An Order for Death

Chapter 1

Cambridge, March 1354

THE FIRST STONE THAT SMASHED THROUGH THE WINDOW of Oswald Stanmore’s comfortable business premises on Milne Street sprayed Matthew Bartholomew with a shower of sharp splinters and narrowly missed his head. He dropped to his knees, ducking instinctively as a loud crack indicated that another missile had made its mark on the merchant’s fine and expensive glass, and tried to concentrate on suturing the ugly wound in the stomach of the Carmelite friar who lay insensible on the bench in front of him.

Bartholomew’s sister entered the room cautiously, carrying a dish of hot water and some rags ripped into strips for bandages. She gave a startled shriek when a pebble slapped into the wall behind her, and promptly dropped the bowl. Water splashed everywhere, soaking through the sumptuous rugs that covered the floor and splattering the front of her dress.

‘Damn!’ she muttered, regarding the mess with annoyance before crouching down and making her way to where Bartholomew worked on the injured man. She winced as another window shattered. ‘How is he?’

‘Not good,’ replied Bartholomew, who knew there was little he could do for a wound such as had been inflicted on the Carmelite. The knife had slashed through vital organs in the vicious attack, and, even though he had repaired them as well as he could, the physician thought the damage too serious for the friar to recover. Even if the injury did heal, his patient was weakened by blood loss and shock, and was unlikely to survive the infection that invariably followed such piercing wounds.

‘Shall I fetch a priest?’ asked Edith, watching her brother struggle to close the end of the gaping cut with a needle and a length of fine thread. ‘He will want a Carmelite – one of his own Order.’

Bartholomew finished his stitching and peered cautiously out of the window. A sturdy wall surrounded his brother-inlaw’s property, so that it was reasonably safe from invasion. It could still be bombarded with missiles, however, and the Dominican students who had massed outside were dividing their hostile attentions between the Carmelite Friary opposite and Stanmore’s house – where they knew a Carmelite had been given shelter.

‘Neither of us will be going anywhere until those Dominicans disperse,’ he said, ducking again as another volley of stones rattled against the wall outside. ‘They have the Carmelite Friary surrounded and I doubt they will be kind enough to allow one of the enemy out, even on an errand of mercy.’

‘I will fetch a Franciscan or an Austin canon instead, then,’ said Edith, gathering her skirts as she prepared to leave. ‘This poor boy needs a priest.’

‘You cannot go outside,’ said Bartholomew firmly, grabbing her arm. ‘I suspect the Dominican student-friars will attack anyone they see, given the frenzy they have whipped themselves into. It is not safe out there.’

‘But I have nothing to do with the University,’ objected Edith indignantly. ‘No Dominican student – or any other scholar – would dare to harm me.’

‘Usually, no,’ replied Bartholomew, pushing her to one side as a clod of earth crashed through the nearest window and scattered over a handsome rug imported from the Low Countries. ‘But their blood is up and they are inflamed beyond reason; I doubt they care who they hurt. The Carmelites were insane to have written that proclamation.’

‘A proclamation?’ asked Edith warily. ‘All this mayhem is about a proclamation?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They denounced a philosophical belief that the Dominicans follow, and pinned it to the door of St Mary’s Church.’

Edith regarded him in disbelief. ‘The scholars are killing each other over philosophy? I thought academic arguments were supposed to take place in debating halls, using wits and intellect – not knives and stones.’

Bartholomew gave her a rueful smile. ‘In an ideal world, perhaps. But factions within the University are always squabbling over something, and this time the religious Orders have ranged themselves on two sides of a debate about whether or not abstracts have a real existence.’

Edith’s expression of incomprehension intensified. ‘You are teasing me, Matt! People do not fight over something like that.’

‘Scholars do, apparently,’ replied Bartholomew, laying his fingers on the life pulse in the Carmelite’s neck. It was weak and irregular, and he began to fear that the lad would not survive until the Dominican students grew tired of throwing stones at windows, and would die without the benefit of a final absolution.

Edith shook her head in disgust, and began to wipe the student’s face with a damp cloth. Bartholomew understood exactly how she felt. For years, the various religious Orders that gathered in the University had bickered and quarrelled, and one of them was always attacking the views and ideas expounded by the others. On occasion, emotions ran strongly enough to precipitate an actual riot – like the one currently under way between the Black Friars and the White Friars in the street below – and it was not unknown for students to be killed or injured during them. It was nearing the end of Lent, and the students, especially the friars and monks, were tired and bored with the restrictions imposed on them. They were ripe for a fight, and Bartholomew supposed that if it had not been a philosophical issue, then they would have found something else about which to argue.

He eased backward as another hail of missiles was launched, and cracks and tinkling indicated that more of Stanmore’s windows were paying the price for Bartholomew’s act of mercy in rescuing the Carmelite. The physician realised he had made a grave error of judgement, and saw that he should have carried the friar to Michaelhouse, his own College, and not involved his family in the University’s troubles. He hoped the Dominicans’ fury at losing their quarry would fade when the heat of the moment was past, and that they would not decide to take revenge on the Stanmores later.

‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Edith, taking another cloth and trying without much success to wipe the blood from the friar’s limp hands.

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. He felt the life-beat again, half expecting to find it had fluttered away to nothing. ‘The current debate between the nominalists and the realists is a complicated one, and I doubt half the lads throwing stones at us really believe that nominalism is the ultimate in philosophical theories: they just want to beat the Carmelites.’

Edith continued to tend the unconscious man. Bartholomew had administered a powerful sense-dulling potion before he had started the messy operation of repairing the slippery organs that had been damaged by the knife, and did not expect the Carmelite to wake very soon – if at all. He laid the back of his hand against the friar’s forehead, not surprised to find that it was cold and unhealthily clammy. So he was surprised when the friar stirred weakly, opened his eyes and began to grope with unsteady fingers at the cord he wore around his waist.

‘My scrip,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible. ‘Where is my scrip?’

Edith looked around her, supposing that the leather pouch friars often carried at their side had fallen to the floor. ‘Where is it, Matt?’

Bartholomew pointed to a short string that had evidently been used to attach the scrip to the friar’s waist-cord. It was dark with dirt, indicating that it had served its purpose for some time, but the ends were bright and clean. It did not take a genius to deduce that it had been cut very recently. Bartholomew could only assume that whoever had stabbed the friar had also taken his pouch, probably using the same knife. Bartholomew had found the injured friar huddled in a doorway surrounded by Dominicans; the scrip must have been stolen by one of them.

‘Easy now,’ he said gently, trying to calm his patient as the search became more frantic. ‘You are safe here.’

‘My scrip,’ insisted the friar, more strongly. ‘Where is it? It is vital I have it!’

‘We will find it,’ said Bartholomew comfortingly, although he suspected that if the friar’s pouch had contained something valuable, then the chances of retrieving it were remote.

‘You must find it,’ breathed the friar, gripping Bartholomew’s arm surprisingly tightly for a man so close to death. ‘You must.’

‘Who did this to you?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for his bag. His patient’s agitated movements were threatening to pull the stitches apart, and the physician wanted to calm him with laudanum. He eased the friar’s head into the crook of his arm and gave him as large a dose as he dared. ‘Do you know the names of the men who attacked you?’

‘Please,’ whispered the friar desperately. ‘My scrip contains something very important to me. You must find it. And when you do, you must pass it to Father Paul at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Bartholomew softly, disengaging himself from the agitated Carmelite and easing him back on to the bench. ‘We will look for it as soon as we can.’

He continued to speak in the same low voice, sensing that the sound of it was soothing the student. It was not long before the Carmelite began to sleep again. Bartholomew inspected the damage the struggle had done to the fragile stitching, and was relieved to see that it was not as bad as he had feared. Still, he realised it would make little difference eventually: the friar was dying. His life was slowly ebbing away, and there was nothing Bartholomew could do to prevent it.

Outside in the street, the Dominicans continued to lay siege to the Carmelite Friary opposite, although their voices sounded less furious and the missiles were hurled with less intensity and frequency. Bartholomew risked a quick glance out of the window, and saw that the beadles – the law enforcers employed by the University – had started to arrive, and that small groups of Dominicans were already slinking away before they were caught. There was only so long they could sustain their lust for blood when the Carmelites were safely out of sight inside their property, and common sense was beginning to get the better of hot tempers.

‘It will not be long now,’ said Bartholomew, moving away from the window and kneeling next to his patient again, where his sister still sponged the pale face. ‘The Dominicans are going home. We may yet be able to secure a Carmelite confessor to give this man last rites.’

‘He will die?’ asked Edith in a low whisper. ‘There is nothing you can do to save him?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have done all I can.’

Edith gazed in mute compassion at the friar’s face. Bartholomew did not know what to say, and was frustrated that for all his years of training at Oxford and then in Paris, his medical knowledge still could not prevent a young man from dying.

‘Richard is right,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘We always summon physicians when we are ill, but they make little difference to whether we live or not.’

‘Richard has changed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Edith and Oswald’s only son. ‘He is not the same lad who left for Oxford after the plague five years ago.’

‘It is good to have him home again,’ said Edith, declining to admit that her son had returned home lacking a good deal of his former charm. ‘He plans to remain here for a while, to assess the opportunities Cambridge has to offer. He says he may have to go to London, because he is a good lawyer and he wants to work on expensive land disputes and become very rich.’

‘He said that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the young man’s blunt materialism. He felt for the friar’s life-beat again. ‘I do not know why he wants to stay here anyway; he has done nothing but criticise everything about Cambridge ever since he returned.’

Edith did not reply, but Bartholomew sensed that she was as unimpressed by her son’s behaviour as was Bartholomew. Richard had gone to the University of Oxford to study medicine, but had returned with a degree in law instead, claiming that a legal training would provide him with the means to make more money than a medical one. Although he disapproved of Richard’s motives, Bartholomew knew the young man was right. Since the plague, there was work aplenty for those who were able to unravel the complexities of contested wills and property disputes arising from the high number of sudden deaths.

His lessons in legal affairs had done nothing to improve Richard’s character, however. Although he could hardly say so to Edith, Bartholomew had preferred the cheerful, ebullient seventeen-year-old who had set off determined to learn how to heal the sick, than the greedy twenty-two-year-old who had returned.

‘The streets are almost clear,’ he said, glancing out of the window and then resting his hand on the Carmelite’s forehead. ‘I will leave in a few moments to fetch a confessor. Will you stay with him?’

‘Of course,’ said Edith immediately. ‘This poor boy can remain here as long as necessary. Oswald will not mind.’

‘He will,’ said Bartholomew, imagining his brother-in-law’s disapproval. ‘He will not be pleased to return from his business meeting to learn that I endangered his wife by bringing an injured Carmelite to her, or to see that his panes have been smashed by vengeful Dominicans.’

He edged nearer the window, so that he could see into the muddy road below. There were definitely fewer dark-robed Dominicans in Milne Street now, and he wished the remainder would hurry up and return to their own quarters on Hadstock Way.

‘Look at him, Matt,’ said Edith softly, sponging the hands of the injured Carmelite. ‘He is about the same age as Richard.’

Bartholomew glanced down at his patient and saw that she was right. He had barely noticed the man’s face. When he had first caught sight of the wounded student, clutching his stomach in a spreading stain of blood, all Bartholomew’s attention had been taken with brandishing a hefty pair of childbirth forceps at the surrounding Dominicans and dragging the injured friar to the nearest safe haven. Then, once they had reached Stanmore’s property, Bartholomew had concentrated on tending the wound and ducking the splinters of glass.

For the first time, he studied the friar. He had a pleasant face, with a mouth that turned up at the corners, although already it had the waxy sheen of death about it. His fingers were deeply ink-stained, suggesting that he spent at least some of his time studying or scribing, rather than wandering the town with his classmates looking for Dominicans or Franciscans to taunt or attack. His hair was light brown and smelled clean, and his habit, although blood-soaked and marked with the signs of a scuffle, was neat and showed evidence of recent brushing. Here was no lout, but a man who took care over his personal appearance. The only unusual thing about him was the pale yellow sticky residue on one of his hands. It looked like some kind of glue, although Bartholomew had never seen anything quite like it before. He supposed it was some new import from Spain or France. Such items were becoming common again now that people were recovering from the impact of the plague and trade was resuming.

‘I wonder what was in his scrip that was so important to him,’ mused Edith. The sound of her voice pulled the physician from his reverie. ‘Whatever it was, he considered it more vital than telling you the names of the men who stabbed him.’

‘Perhaps he did not know them,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced out of the window again. ‘If I leave my Michaelhouse tabard here and borrow that cloak of Oswald’s, I should reach the Carmelite Friary unmolested–’

‘Matt!’ whispered Edith urgently, jumping away from the Carmelite in alarm. ‘Something is wrong with him!’

Bartholomew saw the friar’s eyes roll back in his head as he began to convulse, thrashing about with his arms and legs and pulling open the sutured wound. With Edith exhorting him to do something, Bartholomew attempted to control the fit with more of his sense-dulling potions, but to no avail. Gradually, the uncontrolled twitching and shuddering grew weaker, along with the friar’s heartbeat. The student was still for a few moments, gasping raggedly while the opened wound pumped his life blood into the rugs that covered the bench. And then he simply ceased to breathe. Edith took his hand and called out to him, but the Carmelite was dead.

‘They killed him,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes. Unlike her brother, she was unused to the presence of sudden death and it distressed her. ‘Those Dominicans murdered him.’

‘They did,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. He stood, feeling defeated. ‘I will fetch one of the Carmelites to see to him.’

‘Fetch Brother Michael first,’ said Edith unsteadily. ‘He is the Senior Proctor, and it is his responsibility to investigate University deaths. I want to see those murdering Dominicans brought to justice.’

‘So will the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘I just hope they will not decide to do it themselves.’

Brother Michael, Senior Proctor of the University, Fellow of Michaelhouse and trusted agent of the Bishop of Ely, puffed across the yard of Stanmore’s business premises with his Junior Proctor and a group of his beadles marching untidily behind him.

With one or two exceptions, the University’s law-keepers were a rough, ill-kempt breed. They all sported coarse woollen tunics with scarlet belts that marked them as University officers, but underneath they wore a bizarre assortment of garments that gave most of them a very eccentric appearance. Some had donned the boiled leather leggings that suggested they had fought for King Edward in France before the plague had forced a truce, while others possessed an eclectic collection of articles passed to them as bribes from students they caught breaking the University’s rules. A quick glance revealed a courtier’s scarlet hose, a Dominican’s cloak, a grey shirt that had probably been a Franciscan’s undergarment, and a pair of wooden clogs that had doubtless belonged to a scholar from the north.

The Junior Proctor was a different matter. Will Walcote was dressed in the sober black habit of an Austin canon, and over it was an ankle-length cloak. His calf-high boots were of good quality leather, and although they were mud-stained from walking along the High Street, they had been carefully polished. He was of average height, had thick brown hair that was cut short above the ears, and had a thin, intelligent face. He was popular in the University, more so than his intrigue-loving superior, and already it was rumoured that he would be Michael’s successor as Senior Proctor, although Bartholomew knew Michael had doubts about Walcote’s suitability.

The untidy procession came to a shambling halt, while Michael looked around him imperiously. The yard was cobbled, and everywhere were threads of the cloth that had made Oswald Stanmore one of the richest men in Cambridge. The lean-to sheds were filled with bales of wool and silk, and even though the merchant himself was at a business meeting in another part of the town, his apprentices were busy loading and unloading carts, making inventories and carrying out his orders.

Michael presented an impressive figure in his billowing black cloak and the dark Benedictine habit beneath it, and several of Stanmore’s apprentices faltered nervously when they saw him. The monk had always been large – tall, as well as burly – but contentment and self-satisfaction had added a further layer of fat around his middle. His thin, lank brown hair was cut neatly around his gleaming tonsure, and his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers. He and Bartholomew had been friends for some years, although Michael’s post as Senior Proctor and the duties it entailed occasionally put a serious strain on their relationship.

Bartholomew watched the monk and his retinue enter the yard, then went to meet them. It was cold for March, and Michael’s winter cloak was lined with fur to protect him from the bitter winds that shrieked across the Fens from the north and east. Despite the fact that it was Lent, and that the monk should have been fasting or at least abstaining from some foods, he looked a good deal better fed than most of his beadles, and his round face gleamed with health and vitality.

He spotted Bartholomew and Edith at the top of the short flight of steps that led to Oswald Stanmore’s office, and strode to meet them. Walcote followed him.

‘I heard there was a row between the Dominicans and the Carmelites,’ said the monk, waiting for Bartholomew to descend the steps. ‘My beadles acted immediately, and I thought we had prevented any serious trouble. Then I receive a message from you saying that someone has been killed.’

‘It is true,’ replied Edith, answering Michael’s question before Bartholomew could speak. Her eyes were red from crying over the death of the young friar she had not known, and her voice was unsteady. Bartholomew fervently wished he had taken the Carmelite to Michaelhouse, and had not involved his sister in the University’s troubles. ‘The Dominicans killed a Carmelite. He died right here, in Oswald’s office.’

‘How did he come to be there?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Merchants like Oswald have bands of apprentices, and bands of apprentices love nothing more than lone scholars to fight – be they Carmelites or anyone else.’

‘Matt brought him,’ replied Edith. ‘The apprentices did not approve, but they carried him upstairs, then stood watch to make sure no Dominicans broke through our gates. I suppose all the fuss has died down now, given that they seem to have gone back to work.’

‘I suppose,’ said Michael carefully, knowing it would take very little for trouble to ignite again. ‘How did you manage to prevent your apprentices from rushing into the street and joining in the affray?’

‘I forbade them to,’ said Edith, surprised by the question. ‘They did not like standing by while scholars threw stones that smashed our windows, but they did as they were told.’

‘Would that all merchants had as much control over their people,’ muttered Michael, impressed that Edith had been able to impose her will so effortlessly on a group of spirited young men. He had forgotten that dark-haired Edith, who always seemed so slight next to her younger brother, was a very determined woman. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Where is this poor unfortunate now?’

Bartholomew led him and Walcote to the office, while the beadles remained in the yard to be shown broken windows and scratched paintwork by the indignant apprentices. Edith had covered the body of the friar with a crisp white sheet, although a circular red stain had already appeared, a stark foretaste of what lay underneath. Gently, Bartholomew pulled the sheet away from the friar’s face, so that Michael could see it. Both men turned in surprise when they heard Walcote’s sharp intake of breath.

‘That is Faricius of Abington,’ said the Junior Proctor, gazing down at the body in horror.

‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘Have you arrested him for frequenting taverns or brawling or some such thing?’

‘Not Faricius,’ said Walcote, clearly shocked. ‘He was a peaceful and scholarly man. I met him at a lecture we both attended on nominalism. After that, we met from time to time to discuss various philosophical concepts. I liked and admired him.’

‘Do you have any idea why someone might wish him harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew cover the face of the dead scholar again.

Walcote’s voice was unsteady when he replied. ‘None at all. He was a good man, respected by the people who knew him. This is a vile town, if friars like Faricius are slain in broad daylight.’

‘I agree, Will,’ said Michael sympathetically, but rather condescendingly. ‘But it happens occasionally, and it is our duty – yours and mine – to bring the culprits to justice. Matt, what were you doing in the middle of a fight between friars that ended in bloody murder?’

‘I was visiting a patient, and heard the sounds of a brawl in the making on my way home. Then I saw a group of Dominicans standing around a bloodstained Carmelite lying in a doorway.’

Michael eyed his friend warily. ‘How many Dominicans?’

‘Half a dozen or so. The Carmelite was bleeding from a wound in his stomach, and I assumed he had been stabbed by them.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Intervening was a foolish thing to do. One man against six is not good odds. What were you thinking of?’

‘There was no time to consider the odds,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘I only saw an injured man and thought I might be able to help him. I waved my childbirth forceps at the Dominicans and they dispersed readily enough.’

‘I should think so,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Those forceps are a formidable weapon if you know how to use them. I would think twice about taking them on, too.’

‘I considered taking Faricius to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I was not sure if he would survive the journey. I brought him here instead.’

‘So, did one of these six Black Friars definitely stab Faricius?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you see any of them holding knives or with bloodstained hands?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I was more concerned with taking Faricius somewhere I could tend him properly, and I did not notice much about the Dominicans. I would say that they did not look as though they were going to give him last rites, however.’

‘Would you recognise them again?’ asked Walcote hopefully. ‘It was daylight, which is unusual. Most of these riots take place at night, when the perpetrators stand a better chance of escaping under cover of darkness once they have had their fill of violence.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They were not happy to see their prey snatched from under their noses and told me so. We exchanged quite a few unpleasant words before I left.’

Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘They threatened you, did they? I shall see they pay for that with a few nights in the proctors’ cells – whether they confess to murdering Faricius of Abington or not.’

‘I cannot believe that the Dominicans and the Carmelites are behaving like this,’ said Walcote, his eyes fixed on the still figure under the sheet. ‘I know we Austin canons are no angels, and that there are occasional fights between individuals, but we do not march as a body on rival Orders.’

‘Nor do we Benedictines,’ said Michael in a superior manner. ‘There are better ways of resolving differences than resorting to fists.’

‘I am surprised their priors did nothing to stop it,’ Walcote went on disapprovingly. ‘Could they not see what consequences their students’ actions might have – the damage that committing a murder might have on their community here in Cambridge?’

‘They will see what the consequences are when I get my hands on them,’ said Michael grimly.

Michael ordered four of his beadles to construct a stretcher of two planks of wood and some strips of cloth, and then instructed them to carry Faricius to St Botolph’s, the church nearest the Carmelite Friary. Walcote was dispatched to fetch Prior Lincolne, which was no easy task given that the Carmelites were not currently responding to yells and bangs on the door. Once he had alerted Lincolne to the fact that one of his number was dead, Walcote was to go to the Dominican property on Hadstock Way, to ensure all the rioting Black Friars had returned home and were not still prowling the streets intent on mischief.

‘This is a bad business, Matt,’ said Michael, holding open the door to St Botolph’s, so that the beadles could carry their grisly burden inside. Bartholomew noticed that Faricius was dripping blood, and that a trail of penny-sized droplets ran between the Stanmore property and the church. ‘We have had no serious trouble since last November, when Runham dismissed my choir and attempted to cheat the workmen he had employed to rebuild Michaelhouse. I was hoping the calm would continue.’

‘It has been calm because we have had a long winter,’ explained Beadle Meadowman, struggling to manhandle Faricius through the narrow door without tipping him off the stretcher. ‘It has been too chilly to go out fighting. Scholars and townsfolk alike would rather sit by their fires than be out causing mischief in the cold.’

Meadowman, a solid, dependable man in his forties, had been recruited by Michael as a University law officer following the dissolution of the hostel in which he had been a steward. He undertook the varied and frequently unpleasant duties of a beadle as stoically and unquestioningly as he had the orders of his previous master, a man whose intentions were far from scholarly. Meadowman was a good beadle, and Michael was well satisfied with him.

‘That is true,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The early snows and the frosts that followed killed a lot of people. It was especially hard on the older ones, like poor Dunstan the riverman. I did not think he would see another Easter, but he refuses to die.’

‘But our students are not elderly men who need blazing hearths to warm their ancient bones,’ said Michael. ‘I was really beginning to feel that the worst of our troubles were over, and that the town and the University had finally learned to tolerate each other’s presence – and that the religious Orders had learned to keep their quarrels for the debating halls.’

‘You sound like Walcote,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at him. ‘He always seems horrified when the students fight, even though, as Junior Proctor, he is used to it because he spends most of his life trying to stop them.’

Michael frowned worriedly. ‘Will Walcote is a good fellow, but he is too gentle to be a proctor. I was uncertain of the wisdom of the choice when he was appointed a year ago, but I thought he would learn in time.’

‘And he has not?’

Michael shook his head. ‘He tries, but he just does not have the right attitude. He is too willing to see the good in people. He should follow my lead, and assume everyone is corrupt, violent or innately wicked until proven otherwise.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘No wonder your cells are always full.’

‘Do not tell Father William any of this,’ said Michael seriously, referring to their colleague at Michaelhouse, who was determined to be a proctor himself. ‘He will petition the Chancellor to have Walcote removed so that he can apply for the post himself. Although I may complain about Walcote’s ineffectuality, William’s ruthlessness would be far worse.’

‘Do you think Walcote will resign when he realises he is not suited to the task?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael sighed. ‘I doubt it, Matt. He has not taken any notice of my heavy hints so far.’ He gave his friend a nudge with his elbow and nodded across the High Street to where two Benedictines walked side by side. ‘But if he did, one of those two would be my choice as his successor.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Because they are Benedictines, like you?’

Michael tutted impatiently. ‘Of course not. It is because they are exactly the kind of men we need to represent law and order in the University. Have you met them? Allow me to introduce you.’

Before Bartholomew could point out that it was hardly an appropriate occasion for socialising, with the body of Faricius barely inside the church and a murder to investigate, Michael had hailed his Benedictine colleagues. Bartholomew studied them as they walked towards him.

The taller of the two had light hair, a handsome face and large grey eyes. There was a small scar on his upper lip, and when he spoke he had a habit of frowning very slightly. The second had dark hair that fitted his head like a cap and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. They seemed pleasant and affable enough, although Bartholomew immediately detected in them the smug, confident attitude of men who believed their vocation set them above other people.

‘This is Brother Janius,’ said Michael, indicating the dark-haired monk, before turning to the fairer one. ‘And Brother Timothy here comes from Peterborough.’

‘We have met before,’ said Timothy, returning Bartholomew’s bow of greeting. ‘A few days ago, you came to Ely Hall, where the Cambridge Benedictines live, and tended Brother Adam.’

‘He has a weakness of the lungs,’ said Bartholomew, remembering Adam’s anxious colleagues clustering around the bedside as he tended the patient, making it difficult for him to work. He vaguely recalled that Timothy and Janius had been among them, and that Janius had insisted on a lot of very loud praying, so that Bartholomew could barely hear Adam’s answers to his questions. ‘How is he?’

‘He has been better since you recommended that lungwort and mullein infused in wine,’ replied Timothy, smiling.

Janius gave his colleague an admonishing glance. ‘He has been better since we began saying regular masses for him, Timothy. It is God who effected the change in Adam’s health, not human cures.’

‘Of course, Brother,’ said Timothy piously. ‘But it is my contention that God is working through Doctor Bartholomew to help Adam.’

Janius inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘God shows His hand in many ways, even by using an agent like a physician. But what has happened here?’ he asked, glancing down at the ominous trail of red that soiled the stones in St Botolph’s porch. ‘I hope no one was hurt when the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites earlier.’

‘Unfortunately, one of them was stabbed,’ replied Michael. ‘His name was Faricius.’

Timothy raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Faricius? But he was no fighting man.’

‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘How?’

‘Faricius was a good scholar,’ said Janius. ‘Brilliant, even. He was one of the few Carmelites who came here because of a love of learning, rather than merely to further his own career in the Church by making useful connections.’

‘We were near St Mary’s Church when the Carmelites nailed their proclamation to the door,’ said Timothy, still shocked by the outcome of the riot. ‘I saw the Dominicans were furious, and it was clear that a fight was imminent, but I did not anticipate it would end quite so violently.’

‘But do not blame only the Dominicans,’ said Janius reasonably. ‘I heard the Carmelites taunting them and daring them to attack. One side was every bit as responsible as the other.’

‘As always,’ agreed Timothy. ‘These silly quarrels are invariably the result of two wrongs.’ He leaned forward, rather furtively, and spoke to Michael in a soft voice. ‘Is there any more news about your negotiations with Oxford, Brother? Forgive me for mentioning this in such a public place, but you told me Doctor Bartholomew knows your business, anyway.’

‘He does,’ replied Michael. ‘But I am not expecting any progress on the Oxford matter until Ascension Day at the earliest – a good six weeks from now.’ He turned to Bartholomew and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘We are talking about my plans to surrender a couple of farms and a church to Merton College at Oxford University in exchange for a few snippets of information.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew carefully. He knew Michael had been engaged in a series of delicate negotiations with an Oxford scholar for several months, and that the monk tended to tell different people different stories about his motives and objectives. The arrangements were supposed to be secret, but a Michaelhouse scholar named Ralph de Langelee had made them public the previous year in an attempt to discredit Michael and prevent him from becoming the College’s new Master. It had worked: Langelee had been elected instead.

‘What happens on Ascension Day?’ asked Janius curiously. He crossed himself and gave a serene smile. ‘Other than the spirit of our Lord rising to heaven, that is.’

‘Other than that, William Heytesbury is due to come to Cambridge to finalise our agreement,’ said Michael. ‘He is keen to secure the property for Merton, but he still does not trust me to deal with him honestly.’

‘And does he have cause for such distrust?’ asked Timothy bluntly.

Michael’s expression was innocence itself. ‘Why should he? I have two farms and a church that are nearer Oxford than Cambridge, and I propose to transfer them in exchange for a little information and a document or two. It is a generous offer. Those Oxford men are so used to dealing with each other, that they do not recognise a truthful man when they see one.’

Bartholomew, however, was sure Heytesbury had good cause to be suspicious of Michael’s ‘generous offer’. Whatever it entailed, the monk would make certain it was Cambridge that emerged with the better half of the bargain. He was surprised that Timothy, who seemed to know Michael well, should need to ask.

‘Here comes Prior Lincolne,’ said Timothy, looking down the street to where the leader of the Carmelite Order in Cambridge was hurrying towards them. ‘We will leave you to your sorry business, Brother. Come to see us soon: you are always welcome in Ely Hall.’

‘Thank you; I imagine I shall need a dose of sanity and calm after dealing with this murder,’ said Michael, as the Benedictines walked away. He rearranged his face into a sympathetic smile as the Carmelite Prior reached him. ‘Accept my sincere condolences for this dreadful incident, Father.’

Lincolne did not reply. His eyes lit on the spots of blood that splattered the ground, and he pushed past Michael to enter the church. Lincolne was a man of immense proportions. Bartholomew was tall, but Lincolne topped him by at least a head, a height further accentuated by a curious triangular turret of grey hair that sprouted from his scalp in front of his tonsure. The first time Bartholomew had seen it, when Lincolne had arrived in Cambridge to become Prior after the plague had claimed his predecessor, he thought a stray ball of sheep wool had somehow become attached to the man’s head. But closer inspection had revealed that it was human hair, and that it was carefully combed upward in a deliberate attempt to grant its owner a hand’s length more height. Lincolne was broad, too, especially around the middle, and his ill-fitting habit revealed a pair of thin white ankles that looked too fragile to support the weight above them.

He knelt next to Faricius and began to recite the last rites in a loud, indignant voice that was probably audible back at his friary. He produced a flask of holy water from his scrip and began to splash it around liberally, so that some of it fell on the floor.

‘Do you have any idea what happened?’ asked Michael, watching the proceedings with sombre green eyes.

‘What happened is that the Dominicans murdered Faricius,’ Lincolne replied, glaring up at Michael. Holy water dribbled from the flask on to Faricius’s habit. ‘Faricius was one of my best scholars and hated violence and fighting. I will have vengeance, Brother. I will not stand by while you allow the Black Friars to get away with this.’

‘I would never do such a thing,’ objected Michael, offended. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor, appointed by the Bishop of Ely himself to ensure that justice is done in cases like this.’

‘I have been at the Carmelite Friary in Cambridge since I was a child,’ Lincolne went on, as if Michael had not spoken. ‘Yet, in all that time, I have never witnessed such an act of evil as this.’

‘An act of evil?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it an odd phrase to use to describe a murder.

‘Heresy,’ hissed Lincolne, spraying holy water liberally over himself as well as over the dead student. ‘Nominalism.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘What does nominalism have to do with anything?’

Lincolne pursed his lips in rank disapproval. ‘It is a doctrine that came from the Devil’s own lips. It denies the very existence of God.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the Carmelite’s assertion. ‘Nominalism is a philosophical doctrine that…’

He trailed off as Lincolne fixed him with the gaze of the fanatic. ‘Nominalist thinking will destroy all that is good and holy in the world and allow the Devil to rule. It was because people were nominalists that God sent the Great Pestilence five years ago.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, who had heard many reasons for why the devastating sickness had ravaged the world, taking one in three people, but never one that claimed a philosophical theory was responsible. ‘So, you are saying that the plague took only nominalists as its victims? Not realists?’

‘I think God sent the Death to warn us all against sinful thoughts – like nominalism,’ declared Lincolne in the tone of voice that suggested disagreement was futile. ‘And that wicked man, William of Occam, who was the leading proponent of nominalism in Oxford, was one of the first to die.’

‘But so were a number of scholars who follow realism,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘The plague took scholars from both sides of the debate. That suggests a certain even-handedness to me.’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘This is neither the time nor the place to be discussing philosophy. We have a dead student here. Our duty is to discover who murdered him, not to assess the relative virtues of realism and nominalism.’

‘Then tell the Dominicans that,’ snapped Lincolne. ‘They are nominalists – every last one of them – and now a Carmelite lies dead.’ He rammed the stopper into the flask’s neck and heaved himself to his feet. He towered over Michael, and Bartholomew could not help but notice how the curious topknot quivered as if reflecting the rage of its owner.

‘It was the proclamation you wrote and pinned to the door of St Mary’s Church that precipitated this sorry incident,’ said Michael sharply. ‘And Faricius paid the price.’

‘That is grossly unfair–’ began Lincolne indignantly.

Michael cut through his objections. ‘I sincerely doubt whether the student-friars – Dominican or Carmelite – genuinely feel strongly enough about a philosophical debate to kill each other: your notice was merely the excuse they needed to fight. And I will have no more of it. The next person who nails a proclamation to any door in the town will spend the night in the proctors’ cells.’

‘The Carmelites are a powerful force in Cambridge, Brother,’ said Lincolne hotly. ‘We have forty friars studying here; the Dominicans only have thirty-three. You should think very carefully before you decide to take the side of the nominalists.’

‘I am not taking any side,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Personally, I am not much interested in philosophy. And numbers mean nothing anyway. At least half a dozen of your forty are old men, who will be no use at all if you intend to take on the Dominicans in a pitched battle. They will, however, be valiant in the debating halls, which is where I recommend you resolve this disagreement.’

His green eyes were cold and hard, and even the towering Lincolne apparently decided Michael was not a man to be easily intimidated. The Prior knelt again and began to straighten and arrange the folds of Faricius’s habit, to hide his temper.

‘Now, I need to ask you some questions,’ said Michael, seeing that Lincolne seemed to have conceded the argument. ‘You say Faricius was a gentle man, but did he have any enemies? Did he beat anyone in a debate, for example?’

Lincolne glowered at the sarcasm in Michael’s voice. ‘I am aware of no enemies, Brother. You can come to the friary and ask his colleagues if you wish, but you will find that Faricius was a peaceable and studious young man, as I have already told you.’

‘As soon as I heard that the Dominicans had taken exception to your proclamation, I sent Beadle Meadowman to tell you to keep all your students indoors until tempers had cooled,’ Michael went on. ‘So why was Faricius out?’

Lincolne glared at him. ‘We have as much right to walk the streets as anyone – but we did comply with your request. I instructed all my students to remain indoors, even though it is Saturday and teaching finishes at noon.’

‘Then why did they not obey you?’ pressed Michael.

Lincolne seemed surprised. ‘But they did obey me. None of them left the premises. It was not easy to keep them in, actually, given that the forty days of Lent have seemed very long this year, and everyone is looking forward to Easter next week. The students are excited and difficult to control.’

‘So I gather,’ said Michael wryly. ‘But you have not answered my question. Faricius was found lying in a doorway on Milne Street. He was clearly outside the friary, not inside it. If none of your students left the premises, how did he come to be out?’

Lincolne frowned as he shook his head. ‘When your beadle arrived to tell me that we should lock ourselves away when the Dominicans came, I rounded up all my students and took them home. Faricius was definitely inside when the front gates were closed. He could not have gone out again without asking me to open them – and he did not.’

‘Did he sprout wings and fly over the walls, then?’ demanded Michael impatiently. ‘I repeat: he was found on Milne Street. Perhaps he did not leave through the front gate, but he was outside nevertheless.’

Lincolne’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘You are taking a very biased approach to this, Brother. It is not Faricius’s actions that are on trial here: it is those of the Dominicans. They killed Faricius. Interrogate them, not me.’

‘Oh, I will,’ said Michael softly. ‘I will certainly get to the bottom of this sorry little tale.’

When Prior Lincolne had completed his prayers over Faricius’s body, two Carmelite students arrived to keep vigil. It was nearing dusk, and one had brought thick beeswax candles to light at his friend’s head; the other carried perfumed oil to rub into Faricius’s hands and feet, and held a clean robe, so that his dead colleague would not go to his grave wearing clothes that were stained with blood. One student was self-righteously outraged that the Dominicans had dared to strike one of their number, and complained vociferously about it to Michael; the second merely twisted the clean robe in his hands and said nothing. Michael homed in on the latter.

‘What is your name?’ he demanded.

The student-friar jumped nervously. He was about the same age as Faricius, and had a mop of red-brown hair that was worn overly long. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose gave him a curiously adolescent appearance, and his grubby fingers had nails that had been chewed almost to the quick. There was nothing distinctive or unusual about him, and he looked just like any other young man whose family had decided that a career in the Church would provide him with a secure future.

‘Simon Lynne,’ he replied in a low voice, casting an anxious glance at the other student.

‘What can you tell us about Faricius, Simon?’ asked Bartholomew, in a kinder tone of voice than Michael had used.

‘He was a peace-loving man,’ stated the other student hotly. He was a thickset lad who was missing two of his front teeth. ‘He would never have started a fight with the Dominicans.’

‘We were not talking to you,’ said Michael, silencing him with a cool gaze. ‘We were speaking to Lynne.’

Lynne swallowed, his eyes flicking anxiously to Faricius’s body. ‘Horneby is right. Faricius was not a violent man. He came to Cambridge last September, and was only interested in his lessons and his prayers.’

‘Do you know why he happened to be out of the friary when your Prior and I expressly instructed that everyone should remain inside?’ asked Michael. ‘Was he given to breaking orders?’

‘No, never. He always did as he was told,’ said Lynne.

‘Then why was he out?’ pressed Michael.

‘He was not,’ said Lynne unsteadily. ‘He remained in the friary to read when the rest of us went with Prior Lincolne to pin that proclamation to the church door. After that, you ordered the gates closed and they did not open again until Prior Lincolne was summoned here.’

Michael was growing impatient. ‘But if Faricius had been safely inside, he would not be lying here now, dead. At some point, he left the friary and was attacked. How? Is it possible to scale the walls? Is there a back gate? Are the porters bribable, and willing to open the gates for a price?’

‘No,’ said Lincolne immediately. ‘All our porters are commoners – men who have retired from teaching and live in the friary at our expense. They are not bribable, because they would not risk being ejected from their comfortable posts by breaking our rules.’

‘The walls, then?’ pressed Michael irritably. ‘Did Faricius climb over the walls?’

‘Impossible,’ said Lincolne. ‘They are twice the height of a man and are plastered, so there are no footholds. And anyway, he was not a monkey, Brother.’

Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘You are telling me that it was impossible for Faricius to have left your friary – more precisely, you are telling me that he did not leave your friary. But he was found in Milne Street at the height of the skirmish with the Dominicans. How do you explain that?’

‘It seems we cannot,’ said Lincolne, with a shrug that made him appear uncharacteristically helpless. ‘You will have to ask the Dominicans.’

‘You want me to enquire of the Dominicans how a Carmelite friar escaped from within your own walls without any of you knowing how he did it?’ asked Michael incredulously. ‘That would certainly provide them with a tale with which to amuse themselves at your expense!’

Lincolne grimaced, uncomfortable with that notion. ‘Unpleasant though this may be for us, that is where your answer will lie, Brother.’

Michael closed his eyes, and Bartholomew expected the monk to show a sudden display of temper, to try to frighten the Carmelites into telling him the truth. It was patently obvious that Lynne was hiding something, and that even if he had not actually lied, he had certainly not told the complete truth. Whether Lincolne and Horneby were also lying was unclear, although Bartholomew found he had taken a dislike to the fanatical Prior and his gap-toothed novice for their uncompromising belligerence. Their reaction to Faricius’s death seemed more akin to outrage that a crime had been committed against their Order, than grief for a man reputedly scholarly and peaceable.

But Michael had had enough of the Carmelites. He nodded curtly, and left them to the business of laying out their colleague and of saying prayers for him. Bartholomew followed him out of the church, and then stood with him in the grassy churchyard, where the monk took several deep breaths to calm himself. Walcote, who came to report that the Dominicans were all safely locked in their friary, joined them and listened to Michael’s terse summary.

‘One of their number has been murdered,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You would think they would be only too happy to co-operate and provide us with the information we need to solve the crime.’

‘They probably thought they did, Brother,’ said Walcote soothingly.

‘They were hiding something,’ snapped Michael. ‘In the case of Lynne, I have never seen a more uncomfortable liar.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Lynne was about as furtive a lad as I have ever encountered, but that does not mean to say he was concealing anything to do with Faricius’s curious absence from the friary.’

‘What do you think?’ demanded Michael of his Junior Proctor. ‘Why do you think the Carmelites would withhold information from me?’

Walcote shrugged. ‘Something to do with this nominalism – realism debate, perhaps. It is possible that they intend to write further proclamations, and do not want the proctors to prevent them from doing so. It is also possible that Lincolne is telling the truth, but that Faricius’s classmates were prevaricating because they do not wish to speak ill of the dead.’

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I suppose Faricius may have broken the rules and slipped out, and Lynne and Horneby do not want their Prior to think badly of him now that he is dead. But I am not convinced. Having spoken to Lynne, I think there is more to Faricius’s stabbing than a case of a lone Carmelite being stupid enough to walk into a gang of brawling Dominicans.’

Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘So, we agree that Lynne was lying – although we cannot be sure about Lincolne and Horneby. Ergo, there are two possibilities: either Lynne was lying of his own accord and was uncomfortable doing so in the presence of his Prior; or all three constructed some tale between them that Lynne was uneasy in telling.’

‘I am tempted to march right back in there and shake the truth out of them,’ said Michael testily. ‘But that would only convince Lincolne that I am determined to divert blame from the Dominicans. I shall have to catch Lynne alone, and then we shall see how his lies stand up to some serious prodding.’

‘Was Faricius really the scholarly man they would have us believe?’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Or was he just like the rest of them – a lout in a habit spoiling for a fight?’

‘He was scholarly, right enough,’ said Walcote. ‘I told you earlier that he attended lectures and that I admired his thinking.’

‘You need to decide whether Faricius really did remain in the friary to read when the others went to watch Lincolne pin his proclamation to the church door, or whether Lynne has just been told to say he did,’ said Bartholomew to Michael.

Michael smiled craftily. ‘I am glad you seem interested in this crime, Matt. You can help me solve it, as you have done before.’

Bartholomew balked at this. ‘No, Brother! I am too busy to spend my time chasing murderers with you. And anyway, that is why you have a Junior Proctor.’

Walcote shook his head. ‘The last week of Lent is always busy for us. The students are restless, and we are anticipating more trouble. It will be difficult for us to solve murders and keep peace in the town.’

‘And you are not busy at all, Matt,’ added Michael. ‘The first signs of spring have heartened people, so fewer of them are sick; it is coming up to Easter week, so we only teach in the mornings; and your treatise on fevers will never be finished. It is already longer than virtually everything written by Galen and you claim you are only just beginning.’

‘And you did find the body,’ Walcote pointed out.

‘I found an injured man,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘But I can tell you nothing relevant. I asked who had stabbed him, but he was more concerned with the fact that he had lost his scrip than in telling me who had prematurely ended his life.’

‘Was that because he expected to recover?’ asked Michael. ‘Or because whatever was in his scrip was more important to him than seeing his killer brought to justice?’

‘I do not know, Brother. Dying people react in different ways. He may have been delirious. He had certainly swallowed a good deal of the laudanum I give to very ill patients, and that can cause people to say odd or irrelevant things.’

‘Pity,’ said Walcote. ‘If you had learned the name of the killer, you would not now be obliged to help us solve the crime. And I imagine it will take a while, because there are already questions regarding how it could have happened. I have the feeling this will transpire to be more complicated than a simple case of a Black Friar stabbing a White Friar during a riot.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘I feel it in my bones, and I am seldom wrong about such things.’

Bartholomew looked from Michael to his deputy. ‘You two have been in Cambridge too long! You are looking for complex solutions when there is a very simple one staring you in the face. Have you never heard of Occam’s razor?’

Walcote said approvingly, ‘Occam was a great man – a nominalist, like me.’

‘You are a nominalist?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘What has induced you to follow a ridiculous notion like that?’

Walcote swallowed nervously, uncomfortable with Michael’s disapproval. ‘It makes sense. It is a good way of looking at the universe.’

‘So is realism,’ countered Michael.

Walcote immediately backed down in the way Bartholomew noted he always did when faced with serious opposition. It was an aspect of the Junior Proctor’s character that Bartholomew thought unappealing and Michael found aggravating. ‘I suppose it is. They both are.’

‘Actually, to be honest, I do not think one theory has any more to offer than the other,’ Michael went on pompously, also noting Walcote’s reluctance to stand up for what he believed. ‘They are both pathetic, desperate attempts that try to allow us to comprehend a world that was never created to be understood. What we are meant to understand is people – the lies they tell and the plots they hatch.’

‘As you say, Brother,’ said Walcote, chastened.

‘But we are not supposed to devise complex solutions to what are simple problems,’ said Bartholomew, trying to bring the discussion back to his original point. ‘That is the basis of Occam’s razor.’

‘What has Occam’s razor to do with Faricius’s death?’ asked Michael irritably. He seemed disheartened by Walcote’s meekness, and Bartholomew supposed he was questioning yet again the suitability of a man like Walcote to be a proctor.

‘It says that the conclusion with the fewest assumptions should always be taken over the one with more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The simplest, most parsimonious theory is always the right one. Therefore, I deduce that the Carmelites are lying because Lincolne does not want to appear as though he has no control over his friars. And that is all.’

‘Believe what you will, Matt,’ said Michael superiorly. ‘You will find that you are wrong and we are right. It is too late today, but tomorrow morning you must come with me to the Dominican Friary to see whether you can identify these six student-friars you saw near Faricius before he died.’

‘Do you not think it wiser to go now?’ suggested Walcote timidly. ‘Why wait?’

‘Two reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘First, it is almost dark and friars will be preparing for compline. And second, because I want these Dominicans to reflect on what they have done. It may make them more willing to confess.’

‘But what if they take the opportunity to run away from Cambridge?’ asked Walcote uneasily. ‘You may visit the Dominican Friary tomorrow and find they have fled.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘The beadles will detain anyone attempting to leave Cambridge under cover of darkness, and to flee is a clear statement of guilt. We will have them either way.’

‘If you say so, Brother,’ said Walcote unhappily.

The Dominican Friary lay outside the town gates, to the east of the King’s Ditch. The Ditch split away from the River Cam near the castle in the north, then it and the river encircled the town like a huge pair of pincers until they met again in the south near the Trumpington Gate. Not only were the waterways clear markers of the town’s boundaries, but they provided a certain degree of protection. Few people were inclined to wade or swim across the sluggish, sewage-filled channels, so most traffic entering or leaving Cambridge went through one of its two gates or crossed one of its two bridges.

The oval-shaped area enclosed by the Ditch and the river was full to overflowing with buildings and tofts. This part of the town was little more than half a mile in length, and yet it boasted ten churches, several chapels, three friaries, St John’s Hospital and six of the University’s eight Colleges. In addition, there were about thirty hostels and halls, and a large number of houses in which the townsfolk lived. Some of these were grand and spacious, like the one that Bartholomew’s sister and her husband owned, while others were little more than hovels, clinging to each other in a losing battle against gravity.

When the Dominicans had first arrived in Cambridge in the 1230s, they had decided against wedging themselves into a town that was already bursting at the seams, and had instead purchased a house and land on Hadstock Way. From these humble beginnings, the friary had grown into an assortment of handsome buildings enclosed by a sturdy wall. The wall was necessary partly because rival Orders occasionally physically attacked each other, and partly because the friary’s location outside the town rendered it vulnerable to the attentions of outlaws.

Like Michaelhouse, the friary was built of a honey-coloured sandstone that had been specially imported from the quarries at Barnack, near Peterborough. There was a refectory with long tables where the friars ate, with a chamber above that served as their sleeping quarters. Then there was a separate kitchen block with an attic that provided accommodation for the servants, stables, and an elegant chapel and suite of rooms in which the Prior resided. A sizeable portion of the garden had been set aside as a graveyard – which Bartholomew recalled had seen a lot of use during the plague – and nearby were well-tended vegetable plots that provided cabbages, peas and beans to supplement the friars’ meals.

It was mid-morning, and the sun was fighting against heavy grey clouds. A few bright rays had penetrated the east window of St Michael’s Church that Palm Sunday morning, but by the time Bartholomew and Michael had eaten breakfast, any evidence of the approach of the long-awaited spring had been smothered by clouds that had blown in from the south west.

Normally, Bartholomew would have been resentful that Michael’s request to help him solve a murder obliged him to miss teaching duties, but Palm Sunday heralded the beginning of Easter Week, when lectures were only scheduled for the mornings, ostensibly so that the scholars could spend more time in church. Students and masters alike were looking forward to Easter Sunday the following week, when they would celebrate the end of the forty days of Lent with a feast. As Lincolne had noted, all the University’s students were restless and fretful, and the masters were finding it increasingly difficult to force them to study or to hold their concentration.

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the Dominican Friary, the first thing they saw was a small group of sullen Carmelite student-friars, eyeing the tall walls resentfully and muttering to each other in low voices.

‘And just what do you think you are doing?’ demanded Michael, making several of the white-robed novices jump. They exchanged guilty looks.

‘Nothing,’ said the one with the missing teeth, whom Bartholomew recognised as Horneby. His friend, the freckle-faced Simon Lynne, was just behind him. ‘We are just taking the air.’

‘Well, you can “just take the air” inside your own friary,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Be off with you!’

Most of them, Lynne included, immediately began to slink away, but the fiery Horneby held his ground and the others hesitated, wanting to see what would happen.

‘It is not fair!’ Horneby burst out. ‘The Dominicans killed Faricius, and yet nothing has been done about it. You do not care!’

Michael sighed. ‘I can assure you that I have thought of little else but Faricius’s murder since yesterday, and I care very much that his killer is brought to justice. I have my own reasons for leaving the Dominicans alone until this morning – all my experience and instincts told me that I would stand a better chance of forcing the killer to confess by waiting, not rushing.’

‘We do not believe you,’ said Lynne, almost tearfully. ‘So, it is for us to avenge poor Faricius.’

‘It is for you to go home,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Hurry up, or I shall fine the lot of you for attempting to cause a riot.’

‘It is because he is a nominalist, like the Dominicans,’ said Horneby bitterly to Lynne, casting a resentful glare in Michael’s direction. ‘That is why he will do nothing about Faricius’s murder–’

‘What is nominalism, Horneby?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across Horneby’s angry words. ‘Explain it to me.’

Horneby gazed at him, and then shot a red-faced glance at his companions. Michael raised his eyebrows and hid a smile.

‘What do you mean?’ Horneby asked nervously.

‘Define nominalism,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘It is a perfectly simple request. Or tell me why you follow realism. I do not mind which.’

‘Why?’ demanded Horneby. ‘Will you summon the Devil to refute my arguments?’

‘I will refute nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will simply listen to what you say.’

He stood with his arms folded and waited. To one side, Michael leaned against the friary wall and watched the scene with amusement glinting in the depths of his green eyes. Horneby cast another agitated glance at his colleagues, hoping one of them would come to his rescue. None did.

‘It is about whether things do or do not exist,’ he stammered eventually. ‘Some things do exist, and some things do not.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Can you be more specific?’

‘No,’ said Horneby. ‘I do not choose to be specific.’

‘I fail to see why everyone seems to have taken sides in a debate that so few people understand,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head in genuine mystification. ‘You are prepared to lurk outside a friary filled with hostile Dominicans over something you cannot even define.’

‘Prior Lincolne says that nominalism is heresy,’ said Horneby sullenly.

‘Lincolne is one of realism’s most vocal proponents,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Everyone knows his feelings on the matter. But I do not understand why you have also embraced the philosophy. Is it just because he tells you to?’

Horneby glowered at him. ‘God is on the side of the just,’ he declared hotly. ‘Numbers are irrelevant.’

‘They are not,’ Bartholomew pointed out practically. ‘If the Dominicans decided to come out now, you would find yourselves outnumbered at least five to one. Go home, Horneby, and take your friends with you. This is no place for you.’

Michael watched approvingly as the White Friars began to walk away. An unpleasant incident had been averted, although he sensed that his friend’s point was as lost on the Carmelites as it would have been on the Dominicans. As Bartholomew had explained to his sister the previous day, the debate itself was not important – it was simply an excuse for a fight.

‘We should make sure they do not come back,’ Michael said, beginning to follow them. ‘They were unable to answer your arguments, but that will not stop them attacking any Dominicans they meet.’

But the Carmelites were aware of the stern eyes of the Senior Proctor behind, and they returned to their friary without further incident. Michael looked grim as he watched the door close, then turned to walk back to the Dominican Friary. As they made their way along the High Street, Bartholomew spotted his sister. Her cloak was damp and tendrils of dark hair escaped from what had probably been a neat plait earlier that morning. She seemed breathless and rather bemused.

‘I have just ridden from Trumpington,’ she explained, referring to the small village two miles to the south of Cambridge where her husband owned a manor. ‘Richard accompanied me.’

‘From your windswept appearance, I take it that he did so at a rather more brisk pace than you are used to,’ said Michael, amused.

Edith nodded. ‘It was a compromise. He wanted to ride like the wind, I wanted to walk. We settled on a brisk trot, which suited neither of us. Next time, I will ask someone else to escort me.’

‘And how is Richard?’ asked Michael. ‘I have not seen him since his triumphant return to Cambridge with his new law degree.’

‘He is well,’ replied Edith, ‘although I do not approve of that ear-ring he has taken to wearing. It makes him look like a courtier.’

‘Perhaps that is the idea,’ said Michael. ‘I imagine most of our students would dearly love to sport gold bangles dangling from their lobes, but, fortunately, the University forbids such displays of fashion. It is a pity in a way: they would certainly provide a convenient handhold when their owners are arrested.’

Bartholomew winced at the idea. ‘Why are you in town today?’ he asked Edith. ‘And how did you manage to prise Richard from his bed before noon?’

She smiled. ‘I have come to collect butter for our dinner tomorrow celebrating Richard’s return. You are still coming, I hope, Matt? He will be disappointed if you do not.’

‘Of course I am coming,’ said Bartholomew, looking away, so that she would not be able to read in his face that he had forgotten all about her invitation. ‘What time did you say?’

‘Evening,’ said Edith. ‘But before sunset. You do not need me to tell you that outlaws make the roads unsafe for a lone man at night.’

‘What are you having to eat?’ asked Michael keenly, in a brazen attempt to inveigle an invitation. The students were not alone in becoming bored with the endless Lenten fare of bean stews and stale bread, and the monk knew that Edith would prepare something special in honour of her beloved only son. ‘Fish? Lombard slices?’

‘River trout stuffed with almonds, raisin bread, and I have been baking pastries most of this week,’ she replied, a little unsettled by the monk’s intense interest. ‘Meat is still forbidden, of course, but fish can be made interesting with a little imagination.’

‘It certainly can,’ agreed Michael vehemently. ‘What kind of pastries?’

‘There are your Benedictine friends,’ said Bartholomew, uncomfortable that Michael was quizzing his sister about what was supposed to be a family occasion. ‘Janius and Timothy.’

‘I will see you tomorrow,’ said Edith to Bartholomew. She nodded to the two Benedictines as they approached, and then was gone, carrying Michael’s hopes for a good meal with her.

Timothy and Janius greeted Michael warmly, and Janius sketched a benediction at him. Both carried large baskets and said they had been distributing bread to the town’s poor.

‘Have you found your killer yet?’ asked Timothy. ‘The scholarly Faricius did not deserve to die in such a manner.’

‘It is not pleasant to think of a killer walking the streets of our town,’ agreed Janius. ‘I hope it will not be long before he is apprehended.’

‘So do I,’ said Michael. ‘Matt and I are going to the Dominican Friary now, to see whether he can identify the students who were near Faricius yesterday afternoon.’

‘Can we do anything?’ offered Janius. ‘We remembered Faricius in our prayers, of course, but if we can do anything else, you must let us know.’

‘I tried to help yesterday,’ said Timothy, sounding uncomfortable at mentioning something that might sound boastful. ‘Because I was keen to do all I could to avert bloodshed, I accompanied Beadle Meadowman to the Carmelite Friary to ensure that Prior Lincolne would admit him – I was afraid a beadle would not be granted an audience with an important man like a Prior.’

‘I would fine any friary that denied access to my beadles,’ said Michael. ‘But thank you. I suppose the Carmelites could have declined to open the door.’

‘Fortunately, Lincolne was wiser than that,’ said Timothy. ‘I heard Meadowman deliver your order that all Carmelites were to remain within their friary until further notice, and then returned to my own hall as quickly as I could. I did not want to add to your troubles by providing a lone Benedictine for the Dominicans to vent their ire upon.’

‘Actually, the Dominicans and the Benedictines have a truce at the moment,’ said Janius. ‘We both accept nominalism as a basic truth. But I do not think most students really care about the realism – nominalism debate. It is just a convenient excuse for a good fight.’

‘That is certainly true,’ said Michael. ‘But I will have these six Dominicans under lock and key today, if I think they are responsible for Faricius’s death.’

‘Good,’ said Janius. ‘We will pray that justice is done. Now, in fact.’

He crossed himself vigorously and his blue eyes lit with pleasure as he sensed a cause that was worthy of his religious attentions. He bade farewell to Michael, and began to stride towards the Church of St Andrew that stood just outside the Barnwell Gate. Timothy followed him, his head already bowed as he began his own pious meditations.

‘They are good men,’ said Michael warmly, watching them go. ‘And there are not many of those around these days.’