A Bone of Contention

CHAPTER 4

Bartholomew’s fears for Hedwise’s well-being were unfounded as it happened, and most of the cases he saw the afternoon after the riot comprised minor injuries, rather than serious wounds. He tended a merchant who had gashed his hand on glass when he tried to protect his home from looters, and then set off along Milne Street to where a baker with eyes sore from smoke awaited him. On his way, he was accosted by a shabby figure in dark green, with protuberant blue eyes and a dirty, unshaven look.

His hands, Bartholomew could not help but notice, were black with dried blood.

‘Good afternoon, Robin,’ he said, involuntarily stepping backwards as the surgeon’s rank body odour wafted towards him.

‘I hear you have been stitching and cutting,’ said Robin of Grantchester in a sibilant whisper, pursing his lips and looking at Bartholomew in disapproval. ‘Chopping and sewing.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew shortly, walking on. He did not have the time to engage in a lengthy discussion with the surgeon about the techniques he used, despite the fact that Bartholomew thought the man could use all the help he could get: Robin of Grantchester was not noted for his medical successes. The surgeon scurried after him.

‘Surgery is for surgeons,’ hissed Robin, sniffing wetly. ‘Physicking and reading the stars is for physicians. You are taking the bread from my mouth.’

Bartholomew heartily wished that were true, and that Robin would pack up his unsanitary selection of implements and look for greener pastures in another town.

The more Bartholomew observed the surgeon in action, the more he was convinced that his grimy hands did far more harm than good, and shuddered to think of anyone being forced to pay him for any dubious services he might render. The fact that Robin always demanded payment in advance because of his high mortality rate did little to endear him to Bartholomew.

‘My job is slitting and slicing,’ said Robin venomously.

‘Hacking and slashing, more like,’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering whether the man had been drinking.

His eyes were red-rimmed and he seemed unsteady on his feet.

‘You are not a surgeon. You have no right,’ persisted Robin. ‘I do not profess to read the stars or inspect urine. Keep to your profession, Bartholomew, and I will keep to mine. I shall complain to the master of Michaelhouse if you continue to poach my trade.’

‘Complain then,’ said Bartholomew carelessly, knowing that Master Kenyngham would do nothing about it. ‘I am duty bound to do whatever it takes to ensure the complete recovery of my patients. If that involves a degree of surgery, then so be it.’

‘You can call me to do it,’ said Robin, wiping his runny nose with a bloodstained finger. ‘The other physicians do so, and I insist you do not poach my work.’

‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, stopping outside the sore-eyed baker’s house. ‘I promise you I will ask any patient I operate on whether they would rather have you or me. Will that suffice?’

Robin saw it would have to, and slunk away down a dark alley, his canvas sack of saws and knives clanking ominously as he went. Before Bartholomew could knock at the baker’s door, he was hailed a second time, and turned to see Adam Radbeche, the Principal of David’s Hostel and the man responsible for Father Andrew and his unruly Scottish students.

Radbeche was a distinctive-looking man, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair that reminded Bartholomew of a scarecrow. The Scot was a well-known figure in the University, famous for his brilliant interpretations of the works of Aristotle, and Bartholomew was pleased that Radbeche’s scholarship had been rewarded by an appointment to Principal – even if it were only to the small, anonymous David’s Hostel. Students and masters from the same part of the world tended to gather together, so it was not unusual that Radbeche had attracted fellow Scots to his establishment.

The philosopher’s hand was bandaged; he explained that he had been burned while assisting a neighbour to extinguish a fire. The students had also helped to bring the fire under control, but, Radbeche said, at least three times he had counted them all back in again, so Bartholomew was inclined to believe that the Scots had played no part in the rioting. He led Radbeche across the road to sit on the low wall surrounding the little church of St John Zachary – decommissioned since the plague had taken most of its parishioners, and now with weeds growing out of its windows and its roof sagging dangerously.

While Bartholomew inspected and re-dressed the burned hand, Radbeche informed him that the ailing student Bartholomew had treated the day before at David’s was recovering well. When Bartholomew waved away the offer of payment, impatient to attend the baker who had emerged from his house and was blinking at him anxiously, Radbeche suggested instead that he might like to borrow a medical book by the great Greek physician Galen. Bartholomew was surprised.

‘Galen? But you have no medical students.’

Radbeche smiled. ‘It was a gift from a man who could not read and who purchased the first book that matched the price he was willing to pay. It is the only book we own, actually. We borrow what we need from King’s Hall or the Franciscan Friary.’

‘Which book by Galen do you have?’ asked Bartholomew with keen interest.

Radbeche seemed taken aback. ‘Prognostica, I believe.’

He saw Bartholomew’s doubtful look at his ignorance, and shrugged. ‘I am a philosopher, Doctor. I have no interest in medical texts – even if they are all we have!’

Despite the fact that the University was a place of learning, and students were obliged to know certain texts if they wanted to pass their examinations, books were rare and expensive, and each one was jealously guarded. Michaelhouse only possessed three medical books and Bartholomew was delighted by Radbeche’s generous offer. He gave the Principal a grateful grin and made his farewells so that he could attend to the agitated baker.

Later, as he was returning to Michaelhouse for more bandages, Bartholomew saw the untruthful Brother Edred limping up the High Street. Moments after, his colleague Brother Werbergh slunk past sporting a bruised eye, looking very sorry for himself.

Justice in Cambridge was swift and brutal, and, before evening, four men alleged to have been ringleaders in the rioting were hanged on the Castle walls as a grim warning to others who might consider breaking the Ring’s peace.

Other rioters were released when heavy fines had been paid, with warnings that next time, they too would be kicking empty air on the Castle walls. Whether the hanged men really were the ringleaders of the riot was a matter for conjecture. While Bartholomew imagined they might have been in the thick of the fighting – perhaps even urging others to do damage and harm – the evidence that they were the real instigators was, at best, dubious.

As the shadows began to lengthen, and the heat of the day was eased by a cooling breeze, Bartholomew finished his work. Sam Gray and Rob Deynman, the two students who had been missing from Michaelhouse the night before, had helped him with the last few visits. Deynman had shown an aptitude for bandaging that Bartholomew never realised he had; this offered some glimmer of hope that his least-able student might yet make some kind of physician.

‘Where were you two last night?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked home together.

The students exchanged furtive glances and Bartholomew, tired and hot, felt his patience evaporating.

His students sensed it too and Gray hastened to answer.

‘We were at Maud’s Hostel. I know we are not supposed to frequent other hostels,’ he added quickly, seeing Bartholomew’s expression of weary disapproval. ‘But Rob’s younger brother is there, as you know.’ He cast Bartholomew a sidelong glance. Bartholomew, struggling to teach Rob Deynman – not the most gifted of students – had seen within moments that the younger brother made Rob appear a veritable genius and had refused to teach him at Michaelhouse. The younger Deynman, therefore, had secured himself a place at Maud’s, an exclusive establishment with a reputation for rich, but slow, students.

‘It was my brother Jack’s birthday,’ said Deynman cheerfully, ‘and we were invited to celebrate at Maud’s. By the time the wine ran out and we were ready to leave, the riot had started. The Maud’s Principal advised us to stay.’

‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether the idea to stay was truly the Principal’s, or, more likely, Gray’s. Gray, with his loaded dice and silver tongue, would profit greatly from an evening among the wealthy, but gullible, students at Maud’s. Deynman, slow-witted and naïve, was often an innocent foil to Gray’s untiring and invariably imaginative ploys to make money by deception.

Still, Bartholomew was grateful that they had had the sense not to stray out on to the streets when the town was inflamed – whatever their motive. He was fond of Gray and Deynman, and had been relieved when they had reported to him unharmed earlier that day.

‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ came a soft voice from behind him, and Bartholomew felt his spirits sink.

Guy Heppel, the Junior Proctor, sidled closer, smiling enthusiastically from under a thick woollen cap. He held out a hefty pile of scrolls to Bartholomew. ‘I have all the information you will need to conduct a complete astrological consultation on me. Would now be a convenient moment?’

‘No,’ said Gray, before Bartholomew could think of a plausible excuse. ‘There is a new moon tonight, you see, and Doctor Bartholomew, being born under the influence of Venus, is never at his best when the moon is new. You would be better off trying him next week.’

Heppel nodded in complete and sympathetic understanding.

‘Then I shall do so,’ he said, rubbing his free hand up and down the sides of his gown in the curious manner Bartholomew had noticed earlier. ‘It is just as well you are indisposed, I suppose. The Chancellor has ordered me to march around the town with the beadles to warn scholars that anyone caught out after the curfew will spend the night in our cells. So, it is all for the best that you cannot entice me from my duties to spend the time with you on my consultation. When I finish announcing the curfew, I intend to go home to King’s Hall and spend the evening by the fire.’

‘Fire? In this weather?’ asked Bartholomew before he could stop himself.

Heppel looked pained. ‘For my chest,’ he explained. ‘You understand. And I find a fire so much better for reading after dark. Much better than a candle, don’t you think?’

Since candles were expensive and firewood more so, Bartholomew had seldom had the opportunity to find out.

‘I heard your brother-in-law’s premises were attacked last night,’ Heppel added as he rolled up his sheaf of parchments. ‘I hope no damage was done.’

Bartholomew had not given his family a single thought that day, assuming that if any of Oswald Stanmore’s household had been harmed they would have summoned him. He decided he should pay them a visit, reluctantly banishing from his mind the attractive alternative of a wash in clean water and a quiet supper in the orchard.

He rubbed his hand through his hair wearily, nodding to Heppel as he took his leave.

‘Thank you for getting me out of that, Sam,’ he said when the Junior Proctor had gone. ‘The last thing I feel like doing now is thinking about astrology. Did you make it all up?’

‘Of course I did,’ said Gray, surprised by the question. ‘I certainly did not learn it from you, did I, bearing in mind your antipathy to the subject?’

‘I have taught you some astrology,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, ‘including how to do consultations of the kind Heppel has in mind. In fact, you can do his next week and I shall listen to see how much you have remembered.’

Gray sighed theatrically. ‘Never do a master a favour, Rob,’ he instructed Deynman. ‘It is seldom appreciated and often dangerous.’

‘I will do Master Heppel’s consultation,’ offered Deynman enthusiastically. ‘I recall everything you said about Venus and Mars.’

Bartholomew seriously doubted it, and had reservations about letting Deynman loose on anyone, even for something as non-invasive as a consultation about astrology. He might well inform Heppel that he only had a few days to live, or that a strong dose of arsenic would increase his chances of living to be a hundred years old. While Deynman’s outrageous interpretations of planetary movements provided Bartholomew with an endless supply of amusing anecdotes with which to horrify Michael, it would scarcely be appropriate to inflict him on real patients.

Tiredly, Bartholomew sent his students back to Michael-house with orders not to go out again and went to find his brother-in-law. Soldiers were very much in evidence on the streets, sweating under their chain-mail, and armed to the teeth. Heppel and his group of beadles were marching around the town proclaiming that all scholars must be in their hostels or colleges by seven o’clock, and that any who were not would be summarily arrested. The Sheriffs men were issuing similar warnings to the townspeople.

It seemed to be working: the streets were emptier than usual. People had laboured all day in the sweltering sun to restore order to the town and, with luck, would be too exhausted for rioting that night. Burned wreckage had been moved into a large pile and other rubbish swept away. Bartholomew saw some of it being carted off in the direction of the King’s Ditch, and wondered if, after all the dredging efforts by both town and University, the Ditch was to be blocked again so soon. He also wondered at the wisdom of collecting all the partly burned wood into a large pile in the Market Square: even to the most naïve of eyes, it looked like a bonfire waiting to be lit.

Stanmore’s business premises were protected by a high wall and sturdy gates. No harm had come to them that Bartholomew could detect, although the house next door had been attacked and looted. Stanmore employed a small number of mercenaries to protect his ever-increasing trade and it would be a foolish man who would risk targeting his property. Bartholomew, with an ease born of familiarity, walked across the yard and ran lightly up the wooden stairs to the fine solar on the upper floor.

Bartholomew had always liked the room Stanmore used as an office. A colourful assortment of rugs were scattered across the floor and it always smelled of parchment, ink and dyed cloth.

Stanmore sat at a table near the window, dictating a letter to his secretary. The merchant dismissed the clerk as Bartholomew poked his head round the door, then greeted his brother-in-law warmly. He sent for wine, and gestured that Bartholomew should sit on one of the cushioned window seats where he would be fanned by the breeze.

‘Guy Heppel told me your premises had been attacked,’ said Bartholomew, sipping at some fine red wine. He glanced down at it, noting how clear it was and the richness of its colour. He decided Michael was wrong after all – if Bartholomew acquired a taste for good wine, clear ale and edible food, he would starve to death at Michaelhouse.

‘Guy Heppel was mistaken,’ said Stanmore, sitting opposite him and offering him an apple from a large dish. ‘I had my men posted on the walls with arrows at the ready; the rioters prudently went elsewhere – next door among other places.’

‘Do you have any ideas about why the town is in such turmoil?’ asked Bartholomew. Stanmore’s wide network of informants meant that he was often party to information inaccessible to University men and it was always worth asking what he had heard.

Stanmore shook his head slowly. ‘Ostensibly, the riots were about the death of that student and the skeleton in the Ditch,’ he said, ‘but I cannot believe they were the only reasons. The whole town has been growing increasingly uneasy during the past two weeks or so. A student was killed by an apprentice last month in a street fight and his death did not provoke such a violent reaction.’

‘Michael was thinking along the same lines this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, neither of us can imagine why anyone should want to instigate such chaos.’

He rubbed a hand through his hair, staring down at the wine in his cup. ‘Damage was done to both town and University property and there were arrests on both sides. It is difficult to see what anyone might have gained – scholar or townsperson. Do you have any ideas yourself?’

Stanmore blew out his cheeks. ‘None that I can prove,’ he replied. ‘But Master Deschalers’s house next door was systematically sacked last night – not looted on the spur of the moment, but carefully burgled and only items of the greatest value taken. Oh, things were broken and thrown around to make it look as if it had been sacked, of course. But the reality was that nothing was stolen except that which was most valuable and easily spirited away.’

‘You think someone caused a riot to burgle Deschalers’s house?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Stanmore made an impatient sound. ‘Of course not, Matt! But it would not surprise me if you discovered Deschalers’s was not the only house looted last night. If several such burglaries took place, then someone might have benefited considerably.’

Bartholomew regarded him soberly, and finished his wine. ‘If the word is spread that the riots were started to allow burglars to operate, then sensible people will hide their valuables. It might deter thieves from sparking off another night of chaos to do it again.’ He set the cup down on the window-sill and stood.

‘True,’ said Stanmore, following Bartholomew down the stairs to see him out. ‘And the threat of burglary might be enough to keep people off the streets. Who would be foolish enough to leave their homes, knowing that they were being enticed out deliberately?’

‘I doubt it was the wealthy merchants, with houses worth looting, who were out rioting last night,’ said Bartholomew, looking backwards at him. ‘It was the apprentices and the poor people with little to lose. I do not think burglars would start a riot to steal a few cracked plates and a handful of tallow candles.’

‘Times are hard, Matt,’ said Stanmore primly. ‘Since the Death, there is a shortage of everything – including plates and candles. Such items are valuable these days.’

‘If you were poor, would you burgle Deschalers’s mansion or Dunstan the Riverman’s hovel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If caught, you would be hanged in either case.’

‘True enough,’ admitted Stanmore. ‘Suffice to say I am glad I am not in the Sheriffs shoes today. I would not know where to start investigating all this.’

Bartholomew glanced up at the dusky sky, and swore softly. ‘The Sheriff! Damn! I promised him I would go to the Castle and examine the bodies of those who died last night.’

‘Better hurry, then,’ said Stanmore, ushering him out of the gate. ‘The curfew is early tonight, and I would not break it if I were you.’

Bartholomew walked briskly away from Stanmore’s house towards the Castle. The land on which Cambridge stood was flat, but at the northern end, there was a small rise on which William the Conqueror had chosen to build a wooden keep in 1068. The small rise became Castle Hill, and the wooden keep had developed into a formidable fortress with a thick curtain wall and several strong, stone towers.

As he walked, Bartholomew saw the streets were virtually deserted, and cursed himself for agreeing to examine the bodies that day. He did not feel safe walking alone along streets that usually thronged with people, nor did he like the fact that the only people he did see were heavily armed.

‘Matthew!’ came a voice from the shadows. ‘You should not be out so late. The curfew bell will sound in a few moments, and you are heading in entirely the wrong direction.’

‘Good evening, Matilde,’ said Bartholomew, turning with a warm smile to the woman who emerged from the house of one of the town’s brewers. ‘You should not be out, either.’

As soon as he had spoken, he realised how stupid his words were. Matilde was a prostitute, and the hours of darkness were, presumably, when she conducted much of her business. Known as ‘Lady Matilde’ because, according to popular rumour, she had once been a lady-in-waiting to a duchess but had been dismissed for entertaining one too many gentlemen in her chambers, she had come to Cambridge to ply her trade in peace. Unlike the other prostitutes, Matilde was well-spoken, and her manners were gentle. Bartholomew had never asked her whether the story were true – not because he thought she might not tell him, but because he liked her aura of mystery and enigma.

Matilde was, to Bartholomew’s mind, the most attractive woman in Cambridge. She had long hair that reached her knees in a glossy veil, and a small, impish face that was simultaneously beautiful and mischievous. He found he was staring at her and had not heard a word she had been saying.

‘I am going to the Castle,’ he said, trying to mask the fact that he had not been paying attention. ‘Can I escort you somewhere?’

‘I have just told you that I am going home,’ said Matilde, laughing at him. ‘Have you not been listening to me?’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to walk towards The Jewry – the part of the town that had once been inhabited by a little community of Jews before their expulsion from England some sixty years before – where Matilde lived. It was on his way, and would not be an inconvenience. ‘I have had a long day, Matilde, given the number of people who were injured last night.’

She gave him a sympathetic look, and they walked for a while in silence. Bartholomew was aware that he was dirty and dusty, but that she smelled clean and fragrant.

Her hair shone, even in the faint light of dusk. Next to her the Tyler sisters paled into insignificance, like distant stars compared to the sun. Not for the first time in their friendship Bartholomew wished that she had chosen a different profession, and that he might ask her to accompany him for walks by the river, or even to the Founder’s Feast. He was surprised when she replied, realising with a shock that he must have spoken the invitation aloud.

‘I do not think that would be a good idea, Matthew,’ she said. ‘What would Master Kenyngham say when he saw you had invited a courtesan to dine at his college?’

Master Kenyngham would not know a courtesan if one appeared stark naked at his high table, thought Bartholomew, but his colleague Father William would, and then there would be trouble. But Bartholomew was tired, he was missing Philippa more than he thought possible, and he was about to go and inspect corpses in the dark for the Sheriff. He decided he did not care what Father William might say, and since the invitation had apparently been issued, he could hardly withdraw it.

‘Please come,’ he said. ‘It is the only occasion in the year that Michaelhouse provides food fit for eating, and the choir are going to sing some ballads.’

He hesitated. ‘If you have heard them in church, that might put you off. But apart from the singing and the speeches, the day might be quite pleasant – much more so than the Festival of St Michael and All Angels will be.’

‘I heard that you have already invited Eleanor Tyler to the Founder’s Feast,’ said Matilde. ‘Are you sure that my presence will not be awkward for you?’

He gazed at her in astonishment. He had totally forgotten his invitation to Eleanor – not that it mattered, since he was allowed two guests – but it was remarkable that Matilde should know.

‘She has been telling anyone who will listen that she is to be the guest of the University’s senior physician for Michaelhouse’s Founder’s Feast,’ said Matilde, smiling at his confusion. ‘It is quite the talk of the town.’

‘It is?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘To be honest, I think she more or less invited herself. I suppose she wanted to see the College silver, or hear the music.’

‘That is what you think, is it?’ asked Matilde, eyes sparkling with merriment. ‘Oh, Matthew! You are a good man, but I do not think this University of yours is teaching you very much about life!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly offended. ‘I have travelled as far as Africa and the frozen lands to the north, and I have seen great cathedrals and castles, and the aftermath of wars, not to mention…’

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Matilde, still smiling. ‘I do not doubt your experience or your learning. You just seem to know very little of women.’

‘I know enough,’ said Bartholomew, although his recent experience with Philippa made him suspect Matilde was right. ‘Some of my patients are women. But will you come? To the Founder’s Feast?’

Matilde reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Yes, I will. Although if you have second thoughts in the cold light of day, you must tell me. I will not be offended.’

Bartholomew had said as much to Hedwise Tyler after he had invited her to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels. His head reeled. Had Philippa’s rejection of him addled his mind? In the course of a single day, he had issued invitations to three separate women, one of whom was a prostitute, to visit Michaelhouse. While he might be expected to get away with one, three would certainly catch the eye of the fanatical Father William, not to mention the other Fellows. The best Bartholomew could hope for was that his colleagues would have some sort of collective fainting fit, only recovering their wits when the day was over and the women safely off the College premises. His mind still whirling, Bartholomew made his way to the Castle on the hill.

The Castle had the air of being in a state of siege.

There was no soldier, inside or out, who was not fully armoured and armed. Archers lined the curtain walls in anticipation of an attack, and the great gates that normally stood open were closed, the wicket door heavily guarded. Bartholomew saw that there was a guard near the portcullis mechanism, ready to release it at a moment’s notice. It was no secret in the town that the chains that held the portcullis needed to be replaced – such chains were yet another item impossible to buy since the plague – and it was generally believed that if the portcullis were lowered, the chains would not be strong enough to allow it to be raised again. Sheriff Tulyet, Bartholomew realised, must be anxious indeed if he were considering using it.

Bartholomew was allowed through the barbican, and then into the Castle bailey. Soldiers milled around restlessly, some preparing to leave on patrol, others returning.

Every one of the towers that studded the curtain wall seemed to be a focus of frenetic activity. Ancient arms were being dragged out of storage to substitute for those that had been lost or damaged the night before; fletch ers and blacksmiths laboured feverishly in the failing light to meet the Sheriffs demands for repairs and replacements.

The bodies Bartholomew had been asked to examine were in one of the outbuildings in the bailey. The building was little more than a shack; inside it was dank, airless and stiflingly hot. Bartholomew felt the sweat begin to prickle on his back after only a few seconds. There were no windows, and the Castle clerk who had been assigned to record Bartholomew’s evidence brought a lamp so they would be able to see what they were doing.

‘Five bodies were recovered from the burned houses on the High Street,’ said the clerk as he sharpened an ancient quill. ‘But they were all reclaimed by the Austin Canons from St John’s Hospital on the grounds that they were already dead. The Canons use a house on the main street as a mortuary.’ He paused in his sharpening, favouring Bartholomew with a look that indicated fervent disapproval.

‘They think the smell from the tannery above might negate any ill-effects the odours from the bodies might produce,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I know what they think,’ snapped the clerk. ‘They were at great pains to explain it all to me when I complained. My wife’s sister lives next door.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘The building was burned to the ground last night. I hope…’ He wondered what he could say. The clerk came to his rescue.

‘The fire spread the other way, thank the Lord.’ He crossed himself automatically, testing the tip of his quill for sharpness at the same time with his other hand. ‘But she does not like living next to corpses. It is all very well for the Canons to say there are no ill-effects, but how would they know?’

Bartholomew suspected the clerk had a point, and had argued with the Canons at the time that the stench from the tannery probably masked dangerous odours, rather than neutralised them. But debating the point with the clerk would lead nowhere. He gestured for the man to kindle the lamp and lead him to the bodies that awaited their attention.

For a moment, both men stood together staring down at the neat row of sheeted figures that lay on the beaten-earth floor. Then, anxious to complete his task as soon as possible, Bartholomew knelt next to the first one, and drew back the rough cover. Memories surged forward unbidden as he found himself looking into the face of the French student he had fought, and whom Mistress Tyler had stabbed. He made a pretence at searching for other wounds, glad that the clerk’s mind was on his writing, but feeling as if guilt must shine from every pore in his body. He muttered that the cause of death was due to a single stab wound in the back, covered the body, and moved on thankfully to the next one.

If anything, this was a worse encounter, for it was the corpse of the friar he had mistaken for Michael. He found his hands were shaking, and blinked the sweat from his eyes. For a moment he thought he might faint, and had to close his eyes tightly before he could regain control of himself.

‘Have you identified this friar?’ he asked, partly for information, but mainly because he wanted to hear the clerk’s voice in this room of death.

‘Brother Accra from Godwinsson,’ said the clerk, consulting a list.

Godwinsson again! ‘How can you be sure?’ Bartholomew snapped, rattled. He continued a little more gently. ‘His skull is crushed beyond all recognition.’

‘He was identified by a scar on his knee,’ said the clerk, apparently oblivious to Bartholomew’s outburst. ‘Principal Lydgate and a Brother Edred were the witnesses. They both claimed there was no doubt.’

Bartholomew covered the friar’s mangled head with its blanket, and braced himself for the next one. It was the potter he had tended that morning. He glanced along the row of bodies and saw that there were nine, and not eight after all.

‘This man is dead from crushing injuries caused by a cart,’ he told the clerk. ‘I saw him alive this morning, but did not think much to his chances.’

The fourth body was so badly burned that Bartholomew could not recognise the features. A sudden picture of old Master Burney came into his head as he remembered the tannery workshop collapsing in the High Street. Other visions flitted through his mind too: the Market Square alive with fire, and someone staggering across it as the flames leapt up his body until he fell. Bartholomew peered more closely at the corpse in the dim light, but there was nothing familiar in the hairless, blackened head. He moved on.

Of the next four, one was a student, and the others townsmen. All had died of knife wounds, great gaping red slashes that had splintered the bone beneath. The last was the body of a woman with long fair hair. Bartholomew was appalled to see that she had been much misused. Her face was battered beyond recognition, and she had been raped. He told the clerk who did not write it down.

‘Better to write that she died from a head injury, Doctor.’

‘That is what you say killed her?’ Bartholomew frowned at him across the gloomy room. ‘The wound to her head was the fatal one,’ he said, ‘but she has also been raped. What purpose is there in suppressing the truth?’

‘The purpose is to prevent grounds for another riot,’ said a voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned to see Richard Tulyet, the Sheriff, leaning against the door frame.

Tulyet, small, slight and efficient, gazed in distaste into the outbuilding and waited for Bartholomew to come out.

The clerk remained behind to finish making a record of Bartholomew’s findings, his pen scratching away in the small circle of light thrown out by the lantern.

‘The townspeople might revolt again if we tell them one of their womenfolk was raped before she was murdered,’ Tulyet said, closing the door and turning to look across the bailey. He made a sound of impatience as one of his men dropped a sword. The soldiers were nervous, and one of the sergeants strutted round them, yelling in a vain attempt to boost their courage. ‘The town will automatically assume that the crime was committed by students, regardless of the truth.’

‘I understand that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when her family comes to claim the body they will see for themselves what has happened. You do not need to be a physician to see how she was misused.’

‘We have already considered that,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And so we are not releasing the dead to their families. The University will bury the students; the town will bury die others. In that way, no one will see the bodies, or attempt to instigate another riot to avenge them.’

‘And that woman’s attackers will go unpunished,’ remarked Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Perhaps they might commit such a crime again when the fancy takes them. Why not? No one bothered to investigate the first time.’

‘Would you have me risk another riot and nine dead to avenge a rape?’ asked Tulyet coldly.

‘Yes I would,’ Bartholomew returned forcefully. ‘Because if you do not word will get round that any vile crime can be committed, and you will do nothing about it lest it interfere with the King’s peace. Then, Master Tulyet, you will have a riot masking crimes that will make last night’s business seem tame.’

Tulyet turned from him with a gesture of impatience.

‘You scholars think you can mend the world with philosophy,’ he said. ‘I am a practical man, and I want to prevent another riot – whatever the cost.’

‘And if your cost is too high?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘What then?’

Tulyet tipped his head back, looking up at the darkening sky. Some of the anger went out of him and he grimaced. ‘Perhaps you are right, Matt. But what would you have us do?’

Bartholomew contemplated. ‘Make discreet inquiries. Find out who last saw her alive and with whom.’ He gripped Tulyet’s mailed arm, his expression earnest. ‘You should at least try, Dick. Supposing some of the townspeople saw her raped and murdered and are expecting at least some attempt to catch the culprit? The last thing the town needs is a retaliation killing.’

‘Is that not what last night was about anyway?’ asked Tulyet, leaning against the dark grey stone of the curtain wall, and scrubbing at his fair beard. ‘Scholars seeking to avenge the death of James Kenzie and townsfolk the poor child in the Ditch?’

‘Oswald Stanmore does not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And neither does Brother Michael. Both believe the riot to be part of some other plot.’

Tulyet’s interest quickened. ‘Really? Do they know what?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘No. But both arrived at the same conclusion independently of each other: that the riot was a means, not an end in itself.’

Tulyet took his arm and guided him to his office in the round keep that loomed over the bailey. He glanced around before closing the door, ensuring that they could talk without being overheard. ‘I have been thinking along the same lines myself,’ he said, his expression intense. ‘I cannot understand why the town should have chosen last night to riot – I do not see Kenzie’s death or the discovery of the skeleton as particularly compelling motives to fight. It has been scratching at the back of my mind all day.’

Bartholomew rubbed at his temples. ‘When Brother Michael and I found Kenzie murdered, it went through our minds that the students might riot if they believed he had been killed by a townsperson. We went to some trouble to keep our thoughts on the matter to ourselves. But neither of us anticipated that the scale of the rioting would be so great. It was terrifying.’

Tulyet puffed out his cheeks, and gave him a rueful smile. ‘You were terrified! Imagine what it felt like to be the embodiment of secular law – for scholar and townsperson alike to single out for violence and abuse! These are dangerous times, Matt. Since the plague, outlaws have flourished and it is difficult to recruit soldiers to replace the ones we lost. Violent crime is more difficult to control and the high price of bread has driven even usually law-abiding people to criminal acts. But all this does not answer our basic question: what was the real cause of last night’s violence?’

‘Perhaps the way forward is to investigate the crimes that were perpetrated under its cover: for example the rape of that woman, and the burglary at Deschalers’s home,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Those among others!’ said Tulyet with resignation. ‘I have had reports of three similar lootings – where only what was easily carried and of the highest value was stolen – and there are the nine deaths to consider.’

‘Do you think one of those nine is at the heart of all this?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘I think it unlikely. The only one of any standing or influence was the young friar from Godwinsson.’

Bartholomew told him about the visit he and Michael had paid to Godwinsson Hostel and the possible roles of the student friars, Edred and Werbergh, in Kenzie’s death.

‘Godwinsson,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Now that I find interesting.’

He went to a wall cupboard and poured two goblets of wine, inviting Bartholomew to sit on one of the hard, functional benches that ran along the walls of his office.

Once his guest was settled as comfortably as possible on the uncompromising wood, Tulyet perched on the edge of the table. He swirled the wine around in his goblet, and regarded Bartholomew thoughtfully.

‘We should talk more often,’ he said. ‘Not only are two of the dead from last night students of Godwinsson – a friar and a Frenchman – but this morning, the Principal of Godwinsson told me that his wife is missing.’

‘So, Mistress Lydgate has flown the nest,’ mused Michael, leaning back in his chair and smiling maliciously. ‘Well, I for one cannot blame her, although I would say the same if it were the other way around, and Lydgate had taken to his heels.’

‘A most charitable attitude, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘It is good to see that compassion is not dead and gone in the Benedictine Order.’

Tulyet was sitting on the chest in Bartholomew’s room at Michaelhouse sipping some of the sour wine left from breakfast. Because it was dark, and therefore after the early curfew imposed following the riot, Tulyet had escorted Bartholomew back to Michaelhouse. The streets had been silent and deserted, but Bartholomew had been unnerved to detect a very real atmosphere of unease and anticipation. Doors of houses were not fully closed and voices whispered within.

‘This is an unpleasant brew,’ said Tulyet, looking in distaste at the deep red wine in his goblet. ‘I would have expected better from Michaelhouse.’

‘Then you must go to the Senior Fellow’s chamber,’ said Michael. ‘He is the man with the taste, and the purse, for fine wines, not a poor Benedictine and an impoverished physician. But tell us about Mistress Lydgate. What happened at Godwinsson last night?’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘Master Lydgate was out all night and discovered his wife was missing when he returned this morning.’

‘Why was the Principal of a University hostel abroad on such a night?’ demanded Michael. ‘Why was he not at home, ensuring his students kept out of mischief, and protecting his hostel? And more to the point, why is he bothering you about his missing wife?’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘It just slipped out. He came to the Castle this morning to identify a couple of the people killed last night. He was in quite a temper, and ranted on to me for some time about the audacity of his students to get themselves killed when it was so inconvenient for him. When I asked him what he meant he blustered for a while. Eventually he revealed that his wife had left him.’

‘And where did he say he was last night, instead of locking up his wife and students?’ asked Michael.

‘I was told, begrudgingly – for I was assured his whereabouts were none of the Sheriffs concern – that he had been dining at Maud’s Hostel and had remained there when he saw how the streets seethed with violence.’

‘Maud’s?’ asked Bartholomew, pricking up his ears.

‘Two of my students claimed they stayed at Maud’s last night. I can ask them to verify Lydgate’s alibi.’

‘Can you indeed?’ said Tulyet, fixing bright eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Master Lydgate will not be pleased to hear that. It is no secret that the Master of Maud’s – Thomas Bigod – is not kindly disposed to secular law, and would never confirm or deny an alibi to help me. Bigod recently lost title to a wealthy manor in the secular courts, and is said to have missed out on a fortune because of it. He holds me, as the embodiment of secular law in the area, responsible for his misfortune.’

‘He is none too fond of University law, either,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘Guy Heppel arrested him the other night for being drunk and disorderly. Unfortunately, he ended up being our guest for longer than necessary because Heppel lost the keys to the cells.’

Tulyet roared with laughter and clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! I wish I could have seen that! Heppel, for all his physical frailty, knows how to give a man his just deserts. Bigod has been a thorn in my side for months, using every opportunity to thwart the course of law and justice.’

‘And I imagine Lydgate is only too aware of Bigod’s antipathy to you,’ said Bartholomew, ‘which is why Lydgate chose him to provide an alibi.’ He went to the door and told a passing student to fetch Gray and Deynman.

Tulyet stroked his fair beard thoughtfully. ‘All this is most interesting. I told Lydgate to liaise with the University Proctors regarding his dead students’ remains. He became abusive and said he did not want you near them because he was not convinced of your competence. I was rather surprised.’

‘Well, I am not,’ said Michael. ‘Master Lydgate and I have had cause to rub shoulders once or twice recently, and the experience was not a pleasant one for either of us. The man is little more than a trained ape in a scholar’s gown.’

‘What makes you think he is trained?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I heard he bought his way through his disputations when he was a student here,’ said Tulyet. ‘Is that true?’

‘I would imagine so,’ replied Michael, not in the least surprised by the rumour. ‘I doubt he earned his degree by the application of intellect. Perhaps that is another reason why he did not want the Proctors looking too carefully into his affairs. Anyway, we certainly did not part on the most amicable of terms – he probably overheard us discussing the burning of the tithe barn yesterday, and resents his ancient crime being resurrected after so long.’

‘What title barn fire?’ asked Tulyet curiously. ‘No fires have been reported to me.’

‘It happened a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew, fixing Michael with a reproving look for his indiscretion.

‘Not the one at Trumpington twenty-five years ago?’ persisted Tulyet, not so easily dissuaded. ‘I remember that! It was the talk of the town for weeks! An itinerant musician is said to have started it, but he escaped before he could be brought to justice. My father was Sheriff then. Are you saying that Lydgate was involved? Was it Lydgate who let the culprit go?’

‘No, Matt did that,’ said Michael, laughing. ‘Lydgate’s role in the fire was a little more direct.’

‘It was all a long time ago,’ repeated Bartholomew, reluctant to discuss the matter with the ‘embodiment of secular law’. He began to wish he had never broken his silence in the first place, and certainly would not have done had he known that the investigation into Kenzie’s death would bring him so close to Lydgate and his Godwinsson students.

‘Lydgate was the arsonist!’ exclaimed Tulyet, laughing. ‘Do not worry, Matt. I will keep this matter to myself, tempting though it would be to mention the affair at a meeting of the town council. But even the prospect of Lydgate mortified is not cause enough to risk another riot. If town and gown will fight over some ancient skeleton, they will certainly come to blows if the Sheriff accuses a University principal of arson!’

‘That is true,’ said Michael. ‘But anyway, you can see why Master Lydgate is not exactly enamoured of the Senior Proctor at the moment. I can understand why he would rather keep me at a distance.’

‘I also heard,’ said Tulyet, reluctantly forcing his mind back to the present, ‘that Mistress Lydgate’s chamber was ransacked. A sergeant, who chased a Godwinsson student into the hostel after he was seen looting, told me her room was chaotic.’

‘Really?’ said Michael. ‘I wonder why.’

‘Hasty packing, I should think,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She probably did not know how long she had before her husband returned and gathered everything she could as quickly as possible.’

At that moment, Gray and Deynman knocked and entered, looking at Michael and Tulyet with such expressions of abject guilt that Bartholomew wondered uneasily what misdemeanours they had committed that so plagued their consciences.

‘Who was at Maud’s with you last night?’ he asked.

‘Master Bigod will vouch for us both,’ began Gray hotly. ‘And so will all the other students. I swear to you, we did not leave there, even for the merest instant!’

Bartholomew was amused at Gray’s indignation – the student regularly lied or stretched the truth to get what he wanted, and there was an element of outrage in Gray that he was not believed when he was actually being honest.

‘There is no reason to doubt you,’ he said to mollify him. ‘It is not your doings that concern us now, but someone else’s. Can you remember who was there?’

Deynman relaxed immediately and began to answer, although Gray remained wary: Deynman’s world was one of black and white, while Gray was a natural sceptic.

‘All the Maud’s students were there,’ Deynman began. ‘They all like my brother Jack and wanted to celebrate his birthday.’

Bartholomew did not doubt it, especially since the wealthy Deynmans were known to be generous and would have provided fine and plentiful refreshments for Jack’s birthday party.

‘How many?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘There are eight students including Jack,’ said Deynman, screwing up his face in the unaccustomed labour of serious thought. ‘We were all in the hall. Then there were the masters. There was one who does logic, another who teaches rhetoric, and the Principal, Master Bigod, who takes philosophy for advanced students.’

Bartholomew saw Michael smile at the notion that any of the students of Maud’s were advanced and imagined that Master Bigod probably had a very light teaching load.

‘Were there others?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘From different hostels or colleges?’

‘No,’ said Deynman with certainty. ‘Jack invited me because I am his brother, and I invited Sam. There were no others.’

‘During the time you were there, did anyone else visit? Did any master or student leave to see about the noise from the rioting?’

Deynman shook his head. ‘We all ran to the window when we heard that workshop falling, but Master Bigod ordered the shutters closed and the doors barred immediately.’

He grimaced. ‘I started to object because it was hot in the hall and the open windows provided a cooling breeze. He told me I could leave if I did not like it.’

‘But you told me he insisted you stayed once the riot had started,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at Gray. Gray shot his friend a weary look, and Deynman, suddenly realising that he had been caught out in an earlier lie, flushed red and became tongue-tied.

‘What were you doing that made leaving so undesirable?’ Bartholomew persisted. He eyed the full purse that dangled from Gray’s belt. ‘Cheating at dice?’

Gray gave Deynman an even harder glare and Bartholomew knew he had hit upon the truth. It was not the first time Gray had conned money from the unsuspecting with his loaded dice.

‘We are getting away from the point,’ said Tulyet impatiently. ‘Did anyone else visit Maud’s at any point last night, for however brief a time?’

Gray and Deynman looked at each other. Deynman’s brows drew together as he tried to recall, while Gray appeared thoughtful.

‘We were merry by dusk,’ he said, ‘but some time later, there was a knock on the door. I remember because Master Bigod was called out and he missed the end of one of my stories. It was a woman who came. She glanced into the hall, saw us all sitting round the table and withdrew hastily. She spoke for a few moments to Bigod before leaving. I heard the front door open and close again.’

‘What was this woman like?’ asked Tulyet. It was clearly not Lydgate.

‘Small and dumpy with a starched white wimple that made her look unattractive,’ said Gray unchivalrously.

‘About fifty years old? With expensive, but ill-hanging clothes?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew.

Gray nodded. ‘Exactly! You must know her. That is all I can tell you, I am sorry. There were no other interruptions to our evening after she had gone. And there were no others in the hall with us. Master Bigod stayed up all night. I think he was afraid his students might disobey his orders and go out if he went to bed.’

Bartholomew dismissed them, and Gray cast a furtive glance at Michael before he left. Michael dutifully studied the ceiling in an unspoken message that the illegal dicing would be overlooked this time. Deynman beamed at him before following Gray out.

‘So,’ said Michael when the door had been closed and the students’ footsteps had faded away. ‘The visitor was Mistress Lydgate, but Thomas Lydgate was not there.’

‘This is all most odd,’ said Tulyet, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with a slender forefinger. ‘Lydgate claims Bigod as an alibi but does not set foot in Maud’s that night. Meanwhile, his wife, who has reached the end of her tether and is running away, does visit Bigod.’

‘It will be no good us questioning Bigod,’ said Michael, taking a careful sip of his wine. ‘He will refuse to answer you, Dick, on the grounds that he does not come under the jurisdiction of secular law. And he certainly will not speak to me after Heppel’s escapade with the cell keys. I suppose you could try Lydgate again – tell him you have witnesses prepared to swear he was not at Maud’s as he claims, and see what he says.’

Tulyet sighed. ‘I could. But I am not inclined to do so. I have more than enough to do without wasting my time on lying scholars. I need to concentrate on preventing another of these disturbances.’

‘That should certainly be your first priority,’ agreed Michael. ‘And mine, too. Good luck to Cecily for fleeing that ignoramus of a husband. They are both better off without each other. But I am more concerned with Kenzie’s killer at the moment. It is not pleasant to think of him free and laughing at us while the town is ripped to pieces about our ears by feeble-witted people filled with self-righteous rage.’

Tulyet picked up his goblet but put it down again with a shudder before he drank. He stood, peering out at the night through the open window shutters. ‘I must be away,’ he said. ‘It is vital the patrols are seen tonight if we are to prevent more mischief. It has been most interesting chatting to you both. As I said earlier, the University and the town should talk more often. I am certain my crime rates would drop if we did.’

‘Do you have any information at all about the woman who was raped?’ asked Bartholomew as he walked with the Sheriff across the yard to the gate.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘Very little. She was called Joanna, and she was a prostitute. Perhaps she was out plying her trade and got more than she bargained for.’

‘That is an outrageous thing to say!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘Because she is a prostitute does not give someone the right to rape her!’

Tulyet eyed Bartholomew in the darkness. ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘You have championed the town prostitutes on other occasions. Well, I am in sympathy with your point, Matt, but I need to concentrate on preventing further riots. I cannot spare the men to look into this Joanna’s death. One of my archers says he saw Joanna in the company of some French scholars after the riot erupted. Tell Brother Michael it is a University matter and persuade him to investigate.’

He took the reins of his horse from the waiting porter and watched Bartholomew unbar the gate so that he could leave. As he led his horse out of the yard, he caught Bartholomew’s arm. ‘But if you do look into this death be tactful, Matt. It would be unfortunate if incautious inquiries sparked off another riot.’

Making certain that the gate was firmly closed and barred, Bartholomew strolled back across the courtyard to intercept Michael, who was heading towards the kitchens for something to eat before he, too, went to patrol the streets with his beadles. Bartholomew told the monk about Joanna but met with little enthusiasm.

‘Dick Tulyet is right, Matt. There were many grievous crimes committed last night – nine dead and countless injured – which is why we cannot allow it to happen again. It is a terrible thing that happened to this whore, but it is done, and there is nothing we can do about it now.’

‘We can avenge her death,’ Bartholomew replied, disgusted that Michael should take such a view. ‘We can find out who misused her and punish them for it.’

‘But we have no idea who it may have been,’ said Michael with a patent lack of interest.

‘Tulyet said she was last seen with French scholars. French scholars tried to make away with Eleanor Tyler last night. Perhaps they had already committed one such crime.’

‘Well, if so, then they are punished already,’ said Michael dismissively, ‘for you told me yourself that one already lies dead in the Castle, stabbed by Mistress Tyler. And you are being unfair. There are a lot of French scholars in the University; there is no reason to assume the Godwinsson trio are to blame.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and considered. ‘There are not that many French students here. You could supply me with a list, since the University keeps records of such things. Then I could make some inquiries.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘First, it might be dangerous. Second, you are not a proctor and have no authority to investigate such matters. And third, even enquiring might strike the spark that will ignite another riot. No, Matt. I will not let you do it.’

‘Then I will make inquiries without your help,’ said Bartholomew coldly, turning on his heel and stalking back towards his room.

Michael hurried after him and grabbed his arm. ‘What is the matter with you?’ he asked, perplexed. ‘I know you dislike violence, so why are you so intent on subverting the attempts of the Sheriff and the University to prevent more of it?’

Bartholomew looked at Michael and then up at the dark sky. ‘The dead woman had hair just like Philippa,’ he said.

Michael shook Bartholomew’s arm gently. ‘That is no reason at all,’ he chided. He blew out his cheeks in a gesture of resignation. ‘You are stubborn. Look, I will help you, but not tonight. I will get the list tomorrow and we can look into this together. I do not want you doing this alone.’

Bartholomew hesitated, then gave Michael a quick smile and walked briskly across the rest of the yard to his room. Michael was right: it was far too late to begin inquiries into Joanna’s death that night and, anyway, he was weary from his labours with the injured all that day.

He had surprised himself by revealing to Michael the overwhelming reason why he felt compelled to avenge Joanna and supposed he must be more tired than he guessed. Bearing in mind his ill-conceived invitation to Matilde as well, he decided to retire to bed before he made any more embarrassing statements. Thinking of Matilde reminded him of Philippa and he was disconcerted to find that the image of her face was blurred in his mind. Was her hair really the same colour as Joanna’s? On second thoughts, he was not so sure that it was. He reached his room, automatically extinguishing the candle to save the wax. He undressed in the darkness and was asleep almost before he lay on the bed.

Michael watched his friend cross the yard and then resumed his journey to the kitchen. He knew from experience that he would be unable to prevent Bartholomew doing what he intended, and that it would be safer for both of them if Michael helped rather than hindered him. He gave a huge sigh as he stole bacon-fat and oatcakes for his evening repast and hoped Bartholomew was not going to champion all fallen women with fair hair like Philippa.

In an attempt to keep the scholars occupied and off the streets, term started with a vengeance the following day.

All University members were obliged to attend mass in a church; lectures started at six o’clock, after breakfast. The main meal of the day was at ten, followed by more teaching until early afternoon. Since the plague, Michaelhouse food, which had never been good, had plummeted to new and hitherto unimaginable depths. Breakfast was a single oatcake and a slice of cold, greasy mutton accompanied by cloudy ale that made Bartholomew feel queasy; the main meal was stewed fish giblets – a favourite of Father William – served with hard bread. Michael complained bitterly and dispatched one of his students to buy him some pies from the Market Square.

When teaching was over for the day Bartholomew and Michael were able to meet. A light meal was available in the hall but when Bartholomew heard it was fish-giblet stew again – probably because it had not been particularly popular the first time round – he went instead to the kitchens, Michael in tow.

‘And what is wrong with my fish-giblet stew?’ demanded Agatha the laundress aggressively, blocking the door with her formidable frame, arms akimbo. ‘If it is good enough for that saintly Father William, then it should be good enough for you two layabouts.’

‘Father William is not saintly! ‘ said Michael with conviction. ‘If he were, he would not eat the diabolical fish-giblet stew with such unnatural relish!’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Agatha, looking from Michael to Bartholomew with open hostility. ‘There is no unnatural relish in my fish-giblet stew, I can tell you! I only use the finest ingredients. Now, off with you! I am busy.’

Agatha determined, and in a foul temper, was not a thing to be regarded lightly, and Bartholomew was fully resigned to returning to his room hungry. Michael, however, was less easily repulsed, particularly where food was concerned.

‘Everything you cook is delicious, Madam,’ he said, attempting to ease his own considerable bulk past hers.

She was having none of that and stood firm. Michael continued suavely, standing close enough so that he would be able to shoot past her the moment a gap appeared. ‘And the fish-giblet stew is no exception. But a man can have too much of a good thing, and, in the interests of my immortal soul, I crave something a little less fine, something simple.’

Agatha eyed him suspiciously. ‘Such as what?’

‘A scrap of bread, a rind of cheese, a wizened apple or two, perhaps a dribble of watered ale.’

‘All right, then,’ said Agatha reluctantly after a moment’s serious consideration. ‘But I am busy with the preparations for the Founder’s Feast next week, so you will have to help yourselves.’

‘Gladly, Madam,’ said Michael silkily, slipping past her and heading for the pantry. Agatha glared at Bartholomew before allowing him to pass, and he wondered what he could have done to upset her. Usually, she turned a blind eye to his occasional forays to the kitchens when he missed meals in hall. He wondered whether the Tyler women had told her that he believed she had dispensed amorous favours to the rough men in the King’s Head to earn free ale.

While she gave her attention to a mound of dead white chickens that were piled on the kitchen table, he took a modest portion of ale from the barrel in the corner. Michael clattered in the pantry, humming cheerfully. Just when the monk had taken sufficiently long to make Agatha start towards the source of the singing with her masculine chin set for battle, Michael emerged, displaying two apples and a piece of bluish-green bread.

Agatha inspected them minutely.

‘Go on, then,’ she said eventually. ‘But that is all you are getting, so clear off and keep out of my way.’

She gave Bartholomew a hefty shove that made him stagger and slop the ale on the floor. He had darted out of the back door before she noticed the mess, lest she was tempted to empty the rest of the jug over his head. Michael followed more sedately, heading for the fallen apple tree in the orchard. He plumped himself down, turning his pasty face to the sun and smiling in pleasure. His contentment faded when he saw the ale Bartholomew had brought.

‘There is wine by the barrel in the kitchens!’ he cried in dismay. ‘All for the Feast. Could you not have smuggled us some of that?’

‘With Agatha watching?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. ‘Suicide is a deadly sin, Brother!’

‘She has always liked you far better than the rest of us,’ said Michael, reproachfully. ‘You have only to hint and she will willingly give you whatever you want. If I were in such a powerful position, Matt, I would not squander it as you do. I would ensure you and I dined like kings.’

‘She did not give the impression that she liked me just now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She was positively hostile.’

‘So I noticed,’ said Michael, peering into the ale jug in disgust. ‘What have you done to annoy her? Whatever it is, you are a braver man than me. I would not risk the wrath of Agatha! ‘

He stood, shaking his large body like some bizarre oriental dancer. Bartholomew was not in the least bit surprised when a large piece of cheese, a new loaf of bread, a sizeable chunk of ham, and some kind of pie dropped from his voluminous habit into the grass at his feet. The monk tossed the two apples and the moudly crust away in disdain.

‘Never eat anything green when there is meat to be had,’ he advised sagely. ‘Green food is a danger to the stomach.’

‘And which medical text did this little pearl of wisdom corne from?’ asked Bartholomew, ripping a piece of bread from the loaf. It was nowhere near as fine as that he had eaten in Mistress Tyler’s garden, but, even though it was hard and grey and made with cheap flour, it was an improvement on what he usually ate.

‘You put too much store in the written word,’ said Michael complacently. ‘You should rely more on your instincts and experience.’

Bartholomew thought about Matilde’s jibe the night before, and how she had laughed at his lack of experience with women. For the first time that day he considered the predicament he had landed himself in with his invitations.

‘What is on your mind?’ asked Michael, eyeing him speculatively as he broke the cheese in two, handing Bartholomew the smaller part. ‘Something has happened to worry you. Is it this Joanna business?’

‘Yes. No.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Partly.’

‘I always admire a man who knows his own mind,’ said Michael dryly. ‘You are not having second thoughts about taking that Tyler woman to the Founder’s Feast, are you?’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘How did you know that?’ He corrected himself. ’Is there anyone in the town who does not know?’

Michael gave the matter serious thought, cramming a slice of ham into his mouth as he did so. ‘Father William, I should imagine, or he would have mentioned the matter to you with his customary disapproval. He would ban all women from the Feast, if he could.’

‘What is wrong with women in the College for a few hours?’ demanded Bartholomew, standing and pacing in agitation. ‘They might give it a little life and make us see the world in a different perspective.’

‘That is exactly what William is afraid of,’ said Michael, chuckling. ‘I am all for it, myself, and I would have them in for a lot more than a few hours. Sit down, Matt. This ham is delicious and you will not appreciate it striding up and down like a hungry heron.’

Bartholomew flopped on to the tree trunk, taking the sliver of ham Michael offered him. With his other hand, the monk crammed as much bread into his mouth as would fit and then a little more. Within a few moments, he was gagging for breath, forcing Bartholomew to pound him hard on the back.

‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ admonished Bartholomew mechanically.

He had long since given up hoping that his advice would be followed. ‘It is not a race and I promise to take none of your share.’

‘You are not still pining after that Philippa, are you?’ asked Michael when he had recovered his breath. ‘Pining will do you no good at all, Matt. You need to go out and find yourself another one, if you decline to take the cowl. I suppose Eleanor Tyler is acceptable, although you could do a good deal better.’

‘I also invited Matilde to the Feast,’ Bartholomew blurted out. He stood again and resumed his pacing.

Michael’s jaw dropped, and Bartholomew would have laughed to see the monk so disconcerted had he not been so unsettled himself.

‘Matt!’ was all Michael could find to say.

Bartholomew picked up one of Michael’s discarded apples and hurled it at the wall. It splattered into pieces and some of it hit the monk.

‘Steady on,’ he objected. ‘Does this uncharacteristic violence towards fruit mean that you are pleased or displeased by your appalling indiscretion?’

‘Both,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Pleased because I think her a fine woman, and displeased because I am afraid of what the other Fellows might say to offend her.’

‘They offend her?’ gasped Michael. ‘She is a prostitute, Matt! A whore! A courtesan! A harlot! A…’

‘All right, all right,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I understood you the first time. But the invitation has been issued, so I can hardly renege.’

‘Is this worth your Fellowship?’ asked Michael. ‘Your career?’

‘On the one hand you tell me to go out and get a woman and on the other you tell me the ones I choose are inappropriate.’

‘I recommended a discreet friendship with a respectable lady, not a flagrant dalliance with a prostitute in the College! And to top that, you even have a spare waiting on the side in the form of Eleanor Tyler.’

‘Two spares, actually,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have invited Hedwise Tyler to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels.’

This time he did laugh at the expression on Michael’s face. Eventually Michael smiled too.

‘It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it? You never do things by halves. Perhaps I can have a word with the steward about the seating plan to see if a little confusion can be arranged. The last thing you want is a whore on either side of you. They might fight.’

‘Eleanor Tyler is not a whore,’ objected Bartholomew.

Michael sighed. ‘No, she is not, although she is horribly indiscreet. Half the town knows that you have invited her to the Feast. Lord knows what she will say when she learns the identity of your second guest.’

It was something Bartholomew had not considered before. Michael was right – any respectable woman would baulk at the notion that she formed one of a pair with a prostitute.

Michael finished his repast, and led the way back through the kitchens towards the courtyard, still chuckling under his breath at Bartholomew’s predicament.

‘Out of my way, you two,’ said Agatha sharply. ‘I cannot have you under my feet all the time. I have a feast to organise, you know.’

‘Yes, we do know,’ said Michael. ‘We have been invited.’

‘And some of you have invited all manner of hussies,’ said Agatha, fixing Bartholomew with an angry glare. ‘Eleanor Tyler indeed! How could you stoop so low? I had expected better of you!’

So that was it, Bartholomew thought. Agatha disapproved of Eleanor Tyler. He exchanged a furtive glance with Michael and wondered what the robust laundress would find to say when she discovered whom he had asked as his second guest. Still fixing him with a steely glower, Agatha continued.

‘That young woman is bragging to half the town about how she wrung an invitation from you to our Feast. She has all the discretion of a rutting stag!’

From Agatha, this was a damning indictment indeed.

Seeing she had made her point, the laundress bustled Bartholomew out of the kitchens and began bellowing orders at the cowering scullions.

‘What is wrong with Eleanor Tyler?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael, a little resentfully. ‘She is attractive, intelligent, witty…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘It is perfectly clear that you are smitten with the woman. But beware! Do not imagine that you will be allowed to render free services to poor patients if you marry either of the Tyler women. You will only be able to take wealthy clients who will pay you well enough to keep them in the lap of luxury.’

‘Oh, really, Brother! I have invited them to a feast, not proposed marriage! Being crushed into a church, and then a hall, with dozens of other people can scarcely be considered romantic, can it!’

Michael pursed his lips primly and did not deign to reply.

While they had been in the orchard, Michael had sent Cynric to the Chancellor’s office with a request for a list of all the French students in residence. The book-bearer was waiting with it in Bartholomew’s room.

‘You were right, Matt,’ said Michael, scanning the list. ‘There are only fourteen French scholars currently registered at the University. Of these, three are in Maud’s, and have alibis in Gray and Deynman; three are in Godwinsson, although we know that one of them is now dead; two are in Michaelhouse – the only students missing from here were Gray and Deynman, so that lets them off the hook; one is in Peterhouse…’

‘I know him,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He cannot walk without the aid of crutches and his health is fragile. He cannot be involved.’

‘There is one at Clare Hall,’ continued Michael, ‘but he is a Benedictine, who is at least seventy and would certainly not be out on the streets in the dark, let alone abduct and rape a young woman. Then there are two at St Stephen’s, and two at Valence Marie.’

‘So, the only possible suspects are the two at Valence Marie, the two at St Stephen’s and the two surviving students at Godwinsson,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if there are connections in any of this,’ he said. ‘We have Godwinsson and David’s scholars quarrelling in the street, after which one of them is killed near Valence Marie; the same student of David’s is having an affair with the Principal of Godwinsson’s daughter, his identity unknown to her parents; French scholars from Godwinsson try to attack Eleanor Tyler, and one of them is killed in the process; and the Principal of Godwinsson wrongfully claims that he has been at Maud’s all night. Meanwhile, his wife really did visit Maud’s after the riot began; a skeleton is found at Valence Marie; and the dead prostitute is last seen with French scholars, which must have been those from Valence Marie, Godwinsson or St Stephen’s.’

Bartholomew considered. ‘There is nothing to suggest this skeleton can be linked with any of the other events.’

‘Except that we have agreed that it is a strange coincidence that Kenzie should die so near where the skeleton had been found the day before, and in an identical manner.’

‘We agreed no such thing!’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘I said there was insufficient evidence to show that they died in the same way, although it is possible that they did.’

Michael flapped a flabby hand dismissively, before standing and stretching his large arms. ‘I would like to make two visits this afternoon. I want to ask the Scottish lads at David’s more about Kenzie, and then I want to have another word with those unpleasant Godwinsson friars. While we are there, we can drop a few questions about their part in the riot, and about the French louts that tried to kill you. If our inquiries proceed well, I might even ask a few questions of Lydgate himself – if he really was up to no good while the riot was in full swing. I doubt he has the brains to cover his tracks sufficiently to fool someone of my high intellectual calibre.’

‘And on the way, we can stop off at St Stephen’s and Valence Marie and see about these Frenchman, thus making the best possible use of the brilliant skills at detection you have just claimed,’ said Bartholomew with a smile, ignoring Michael’s irritable sigh.

The nearest hostel was St Stephen’s, where the Principal told them, with some ire, that he had received a letter from France informing him that the two students he had been expecting would not be coming because of a death in the family. His anger seemed to result chiefly from the fact that bad weather had delayed the letter by more than a week, and he would have problems in finding students to fill their places now that most scholars were already settled in lodgings. There was no reason to doubt the authenticity of the letter, so Bartholomew’s list of suspects was narrowed to those French students registered at Godwinsson Hostel and those at the Hall of Valence Marie.

The next visit was to David’s, where the young Scots told Bartholomew and Michael that Kenzie had been becoming increasingly agitated about his affair because Lydgate was so intent on preventing it. Kenzie and Dominica had been forced to invent more and more ingenious plans to see each other, and they had begun to run out of ideas – much as Eleanor and Hedwise Tyler had suggested the night of the riot.

When Michael asked for more information about the missing ring, the students were unable to add anything, other than that they all believed Dominica had given it to Kenzie. It had been silver, they said, with a small blue-green stone. Ruthven, clearly embarrassed, revealed reluctantly that Kenzie had often waxed lyrical about Dominica’s blue-green eyes, while playing with the ring on his finger.

As they made their way from David’s to Godwinsson, Michael turned to Bartholomew.

‘The last time we visited Godwinsson, Lydgate threatened you,’ he said. ‘I think you should wait outside.’

He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections.

‘Lydgate does not like you, and nothing will be gained from antagonising him with your presence in his own home. Wait outside: listen at the window if you would, but stay out of sight. I will ask about the Frenchmen for you.’

Despite his misgivings, Bartholomew knew Michael was right, and as the fat monk knocked loudly on Godwinsson’s front door, he slipped down a filthy alleyway by the side of the house and into the yard at the back. He glanced up and saw that, as last time, the window shutters in the solar where Lydgate had received them were flung open. The glazed windows also stood ajar to allow a breeze to circulate inside.

A sound from what he presumed to be the kitchen startled him, and he realised he was being foolish in prowling so openly around Godwinsson’s back yard. There was a decrepit lean-to shed against the back of the house, a tatty structure that would not survive another winter.

Its door was loose on decaying leather hinges and the roof sagged precariously. Heart pounding, Bartholomew slipped inside just as someone emerged from a rear door to pour slops into a brimming cesspool in a far corner of the yard.

The shed was stiflingly hot, and full of pieces of discarded wood and rope. Bartholomew picked his way across it until he was on the side nearest the solar. The warped wood created wide gaps in the walls that allowed him to see out, and, as long as Michael and Lydgate did not whisper, Bartholomew thought he should be able to hear much of what was happening in the solar without being seen.

He heard Huw, the Godwinsson steward, show Michael into the room as before and saw the monk lean out of the window to look into the yard as he waited for Lydgate.

Bartholomew was about to signal to him when the kitchen scullion came out with another bowl of slops. Alarmed, Bartholomew jerked backwards, realising too late that sudden motion was more likely to give away his hiding place than his raised arm, half-hidden in shadows.

‘You will find nothing of interest there, Brother,’ came Lydgate’s voice, clear as a bell, moments later.

Bartholomew saw Michael’s head withdraw and the scullion glance up at the window, distracted momentarily from his task. ‘Unless you like cesspools.’

‘Which brings me to your hostel, Master Lydgate,’ came Michael’s unruffled reply. ‘I would like to see two of your students: the two French lads.’

‘Why?’ asked Lydgate. ‘They have not been brawling with the Scots.’

The scullion in the yard gave his bowl a final scrape and returned to the kitchen.

‘How do you know?’ said Michael. ‘Reliable witnesses saw them brawling with one member of the University and four defenceless women.’

Despite his tension, Bartholomew smiled at Michael’s description: defenceless was certainly not a word that could truthfully be applied to the resourceful, independent Tyler women.

‘How can you be sure of that?’ snapped Lydgate. ‘The night was dark and it was difficult to be certain who was who in the darkness with all those fires burning.’

‘So you were out, too,’ said Michael. It was a statement and not a question. Bartholomew could almost see Lydgate spluttering with indignation at having been so deftly fooled into admitting as much.

‘My whereabouts are none of your concern!’ Lydgate managed to grate finally. ‘But for your information, I have people who can say where I was, whose word is beyond doubt.’

‘But not in Godwinsson, Master Lydgate? To protect your family and students?’ Michael continued smoothly.

‘I was out!’ Lydgate almost shouted.

‘As were your students without you here to control them, it seems.’

Bartholomew heard the creak of floorboards and guessed that Lydgate was pacing to try to control his temper. ‘All Godwinsson students were here. The other masters will testify to that.’

‘I am sure they will,’ said Michael, his tone ambiguous. ‘Now, I would like to speak with these French students.’

As he spoke, the kitchen door opened again, and two students were ushered out by Huw the steward and the scullion. Speaking in low voices, and taking care to stay close to the walls where they would not be observed from the solar window, the students made for the alleyway that led to the road. Bartholomew pressed back into the shadows as they passed, although they were so intent on leaving that they did not so much as glance at the open shed door. Bartholomew was not surprised to hear them speaking French.

He watched them disappear up the alley before opening the door to follow. As the sunlight flooded into the gloomy lean-to, something glinted on the ground.

Bending quickly to retrieve it, Bartholomew found a small, silver ring. Although there was no blue-green stone, there were clasps to show where such a gem might once have been. The ring was dirty, and its irregular shape indicated that it had been crushed, perhaps by someone stamping on it. He looked around quickly to see if he could see the stone, but there was no sign of it on the hard, trampled earth that formed the floor.

Slipping the ring into his pocket, Bartholomew left the shed and made his way quickly up the alley. As he emerged, he glimpsed the two students disappearing round the corner into the High Street. He ran after them, oblivious to the startled face of Huw the steward, who had come to the front of the hostel to watch their escape. Huw’s surprise changed to artifice, and he rubbed at his whiskers, eyes glittering.

Bartholomew followed the two Frenchmen along the High Street towards the Market Square. It was more drab than usual: the colourful canopies that usually shielded the traders’ wares from sun or rain had been burned during the riot. Here and there, skeletal frameworks had been hastily erected to replace those that had been lost, a few of them crudely covered with rough canvas, but for the most part, the traders were reduced to piling their goods on the ground. Ash and cinders had been trampled into the beaten earth, and, to one side of the Square, a great mound of partially incinerated wood still loomed up where it had been piled the day before, waiting for someone to remove it and dump it all in the river.

It was nearing the end of the day, and, with the curfew fast approaching, the tradesmen’s battle to sell the last of their wares was becoming frantic. Stories about how Cambridge had erupted in a welter of flame and violence had spread through the surrounding countryside, and many rural folk had elected not to risk coming to the town to buy supplies. Trade was poor so that potential customers were not permitted to escape easily; hands grabbed and pulled at Bartholomew as he tried to pass. Suddenly he could not see his quarry. Impatiently shrugging off a persistent baker, he dived down one narrow line of stalls, emerging at the opposite end of the Square. There was no sign of the French students.

Bartholomew sagged in defeat, sweat stinging his eyes from the late-afternoon heat.

Suddenly, he spotted them again, surfacing from a parallel line of stalls eating apples. They walked at a nonchalant pace towards Hadstock Way. Bartholomew followed them a little further, although he now knew exactly where they were going. Without knocking, and with an ease born of a long familiarity, the two students casually strolled into Maud’s Hostel.

There was nothing more Bartholomew could do without Michael’s authority as Proctor, so he retraced his steps back to Godwinsson. He stopped to buy something to drink from a water-seller, but the larvae of some marsh insects wriggling about in the buckets gave him second thoughts. He remembered the foul wine he had shared with Michael and Tulyet, and went into the booth of a wine-merchant to buy a replacement. He purchased the first one that caught his eye, opened it, and took a large mouthful in the street.

‘Not the best way to enjoy good wine,’ came Michael’s voice at his shoulder. ‘But then again, judging from the wine you keep, what would you know of such things? Where have you been?’

He took the bottle from Bartholomew and took a hearty swig himself, nodding appreciatively at its coolness, if not its flavour.

Bartholomew told him what had happened, while Michael listened with narrowed eyes.

‘Lydgate told me that the French students were at church,’ he said. ‘I thought it was a likely story. I learned little, I am afraid. Brothers Edred and Werbergh are taking part in a theological debate at the School of Pythagorus, and so were not available to talk to me. Since Lydgate knows I can check that excuse easily, he is probably telling the truth about that, at least. I will have to come back and speak to them later.’

Valence Marie was nearby, so they went there next, although Michael was reluctant. There was no porter on the door, no one answered their knocking, and they were forced to go inside to find someone to answer their questions. But the College appeared to be deserted.

Putting his head round the door to the hall, the thought crossed Bartholomew’s mind that, had he been a thief, he could have made off with all the College silver, which lay carelessly abandoned on the high table.

He shouted, but there was no reply. They left the hall and went to the Ditch at the side of Valence Marie where the skeleton had been found, but there was no one there either. Bartholomew flapped irritably at the haze of flies that buzzed around his head, disturbed from where they had been feasting on the foul-smelling muck that lined both sides of the near-empty canal. At the very bottom of the Ditch was a murky trickle that would turn into a raging torrent when the next heavy rains came. With a sigh of resignation, Bartholomew saw some unidentifiable piece of offal move gently downstream. Despite the cost and inconvenience of the dredging operations, people were still disposing of their waste in the waterways. They had learned nothing from the last time the Ditch had been blocked with rubbish and then flooded, causing some to lose their homes.

‘We will have to return tomorrow,’ said Michael, breaking into a trot in a vain attempt to escape the haze of flies that flicked around his head. ‘The place is abandoned.’

The King’s Ditch ran under the High Street and emerged the other side. Bartholomew always felt that, despite the distinct elevation in the road, the High Street did not have a bridge as much as the King’s Ditch had a tunnel: its fetid, black waters slid through a small, dark hole, and oozed out into a pool on the other side. He crossed to the opposite side of the High Street, and stood on tiptoe to look over the wall that screened the western arm of the Ditch from the road. Here was a different story: the bank was alive with activity, but it was all conducted in total silence.

A dozen or so students stood in a line looking down into the Ditch, the monotony of their black tabards broken by the occasional grey or white of a friar’s habit.

A gaggle of scruffy children had also gathered to watch the proceedings; even their customary cheekiness had been subdued by the distinct aura of gravity that pervaded the scene.

‘What are they doing?’ Bartholomew whispered to Michael.

They edged closer, and saw Will and Henry, the Valence Marie servants, poking about in the vile trickle of water, watched intently by Thorpe, who stood with his Fellows clustered about him. Thorpe looked up and saw Bartholomew and Michael.

‘Ah!’ he announced, his voice almost sacrilegious in the self-imposed silence of the scholars. ‘Here are the Senior Proctor and the physician. I am impressed with your speed, gentlemen. It has only been moments since I dispatched a messenger to the Chancellor’s office to ask you to come.’

‘Oh Lord, Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew under his breath. ‘Thorpe has found himself some more bones!’

Reluctantly, he moved towards Thorpe and his findings.

The only sounds were Michael’s noisy breathing behind him and the muffled rumble of carts from the High Street.

As he walked, the students moved aside so he could pass, their faces taut with anticipation.

He met Thorpe’s eyes for a moment, then looked down into the Ditch to where Will and Henry crouched in the muddy water. A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind noted that the piece of offal he had observed shortly before had made its way downstream, and was now bobbing past Will’s legs. It served to dissolve the feeling that he was attending some kind of religious ceremony, attended by acolytes who generated an aura of hushed veneration.

He wondered how Thorpe had managed to effect such an atmosphere, disliking the way he felt he was being manipulated into complying with it. He saw that the mood of the onlookers was such that, even if they had discovered a donkey in the black, fly-infested mud, they would revere it like the relics of some venerable saint.

‘What have you found this time, Master Thorpe?’ he asked, his voice deliberately loud and practical.

Thorpe favoured him with a cold stare, and answered in subdued tones that had the scholars furthest away moving closer to hear him.

‘We have discovered a relic of the saintly Simon d’Ambrey,’ he said, clasping his hands in front of him like a monk in prayer. ‘There can be no doubt about it this time, Doctor.’

He met Bartholomew’s gaze evenly. Without breaking eye contact, he gestured to the Ditch, so that Bartholomew was the first to look away. Something lay on the cracking mud, carefully wrapped in a tabard to prevent the swarming flies from alighting on it. Bartholomew, aware that he was being watched minutely, clambered down the bank to examine it, while Michael, curiously silent, followed.

Bartholomew picked up the tabard and gave it a slight shake, causing what was wrapped inside it to drop out.

There was a shocked gasp from the watching scholars at this rough treatment of what they already believed was sacred. Michael bent next to him as he knelt, and hissed furiously in his ear.

‘Be careful, Matt! I do not feel comfortable here. These scholars are taking this nonsense very seriously. I imagine it would take very little for them to take on the role of avenging angels for any perceived insult to their relic. I do not wish to be torn limb from limb over a soup bone.’

Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘This is no soup bone, Brother.’ He looked back at the mud-encrusted object that had tumbled from the tabard. ‘This is the hand of a man, complete with a ring on his little finger.’