To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 1

Easter Day (April) 1357

Michaelhouse was not the University at Cambridge’s most wealthy College. It suffered from leaky roofs, faulty gutters, rising damp and peeling plaster. Worse yet, its Fellows and students were sometimes obliged to endure the occasional shortage of food when funds had to be diverted to more urgent causes – such as paying carpenters and masons to stop some part of the ramshackle collection of buildings from falling down about their ears.

Yet life was not all scanty rations and dilapidated accommodation. When Michaelhouse had been founded some thirty years before, one benefactor had predicted that its scholars might appreciate an occasional chance to forget their straitened circumstances. He had gifted them a house, and stipulated that a portion of the rent accruing from it was to be spent on special Easter foods and wines; in return, the scholars were to chant masses for his soul each morning in Lent.

The Michaelhouse men had kept their end of the bargain and, after the Easter Day offices had been sung, they hurried home to see what the bequest had brought them that year. Unexpected subsidence under the hall – which had proved expensive to rectify – meant the Master had been obliged to enforce the Lenten fasts more rigorously than usual, and everyone was eagerly awaiting the feast. Matthew Bartholomew, the College’s Master of Medicine, had never seen his colleagues move so fast, and any semblance of scholarly dignity was lost as they raced through the gate in anticipation of their benefactor’s generosity.

However, the meal was not quite ready. Agatha, the formidable laundress who had taken it upon herself to run the domestic side of the College, tartly informed the Master that the servants so seldom cooked such monstrous repasts, they had miscalculated the time it would take and there would be a short delay. Technically, Agatha should not even have been inside the College, let alone allowed to wield so much power – the University forbade relations between its scholars and women, on the grounds that such liaisons were likely to cause problems with the town. But Agatha had been employed there for more than two decades, and it would have taken a braver soul than anyone at Michaelhouse to oust her now.

Restlessly, the Fellows and their students milled about, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for her to finish. Delicious scents began to waft across the yard, almost obliterating the usual aroma of chicken droppings and stagnant water. To pass the time, Bartholomew looked around at the buildings that had been his home for the best part of thirteen years.

The heart of Michaelhouse was its hall, a handsome structure with oriel windows gracing its upper storey; the smaller, darker chambers on the ground floor were used as kitchens, pantries and storerooms. At right angles to the hall were the two ranges that comprised the scholars’ accommodation. The northern wing boasted twelve small rooms, arranged around three staircases, while the newer, less-derelict southern wing had eleven rooms with two staircases between them. Opposite were the main gate, porters’ lodge and stables. Combined, the buildings formed a square, set around a central yard, all protected by sturdy walls. Cambridge was an uneasy place at the best of times, and no academic foundation risked being burned to the ground by irate townsmen for the want of a few basic defences.

That morning the sun was shining, and it turned Michaelhouse’s pale stone to a light honey-gold, topped by the red tiles of its roofs. Agatha had planted herbs in the scrubby grass outside the kitchens, and their early flowers added their own colour to the spring day. Hens scratched contentedly among them, jealously guarded by a scrawny cockerel. Also present was a peacock, which was owned by Walter the porter. Walter’s surly temper was legendary, and Bartholomew suspected the only reason he had formed an attachment to the magnificent but deeply stupid bird was its unpopular habit of screaming in the night and waking everyone up.

Eventually, Bartholomew’s book-bearer, Cynric, walked towards the bell, intending to chime it and announce the meal was ready. He could have saved himself the effort. The moment he reached for the rope, there was a concerted dash for the hall. Students jostled each other as they tore up the spiral staircase; Fellows and commoners – young hopefuls who helped with teaching, or ‘retired’ men too old to work – followed a little more sedately, although only a very little. It was not just the junior members who were hungry that morning.

The hall had been transformed since Bartholomew had seen it the night before. Its floor had been swept, and bowls of dried roses set on the windowsills to make it smell sweet. Its wooden tables had been polished, and the usual battered pewter had been replaced by elegantly glazed pots and the College silver. A fire flickered in the hearth and braziers glowed on the walls, lending the room a welcoming cosiness – the Easter benefaction included an allowance for fires and lamps, which was a rare luxury for anyone. Some of the food was stacked near the hearth, being kept warm – or drying out, depending on whose opinion was asked – while the rest sat on platters behind the serving screen at the far end.

The Fellows trooped to the high table, which stood on a dais near the hearth, and the students and commoners took their places at the trestle tables and benches that had been placed at right angles to it. Michaelhouse was a medium-sized foundation. Its Master presided over seven Fellows, although two were currently away, and there were ten commoners and thirty students.

‘A whole sheep!’ crowed Brother Michael, rubbing his hands together in gluttonous anticipation. He was a Benedictine monk, and by far the fattest of the Fellows, despite shedding some weight the previous year. ‘And I count at least two dozen fowl.’

‘Oh, dear,’ whispered Father Kenyngham, the oldest member of the gathering. He had been Michaelhouse’s Master until four years before, when he had resigned to concentrate on his teaching and his prayers. He was a Gilbertine friar, whose gentle piety was admired throughout the University, and many believed he was a saint in the making. ‘How are we supposed to eat all this?’

‘I foresee no problem,’ said Father William, a sour Franciscan famous for his bigoted opinions and dogmatic theology. He was as unpopular as Kenyngham was loved. ‘In fact, I would say there is less here this year than there was last. Prices have soared since the Death, and a penny does not go far these days.’

‘Do not harp on the plague today,’ hissed Michael irritably. ‘You will upset the students or, worse, encourage Matt to wax lyrical about it. Then his lurid descriptions will put us off our food.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but closed it sharply when his colleagues murmured their agreement. However, he thought Michael’s accusation was still unfair. The plague had shocked him to the core, because all his medical training had proved useless, and he had lost far more patients than he had saved. As a consequence, the disease was a painful memory, and certainly not something to be aired over the dinner table.

‘My point remains, though,’ said William, who always liked the last word in any debate. He wiped his dirt-encrusted hands on his filthy grey habit – a garment so grimy that his students swore it could walk about on its own – and began to assess which of the many dishes he would tackle first. Some strategy was needed, because Michael was a faster eater than he, and he did not want to lose out for want of a little forethought. ‘Everything costs more these days.’

The Master of Michaelhouse stood behind his wooden throne, watching the students shuffle into place in the body of the hall. Ralph de Langelee was a large, barrel-chested man with scant aptitude for scholarship and an appalling grasp of the philosophy he was supposed to teach. To the astonishment of all, he was proving to be a decent administrator, and his Fellows were pleasantly surprised to find themselves content with his rule. The students were happy, too, because, as something of a reprobate himself, Langelee tended to turn a blind eye to all but the most brazen infractions of the rules. His policy of toleration had generated an atmosphere of harmony and trust, and Bartholomew had never known his College more strife-free.

One of Langelee’s wisest decisions had been to pass the financial management of his impecunious foundation to a lawyer called Wynewyk, who was the last of the Fellows present. Wynewyk was a small, fox-faced man, who loved manipulating the College accounts, and Michaelhouse would have been deeply in debt were it not for his ingenuity and attention to detail. That morning, he was basking in the compliments of his colleagues for purchasing such an impressive quantity of food with a comparatively small sum of money.

‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Michael, as Langelee waited for old Kenyngham to reach his allocated seat. ‘I am starving.’

‘Do not make yourself sick, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew. The monk was his closest friend, and he felt it his duty to dissuade him from deliberate overindulgence. The warning was not entirely altruistic, though: Bartholomew did not want to spend his afternoon mixing remedies to ease aching stomachs. ‘The statutes do not stipulate that we should devour everything today. We are permitted to finish some of it tomorrow.’

‘And the day after,’ added Kenyngham.

Michael shot them an unpleasant look. ‘I shall eat whatever I can fit in my belly. This is one of my favourite festivals, and I am weary of fasting and abstinence. Lent is over, thank God, and we can get back to the business of normal feeding.’

Before they could begin a debate on the matter, Langelee intoned the grace of the day in atrocious Latin that had all his Fellows and most of the students wincing in unison, then sat down and seized a knife. The servants, who had been waiting behind the screen, swung into action, and the feast was under way. Michael sighed his satisfaction, William girded himself up to ensure he did not get less than the portly monk, Langelee smiled benevolently at his flock, and Kenyngham, who was never very impressed with the Master’s famously short prayers, began to mutter a much longer one of his own. Bartholomew looked around at his colleagues, and thought how fortunate he was to live in a place surrounded by people he liked – or, at least, by people whose idiosyncrasies were familiar enough that he no longer found them aggravating.

Because it was a special occasion, Langelee announced that conversation was permitted. Normally, the Bible Scholar read aloud during meals – the Michaelhouse men were supposed to reflect and learn, even while eating. It was some time before anyone took the Master up on his offer, however, because Fellows, commoners and students alike were more interested in what was being put on their tables than in chatting to friends they saw all day anyway. Silence reigned, broken only by Agatha’s imperious commands from behind the screen and the metallic click of knives on platters.

‘Can we use the vernacular, Master?’ called one man eventually, once he had satiated his immediate hunger and was of a mind to converse. Bartholomew was not surprised that the question had come from Rob Deynman, the College’s least able student. Deynman would never pass the disputations that would allow him to become a physician, and should not have been accepted to study in the first place. Yet whenever Langelee tried to hint that Deynman might do better in another profession, the lad’s rich father showered the College with money, which always ended with the son being admitted for one more term. Bartholomew was acutely uncomfortable with the situation, and did not see how it would ever be resolved – he would never agree to fixing a pass, because he refused to unleash such a dangerous menace on an unsuspecting public, but he doubted even the wealthy Deynman clan would agree to paying fees in perpetuity.

‘It should be Latin,’ objected William pedantically. ‘Or French, I suppose.’

Langelee overrode him, on the grounds that he did not enjoy speaking Latin himself, and his French was not much better. ‘English will make a pleasant change, and we do not want our dinner-table chat to be stilted. I am in the mood to be entertained.’

‘I am glad you said that, Master,’ said Michael. He beamed around at his colleagues. ‘I anticipated the need for a little fun, so I invited the choir to sing for us.’

There was a universal groan. The monk worked hard with the motley ensemble that called itself the Michaelhouse Choir, but there was no turning a pig’s ear into a silken purse. It was the largest such group in Cambridge, mostly because Michael provided free bread and ale after practices. Most of the town’s poor were members, and he accepted them into his fold regardless of whether they possessed any musical talent.

‘How could you, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk reproachfully. ‘They will wail so loudly that it will not matter what language we use – we will not hear anything our neighbour says anyway.’

‘And we shall have to share the food,’ added William resentfully.

‘We will,’ said Kenyngham, when Michael seemed to be having second thoughts; the monk was rarely magnanimous where his stomach was concerned. ‘But it will be the only meal most of them will enjoy today, so I do not think we should begrudge it.’

Michael inclined his head, albeit reluctantly. ‘Do not worry about the noise, Wynewyk. I have been training them to sing quietly.’

‘Here they come,’ warned Bartholomew, as the choristers marched into the hall, caps held in their right hands. They were a ragged mob, mostly barefoot, and Deynman was not the only scholar to rest his hand on his purse as they trooped past him. In the lead was Isnard the bargeman, who hobbled on crutches because Bartholomew had been forced to amputate his leg after an accident two years before. He was a burly fellow with an unfortunate tendency to believe anything he was told, especially after he had been drinking, which was most nights.

‘You can lead the music today, Isnard,’ said Michael, barely glancing up from his repast. ‘You are here earlier than I expected, and I am still eating.’

‘Me?’ asked the bargeman, stunned and flattered by the unexpected honour. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael, reaching for more chicken.

‘Right,’ said Isnard gleefully, turning to his fellow musicians. ‘Ready? One, two, three, go!’

And they were off. Unfortunately, he had not told them what to perform, as a consequence of which half began warbling one tune, while the remainder hollered another. Jubilantly, they seized the opportunity to out-sing each other in a bit of light-hearted rivalry. The result was not pleasant, but Michaelhouse was used to cacophonies where the choir was concerned, and most scholars thought it no different from the racket they made when they were all trilling the same piece.

‘Did you hear about Robert Spaldynge?’ yelled Bartholomew to Michael, to take the monk’s mind off the fact that all his careful instructing had obviously been a waste of time. On the physician’s other side, Kenyngham closed his eyes and began to pray again, perhaps for silence. ‘He is accused of selling a house that did not belong to him. It was owned by his College – Clare.’

Michael nodded. He was the University’s Senior Proctor, which meant he was responsible for maintaining law and order among the disparate collection of Colleges and hostels that comprised the studium generale at Cambridge. He had an army of beadles to help him, and very little happened without his knowledge. ‘He claims he had no choice – that he needed money to buy food. It might be true, because his students are an unusually impoverished group. Clare is furious about it, but not nearly as much as I am. Spaldynge’s actions have put me in an impossible position.’

Bartholomew was struggling to hear him. The singers had finished their first offering, and had started an old favourite that, for some inexplicable reason, included a lot of rhythmically stamping feet. He was sure the monk had not taught them to do it. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that his antics have come at a difficult time. The University is currently embroiled in a dispute about rents with the town’s landlords – you should know this, Matt; I have talked of little else this past month – and I issued a writ ordering all scholars to keep hold of their property until it is resolved. If we lose the fight, we will need every College-owned building we can get our hands on, to house those scholars who will suddenly find themselves with nowhere to live.’

The monk had held forth about a ‘rent war’ on several occasions, but Bartholomew had taken scant notice. The previous term had been frantically busy for him, because two Fellows on a sabbatical leave of absence meant a huge increase in his teaching load, and he had not had time to think about much else. ‘Spaldynge’s is only one house, Brother.’

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘You clearly have not been listening to me, or you would not be making such an inane remark. The landlords are refusing to renew leases, and we have dozens of homeless scholars already – scholars I need to house. Thus every building is important at the moment. Did you know the one Spaldynge sold was Borden Hostel? He was its Principal.’

‘Borden?’ asked Bartholomew, a little shocked. ‘But that has been part of the University for decades. It is older than most Colleges.’

Michael’s face was grim. ‘Quite. Unfortunately, the landlords have interpreted its sale to mean that if stable old Borden can fall into their hands, then so can any other foundation. As I said, I am furious about it – Spaldynge has done the whole University a disservice.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘You say he sold his hostel to buy food, but where does he intend to eat it, if he has no home? He has solved one problem by creating another.’

‘He is a Fellow of Clare, so he and his students have been given refuge there. He said he made the sale to underline the fact that most hostels are desperately poor, but we collegians do not care.’

Bartholomew looked at the mounds of food on Michael’s trencher. ‘Perhaps he has a point.’

‘Perhaps he does, but it still does not give him the right to sell property that does not belong to him. Did I tell you that these greedy landlords are demanding that all rents be trebled? As the law stands, it is the University that determines what constitutes a fair rent – and that rate was set years ago. It means these treacherous landlords are questioning the law itself!’

‘But the rate was set before the plague,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘And times have changed since then. Perhaps your “fair rent” is fair no longer.’

Michael did not hear him over the choir’s caterwauling. He speared a piece of roasted pork with uncharacteristic savagery. ‘If the landlords win this dispute, it could herald the end of the University, because only the very wealthy will be able to afford accommodation here. At the moment, nearly all our students live in town-owned buildings; only a fraction of them are lucky enough to occupy a scholar-owned College like ours.’

Bartholomew decided he had better change the subject before the monk became so weighed down with his concerns that it would spoil his enjoyment of the feast. He said the first thing that came into his head, before realising it was probably not much of an improvement. ‘Clare seems to be causing you all manner of problems at the moment. How is your investigation into the death of that other Fellow of theirs – Wenden?’

‘Solved, thank God. Wenden was deeply unpopular when he was alive, but he is even more so now he is dead.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘His colleagues endured his unpleasant foibles for nigh on thirty years, on the understanding that Clare would be his sole beneficiary when he died. However, when his will was read, it transpired that he had left everything to the Bishop of Lincoln instead.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘He bequeathed his College nothing at all?’

‘Not a penny. I might have accused his colleagues of killing him, but for the testimony of the friend he had been visiting that night. Wenden had forgotten his hat, and Honynge was chasing after him to give it back. Honynge saw a tinker lurking about, and heard a bow loosed moments later.’

‘A tinker?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not the one we fished from the river a few days ago?’

‘The very same. You ascertained that he fell in while he was drunk – an accident – and I found Wenden’s purse hidden among his belongings. So, the case is closed.’

Michael turned his full attention to his food, and Bartholomew winced when the choir attempted a popular dance tune, delivered in a ponderous bellow at half-speed. Meanwhile, Kenyngham opened his eyes at last, and began to fill his trencher with slivers of roasted goose.

‘Our musicians are discordant today,’ he said, in something of an understatement. ‘Wait until they finish this song, then offer them some ale. That should shut them up.’

It was a good idea, and the physician supposed someone should have thought of it before they had started in the first place. He went to oblige, assisted by a commoner called Roger Carton. Carton was a short, plump, serious Franciscan, and had come to Michaelhouse to help Wynewyk teach the burgeoning numbers of law students – lawyers tended to make more money than men in other vocational professions, so law was currently the University’s most popular subject. When Bartholomew and Carton approached the choir with jugs of ale, the clamour stopped mid-sentence, and the singers clustered eagerly around them. A blissful peace settled across the hall.

‘Will you visit your Gilbertine colleagues later?’ Bartholomew asked of Kenyngham, when he was back in his place. ‘You usually spend at least part of Easter at their convent.’

‘Not this time.’ Kenyngham patted his hand, and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that the friar’s skin had developed the soft, silky texture of the very elderly. ‘I am too tired. Your students are laughing – what a pleasant sound!’

The source of the lads’ amusement was a medical student named Falmeresham, who was intelligent but mischievous and unruly. Bartholomew doubted Kenyngham would be amused if he was let in on the joke, because it was almost certain to be lewd, malicious or both.

‘Michael is pale,’ said Kenyngham in a low voice. ‘The rent war is worrying him more deeply than you appreciate, so you must help him resolve it.’

‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the suggestion. ‘It is the proctors’ business, and none of mine. He has a deputy to manage that sort of thing for him.’

‘Yes, but his current assistant is neither efficient nor perspicacious, and Michael will only win the dispute if he is helped by his friends. Good friends, not crocodiles.’

‘Crocodiles?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Crocodiles,’ repeated Kenyngham firmly. ‘Timely men with teeth. And you must oppose false prophets. Like shooting stars, they dazzle while they are in flight, but they burn out and are soon forgotten. Crocodiles and shooting stars, Matthew. Crocodiles and shooting stars.’

Bartholomew had no idea what he was talking about, but Kenyngham had closed his eyes and his face was suffused with the beatific expression that indicated he was praying again. There was no point trying to question him when he was in conversation with God, and Bartholomew did not try. He turned to Michael, and was about to comment on the baked apples, when the choir resumed their programme. Fuelled by ale, they were rowdier than ever. Gradually, they veered away from the staid ballads Michael had taught them, and began to range into the uncharted territory of tavern ditties. The lyrics grew steadily more bawdy until even the liberal-minded Langelee was compelled to act. He stood to say grace, and Fellows and students hastened to follow his example. There was a collective scraping of benches and chairs, and then everyone was on his feet. Except one man.

‘Give Kenyngham a poke, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. ‘He seems to have fallen asleep again. It must be the wine.’

‘Or the restful music,’ added Wynewyk caustically.

The physician obliged, then caught the old man as he started to slide backwards off his seat. After a moment, he looked up. ‘I cannot wake him this time,’ he said softly. ‘He is dead.’

Space was in short supply for University scholars, and only the very wealthy could afford the luxury of a room to themselves – and sometimes even then, no purse was heavy enough to overcome the need to cram several men into a single chamber. Bartholomew was uncommonly lucky in his living arrangements. He was obliged to share his room with only one student – and Falmeresham preferred to be with his friends than with his teacher, so was nearly always out. It meant the physician had a privacy that was almost unprecedented among his peers.

He occupied a pleasant ground-floor chamber with two small arched windows looking across the courtyard, and had a tiny cupboard-like room across the stairwell where he kept his remedies and medical equipment. The bedchamber was sparsely furnished: it contained a single bed, with a straw mattress for Falmeresham that was rolled up each morning and stored underneath it; a row of pegs and a chest for spare clothes; and a pair of writing desks.

Michael, meanwhile, shared his quarters with two Benedictines from his Mother House at Ely, but spent most of his daylight hours at the proctors’ office in the University Church, commonly called St Mary the Great. It was generally acknowledged that he was by far the most powerful scholar in Cambridge, because Chancellor Tynkell was a spineless nonentity who let him do what he liked. The monk’s friends often asked why he did not have himself elected as Chancellor, and claim the glory as well as the power, but Michael pointed out that the current arrangement allowed him to make all the important decisions, while Tynkell was there to take the blame if anything went wrong.

The sudden and unexpected death of Kenyngham had sent a ripple of shock through the College that affected everyone, from the most junior servant to the most senior Fellow, and the monk did not want to be with his Benedictine colleagues or haunt St Mary the Great that afternoon. Instead, he sat in Bartholomew’s chamber, perching on a stool that creaked under his enormous weight.

‘So Kenyngham just … died?’ he asked, holding out his goblet for more ‘medicinal’ wine.

‘People do,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was very old – well past seventy.’

‘But how could he? He was at a feast, for God’s sake! People do not die at feasts.’

As a physician, Bartholomew was used to being asked such questions by the bereaved, but that did not make them any easier to answer. ‘He closed his eyes to pray, and I suppose he just slipped away. He loved Easter, and was happy today. It is not a bad way to go.’

‘Are you sure it was natural? Perhaps he was poisoned.’

‘You have been a proctor too long – you see mischief everywhere, even when there is none.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I went to his room last night, and caught him swallowing some potion or other. When I asked what it was, he told me it was an antidote.’

‘An antidote for what?’ asked Bartholomew, mystified. He was Kenyngham’s physician, and he had prescribed nothing except a balm for an aching back in months.

‘He declined to say – he changed the subject when I tried to ask him about it. But supposing it was an antidote to poison, because he knew someone was going to do him harm?’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You have a vivid imagination, Brother! Besides, you do not take antidotes before you are poisoned – you take them after, once you know what you have been given. But there was nothing strange about his death. He was obviously feeling unwell, because he said he was too tired to visit the Gilbertine convent today, and you know how he liked their chapel. Besides, who would want to harm Kenyngham?’

‘No one – but I cannot shake the feeling that a person is to blame for this. Kenyngham was a saint, and God would never have struck him down so suddenly.’

‘Good men are just as prone to death as wicked ones.’

Michael stood. ‘Come to his room with me – now. We shall find this antidote, and then you will see I am right to be suspicious.’

Bartholomew did not find it easy to open Kenyngham’s door and step inside his quarters. The Gilbertine’s familiar frayed cloak hung on the back of the door, and the pillow on the bed still held the hollow made by the old man’s head. Bartholomew stood by the window and thought of the many hours he had spent there, enjoying Kenyngham’s sweet-tempered, erudite company.

‘I cannot find it,’ said Michael after a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, perturbed.

‘We should not be here,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘It feels wrong. He gave you an evasive, ambiguous answer when you asked him what he was swallowing, which tells me he did not want you to know. Can we not respect his wish for privacy?’

Michael sighed. ‘Very well – but just because I cannot find this antidote does not mean I imagined the whole incident. He really did take something, you know.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I believe you, but it could have been anything – a mild purge, a secret supply of wine. It does not have to be sinister.’

‘Right,’ said Michael in a way that suggested he would make up his own mind about that.

Once back in Bartholomew’s room they sat in silence for a long time. ‘We shall have to elect someone to take his place – and soon,’ said the monk eventually. ‘Suttone and Clippesby will be away again next term, and we cannot manage with a third Fellow gone.’

Bartholomew found he did not like the notion of someone else taking Kenyngham’s post. ‘He is barely cold, Brother,’ he said reproachfully.

‘I know, but he would not want us to be sentimental about this – and nor would he approve of us neglecting our students’ education by being tardy about appointing a replacement. Who will it be, do you think? Principal Honynge of Zachary Hostel is always sniffing around in search of a College post, so I suppose he will be calling tomorrow, to remind us of his academic prowess. Now there is someone who would harm Kenyngham. I have never liked him, and he strikes me as the kind of man who might resort to poison to further his own ends.’

‘And how did he commit this crime?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing distress was leading the monk to make wild and unfounded accusations. ‘We all ate the same food.’

‘Kenyngham’s age made him frail, rendering him more susceptible to toxins than the rest of us.’

‘You should watch where you express that sort of theory,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Our students are upset, and a rumour that Kenyngham was deliberately harmed is likely to ignite a fire that does not need to be lit. Besides, Honynge is not a killer.’

‘What about Tyrington of Piron Hostel as a culprit, then?’ persisted Michael. ‘He has been its Principal for three years now, and he told me only last week that he would rather be a collegian.’

‘No one killed Kenyngham,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And he would be appalled to hear you say so – of all the men in the University, he was the last who would want trouble on his behalf.’

‘That is true, but I cannot stop thinking about this “antidote”…’

‘Perhaps he used the wrong word. Some of what he said to me today made no sense, either – talk of crocodiles and shooting stars. You are reading too much into an idle remark, and we should discuss something else before you convince yourself that a crime has been committed and go off to investigate. Tell me about your rent war. I could not hear what you were saying once the choir was under way with its repertoire.’

Michael grimaced. ‘It is growing ever more serious, and I am struggling to maintain the peace. The landlords’ spokesman – Candelby – has recently purchased several new houses. He objects to the fact that the law insists they should be used as hostels for scholars.’

‘He owns these buildings?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael nodded. ‘Then I can see his point. Why should he rent them to us for a pittance, when he could lease them to wealthy merchants for a good deal more?’

Michael regarded him icily. ‘Not you, too! That is what he says, and he is encouraging the other landlords to think the same. The reason is that it is the law, Matt. Once a house has been rented to scholars, it must remain rented to scholars until the University no longer needs it.’

‘It may be the law, but it is hardly fair.’

‘What does fairness have to do with anything? The law has never made any pretence of being fair, and nor will it, I imagine. However, the real problem is that I find myself unable to enforce this particular statute. I could fine Candelby, but what would I do if he refuses to pay? Send beadles to his house and take the money by force? Put him in prison? If I did either, the University would be in flames within an hour, and every scholar would be ready to fight. There would be a bloodbath, and I do not want that.’

‘Does Candelby?’

‘Yes – he is a greedy, selfish villain, who would willingly squander lives for personal gain. But I want the matter settled amicably. I have offered to negotiate a slightly higher rate – I cannot triple it, as he demands, because even I do not own that sort of authority – but he refuses to treat with me.’

‘Then ask the Sheriff to intervene. He will force Candelby to talk to you, because he will not want a riot, either.’

‘I wish I could, but he is away, summoned to Huntingdon on shire business.’

‘Then can you send to the King for help? He set his seal to the University Statutes – the laws you are trying to enforce – and will not want them flouted.’

‘That would see His Majesty descending on the town in a fury, fining anything that moves. We are unpopular enough as it is, and I do not want to exacerbate the situation by telling tales. Damn Candelby! Most people had never heard of him before he whipped his fellow landlords into a frenzy, but now his name is on everyone’s lips.’

‘Not mine, Brother. I know very little about him.’

‘He is a taverner by trade. He runs the Angel Inn on Bene’t Street and, much as I detest the man, he does sell excellent pies. Have you tried one?’

‘If I had, then I would not tell you – the Senior Proctor! You would fine me.’

The University had decided years before that taverns were not for scholars. Not only did such establishments provide strong drink, which encouraged riotous behaviour, but they were frequented by townsmen. Inebriated students and drunken laymen were to be kept apart at all costs, and Michael’s beadles patrolled the alehouses every night in search of anyone breaking the rules.

Michael smiled. ‘I shall assume the answer is yes, then.’

‘Just once – a month ago. Carton took me, because he said I was the only man in Cambridge who had not eaten one.’

Michael nodded. ‘He was probably right. Candelby hired a Welsh cook at the beginning of Lent, and it is common knowledge that his wares are a vast improvement on anything else on offer in the town.’

‘What are you going to do about him?’ Bartholomew was concerned by the way his friend’s face had become pale with worry. ‘Candelby, I mean, not the cook.’

‘What can I do? I do not want to be heavy handed and spoil University–town relations for ever. Yet I represent scholars, and cannot let burgesses ride roughshod over them. However, my first duty is to avert the riot I sense brewing, so I shall continue to be calm and reasonable – and hope Sheriff Tulyet comes home while we are all still in one piece. Lord, I miss him!’

‘We do not want a riot,’ agreed Bartholomew fervently. He was the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to inspect the body of any dead scholar – and he disliked seeing people killed by violence. He was about to add more when the door was flung open and Falmeresham burst in, the commoner Carton at his heels. Falmeresham and Carton had struck up a friendship that had surprised everyone, because their personalities meant they had little in common. Falmeresham was fun-loving and reckless; Carton was a sober, quiet friar who was something of an enigma.

‘There has been an accident,’ declared Falmeresham. ‘Master Lynton was riding down the road when he collided with a cart driven by Candelby. The messenger said there is blood everywhere.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, putting his head in his hands. ‘A spat between the landlords’ spokesman and a high-ranking scholar. Now there will be trouble!’

‘Do you mean Lynton the physician?’ asked Bartholomew alarmed. ‘My colleague from Peterhouse?’

Falmeresham nodded. ‘I am glad I did not study with him. He is dogmatic and narrow-minded, and refuses to embrace new ideas.’

‘That is unkind,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly. Falmeresham was only a term away from graduating, but Bartholomew had still not cured him of his habit of speaking his mind. ‘He does prefer traditional medicine, but he is a good man.’

Falmeresham snorted in a way that suggested he disagreed, but there was no time to argue.

Michael heaved himself upright. ‘I suppose I should see what can be done to avert trouble.’

‘You are right to be worried,’ said Carton. ‘The messenger also said the onlookers have taken sides, and your beadles are hard-pressed to keep them apart. You are both needed on Milne Street.’

Easter Sunday was a time of feasting and celebration, and even the town’s poorest inhabitants marked the occasion by decking themselves out in their best clothes and strolling along the town’s main thoroughfares. It was a time for visiting family and friends, for enjoying bright sunshine and street performers. Strictly speaking, entertainment was forbidden on such a holy day, but neither the University nor the town made any effort to enforce the rule, and the narrow lanes were full of singers, dancers, magicians, fire-eaters and jugglers. The streets echoed with rattling drums, trilling pipes and the babble of excited conversation.

It was not just townsmen who were making the best of a mild spring day and some free time. Students wearing the distinctive uniforms of their foundations were out in force. Normally, the presence of so many liveries would have resulted in brawls, as ancient grievances between Colleges and hostels were resurrected. This year, however, the scholars had laid aside their differences to concentrate on a common enemy: the town. The rent war was seen as an attempt to suppress their studium generale, and the more alarmist among them were braying that it was the greatest threat academia had yet faced. If the town won, they said, and rents were indeed trebled, other privileges would disappear, too – such as affordable ale, bread and fuel, the prices of which were also kept artificially low by the University Statutes. Michael did his best to control the rumours, but it was like trying to stem the flow of a river. The scholars believed they were under attack, and the uncompromising stance taken by the landlords was doing nothing to dispel the illusion.

The hostels were bearing the brunt of the dispute. Landlords declined to carry out essential repairs until their tenants agreed to the new terms, so students were forced to leave when conditions became intolerable. Alternatively, when leases expired, the owners refused to renew them, so scholars suddenly found themselves ousted from houses they had inhabited for years. Naturally, the University fined the landlords for their audacity, but the landlords were refusing to pay up – and the University was astonished to learn that it did not know how to make them.

‘Look at the way those lads from King’s Hall are glaring at the mason’s apprentices,’ panted Michael as he waddled along at Bartholomew’s side. The fat monk was not built for moving at speed. ‘They would dearly love to fight.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the students of Rudd’s and Margaret’s hostels, who have hated each other for years, have joined forces to menace those pot-boys from the Angel.’

‘But they are still outnumbered,’ said Michael. He heaved a sigh of relief when the scholars backed down and moved away. Immediately, the pot-boys broke into a chorus of jeers and catcalls, but the students showed admirable restraint, perhaps because the Senior Proctor was watching.

He and Bartholomew, with Falmeresham and Carton in tow, hurried along Milne Street, a major thoroughfare named after the mills that thumped and creaked at its southernmost end. First, they passed Ovyng Hostel with its rotting timbers and dirty plaster, then the back of Gonville Hall, a small but wealthy institution that specialised in training lawyers. Then came Trinity Hall and Clare, both with high walls protecting them from the ravages of resentful townsmen – and the ravages of rival foundations. Beyond Clare lay the little church of St John Zachary, and in the distance were the thatched roofs and gables of the Carmelite Friary.

Sandwiched between the University’s property, mostly on the eastern side of the road, were the homes and shops of merchants. Elegant pargeting and glazed windows indicated that Cambridge was a thriving commercial centre, as well as a place of learning and education. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, owned one of the grandest, although he preferred to live outside the town, using his Milne Street premises as a place of business. However, when Cambridge was uneasy he liked to be on hand to protect his assets, and he was in residence that day. He and his wife Edith – Bartholomew’s sister – were in the yard, handing out Easter treats to their apprentices. They waved as their kinsman raced past.

The accident had occurred outside Clare’s main gate, and had attracted a large crowd – scholars as well as the men who worked for the Milne Street traders. Michael’s beadles moved among them, but it was clear they were struggling to keep the peace. Bartholomew saw one student push a jeweller hard enough to make him stumble, then dart away when the fellow whipped around to reciprocate. The student’s cronies raised their hands to indicate they had not been responsible, but there was a jeering, gloating quality to the gesture that was designed to aggravate, not pacify.

‘I am glad you are here, Brother,’ said Beadle Meadowman, stepping forward to greet the man who paid his wages. ‘But Doctor Bartholomew’s services are no longer needed. Robin of Grantchester and the new healer are already here.’

‘What new healer?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

It was Carton who replied. ‘He means Richard Arderne, who arrived on the first day of Lent.’

‘I am surprised you have not come across him, sir,’ added Falmeresham helpfully. ‘He did nothing for the first few weeks, then last Saturday he made his debut with some very public cures.’

‘Matt was busy on Saturday, trying to rectify that unhappy business Deynman precipitated,’ said Michael. ‘He did not have time to wander around and watch other medical men at work.’

Falmeresham rolled his eyes. ‘I had forgotten. Deynman misread the dosage on old Master Hanchach’s medicine, and Doctor Bartholomew was obliged to spend hours making sure the poor man did not die as a result.’

Bartholomew winced. Deynman was becoming a major liability, and he had been appalled to learn that the lad could not be trusted to follow even the most simple of instructions. It told him more than ever that Deynman should never be let loose on the general populace, and he lived in constant fear that the student would decide to abandon his training and go into practice without the qualification that was taking so long to acquire.

‘Arderne has been saying some very rude things about Surgeon Robin,’ said Carton, changing the subject when he saw the cloud pass across the physician’s face. ‘He says his methods are outmoded and dangerous, and that people would be wise to avoid him.’

‘It is true,’ said Falmeresham bluntly. ‘Robin is a menace, and everyone knows it.’

Robin of Grantchester had been in Cambridge for as long as anyone could remember, and held a surgical monopoly. Unfortunately, he was not very good at his trade, and a large number of his patients died. Some perished while he was wielding his filthy instruments, while others expired later, of the fevers that were an inevitability after encounters with Robin. He was summoned only by the desperate or the uninformed, although he was said to be a master at trimming beards.

Luckily for his own patients, Bartholomew was not averse to practising surgery himself, despite it being forbidden to him on two counts. Firstly, it was against Canon Law, and, as a member of the University, he had taken minor religious orders, so was bound by its decrees. Secondly, physicians were supposed to remain aloof from the messy business of cutting and sewing. He had learned, however, that people were more likely to survive if he performed the procedures himself, rather than asking Robin to do them. Therefore, he was pleased to learn that another healer was available for him to call upon, because although he did not mind plying the skills he had learned during his unorthodox training, he disliked the recriminations that often followed from his fellow physicians.

He followed Michael through the press, and surveyed the scene in front of him. A horse stood with its head drooping disconsolately, surrounded by people who seemed more concerned with its welfare than that of its rider. He supposed he should not be surprised, given that the beast was obviously a valuable one. The rider lay on the ground, and the fact that someone had covered him with a cloak suggested he was beyond earthly help.

A cart was on its side nearby, and its passengers sat on the wreckage. Bartholomew recognised them both. One was Candelby and the other was a dumpy, middle-aged woman called Maud Bowyer. Maud’s husband had died during the plague, leaving her one of the wealthiest widows in the county. It was common knowledge that Candelby had been paying her court for the past few months, and everyone was waiting to see whether she would succumb to his charms. Candelby cradled an injured arm, while Maud was bleeding from a splinter that had been driven deep into her shoulder. She was weeping, heartbroken sobs that did not sound like cries of pain. Bartholomew supposed it was shock.

In front of them, wielding a brightly coloured feather, was a tall, thin man who wore the red robes of a surgeon. He had long black hair, and a neat beard. His pale blue eyes were unusually – disconcertingly – bright, and he carried himself with an arrogant confidence.

‘Do not let him near me,’ cried Candelby, when he saw Bartholomew and Michael approach. He waved his uninjured hand at them, but it was not clear to which of them he referred. ‘He might try to make an end of me while I am weak and defenceless.’

There was a growl from the onlookers. Some thought Candelby was right to be cautious, while others resented the slander directed against two of the University’s senior scholars. Bartholomew saw some unfriendly shoving start to take place between a gaggle of Carmelite novices and half-a-dozen burly men who worked at the mills.

‘They would not dare,’ declared the red-robed man confidently. ‘Not while I am here to protect you. I am Magister Richard Arderne, and I protect my patients with my life.’

‘Actually, Candelby is my patient,’ said another voice. ‘So it is my right to protect him.’

A small, grimy fellow stepped from the crowd to hover at Arderne’s side. It was a major tactical mistake for Robin of Grantchester to place himself near the new medicus, because comparisons were inevitable, and none of them worked to his advantage. Robin’s gown was filthy, and his hands and face were not much better. His hair was oily and unkempt, and he bared his brown, rotten fangs in a grin that was decidedly shifty. The bag over his shoulder contained his tools, and some were so thick with old blood they were black. Robin was comparatively wealthy, because of the surgical monopoly he held, but he still looked like a vagrant.

‘I do not want you touching me, Robin,’ said Candelby, alarmed. He glanced at the sobbing woman at his side. ‘Or Maud. Magister Arderne has offered to mend us, and we have accepted.’

‘Fortunately, you paid the retainer I recommended last week,’ said Arderne comfortably. ‘I said at the time that you never know when you might need the services of a healer, and you were wise to part with the ten shillings that grants you unlimited access to my skills.’

‘Ten shillings?’ echoed Bartholomew, staggered by the colossal sum.

Arderne ignored him and addressed the onlookers. ‘Does anyone else want to insure himself against future illness or accident? I sew wounds with no pain, and cure common ailments with minimal fuss. Of course, I am expensive, but quality costs.’ He looked Robin up and down disparagingly, to indicate what he thought of the cheaper alternative.

‘I will send an apprentice with the coins later,’ said the town’s leading mason. ‘Accidents happen, as Candelby and Maud can attest, so it is sensible to be ready for them.’

‘No!’ breathed Robin, appalled. ‘You are mine; you have been with me since the Death.’

‘And you half-killed me the last time I was obliged to summon you,’ said the mason baldly. ‘But I saw Magister Arderne at work on Saturday, and I was deeply impressed.’

‘If Candelby and Maud are in your care, then help them,’ said Bartholomew to Arderne in a low voice. Touting for business while patients suffered was unprofessional in the extreme. ‘She looks as if she might faint.’

‘She will not,’ declared Arderne with considerable confidence. ‘I have shaken my magical feather at her, and a complete recovery is guaranteed.’

‘I might swoon,’ countered Maud in a voice that was hoarse from weeping. A woman, who appeared to be her maidservant, had hurried to her side and was comforting her. ‘I do not feel well, and want to go home. Who will take me?’

‘I shall,’ said Arderne grandly, pushing Robin away when he started to step towards her. ‘I have already sent a boy for my personal transport, and it will be here soon.’

She nodded gratefully, while Bartholomew thought a pain-dulling potion would have done her more good than the wave of a feather. Still, bloody wounds were the domain of surgeons, not physicians, and Bartholomew did not want to cause trouble by pressing a scholar’s opinions on a man who had so clearly won the approval of the town.

‘I cannot bear him,’ muttered Robin, shooting Arderne a furious glare. ‘His “personal transport”, indeed! If he means his cart, then why does he not say so?’

While Michael tried to disperse the crowd, Bartholomew knelt next to the crumpled figure covered by the cloak. He could tell from the tufts of dandelion-clock hair poking above it that the victim was indeed his elderly colleague Master Lynton from the College of Peterhouse. Despite Bartholomew’s frustration with Lynton’s narrow-mindedness in medical matters – and Lynton’s horror at what he called Bartholomew’s love of heretical medicine – they had never been serious enemies, and had rubbed along well enough together. Bartholomew gazed at the kindly face with genuine sorrow, sharply reminded of his own distress for Kenyngham. He pulled more of the cloak away, wondering what had actually killed him. What he saw made his stomach lurch in shock.

Bartholomew was so intent on examining Lynton that he did not hear Arderne come to stand behind him. He leapt in alarm at the hissing voice so close to his shoulder, and hastily tugged the cloak to conceal his colleague’s wounds. He did not want anyone else to see them, given the volatile mood of the people who milled around the scene of the accident.

‘I understand Cambridge has four physicians, every one of them a charlatan,’ Arderne was saying, his pale eyes burning curiously. Bartholomew stood quickly, not liking the way the man hovered over him. ‘Which one are you?’

‘Well, he is not Lynton,’ sneered a red-faced taverner named Blankpayn. He owned a disreputable alehouse called the Lilypot, and was Candelby’s most fervent supporter. ‘Because Lynton is dead.’

Blankpayn was accompanied by three lads who worked in his tavern, plus several of his regular customers. The patrons were rough, greasy men with ponderous bellies, who looked as if they would do anything for a free drink. There was a pause as slow minds digested what Blankpayn had said, followed by hearty laughter as their companion’s wit eventually hit home. Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He needed to talk to Michael about Lynton, and did not want to waste time bandying words with men who wanted to quarrel with him.

‘He is Doctor Bartholomew, from Michaelhouse,’ replied Falmeresham coldly. Carton was plucking at his friend’s sleeve, trying to pull him away from the confrontation. Falmeresham freed himself impatiently. ‘And he is no charlatan, so watch your tongue.’

There was a murmur of support from the Carmelites and a group of scholars from Clare. Bartholomew was alarmed to see the crowd had separated into two halves. He put his hand on Falmeresham’s shoulder, silently ordering him to say no more.

‘You are a surgeon?’ asked Bartholomew politely. He pointed to Arderne’s red robes, fighting the urge to walk away from the man and talk to Michael. It would be deemed rude, and he did not want to antagonise anyone.

‘I am a healer,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘No mere sawbones – and no urine-gazer, either. I am superior to both trades, because my remedies are efficacious and I know what I am doing.’

‘A leech,’ sneered Falmeresham. ‘A common trickster.’

‘Perhaps we can talk another time,’ said Bartholomew hastily, before Arderne could react to the insult. ‘But now, your patients need you, and I must carry Lynton to his College.’

‘Here comes my personal transport,’ said Arderne, turning as a cart clattered rather recklessly into the onlookers. It was painted with herbs, stars and signs of the zodiac, and looked more like something a magician would own than a medicus. He addressed its driver. ‘Help my new patients, but be gentle. My cure is working, and rough treatment might see it all reversed again.’

‘Damned liar!’ spat Falmeresham. ‘A cure either works or it does not.’

Arderne chose to ignore him, but a nondescript man, whom Bartholomew had seen working in the Angel when he had bought his pie – his name was Ocleye – was unwilling to let the matter pass. ‘What can apprentice physicians know about the power of magic?’ he demanded. ‘Your teachers do not choose to initiate you into such mysteries, so you will always remain ignorant of them.’

‘Lynton will not be teaching any mysteries now, magical or otherwise,’ brayed Blankpayn. He had enjoyed his cronies laughing at his first witticism, and was eager to repeat the experience. After another pause, his friends cackled obligingly.

‘Poor Lynton,’ said Carton. He knelt, and Bartholomew thought he was going to pray. Instead he began to tidy the cloak that covered the body, straightening it with small, fussy movements that betrayed his unease at the hostility that was bubbling around them.

Michael had ordered his beadles to stand between the two factions, in the hope of preventing more violence. ‘Who saw the accident?’ he asked, looking around.

‘Lynton came racing along Milne Street at a speed that was far from safe,’ replied Blankpayn immediately. ‘His death serves him right. He might have killed poor Candelby.’

‘Perhaps he intended to,’ said Arderne slyly.

Bartholomew glanced sharply at the healer. Arderne knew perfectly well that such a remark might stoke the flames of hatred. Of course, a brawl would almost certainly result in casualties, some of whom might require the services of a medicus. The physician struggled to mask his distaste for the fellow’s unethical tactics.

‘Did you actually see cart and horse collide, Blankpayn?’ pressed Michael, choosing to overlook Arderne’s comment. The monk was pale, and Bartholomew sensed his growing unease with the situation.

‘I was close by,’ hedged Blankpayn, indicating that he had not. ‘And Candelby told me the whole incident was Lynton’s fault.’

‘I shall question Candelby myself – we do not condemn anyone on hearsay.’ Michael raised his voice. ‘Everyone should go home. There is nothing to see here.’

‘Lies!’ shouted Arderne, startling everyone with his sudden vehemence. ‘How can you say there is nothing to see when I am at work? How dare you denigrate my performance!’

‘Your performance?’ Bartholomew was startled by the choice of words.

‘My miraculous healing of Candelby and Maud. They would be dead by now, had it not been for my timely intervention. I healed them with my magic feather.’

Bartholomew declined to argue with him. He knew from experience that such characters were best ignored until they destroyed themselves with their outrageous boasts. He glanced at Lynton again, itching for the confrontation to be over, so he could talk to Michael.

‘It is time Cambridge was blessed with a decent medical practitioner,’ Arderne went on. ‘The age of amateurs is over, and the people of this fine town will now benefit from the best that modern science can offer. I, Richard Arderne, can cure leprosy, poxes, falling sicknesses and contagions. I can make barren women fertile, and draw teeth with no pain at all.’

‘Can you turn lead into gold, too?’ jeered Falmeresham. Bartholomew poked him in the back.

‘I am working on it,’ replied Arderne, unfazed. ‘And when I succeed – which is only a matter of time – I shall share my good fortune with my loyal patients. But now I must take Maud home before she weeps herself into a fit. Good afternoon to you all.’

He was gone in a flurry of clattering hoofs and wheels, leaving the crowd somewhat bemused.

‘You see?’ murmured Robin, suddenly at Bartholomew’s elbow. The physician jumped, on edge and uncomfortable. ‘How can I compete with that sort of announcement? He will ruin me.’

‘He will not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is only a matter of time before one of his clients points out that he was in pain when a tooth was drawn, or that she is still barren. Then his reputation will–’

‘But that might take weeks,’ cried Robin. ‘And he will destroy me in the meantime.’

Bartholomew did not know what to say, aware that Arderne’s brash confidence would certainly appeal to more people than Robin’s sly deference. He watched the unhappy surgeon slouch away.

‘I shall not mourn Lynton,’ declared Blankpayn. ‘One fewer scholar is good news. I heard old master Kenyngham has gone to meet his maker, too, so it is definitely a good Easter for the town.’

Before Bartholomew could stop him, Falmeresham had launched himself at the taverner, who instinctively drew his dagger. Falmeresham saw it too late to swerve, and his mouth opened in shock as he ran on to the blade. He stumbled to his knees. Blankpayn dropped his knife and began to back away, his face white with horror at what he had done.

‘No!’ breathed Bartholomew. He started to run towards his stricken student, but did not get far. One of the patrons swung a punch that caught him squarely on the side of the jaw. He went down hard, and was forced to cover his head with his hands when there was a sudden, furious rush to join the ensuing affray. He tried to stand, but was knocked down again by someone crashing into him. He heard Michael bellowing, ordering everyone home. Then the bells of St John Zachary started to ring, warning scholars that trouble was afoot. More men started to pour into the street.

Bartholomew managed to struggle upright, looking wildly around for his friends. He could not see Falmeresham, and hoped that Carton had dragged him to safety. Meanwhile, Michael was backed against the broken cart, fending off two masons, who were threatening him with daggers. Bartholomew retrieved the heavy childbirth forceps from the medicine bag he always wore looped across his shoulder, and struck one on the shoulder. The other spun around to fight him, but backed away when he saw a knife was no match for an expertly wielded surgical implement.

Michael gazed at the pushing, shoving mêlée with undisguised fury. He stalked to a trough that was used for watering horses, and in a massive show of strength – for all his lard, he was a physically powerful man – upended it. Green water shot across the street, drenching the legs of anyone close by. There were indignant howls as the skirmishers tried to duck out of the way.

‘Enough!’ roared the monk. His livid face made several scholars slink away before he started to issue fines. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, brawling on Easter Day! Go home, all of you, and do not come out again until you are in a more peaceful frame of mind.’

Bartholomew was astonished when people began to do as they were told. There were some resentful grumbles, but it was not long before the horde had dissipated.

‘Where is Falmeresham?’ demanded Bartholomew of Carton, who was standing uncertainly nearby. ‘I thought he was with you.’

‘I thought he was with you,’ countered the Franciscan alarmed. ‘I saw you dash towards him, but I had no wish to fight Blankpayn and his henchmen, so I hung back.’

‘He will have gone home,’ said Michael, still glaring at the dispersing mob. ‘He is not a fool, to loiter in a place where daggers were flailing.’

‘He could not go anywhere – he was stabbed,’ said Carton in a hushed, shocked whisper. He put his hand to his side, just above the hip bone. ‘Here. I should have overcome my terror and tried to reach him.’

‘Easy,’ said Michael. There was blood on Carton’s mouth, indicating he had not been entirely successful in avoiding the violence. ‘We will find him.’

‘Perhaps Blankpayn took him prisoner.’ Carton declined to be comforted, and was working himself into an agony of worry. ‘Perhaps he intends to hold Falmeresham hostage, to blackmail our University over these rents. He is Candelby’s lickspittle, and will do anything for him.’

‘Blankpayn does not have the wits to devise such a devious plan,’ said Michael. ‘Falmeresham will be home at Michaelhouse. Go, see if you can find him.’

The friar hurried away, anxiety stamped across his portly features, and Michael sighed. ‘Lord save us! Will you fetch a bier for Lynton, Matt? We cannot leave him here, because our students may use his corpse as an excuse for another fracas – claim he was murdered or some such nonsense.’

‘Actually, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, ‘he died because he was shot. He was murdered.’