Cambridge.’

‘He was reinstated after a series of appeals to the King,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Apparently, his successor was not gentlemanly enough, and kept wiping his teeth on the tablecloth during meals.’

‘Nasty,’ said Wynewyk with a fastidious shudder. ‘The Bishop of Norwich does that, too.’

‘Since then, Master Thorpe has impressed everyone with his diligence and scholarship,’ continued Michael. ‘He is a changed man, but, unlike his son, he has changed for the better.’

Wynewyk became aware of the passing time with sudden alarm. ‘We should not be reviewing ancient history now, my friends. We should be debating with the scholars of Gonville and, unless we hurry, they will assume we are too frightened to meet them. The honour of Michaelhouse is at stake – we must run.’

St Mary the Great was the town’s largest and most impressive church. Its chancel had recently been rebuilt, replacing the narrow pointed lancet holes of an earlier age with great windows full of delicate tracery. These fabulous arches, so vast and open that it seemed they would be incapable of supporting the weight of the roof above them, allowed sunlight to flood in and bathe the building with light and warmth. The coloured glass that had been used in places caught the sun’s brilliance and accentuated the scarlets, golds and emeralds of the wall paintings.

Over the last few weeks Bartholomew had noticed more and more people praying outside the church, and there were often folk kneeling on the roughly paved ground by the tower. There were three there that morning, busily petitioning the Hand that languished in the University Chest just above their heads. One was John of Ufford, a son of the Earl of Suffolk, who was learning law so he could forge himself a career at Court. He was a pleasant enough fellow, with a perfectly straight fringe of dark hair over his eyes. He nodded a greeting as the Michaelhouse men passed, raising one hand to touch a sore on his mouth as he did so.

‘If you leave it alone, it will heal more quickly,’ said Bartholomew, unable to help himself. The lesion looked as though it was played with constantly, and he knew it would only disappear if it was granted a reprieve from the sufferer’s probing fingers.

‘I am praying to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ said Ufford. He looked frightened. ‘This sore might be the first sign of leprosy, and I need the intervention of a powerful saint to help me.’

‘It is not leprosy,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Rougham had been talking to him. The Gonville physician had a nasty habit of diagnosing overly serious ailments in his patients so that he could charge them more for their ‘cures’.

‘No?’ asked Ufford with sudden hope. ‘Are you sure?’

‘If you keep your fingers away from it, and do not smother it with salves, you will notice a difference in a week. It needs clean air and time to heal, nothing more.’

He followed Michael and Wynewyk inside the church. It was packed to overflowing. Public debates were important occasions – particularly the end-of-term Disputatio de quodlibet – and representatives were present from every College and hostel, many wearing the uniform of their institutions. There was the black of Michaelhouse and the dark blue of Bene’t, mixed with paler blues and greens from places like King’s Hall, Valence Marie and Peterhouse. Among them were the blacks, browns, greys and whites of the religious Orders, and the whole church rang with the sound of voices – some arguing amiably, others more hostile. Although debates were designed to bring scholars together in an atmosphere of learning and scholasticism, they were also often used as excuses to re-ignite ancient feuds and hatreds, and Bartholomew noticed that Michael had arranged for a large contingent of beadles to be present, too.

‘There you are,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, when he spotted his three colleagues. His barrel-shaped soldier’s body cut an imposing figure, and other scholars gave him a wide berth as he shoved his way through them. He was no one’s idea of an academic, with a mediocre intellect and only a hazy grasp of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was an able administrator, and a definite improvement on his predecessor. ‘I know I told you not to arrive too early – to dull your wits in mindless chatter while you wait for the Disputatio to begin – but I did not expect you to cut it this fine.’

‘Not knowing whether your opponents will arrive is a sure way to unsettle the enemy,’ said Michael comfortably, glancing towards the place where the scholars of Gonville Hall had gathered.

‘Well, I was beginning to think you had decided not to come, too,’ said Langelee, a little irritably. ‘And Gonville have been claiming that their minds are too quick for us, and we have decided to stay away, rather than risk a public mental drubbing.’

‘We shall see about that,’ said Wynewyk, grimly determined. ‘The likes of Gonville will not defeat me in verbal battle!’

Langelee started to move towards the dais that had been set up where the nave met the chancel. ‘Do not underestimate Gonville, Wynewyk: they are very good. We are not talking about Peterhouse here. Well, are you ready? Have you spent the morning honing your debating skills on each other, as I recommended?’

‘We do not need to practise,’ declared Michael immodestly. ‘Although, I confess I have not taken part in a major Disputatio de quodlibet since the Death.’

‘The subject you three will be asked to debate could be anything – theology, the arts, mathematics, natural philosophy, even politics,’ said Langelee, as if his Fellows might not know. ‘That is the meaning of quodlibet: “whithersoever you please”.’

‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I am glad you told us that.’

Bartholomew ignored the monk’s sarcasm. He was looking forward to the occasion, and was honoured that Langelee had chosen him to stand for Michaelhouse. ‘These debates are opportunities for us to express opinions and ideas with a freedom not always possible within the rigid constraints of more formal lectures,’ he said.

The others regarded him uneasily. ‘I hope you do not intend to say anything that might be construed as heresy,’ said Langelee. ‘I should have thought of this before inviting you to represent us. I had forgotten your penchant for anathema.’

‘He will not say anything inappropriate,’ said Michael firmly, fixing his friend with the kind of glare that promised all manner of retribution if he was disobeyed. ‘Spouting heresy will see Michaelhouse disqualified, and none of us want that – nor do we want inflammatory remarks to spark a riot.’

Langelee arrived at the dais, and looked his three Fellows up and down before sighing in exasperation. ‘I told you to dress nicely, Bartholomew, and you have turned up looking like a pauper from Ovyng Hostel.’

‘This is my best tabard,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. He glanced down at the stained and crumpled garment. ‘But I had to visit Isnard earlier, to change the bandages on his leg, and some–’

‘No details, please,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘If you are to stand near me for the next two hours, I do not want to know the origin of any peculiar smells. Still, I suppose I can rest easy knowing you have clean fingers.’ He started to chuckle, convinced as always that Bartholomew’s obsession with rinsing his hands after dealing with bloody wounds and decaying corpses was an unnaturally fastidious fetish.

Michael saw that his friend was about to begin a lecture on hygiene, so he intervened hastily, nodding to where the scholars of Gonville Hall were waiting. ‘We are supposed to be arguing with them, not each other. We should start, or they really will think we are afraid of them.’

‘Michaelhouse will see these upstarts off,’ proclaimed Wynewyk fiercely. He cleared his throat and looked uneasy. ‘At least, we stand a fighting chance if the Chancellor selects a decent Question.’

‘That is why I chose you three to argue on our behalf,’ said Langelee. ‘You are our best lawyer; Michael’s knowledge of theology surpasses anyone’s except gentle old Kenyngham’s – but he lacks the killer instinct necessary for this kind of event; and Bartholomew can cover the sciences. Gonville will crumble before our onslaught.’

‘They will,’ vowed Wynewyk with keen determination. ‘I prayed to the Hand at a special mass held in St Clement’s Church last Wednesday, and asked it to let us win. So, what with our wits and the intervention of a saint, victory will be ours for certain.’

The atmosphere in the church was one of excited anticipation. Every scholar from Michaelhouse was present, standing on the left of the dais. To the right were the scholars of Gonville, who were mostly priests dressed in habits of brown or white. Bartholomew glanced at the assembled faces in the nave, recognising many; some were friendly, others were not. None were indifferent: everyone had chosen a side. The end-of-term Disputatio was an important occasion, because students had been scarce since the plague and the College that won it could expect more applicants. It was not just simple intellectual rivalry that made this particular debate such an intense affair: there were financial considerations, too.

Someone waved to Bartholomew, making encouraging gestures. It was Thomas Paxtone, who had recently arrived at King’s Hall to take up an appointment as Regent Master of Medicine. After so many years with only the conservative Peterhouse medic Master Lynton, it was a pleasure to have Paxtone in Cambridge. Bartholomew wished he felt as positive towards the second arrival, Rougham of Gonville; although they both maintained an outward show of cordiality towards each other, there was active dislike festering beneath their veneer of civility.

Chancellor Tynkell ascended to the dais when he saw all parties were present, and an expectant hush fell over the assembled scholars. Bartholomew was some distance away, but he could still detect the stale odour that always emanated from the University’s figurehead. Tynkell believed that any form of washing was dangerous, and avoided contact with water if he could. It was rumoured that he did not even like Holy Water on his skin, a tale that had given rise to some wild speculation about his religious beliefs. Bartholomew knew nothing about Tynkell’s personal theology, but he did know that the man was plagued by all manner of digestive complaints. When he had had the temerity to suggest that if the Chancellor rinsed his hands before meals he might lead a more healthy life, Tynkell had promptly dismissed him and hired Rougham instead.

‘Good morning,’ announced Tynkell in his reedy voice. He rubbed his stomach, indicating that he was suffering from whatever he had last eaten. ‘This is the last of our public debates this term, and the outcome of today’s Disputatio de quodlibet will determine which of the Colleges may lay claim to owning the University’s strongest and best disputants. You will be aware that the “Scholars of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St Michael” and the “Scholars of the Hall of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin–”’

‘If he means Michaelhouse and Gonville, then why does he not say so – simply?’ demanded Deynman in a loud whisper that had the scholars of Gonville howling in derisive laughter and his Michaelhouse colleagues ready to teach them a lesson for their poor manners. Langelee went to silence Deynman, to ensure he did not embarrass them with further outbursts.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I hope this does not degenerate into a brawl. Being Senior Proctor is not easy at the best of times, but it is worse when we have five hundred war-thirsty scholars packed into a confined space.’

‘You cannot ban public debates because scholars squabble,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Michael would like to do just that. ‘And not everyone is spoiling for a fight, anyway. Some are here because they want to hear a good argument.’

‘Have you heard what the Question might be?’ whispered Wynewyk, as Tynkell launched into a tedious account about who had won quodlibetical disputations in the past. ‘It would be beneficial to think out some of our arguments in advance.’

‘I have not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘That would be cheating. You know perfectly well that the Question is kept in strictest secrecy, and that Tynkell is very careful about it. Believe me, I had a good look in his office last night after he had gone home, but I could find nothing.’

‘I have decided that Master Warde of Valence Marie will preside,’ intoned Tynkell. This was no surprise. Warde was considered one of the best mediators the University had, and was known for his integrity and even-handedness. He was a good choice.

Warde had apparently anticipated that he would be selected, because he was already waiting. When he heard his name, he climbed stiffly on to the dais and stood next to the Chancellor. Bartholomew saw him wince when he moved, and supposed he was still bruised from when Thomas Mortimer had knocked him down the previous Wednesday. He recalled the flailing hoofs and the miller’s drunkenness, and supposed Warde should consider himself lucky to be alive, given what had happened to Lenne and Isnard a few moments later. Warde began to cough, and Tynkell was obliged to hammer on his back until he stopped.

‘What is the Question?’ called Langelee, bored with the ponderous preliminaries and keen for the event to begin in earnest. ‘What will they be discussing?’

‘Damn this tickle!’ rasped Warde. There were shocked intakes of breath from those scholars in religious Orders who disapproved of cursing in church. ‘It is driving me to distraction.’

‘It is driving us to distraction, too,’ mumbled a grey-haired Fellow called Thomas Bingham, also from Valence Marie. ‘You keep us awake at night with it, and it disrupts our teaching during the day.’

‘The Question is as follows,’ announced Tynkell. There was absolute silence in the nave. He took a breath, relishing the fact that he had everyone’s attention: it was not often that academics listened en masse. ‘Frequens legum mutato est periculosa.’

‘A too frequent change in the law is dangerous,’ translated Bartholomew under his breath. ‘I am not the best person to take part in this particular affray. Most of what I know of the law I find contemptible. It fails to prosecute Thomas Mortimer for killing Lenne, and it sells pardons to convicted felons.’

‘You cannot withdraw,’ said Wynewyk in alarm. He gestured to the other Michaelhouse Fellows who had gathered to discuss the topic in low, excited voices. ‘Father William, Clippesby or even Langelee himself might offer to take your place. And then Gonville would defeat us for certain.’

‘This is a good topic for you,’ said Michael to the lawyer. He shot Bartholomew a stern look. ‘But you must keep your opinions about our legal system to yourself. We will lose points if you launch into a tirade, no matter how much you long to expose the law’s idiosyncrasies. But do not worry: the three of us will do the subject justice.’ He sniggered. ‘If the words “justice” and “law” can be uttered in the same sentence, that is.’

‘We will lose for sure if you make jokes like that,’ said Wynewyk irritably. ‘Do not–’

Tynkell clapped his hands. ‘Commence!’

Wynewyk was the first to speak, and Bartholomew was impressed, as always, by his colleague’s precise logic. The scholar from Gonville who stepped forward to refute his points was Bottisham, the kindly Carmelite lawyer who had visited Isnard two days before. He spoke well, without recourse to the scornful viciousness some scholars employed when attacking their opponents’ reasoning. Michael argued against Bottisham, and in turn was refuted by Gonville’s second speaker, Richard Pulham. Pulham was a fussy little Cistercian, with the largest ears Bartholomew had ever seen on a man. When the Master of Gonville was away from Cambridge, which he was most of the time, the running of his College usually fell to Pulham, who held the post of Acting Master.

Then it was Bartholomew’s turn. He found Pulham’s points easier to refute than he had anticipated, and felt he comported himself fairly respectably. Debating in front of hundreds of sharp-minded scholars certainly helped to hone the wits, he thought. The last person to speak was Gonville’s William Rougham. Rougham allowed himself the luxury of a sneer before he began, as if he considered his fellow physician’s logic seriously lacking.

Rougham was not an attractive man, either physically or in terms of his personality. He had lank black hair that was smoothed over a shiny pate, and a close-shaven beard was obviously intended to conceal the absence of a chin. His teeth were large, brown and decayed, so that his breath smelled, and Bartholomew often wondered why he did not pay a surgeon to remove the offending fangs before they rotted and fell out of their own accord. In terms of scholarship Rougham was pedantic and trivial, and Warde was obliged to reprimand him several times for making bald statements, rather than using logic to underline his points. Rougham became flustered, and finished speaking somewhat abruptly.

Once the main arguments had been laid out, the debate gained momentum and Bartholomew was forced to focus hard, lest Gonville slipped an invalid statement past Michaelhouse. The scholars in the nave cheered when one College scored a particularly cunning point, and time flew past. Bartholomew’s head began to ache from the effort of intense concentration, and from the noise and heat inside the building. But eventually Warde raised his hand to indicate that the Question had been sufficiently discussed. He held up a waxed tablet on which he had been keeping a tally and, once again, there was an excited hush among the scholars.

‘This was a close-run battle, with clever and elegant postulations and refutations from both sides. However, the arguments of one College were slightly superior and more succinct than those of the other.’

He stopped speaking and began to cough. There was an audible sigh of irritation throughout the church, and Michael stepped forward to thump his shoulders, rather vigorously considering the man was about to make an important judgement that reflected the honour of Michaelhouse.

‘An excess of phlegm,’ announced Rougham, seizing the moment to engage in a little self-promotion. ‘An inconvenient problem, for which I prescribe a syrup of honey and boiled nettles.’

‘I tried that,’ wheezed Warde. ‘And it did not work.’

‘Then I shall suggest something stronger later,’ said Rougham shortly, not liking the fact that Warde had just denounced his cure as ineffectual in front of most of the University. ‘But let us return to the business in hand. You were about to announce the winner.’

‘Yes,’ said Warde, his eyes watering furiously, either from coughing or from Michael’s slaps. ‘I declare the winner is–’ He faltered a second time when there was a commotion near the west door.

All heads turned at the rattle of spurred feet on the flagstones, and an agitated whispering broke out. The man who caused the disturbance was cloaked, and had not bothered to remove his sword, as was customary when entering religious houses. He elbowed his way through the throng to the dais.

‘Now what?’ murmured Michael uneasily. ‘I see from his livery that he is from the papal court in Avignon. Why would the Pope send a message to anyone in Cambridge?’

‘Perhaps Innocent the Sixth is dead, and we have another French puppet in his place,’ suggested Bottisham, not without rancour. ‘This schism between Avignon and Rome is a ridiculous state of affairs. It is time the papacy was wrested from French control and returned to Rome, where it belongs.’

Warde agreed. ‘We are at war with the French, and it is not fair that they should exert power over us through the Church in this way.’

‘Which one of you is Chancellor Tynkell?’ asked the messenger in a clear, ringing voice. ‘And Richard Pulham, Acting Master of Gonville Hall?’

The two men stepped forward unwillingly. In an age when it was easy to make accusations of treason and heresy – but far more difficult to prove innocence – no one liked being singled out for special attention from a man like the French Pope.

‘I have news from Avignon,’ said the messenger in a voice that was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the town. Bartholomew sensed he was enjoying himself, with his dramatic entrance and town-crier-like pronouncements. ‘From John Colton, the Master of Gonville Hall, who, as you know, has been engaged on important business in the papal curia.’

‘Hardly!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Colton’s only “important business” has been to further his own career by following Bishop Bateman of Norwich all over the world. When Bateman went to Avignon in the King’s service, there also went Colton. The man is like a leech.’

Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that Michael was in the service of a bishop himself, and might well follow him to Avignon, if he thought it might be worth his while.

‘Colton wishes me to inform you that Bishop Bateman is dead,’ said the messenger. ‘He was murdered – perhaps poisoned – at Avignon on the sixth day of January this year.’

The death of the popular Bishop of Norwich was a significant event in Cambridge, even though the town was officially under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely. People were saddened by the news, especially since Bateman’s demise was rumoured to have been at the hand of an enemy. The scholars of Gonville were especially distressed, because the Bishop had been instrumental in founding their College, and had been generous to them with his time and his money. Bateman would be missed, and most scholars felt the world was a poorer place without him in it.

The atmosphere in the church changed after the announcement, and the excited discussions about whether Michaelhouse or Gonville were better disputants were forgotten as scholars exchanged reminiscences of Bate-man’s gentleness and integrity. Bottisham was affected particularly. His face was grey and sad, and Bartholomew thought he had aged ten years within a few moments.

‘I cannot tell you how much we will miss him,’ he said to Bartholomew. Rougham was nearby, and came to join them. ‘I hope Gonville will not flounder now he is not here to protect us.’

‘I do not see why it should,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Bottisham should think his College so frail. ‘It is well established, with its own endowments and properties to pay for its running. Michaelhouse lost its founder within three years, but we are still here.’

‘However, we are talking about a superior institution when we discuss Gonville,’ interposed Rougham haughtily. ‘Not some run-down place like Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew gaped at him, thinking it was small wonder that so many academic institutions were at each other’s throats if they made a habit of issuing such brazen insults. Unwilling to allow such rudeness to pass unremarked, he addressed Rougham icily. ‘Our theologians are second to none, and Wynewyk is one of the best civil lawyers in the country.’

‘Michaelhouse is a mixture of good and bad,’ said Rougham, his voice equally chilly. ‘Suttone, Kenyngham, Wynewyk, Clippesby – and even the hedonistic Michael – are acceptable. Langelee and William are not. You would be, if you paid more heed to traditional wisdom and less to heretical notions invented by men like Roger Bacon.’

‘I was most interested in Bacon’s analysis of the rate of time-drift at the equinox,’ said Bottisham hastily, hoping to prevent a quarrel. ‘He calculated that the removal of a day from the Julian calendar every one hundred and twenty-five years – rather than the Gregorian adjustment of three days in every four hundred – will hold the equinox steady.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Rougham nastily. ‘And why did Bacon imagine we would be interested in such irrelevant matters?’

‘Probably because you need an accurate calendar to calculate horoscopes,’ retorted Bartholomew, knowing the great store Rougham set by determining courses of treatment based on the alignment of the heavenly bodies – something Bartholomew had long since decided was of little practical value. It felt good to catch the man in an inconsistency.

Bottisham intervened a second time when he saw Rougham’s eyes narrow in anger. ‘Wynewyk tells me you prescribed him an excellent potion containing essence of rhubarb to strengthen his bowels, Bartholomew. I have suffered from a–’

‘I would never allow a patient of mine to consume rhubarb,’ interrupted Rougham disdainfully. ‘It leads the bowels to empty completely and without control. Besides, it is poisonous.’

‘I use the stems, which are safe in small amounts,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Rhubarb is no different from any other commonly used ingredient: a little is beneficial, too much can cause harm. The same is true of lily of the valley, for example, which we all use to ease the heart – but it can stop one dead, if a patient swallows too much.’

‘You should not be discussing dangerous compounds here,’ said Chancellor Tynkell, advancing on them on a waft of bad air. Instinctively, all three scholars took a step backwards. ‘Not with poor Bishop Bateman dead from such a mixture.’

‘We do not know for certain he was poisoned,’ Bottisham pointed out. ‘The messenger said it was rumour, not fact. Still, I am told some poisons are impossible to detect once swallowed, so perhaps someone killed him with one of those.’

‘I suppose you know about such substances?’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew, stepping closer while the physician tried to hold his breath. ‘Which poisons to use in those sorts of circumstances?’

‘I do not,’ replied Bartholomew, feeling as though Tynkell was trying to recruit him for something sinister. A man like the Chancellor had plenty of enemies, and Bartholomew hoped he had not decided that what worked in Avignon would be suitable for use in Cambridge, and intended to employ a personal poisoner on his staff. He was aware that Rougham and Bottisham were eyeing him curiously, puzzled and intrigued by Tynkell’s questions.

‘What kind of poison killed Bateman, do you think?’ pressed Tynkell, his attention still firmly fixed on Bartholomew.

‘I really have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Chancellor would talk about something else. It was clear from the expression on Rougham’s face that he thought Tynkell might have some specific reason for asking his rival physician about such matters, and Bartholomew did not want him to leave with the impression that Michaelhouse men knew all about potions that could kill.

‘Well, think about it, and if anything occurs, let me know,’ said Tynkell, moving towards Michael and Langelee, who were conversing in low, serious voices. Bartholomew took a deep breath of untainted air, then became aware that Rougham and Bottisham were regarding him with distinct unease.

‘It is odd that he should choose to ask you about the nature of Bateman’s death,’ said Rougham bluntly, making it sound like an accusation.

‘I cannot imagine why he did that,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled.

‘I can,’ said Rougham. ‘You alone of the Cambridge physicians read the kinds of books where such information might be found. You know more about poisons than the rest of us put together.’

‘Take me home, Rougham,’ said Bottisham, when he saw Bartholomew draw breath to take issue. ‘Bateman’s death has distressed me, and I need to lie down.’

Rougham began fussing around his colleague, making loud, confident proclamations about the remedies he prescribed for shocks, while Bottisham turned to Bartholomew and winked. Bartholomew smiled, grateful that he had been spared from wasting more time with a man of narrow vision like Rougham. He was about to leave the church when he saw himself summoned by a peremptory flick of Michael’s fat, white hand. He disliked the way Michael brandished his plump digits and expected people to come scurrying, so he ignored him. He did not get far, however. As he passed the place where the monk conferred with Langelee and Tynkell, a powerful hand shot out and grabbed him. He tried to free himself from Langelee’s vicelike grip, but it was impossible without an undignified struggle. The Master of Michaelhouse was a very strong man.

‘We are talking about Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s irritation at being manhandled. ‘Chancellor Tynkell made some enquiries in Westminster, regarding why they were pardoned. The official reason is that there was some question about the legality of the evidence that convicted them. That is why they have been declared free men again.’

‘But they both confessed to what they did – murder and theft!’ exclaimed Langelee, outraged. ‘I heard them myself. And Wynewyk, who is an excellent lawyer, said there was no legitimate argument for overturning their convictions.’

‘Apparently, the Mortimers wanted to clear the family name, so decided to appeal against the verdict,’ explained Tynkell. ‘The law-clerks contacted the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire, and asked for more details. Unfortunately, the Sheriff at the time was not Tulyet.’

‘It was Morice,’ snarled Langelee, railing at the combination of circumstances that had led to an injustice. ‘That corrupt vagabond was Sheriff for a brief period last year.’

‘It seems the Mortimers paid Morice to sign a letter urging the clerks to clemency,’ Tynkell went on. ‘Then the clerks cooked up their excuse about the evidence being inadmissible. Rumour has it that gold changed hands there, too. So, the upshot is that Thorpe and Mortimer were able to buy a King’s Pardon. I thought they would stay away – that a sense of shame would prevent them from showing their faces here – but I was wrong.’

‘They may kill again,’ warned Langelee, as if he imagined the others needed to be told.

‘They will not find it easy,’ said Michael. ‘My beadles and Dick Tulyet’s soldiers will be watching their every move. But we will not be able to do so for long.’

‘Why not?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because you need your peace-keepers for other duties?’

‘Because the Mortimers have threatened to sue if we harass their Edward,’ explained Tynkell. ‘We cannot afford to pay huge sums in compensation because his liberty is being curtailed.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘His liberty? What about the liberty of the people who are dead because of him and Thorpe? This is not justice!’

‘No, but it is the law,’ said Tynkell flatly. ‘None of us want that pair in our town, but they have the King’s Pardon, and there is nothing we can do about it.’

‘But this is preposterous!’ exclaimed Langelee furiously. ‘They are criminals!’

Tynkell sighed. ‘You are not listening, Master Langelee. The law is not about who is the criminal and who is the aggrieved. It is about enforcing a set of rules. And those rules have just put Thorpe and Mortimer in the right.’

Bartholomew started to walk home, Tynkell’s words echoing in his mind. He could not believe that self-confessed killers were not only free to wander where they liked, but were enjoying protection by the very laws that should have condemned them. He was grateful his sister and brother-in-law were away, and hoped Mortimer and Thorpe would have tired of their sport and left before they returned.

He had not travelled far when he saw the town’s wealthiest merchant, Thomas Deschalers, riding along the High Street on an expensive-looking horse. Despite his fine, jewel-sewn clothes, the grocer looked ill, and Bartholomew’s professional instincts told him there was something seriously amiss with his health. Oddly, the madwoman who had discovered Bosel’s corpse was trailing behind him. Bartholomew studied her, noting her flat, dead eyes, and wondered what she and Deschalers planned to do together. They were odd bedfellows, to say the least.

Deschalers reeled suddenly, and something slipped from his hand to the ground. He righted himself, then gazed at the thing that had fallen, as though asking himself whether retrieving it was worth the effort. Since the woman did not attempt to help, Bartholomew went to pick it up for him. It was a leather purse, heavy with coins and embossed with the emblem that represented Deschalers’s wares: a pot with the letter D emblazoned across it. This distinctive motif was also engraved in the lintel above the door to his house, and it often appeared on the goods he sold.

‘Thank you,’ said Deschalers, taking the purse gratefully. ‘I would have had to dismount to get that, and I do not know whether I have the strength.’

‘You could have asked her,’ said Bartholomew, indicating the woman, whose dirty hand rested on the grocer’s splendid saddle. She regarded him blankly, and he realised that his earlier sense that he knew her had been wrong. There was something familiar about her face and the colour of her hair, but the familiarity was simply because she reminded him of someone else. However, the woman who looked similar hovered just outside his memory.

‘She is slow in the wits,’ said Deschalers. ‘It would have been just as much trouble to make her understand what I wanted as to collect it myself. I do not have the will for either.’

‘You are unwell?’ asked Bartholomew, since Deschalers seemed to expect such an enquiry.

‘Very,’ said Deschalers. ‘Rougham says I will recover my former vigour, but I know that whatever is rotting inside will soon kill me. I do not think any physician in England can help me now, not even one who flies in the face of convention to affect his cures. But thank you for the offer, anyway.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Bartholomew, who would never have done any such thing. First, he seldom saw eye to eye with the laconic, aloof grocer and suspected Deschalers would be a difficult patient, arguing over every scrap of treatment and advice. Second, Rougham would not appreciate the poaching of his wealthiest patient. And third, Bartholomew knew Deschalers’s self-diagnosis had been correct: he already walked hand in hand with death, and no physician could snatch him back.

Deschalers rode on with the woman in tow, and Bartholomew watched him acknowledge Rougham and Bottisham with a weary wave as he passed. Rougham called something about a new tincture of lavender that he claimed would make the grocer a new man, but Deschalers shot him a bleak look that made him falter into silence. Sickness made Bartholomew think of Isnard, who had been stricken with a mild fever earlier that morning. He recalled his concern, and started to stride towards the Mill Pond.

‘Slow down, Matt!’ came a breathless voice from behind him. He turned to see Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, hurrying after him. ‘I have been chasing you all along the High Street, shouting your name, and you have ignored me completely.’

Bartholomew smiled. He liked Paxtone, who was merry faced with twinkling grey eyes and rosy cheeks, like russet apples in the autumn. He was a large man, although not as big as Michael, and usually moved slowly when he walked, as if his weight was too much for the joints in his knees and he needed to proceed with care lest they collapse. But he had a sharp mind and was willing to listen to some of Bartholomew’s more exotic medical theories, even if he did not usually agree with them.

Paxtone held Bartholomew’s arm, and used it as a prop while he recovered his breath. ‘You were racing along like Thomas Mortimer’s cart,’ he gasped.

‘That was what I was thinking about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer escaping justice because Bosel is dead. His nephew buying a King’s Pardon.’

‘My College’s lawyers discussed those King’s Pardons at length yesterday. They concluded that if we appeal against them, we are essentially saying that His Majesty is wrong – and that might be construed as treason. We will be fined far more than we can pay, just to teach us never to challenge the royal courts, no matter how wicked and corrupt their decisions.’

‘It is a depressing state of affairs.’

‘It is an appalling state of affairs, but a decision has been made in the King’s name, and we must live with the consequences. I heard you were instrumental in catching Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, so you had better be careful of them.’

‘I played a very small part in their downfall. There were others who did far more to bring them to justice than me – Michael, my brother-in-law, Sheriff Tulyet, Master Langelee, various soldiers from the Castle, and even Michael’s grandmother, Dame Pelagia.’

‘They were overheard bragging to some of Edward’s cousins in the Market Square the other day. They said they intended to repay everyone who played any role in their capture. Your name was among the many they listed, so do not think they have forgotten whatever it was you did. It is a pity you allowed your book-bearer to accompany your sister to Huntingdon. If you ever needed his ready sword it is now.’

‘I can look after myself.’

Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I know. But you can allow a friend to show a little concern. Remember that if anything happens to you, I shall be left with Lynton and Rougham – and neither of them will discuss Arab medicine with me.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘We can learn a great deal from the Arab world. For example, did you know that there is a hospital in Egypt that can house eight thousand patients simultaneously? It teems with physicians, apothecaries and folk to cater to the patients’ daily needs. If a man is sick in the stomach, then a physician who knows about stomachs will tend him. If he has a hardened spleen, then the physician who studies spleens will come.’

‘I do not think that is a good system. Your expert in spleens may concentrate on the one part of the body he loves to the exclusion of all else, and ignore other, more serious, ailments.’

‘Perhaps,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I would like to know more about this place – how many inmates are cured and how many die. However, for now, I am only going to visit Isnard.’

‘I heard you performed his surgery,’ said Paxtone disapprovingly. ‘You must not demean yourself by undertaking such base tasks. Would you sharpen your students’ pens or replace the wax on their writing tablets? No! And you should not dabble in cautery, either. It is a filthy business, and best left to the likes of Robin of Grantchester, who is a filthy man.’

‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, irritated that Paxtone should preach at him. ‘That is why so many of his patients do not survive his operations. I do not want Isnard to die, when I know I can save him.’

‘We should not argue,’ said Paxtone, seeing he was close to overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. ‘I am only trying to warn you. I do not want Rougham to use your fascination with surgery to discredit you. He is jealous of you, and would love to see you fall from grace.’

‘That is what Michael says, but he can have no quarrel with me. I have done him no harm.’

‘Let us discuss Isnard instead,’ said Paxtone with a sigh, seeing they would not agree. ‘What method did you employ to prevent the fever that usually follows the removal of a limb? Did you attempt to rebalance the humours by purging and bleeding?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is important to restore the balance of humours, but my teacher Ibn Ibrahim maintained that this is best achieved by a poultice of yarrow and ensuring the injury is free to drain. Tightly wrapped wounds fester, because they trap evil humours. Rather than drawing them off by purges, I find it is better to let them ooze away of their own accord.’

Paxtone was sceptical, and they were still debating the issue in a friendly way when they reached Isnard’s house. Bartholomew tapped on the door, aware of voices within. Isnard had more visitors. He was surprised to see Walter, Michaelhouse’s porter, there with his cockerel tucked under his arm.

‘I thought Isnard might like to see Bird,’ said Walter, standing when the physicians entered. ‘He often brings a smile to a sick man’s face.’

‘I am not sick,’ said Isnard, who was sitting up in his bed and looking more hale and hearty than the pallid Walter. ‘I am temporarily incapacitated.’ He pronounced the last two words carefully, evidently unused to them. ‘At least, that is what Master Bottisham says. Robert de Blaston the carpenter is going to make me a leg of wood. He is even carving a foot on it, with proper toes.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, easing away from Walter when he became aware that the cockerel had fixed its mean little eyes on him, evidently sizing him up as something to peck.

‘Thank you for bringing him, Walter,’ said Isnard. ‘But next time, I would prefer a wench. Even Agatha would do. I have not set eyes on a woman for five days now, and I am desperate.’

‘Is there anything else?’ asked Walter archly, offended that Bird should be regarded as second best to a woman. Walter had no time for ladies, which was why he was so well suited for life in a College like Michaelhouse, where, with the exception of Agatha, they were forbidden to enter.

‘Yes,’ said Isnard. ‘I would like to hear the choir. Can you ask Michael to bring them? I have a fancy for a little music.’

‘You are wrong,’ murmured Paxtone to Bartholomew. ‘The man is not healing after all. In fact, he is deranged and out of his wits. I can think of no other explanation for anyone willingly subjecting himself to the unholy caterwauling that passes for music among the Michaelhouse choir.’

‘Bishop Bateman’s death will be a blow to Gonville Hall,’ said Michael, not without malice, after the noon meal the following day. ‘His patronage was useful, and they will miss it now he has gone – especially since they have just started to build that chapel.’

He was sitting in the conclave at Michaelhouse, a pleasantly comfortable chamber with a wooden floor and tapestries that took the chill from the stone walls. The College’s books were housed both there and in the hall, attached to their shelves by thick chains to ensure no one made off with them; books were rare and expensive, and no institution risked having them stolen. Each week, one of the Fellows was detailed to dust them and conduct an inventory, to make sure none were missing.

Because the weather was still cold for the time of year, the conclave’s window shutters were closed, even though it was the middle of the day. The fire in the hearth sent a homely orange glow around the room, accompanied by the earthy scent of burning peat. There had once been glass in the windows, but a series of accidents had resulted in too many breakages, and Langelee had finally thrown up his hands in despair, claiming that the College could not fund repairs each time there was a mishap. Michaelhouse’s Fellows were forced to make a daily choice between a light room that was cold, or a dark one that was warm.

The Fellows often gathered in the conclave on Sundays, to while away the hours until it was time to eat or sleep, while the students tended to claim the larger, but less comfortable hall next door. Michaelhouse had eight Fellows, including the Master, and all were present that afternoon. Some were trying to read by the flickering light of a wall torch, and others were just enjoying the opportunity to relax after a morning of masses.

Langelee occupied the best chair, not because he was Master, but because he was strong and better equipped to seize it in the customary post-prandial scramble for seats. The elderly Gilbertine friar Kenyngham perched next to him, staring into the flames as he recited a prayer, wholly oblivious to the desultory conversations that were taking place around him. On Langelee’s other side, the gloomy Carmelite Thomas Suttone was informing Wynewyk that the plague would return in the next year or so, and kill everyone it had missed the first time round. Wynewyk was pretending to be asleep.

Bartholomew and Michael sat at a table together. Bartholomew was sharpening the knives he used for the surgery of which his colleagues so disapproved, while Michael studied the message Master Colton of Gonville Hall had written to Chancellor Tynkell regarding the death of Bishop Bateman, looking for inner meanings that were not there. Meanwhile, the Dominican John Clippesby, who was Master of Music and Astronomy, watched the physician intently, like a cat waiting at the hole of a mouse. It was common knowledge, not only at Michaelhouse but throughout the town, that Clippesby was insane, largely because he held frequent and public conversations with animals and dead saints. His insanity did not usually induce bouts of unwavering scrutiny, however, and Bartholomew found it disconcerting. He tried to ignore him.

‘How will Gonville pay for their fine chapel with Bateman dead?’ asked the Franciscan Father William with spiteful satisfaction. He was the last of the Fellows, and occupied a comfortable wicker chair opposite Clippesby. He answered his own question gleefully. ‘They will not, and they will be left with a scrap of bare land and a few foundations for ever.’

William had once been Michael’s Junior Proctor, but had performed his duties with such enthusiasm and vigour that even peaceful and law-abiding scholars were not safe from fines and imprisonment. Everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been ‘promoted’ to Keeper of the University Chest. However, while most scholars were relieved to see him occupying what they considered a harmless post, Bartholomew was concerned. It was William who had revived interest in the dubious Hand of Valence Marie, using his new authority to rescue the so-called relic from the depths of the Chest and bring it back to the public’s attention by putting it on display.

‘Gonville’s chapel will be a very grand building,’ said Wynewyk, interrupting Suttone’s tirade about the plague. ‘It will have similar dimensions to one I saw in Albi, in southern France.’

‘Pride is a terrible sin,’ proclaimed Suttone in his sepulchral voice. ‘It was pride that drove the scholars of Gonville to build themselves a chapel, and God is showing them the error of their ways by taking away the man who might have paid for it.’

‘I do not follow your logic,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from his knives. ‘Are you saying God does not approve of chapels being built? If that is the case we should raze St Michael’s to the ground, and conduct our offices in the graveyard instead.’

Suttone glared at him. ‘That is different. Michaelhouse men are not hedgerow priests!’

‘Neither are the scholars of Gonville. They are only doing what our founder did for us thirty years ago. What is wrong with a College wanting its own chapel? Would you like to be in a position where you had to vie for space with half a dozen other institutions in St Mary the Great?’

‘Gonville’s building is sinful,’ persisted Suttone staunchly. ‘And it is pride and false humility that will have the Death yapping at our heels again. You mark my words.’

‘It is a pity Warde declared Gonville the winner of the Disputatio yesterday,’ said Kenyngham, aiming to prevent a squabble. He abhorred discord and was always trying to keep the peace in his College – which was no mean feat when there were belligerent and opinionated men like William, Suttone and Langelee to contend with, to say nothing of the lunatic Clippesby. Bartholomew glanced up from his whetting and saw the Master of Music and Astronomy still staring at him. He went back to ignoring him, hoping the Dominican would soon fix his manic gaze on something else.

‘We were shamefully wronged by Warde,’ said William angrily. ‘Even the most stupid of mediators must have seen that we had superior arguments and that we debated with better skill.’

‘Warde is from Valence Marie, so what do you expect?’ said Suttone glumly. ‘I imagine Gonville bribed him to grant them the victory.’

‘They did not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing at the notion that Gonville would stoop to such a low trick – and that Warde would accept the offer. ‘It was a perfectly fair contest, and Warde was right: Gonville did outperform us yesterday.’

‘Gonville won because the Question was about law,’ grumbled William. ‘It was an unfair choice on Tynkell’s part, because all Gonville’s scholars, with the exception of Rougham, are lawyers.’

‘Gonville played us very fairly,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They used Rougham as one of their disputants – and he is not a lawyer, as you pointed out. They could have supplied three lawyers, not two and a physician. What is wrong, Clippesby?’ He was unable to stand the unblinking gaze any longer. ‘You are making me nervous, and I do not want to slip and cut myself.’

‘I do not know why you possess knives,’ said Clippesby coldly. ‘You are supposed to be a physician, not a surgeon, so you should not need such implements. The rats by the river told me that you severed the bargeman’s leg on Wednesday night. It is not natural.’

‘The rats are right, Matt,’ said Langelee from the hearth. ‘You should not perform surgery. First, it is forbidden for those in holy orders to practise cautery, and second, Robin of Grantchester will accuse you of poaching his trade again. We do not want a dispute between you and him to spill over and become a fight between scholars and townsfolk.’

‘I am not bound by the edicts of the Lateran Councils,’ said Bartholomew, referring to a writ of 1284 that forbade clerics to practise surgery. ‘I am not a monk or a friar. And what would you have had me do? Wait for Robin to finish his ale at the King’s Head, while Isnard bled to death?’

‘Isnard would be dead for certain if Robin had got at him,’ agreed Wynewyk. ‘Matt saved his life, so leave him alone, Clippesby.’

‘Now there are four physicians in Cambridge, you should be more careful, Matt,’ advised Michael, not for the first time. ‘You have an odd reputation with your penchant for knives, and you will lose more customers to Paxtone and Rougham if you do not watch out.’

‘What are they like?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘As medical men? I have met them both, of course, and Paxtone seems a decent fellow, although I did not take to Rougham.’

‘Rougham is ambitious and aggressive,’ stated William in his uncompromising manner. ‘I do not like him.’ He folded his arms, as if he considered the discussion over now that he had had his say. This was one of the reasons why he was never allowed to represent Michaelhouse at debates.

‘Paxtone is a good physician,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But Rougham tends to dismiss any theories that are not written down in Latin or Greek.’

‘Does he slice his patients up with sharp knives?’ asked Langelee meaningfully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, becoming tired of pointing out that his most important duty was to save or cure a patient, and if that involved surgery, then it was his moral obligation to offer that choice. The patient could always decline the treatment, if he did not want it.

‘Then neither should you,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not want you accused of witchcraft. It would be embarrassing for the College if you were put to death or exiled for unseemly practices.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ muttered Bartholomew, sharpening his knives more vigorously and sorely tempted to practise a little surgery on some of his colleagues.

‘Has everyone heard the news about the town’s mills?’ asked Michael that evening, after Langelee had produced a cask of wine as an unexpected Sunday treat, and the Fellows were in a more mellow frame of mind as they relaxed in the conclave. Bartholomew’s knives were back in his bag, and he was scanning a tract on the Book of Job by the famous scholar Robert Grosseteste – which was sufficiently uncontroversial to offend no one.

‘What about them?’ asked William drowsily. He had drunk twice as much as everyone else, and it had had a soporific effect on him. This suited his colleagues very well.

‘There is a dispute brewing between them over water,’ said Michael. ‘I detect Edward Mortimer’s hand in it personally, because his uncle’s fulling mill and the King’s Mill worked perfectly harmoniously together until he came back.’

‘Edward Mortimer and that Thorpe are always together,’ said Clippesby, who had a sleepy grass-snake in his lap. ‘A ram at the Market Square said they are lovers, although I do not know whether to believe him. However, the Gonville cat, who gets around at night, informed me that Master Thorpe of Valence Marie will not have his son in his College. Young Thorpe is living with the Mortimers.’

‘Is he now?’ mused Michael. Clippesby was often in possession of valuable information, although the sources he claimed for it were invariably improbable. Most of his conversations sounded like the ramblings of a deranged mind, but experience had taught the monk that Clippesby was often well informed, so he usually made some effort to distil the truth from the wild fantasies that encased it.

‘Master Thorpe told me he was appalled when his son appeared at Valence Marie and demanded to be welcomed home,’ said William, not to be outdone with the gossip. ‘He had no hand in obtaining the King’s Pardon, and he wants no part of his boy.’

‘I visited Master Thorpe yesterday,’ said Langelee, joining in the competition to see who had the most news. ‘He said the Mortimers had told him they planned to get a King’s Pardon for his son and Edward, but he did nothing about it, because he sincerely believed that the King had no reason to grant one – their guilt was too clear. But he underestimated the power of bribery.’

‘The Mortimers did bribe the King’s Bench clerks,’ said Clippesby. ‘One of the swans – who flies near Westminster at this time of year – told me he saw gold changing hands.’

‘Poor Master Thorpe,’ said William. ‘His son is a dangerous man, and it took real courage for the father to disown him. I would not want someone like young Thorpe angry with me.’

Michael nodded, a little impatiently. ‘He is brave. But none of this has any relevance to what I am trying to tell you about the mills. We all know that the King owns the King’s Mill, and that a profit-making guild called the Millers’ Society leases it from him.’

‘The Millers’ Society comprises the apothecary Lavenham and his hussy wife Isobel, Cheney the spice merchant, Deschalers the grocer and Bernarde the miller – miserable sinners, every one,’ said Suttone, who enjoyed listing people who would die when the plague next came. ‘And Mayor Morice.’

‘Mayor Morice!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘I could not believe it when that dishonest scoundrel was elected. Look what happened when he was Sheriff! He was so brazen with his corruption that it took my breath away.’

‘It is his fault that Thorpe and Edward are back,’ agreed William. ‘He accepted gold from the Mortimers, in return for a letter saying our town had no objection to the pardons being issued.’

Michael gave an irritable sigh, to indicate that their interruptions were interfering with his tale. He spoke loudly. ‘So, we have the King’s Mill, leased from the King by the Millers’ Society. And Mortimer’s Mill – owned by Thomas Mortimer – is upstream from it. And we all know that Mortimer’s Mill was recently converted from grinding grain to fulling cloth.’ He gazed around, pursing his lips, as if he imagined he had made a significant point.

‘So?’ asked William eventually. ‘What of it?’

Michael grimaced at his slow wits. ‘Fulling needs more water than grinding corn – or so I am told – and the Mortimers keep diverting water for the process, so the King’s Mill cannot operate. They refuse to settle the matter amicably, so it has gone before the King’s Bench for a decision.’

‘Then doubtless there will be more bribery taking place as we speak,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘It seems to me that the King’s clerks will make any decision you like, as long as you have the funds to pay for it. I knew they were corrupt, but–’

‘What did you think of my sermon this morning?’ interrupted William. They had discussed the subject of corruption among the King’s officers at length that afternoon, and he was bored with it. However, he was proud of his work in the church earlier that day, and clearly felt that some compliments were in order.

‘It did not dwell sufficiently on the Death,’ replied Suttone immediately. ‘It is our duty to point out that it will return, and that we will all die unless we repent of our sins.’

‘I repent every day,’ said William, the tone of his voice indicating he did not think he had much to confess. ‘And folk are growing tired of hearing about the Death each Sunday. They want something more inspiring, and my oration today was just that. They need to hear about the fire and brimstone of Hell.’ William knew far more about Hell than Bartholomew felt he should have done.

‘It was about how God killed a man called Uzzah for daring to touch the Ark of the Covenant,’ said Clippesby. ‘I was listening to you, William. The oxen carrying the Ark stumbled, and Uzzah tried to stop it from falling to the ground. He was struck dead for his audacity, but the oxen survived, so it was a tale with a happy ending.’

‘I do not think the cattle are relevant to the story,’ said William stiffly. ‘My point was that anyone who does not treat sacred objects with respect and reverence will be similarly struck down. They will end up roasting in the Devil’s cauldrons, surrounded by screaming demons with–’

‘You were referring to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ interrupted Michael distastefully. ‘Your message was quite clear: anyone who disbelieves in the Hand’s power is ripe for holy vengeance.’

‘Precisely,’ said William comfortably. ‘I would not like my colleagues to vanish in a column of fire for treating holy relics with disrespect.’ He shot a meaningful look in Bartholomew’s direction.

‘I have every respect for holy relics,’ replied Bartholomew, tired of being the one always accused of heresy and irreverence. ‘I would never dare touch a real one. But the Hand is not a real one – it belonged to Peterkin Starre. You were using your sermon as an opportunity to tout for business: you want folk to visit the relic, so you can charge them to see it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed William, pleased with himself. ‘Many folk flock to it with their prayers and petitions, and I am keen to give others the opportunity to–’

There was a knock at the door, and Quenhyth entered. The student marched across the conclave, heading for Bartholomew. There was a book under his arm that he made sure everyone noticed, so they would know that while the other students were chatting or playing games in the hall, he had devoted himself to more serious pursuits.

‘The reading of academic texts on a Sunday is forbidden,’ snapped William when he saw it. ‘You will be bound for Hell if you disregard the proscriptions for this most holy of days.’

‘It is a theological text,’ replied Quenhyth virtuously. With one hand he proffered it for the Franciscan to inspect, while the other went to his mouth for the nails to be gnawed. ‘It is an analysis of the Question: Let us debate whether the Body of Christ became different after His soul separated from it.’

‘You do not need texts to answer that question, boy,’ growled William. ‘I can tell you. No.’

‘A most eloquent argument, Father,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Gonville must be quaking in their boots in anticipation of meeting that kind of incisive logic at the next Disputatio.’

William nodded his pleasure at the compliment, and folded his arms. ‘However, I have read that particular text, as it happens. Well, not the whole thing, I admit – I just went straight to the end and looked at the conclusion. I do not waste my time reading silly twists and turns, not when there are heretics to unveil and the University Chest to protect.’

‘I see you chose well in becoming a scholar,’ said Wynewyk, raising his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Why would a theologian bother with “silly twists and turns” in a scholarly debate?’

‘Quite,’ agreed William, the irony quite lost on him.

‘Sergeant Orwelle is here, sir,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, bewildered by the exchange. His literal mind rendered him no better with irony than did William’s. ‘There has been an incident at the King’s Mill, and you are needed. He says Brother Michael should come, too, since one of the fatalities might be a scholar.’

‘One of the fatalities?’ queried Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘I do not like the sound of this.’