An Order for Death

Chapter 2

ON THEIR WAY BACK TO THE DOMINICAN FRIARY, Bartholomew and Michael met Walcote, who offered to accompany them with a pack of beadles, in case the Dominicans took exception to the Senior Proctor arresting some of their number. With Walcote and the men at his heels, Michael strode up to the friary gate and hammered on it. It was answered almost immediately by a strange-looking man, whose hair stood in an uncertain halo around his tonsure and who had a wild look in his eyes.

‘Clippesby,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were at Michaelhouse, overseeing the polishing of our silver in preparation for Easter.’

‘I finished that,’ said Clippesby shyly. ‘Then I offered to help the cooks shred the cabbage, but they were afraid I might cut myself, so I went for a walk instead.’

Then the cooks had been very tactful, thought Bartholomew, hiding a smile. It was well known in the town that the Dominican John Clippesby, Michaelhouse’s master of music and astronomy, was not entirely in control of his faculties, and that he was always being given time-consuming and usually pointless tasks to keep him out of harm’s way. The cooks would certainly not want him in the kitchen with a sharp knife in his hands.

‘But what are you doing here?’ pressed Michael, suspecting that Clippesby had somehow slipped past the porters, and that the Master of Michaelhouse did not know he was at large.

‘I heard there was trouble between my Order and the Carmelites, so I thought I should come to see what was happening,’ replied Clippesby. ‘But I was just leaving, actually. For some reason, Prior Morden said he did not want me here, and suggested that I should go home.’

‘I bet he did,’ muttered Michael, who had been trying for some time, without success, to foist the unstable Dominican back on his own friary and out of Michaelhouse. Morden was no fool, however, and had no more wish to have a madman imposed on him than Michaelhouse had been.

‘All the Dominicans are inside,’ Clippesby went on. ‘Prior Morden says that it is too dangerous for anyone to be out, although he said I would be safe, because I am a Michaelhouse man and do not live in the friary.’

Bartholomew felt a surge of anger against Morden. The Prior knew perfectly well that marauding Carmelites would not ask a man wearing the habit of a Dominican whether he lived at the friary or whether he was a member of a College. It would be irrelevant anyway: the Carmelites’ antagonism was not aimed at the friary in particular, it was aimed at the Dominicans in general. Clippesby would have provided an ideal target for the little group of sullen Carmelites Bartholomew and Michael had just followed home.

‘Wait here,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for Clippesby to be alone. ‘We will walk to Michaelhouse with you after we have spoken to Morden.’

‘I will be all right,’ said Clippesby, beginning to move away from them. ‘Saint Balthere appeared to me this morning and instructed me to pray for him in St Michael’s Church. He would not have done that if any harm was due to befall me, would he?’

‘Saint who?’ asked Michael warily.

‘That does not necessarily follow,’ said Bartholomew, worried that the Dominican’s unstable condition might be taking a turn for the worse. ‘Wait here until we have spoken to Morden.’

But Clippesby was already wandering away down the road, and Bartholomew had glimpsed the distant look in his eyes that always appeared when the voices inside his head began to claim his attention. In the physician’s opinion, the conversations seemed to be heavily one-sided, with Clippesby doing most of the talking. How the saints managed to make him shut up long enough to pass any kind of message to him was entirely beyond Bartholomew’s understanding.

‘He will come to no harm,’ said Walcote reassuringly, seeing Bartholomew’s concern. ‘Everyone knows he is touched, and so will leave him alone. If the truth be known, I think he frightens people. They do not understand the things he says and does, and they are afraid of him.’

‘They have good reason to be,’ announced Michael. ‘I am afraid of him myself.’

Still glancing uneasily behind him at Clippesby, who sauntered along Hadstock Way as if he had not a care in the world, Bartholomew followed Michael and Walcote across the Dominicans’ courtyard to the Prior’s lodging. They were hurriedly intercepted by a man with heavy brow-ridge, like an ape, who introduced himself as Thomas Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary. He instructed them to wait until Prior Morden had been informed that he had visitors – something that invariably annoyed Michael, who liked to burst in on people unawares to see if he could catch them doing something he could use to his advantage.

After a chilly wait in the courtyard, where a sharp wind blew dead leaves from the previous autumn around in desolate little eddies, Ringstead came to tell them the great man was ready. Michael elbowed him aside and made his way to the Prior’s comfortable office on the first floor, pushing open the door so hard that it flew back and crashed against the wall. The tiny man who sat writing at a table near the window almost jumped out of his skin.

‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ he complained in a high-pitched voice, almost like a child’s. ‘You do it every time you visit, and I keep telling you that the hinges are delicate.’

Ringstead inspected the wall behind the door, and clucked softly at the plaster flakes that lay on the floor. Judging from the small cracks that radiated from a circular indentation at the level of the latch, either Michael had visited Prior Morden with some frequency, or the fat monk was not the only one who liked to enter the solar with a bang.

‘Very sorry,’ said Michael, not sounding in the least contrite as he strode across the room and placed himself in front of a blazing fire, depriving everyone else of the heat by blocking it with his bulk.

Prior Morden sighed irritably and put down his pen. If Lincolne of the Carmelites was a giant, then Morden of the Dominicans was an elf. His head did not reach Bartholomew’s shoulder, and the physician noticed that when the Prior sat in the chair his feet did not touch the floor. He was dressed in an immaculate habit of fine black wool, and a delicate silver cross hung around his neck.

‘I expected you yesterday,’ said Morden, picking up a sheaf of parchments and shuffling them fussily. ‘I heard what happened with that Carmelite, and I suspected you would come to try to blame his death on us Dominicans.’

‘I am here to discover who killed Faricius of Abington, not to blame the innocent,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Do you have any idea what happened yesterday?’

‘What happened is that the Carmelites challenged my student-friars to a fight, but then ran away like cowards to skulk within their walls when we responded,’ stated the little man uncompromisingly.

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘The gathering of Dominicans in Milne Street, who threw stones – not only at the Carmelite Friary but at the houses of the merchants who live nearby – was the Carmelites’ responsibility, was it?’

‘Essentially,’ said Morden, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Prior Lincolne wrote a proclamation saying that anyone who followed the theory of nominalism should be burned in the Market Square for heresy, and then had the audacity to pin it up at St Mary’s Church. But it is the realists who should be burned for heresy!’

Michael cast a weary glance at Walcote and Bartholomew, and then turned to Morden. ‘Has the whole University gone mad? I can accept that one or two misguided individuals feel that the known universe revolves around the realism – nominalism debate, but I am astonished that so many apparently sane people deem this issue so important.’

‘Lincolne’s act was a deliberate insult to us,’ Morden went on. ‘You see, our Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, is due to give the University Lecture in St Mary’s Church on Easter Sunday, and his chosen subject is nominalism. Lincolne’s proclamation was calculated to offend us specifically.’

‘Kyrkeby?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘He is lecturing?’

‘Yes, why?’ demanded Morden aggressively. ‘Do you think him incapable of speaking at the University’s most prestigious annual academic event?’

‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He is a patient of mine, and for the last several months his heart has been beating irregularly. I recommended he should avoid anything that would make him nervous or tense.’

‘It was a great honour when a Dominican was invited to speak at such an auspicious occasion,’ said Morden indignantly. ‘Of course he did not refuse the Chancellor’s invitation.’

‘He mentioned none of this to me,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘No wonder he has visited me three times this week. It is apprehension that is making him ill.’

‘I imagine he did not tell you because he knew you would advise against it,’ said Walcote practically. ‘Foolish man, to put pride above his health.’

‘He has been working very hard on what he plans to say,’ said Morden. ‘For weeks, he has thought of little else.’

‘Then I imagine it will be an entertaining occasion,’ said Michael, bored with a conversation that had nothing to do with Faricius’s murder. ‘But I did not come here to talk about–’

‘I only hope it will not be entertaining in a way that will prove detrimental to the friary,’ interrupted Morden, pursing his lips worriedly. ‘He read me parts of his lecture last week, and I confess I have heard stronger and more erudite arguments.’

‘He has changed it since then, Father Prior,’ said Ringstead reassuringly. ‘I was very impressed with what he read me last night. Do not worry. Our Precentor will do us justice.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Morden anxiously.

Ringstead nodded. ‘The lecture is now a very mature and astute piece of thinking. Even the Carmelites will be stunned into silence with the eloquence and perceptiveness of his logic.’

‘That assumes they are able to appreciate it – and I have seen no evidence that they can,’ muttered Michael. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘But whatever philosophical views are held on this subject, Prior Morden, it is no excuse for riotous behaviour – for Dominicans or Carmelites.’

‘You do not understand the importance of this issue,’ said Morden vehemently. ‘Your Benedictine colleagues at Ely Hall do, though – they have ranged themselves on the side of nominalism. Brothers Timothy and Janius are shining examples.’

Michael gave a fervent sigh. ‘I know that some scholars have strong views on the matter, but I do not think most of us care one way or the other.’

‘That is not true,’ objected Morden hotly. ‘I care very much.’

‘And so does Lincolne,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘But do you care because you are a committed nominalist, or because you have a natural inclination to oppose anything upheld by the Carmelites? Everyone knows the two Orders have always despised each other.’

‘Lincolne is a loathsome man,’ declared Morden, indicating that the long-standing enmity between the two Orders was doubtless the real cause of the Dominicans’ sudden interest in philosophy. ‘But nominalism is a much more rational theory than realism. However, you are wrong to think that no one cares. Many people feel very strongly about this issue.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice to Michael and Walcote. ‘This debate has provided the Orders with an excuse to re-address ancient grievances. You will find that most clerics have taken this debate very much to heart, and you will also find that they are doggedly aligning themselves on whichever side of the discussion their Order has deemed correct. There seems to be no room for individual thought on this matter.’

‘Like sheep,’ muttered Michael in disgust.

‘Not entirely,’ offered Walcote timidly. ‘Many highly intelligent men have taken up this argument – and it is not purely the domain of louts spoiling for a street battle.’

‘That is not how it appears,’ said Michael. ‘But this is not a new debate – it originated with Aristotle and Plato. Why should the two sides suddenly resort to violence over it?’

‘That riot yesterday was not our fault,’ stated Morden, breaking into the muttered conversation. ‘What started it was the proclamation Lincolne wrote. It is his action that precipitated the incident in Milne Street.’

‘I see,’ pounced Michael. ‘An “incident in Milne Street” is how you would describe the murder of a Carmelite, is it?’

‘Dominicans are not the only ones who dislike the Carmelites,’ retorted Morden. ‘The Austin canons loathe them just as much – not to mention the Benedictines.’ He gave Michael’s own dark robe a meaningful glance and then looked at Walcote’s Austin habit.

‘It was not Benedictines or Austins that my colleague saw closing in on Faricius with malice in their eyes,’ said Michael sharply. ‘It was Dominicans. Even he can tell the difference.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Morden nastily. ‘The Benedictines can barely rouse themselves from the dining table.’

Michael ignored the jibe. ‘Matt saw six Dominicans advancing on Faricius intending mischief. I would like a word with them, if you please. And you need not concern yourself about their likely reluctance to give themselves up: he can identify them.’

Morden treated Bartholomew, and then Michael, to unpleasant looks. ‘I am sure they meant Faricius no harm. Have you considered the possibility that they were trying to help him? Did you actually see them stab him?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But they are the ones who should be answering these questions, not me. Will you send for them or would you rather I picked them out?’

Morden’s glower deepened. ‘Everyone is in the refectory at the moment, eating breakfast as they listen in reverent silence to the readings of the Bible Scholar. Come.’

‘Breakfast?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘But it is almost noon!’

‘The lateness of the meal would not have anything to do with that misguided group of Carmelites who were lingering outside your walls, would it?’ asked Walcote with raised eyebrows. ‘Were you preparing to do battle with them?’

‘What Carmelites?’ asked Morden with an air of assumed innocence that was patently false. ‘Were there Carmelites outside our walls this morning? I did not notice.’

‘It is just as well we moved them on,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, not fooled for an instant by Morden. ‘The last thing we want is a revenge killing. But let us go to see these students, eating their breakfast in the middle of the day.’

Bartholomew, Michael and Walcote followed Prior Morden down the stairs and across the yard to the largest of the buildings in the Dominican Friary. The door to the refectory was closed, but even so, Bartholomew could hear that the sounds emanating from within had nothing to do with the Bible Scholar. Morden gave an irritable frown before throwing open the door and stepping inside. Bartholomew ducked instinctively as a piece of bread whistled past his ear, although Michael was slower and received a boiled leek in the chest.

Morden gaped in horror for a few moments, before striding to the nearest table, snatching up a pewter cup and banging it against the wall. The din gradually faded to silence, and the student-friars, who had been standing to hurl their edible missiles, quickly took their places on the benches that ran the length of the room. Some had the grace to appear shamefaced as their Prior ran admonishing eyes over their ranks, but many made no secret of their amusement at having been caught.

‘Where is Kyrkeby?’ Morden demanded. ‘He is supposed to be overseeing your meals today.’

‘He is not here,’ replied one of the student-friars, a smooth-faced, arrogant youth who Bartholomew immediately recognised as one of the mob that had been near Faricius.

Morden sighed. ‘I can see that, Bulmer. But where is he?’

‘We do not know,’ answered another student. A green smear on the front of his habit and crumbs in his hair indicated that he had been in the thick of the mischief. ‘Probably working on his lecture. He does little else these days.’

Bulmer walked to the door and then turned, pointing across the courtyard to a room on the far side. The distinctive bristle-head of Kyrkeby could be seen in the window, bent over a book. ‘Yes, there he is. Working on his lecture, as usual.’

Morden glowered at the assembled students. ‘I would have hoped that you would not require a nursemaid, and that you could be trusted to behave yourselves in a manner suited to men who have chosen to become friars. But I can see my faith in you was misplaced.’

‘It certainly was,’ mumbled Michael to Bartholomew, gazing around him in disdain. ‘I have never seen such a deplorable spectacle among men of the cloth.’

Although a food fight was not something usually associated with friaries, the physician was aware that most of the religious community in Cambridge comprised young men – some only fifteen or sixteen – who had been sent to acquire an education of sorts before they were dispatched to parishes all across the country. Young men in large groups, even clerics, would inevitably display some degree of high spirits, and the scene in the refectory had been exactly that. Still, he thought, hardening his heart, six of the faces that were turned towards their Prior had been responsible for more than a bit of horseplay involving a few vegetables.

‘The proctors want to speak to those of you who were present when the Carmelite was killed yesterday,’ announced Morden in his childish voice. ‘I have been telling them that you are law-abiding men, but now I wonder whether I was wrong.’

‘You are not wrong, Father,’ said Bulmer. ‘I was there, although I swear before God that we did not harm him.’

He met Michael’s eyes steadily, and Bartholomew could not decide whether the young man’s confidence was convincing bluster or genuine truthfulness.

‘Thank you, Bulmer,’ said Morden. ‘And who was with you?’

Five others stood. Bartholomew recognised them all.

‘What Bulmer says is true,’ said a pink-faced boy with tightly curled fair hair. ‘We admit we went to the Carmelite Friary after Horneby and Simon Lynne taunted us about the fact that Lincolne had written that proclamation and pinned it on the church door for all to see, but all the White Friars had fled inside their walls long before we could reach them.’

‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘He had not fled inside.’

Bulmer and his cronies exchanged a nervous glance. ‘We were on our way home, when we saw a Carmelite lying in a doorway, so we went to see what he was doing. We saw he had blood on the front of his habit.’

‘Because you had stabbed him,’ said Michael flatly.

‘No!’ objected Bulmer. ‘He was already bleeding when we found him. We were edging closer, to see what had happened, when your colleague arrived and took him away. I am surprised you say he is dead – I did not know he was so seriously wounded.’

‘Someone had driven a knife into his stomach,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died from loss of blood about an hour later.’

‘Well, it was nothing to do with us,’ said Bulmer firmly. ‘I admit that the sight of a white habit lying in front of us was a tempting target, but you drove us off with those horrible birthing forceps before we could even touch him.’

‘If we had known he was badly hurt, we would have summoned help,’ claimed the fair-haired student. ‘But we only saw a White Friar lying in the doorway with blood on him. For all we knew, the blood might not even have been his.’

‘Do not lie!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘The poor man was trying to hold his innards in. It was patently obvious the blood was his. And you can say what you like, but you were going to finish him off. You said as much when you tried to prevent me from carrying him away.’

‘Those were words spoken in the heat of the moment,’ said Bulmer defensively. ‘We let you go, did we not? There were six of us, and had we really meant trouble, then you would not have left with him.’

Bartholomew wondered if that were true. He was not one of Cambridge’s most skilled fighters, birthing forceps or no, and suspected that the six Dominicans had carried weapons that would have been much more efficient than a heavy lump of metal.

‘It seems you must look elsewhere for your killer, Brother,’ said Morden smugly. ‘You heard these students: Faricius was already wounded when they found him. Perhaps they did mean to harm him when they saw his white habit, but they still allowed Bartholomew to carry him away. The Dominicans are not responsible for this crime.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael as he looked from the gloating features of the diminutive Prior to the calm gazes of the six student-friars who were protesting their innocence. ‘What a mess! I do not know whom to believe.’

‘Well, I do not believe any of them,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘You are right,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we will arrest the whole lot of them and talk about this in the proctors’ cells – that should make them reconsider their stories and their lies and the threats they made to you.’

‘You should take a horse, Matt,’ said Michael, watching critically as Bartholomew prepared to visit his sister in her husband’s country manor the following evening.

Bartholomew grabbed his warmest winter cloak and swung it around his shoulders. The pale spring sun that had cheered the town at dawn had long since slipped behind a bank of dense clouds, and a bitter wind had picked up. Now, as evening fell, it promised to be a miserable night, with wind and rain in the offing. Bartholomew did not feel like going out, but he had promised his sister he would be there. He would have gone earlier, but had been obliged to spend most of the afternoon tending the Dominican Precentor, Kyrkeby, whose frail heart and imminent lecture were making him breathless and feverish. Normally, Kyrkeby was a compliant and grateful patient, but that day he was agitated and moody, oscillating between angry defiance of the Carmelites and frightened tearfulness when he talked about the lecture that loomed on his horizon.

‘I am pleased you plan to sleep at Trumpington tonight and not return here,’ Michael continued, when the physician did not reply. ‘But you should not walk there alone at this time of the day. You would be wise to take someone with you.’

‘Cynric has promised to escort his wife to the vigil in St Mary’s Church tonight,’ said Bartholomew, referring to his faithful book-bearer. ‘I cannot ask him to come with me.’

‘Ask me, then,’ offered Michael generously. ‘Years of wrestling with recalcitrant undergraduates have honed my fighting skills, so that I am more than a match for most would-be robbers. I can protect you almost as well as Cynric.’

‘But you have a murder to investigate,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And anyway, I imagine you are also expected to take part in a vigil tonight. You are a monk after all, and Easter Week is an important time for clerics.’

‘The Benedictines at Ely Hall plan to keep vigil in St Botolph’s Church,’ replied Michael, slightly disapproving. ‘But so do the Carmelites, and I do not want to spend an entire night yelling at the top of my lungs in a futile attempt to make the prayers of a few Benedictines heard over four dozen bawling White Friars.’

‘If the Orders confined their rivalries to who can shout the loudest prayers, Cambridge would be a nicer place in which to live,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Then I would have been treating Faricius for a sore throat, rather than a fatal stab wound.’

‘And I would not be thinking about how to solve the mystery surrounding his death: a man whose Prior swears he did not leave the friary and whose apparent killers claim he was already stabbed when they found him.’

‘I suppose the Dominicans could be telling the truth,’ said Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘I did not actually see them stab him. But they certainly intended mischief when I caught them: they were advancing on him with undisguised menace as he lay helpless, and I am sure they planned to make a quick end of him.’

Michael agreed. ‘Those student-friars we met yesterday – Horneby, Lynne and Bulmer – are the kind of men who turn small disputes between the Orders into violence. They are the younger sons of minor noblemen, who have been dispatched to the religious Orders to make their own fortunes in the world because they cannot expect an inheritance.’

‘Like you?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s own noble connections.

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘In a sense, although I would hardly describe my family as minor. They are a powerful force in Norfolk. But lads like Horneby, Lynne and Bulmer are sent to Cambridge to form alliances with other men destined for high posts in the Church–’

‘Not to study and receive an education?’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘This is a University, Brother. It is a place of learning, not somewhere to develop business connections.’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘Many of these friars only stay for a term or two. How much learning do you imagine they absorb in that time?’

Bartholomew sighed heavily. ‘Not all scholars are ambitious power-mongers, here only to further their careers.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael, after a moment of thought. ‘There are exceptions, and you are one of them. The Benedictines at Ely Hall are also a sober group of men.’

‘And there are others,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘In our own College, Master Kenyngham is devoted to his teaching, and even Father William never misses a lecture.’

‘But things are different in the friaries, Matt. The Orders are legally obliged to send one in ten of their number to Oxford or Cambridge, and the men who come are not necessarily endowed with a desire to learn. They see their time here as an opportunity to escape the rigours of living as priests, and to engage in the kind of fighting that most young men love. And that is what they are – young men – for all their habits and their cowls.’

‘They certainly behaved like undisciplined louts two days ago,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the six Dominicans clustered around the injured Faricius, and of their sneering threats when he had driven them off.

Michael seemed to read his thoughts. ‘I mean no disrespect, Matt, but had Bulmer and his cronies genuinely intended to kill Faricius, you would not have been able to stop them. If Cynric had been there, it would have been a different matter, but you were alone. And there is another thing that worries me, too.’

‘What?’

‘They all readily identified themselves. Murder is a serious offence: would they have leapt to their feet so willingly if they really had killed Faricius?’

‘They knew I would identify them anyway,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It would have done them no good to deny it.’

‘They did not know that for certain. And if all had denied encountering you, it would have been the word of six friars against a lone physician, who had half his attention on a patient who was bleeding to death.’

‘Then do you think they are telling the truth: that they saw a wounded enemy and did not know he was so seriously injured?’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. Perhaps one of the six struck the fatal blow, and the others merely saw a wounded Carmelite. Then, when you came along, they decided that it was not worth a battering from your forceps and they let you both go.’

‘So, how will you discover which of them was responsible?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Will you interview them all separately?’

‘Already done,’ replied Michael. ‘Walcote and I had them in the proctors’ cells yesterday and today. They all said the same thing: they admitted that they were out looking for trouble, but maintained that when they found Faricius he was already bleeding. You did not actually see them stab him, and so there is insufficient evidence to charge them with his murder. I was forced to release them.’

‘Then what do you think happened? Do you think one of Faricius’s own Order harmed him?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the peculiar story spun by Lincolne and his students that Faricius could not have left the friary.

Michael scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on two days’ growth of bristles. ‘It is odd. On the one hand, we have Prior and friends certain that an exit from the friary was impossible and that Faricius was inside; on the other we have the very real evidence of his corpse outside it. I cannot decide what the truth is.’

‘Either they really believe what they say is true – even though it clearly is not – or they want to hide the real truth and have decided to do it by confusing you.’

‘Well, it is working,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I am confused.’

‘So, what will you do? Where will you start?’

Michael sighed. ‘I can do no more to solve Faricius’s murder today. I worked hard questioning those Dominicans and I am tired. I feel like doing something pleasant this evening – and I do not mean sitting in a freezing conclave with Michaelhouse’s eccentric collection of Fellows after an inadequate meal.’

‘Lent is almost over,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that the miserable food was the real cause of the monk’s discontent. Michael was usually perfectly happy to relax in the company of his colleagues, despite their peculiarities.

‘And not a moment too soon,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘Lent is a miserable time of year. No meat to be had; church services held at ungodly hours; gloomy music sung at masses; everyone talking about abstention and fasting and other such nonsense.’ He watched the physician swing the medicine bag he always carried over his shoulder as he prepared to leave. ‘Going out alone when you have an offer of company is madness, Matt. Let me escort you to Trumpington.’

‘I do not need an escort,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I walk to Trumpington quite regularly, and you have never expressed any concern before.’

Michael gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You are being remarkably insensitive, Matt. Edith told us what she planned to cook tonight, to celebrate Richard’s return to Cambridge. However, the offerings at Michaelhouse are more of that revolting fish-giblet stew and bread I saw Agatha sawing the green bits from this morning. If you were any kind of friend, you would see my predicament and invite me to dine with Edith.’

‘I wondered what was behind all this uncharacteristic concern for my safety. It is not my well-being that preoccupies you: it is Edith’s trout with almonds, raisin bread and pastries.’

‘You have convinced me to come,’ said Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘I took the precaution of hiring a couple of horses yesterday. We will ride. It will leave more time for eating.’

‘And what do you think Edith will say when she sees you have invited yourself to her family reunion?’ asked Bartholomew, sure that his sister would not be pleased to see Michael on her doorstep determined to make short work of her cooking.

Michael gave a smug grin. ‘She will thank me for my devotion to you – for accompanying the brother she adores along a dangerous road so that he can spend an evening in her company. And anyway, I want to meet your nephew again. It is five years since last I saw him.’

‘He has changed,’ said Bartholomew, walking with the monk across the courtyard to where Walter, the surly porter, was holding the reins of the two horses Michael had hired. ‘He abandoned medicine to study law and it has made him pompous and arrogant. Perhaps he has just spent too much time with lawyers.’

‘Or perhaps he has just spent too much time with that band of mongrels at Oxford who call themselves scholars,’ said Michael with an unpleasant snigger.

‘Brother Michael!’ exclaimed Oswald Stanmore, as the Benedictine and Bartholomew walked into his manor house at the small village of Trumpington. ‘What are you doing here?’ His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. ‘You have not come about the murder of that Carmelite, have you? Matt was wrong to have brought him to my property.’

Edith sighed crossly. ‘Really, Oswald! What was Matt supposed to do? He could hardly carry Faricius all the way back to Michaelhouse.’

‘But by taking him to my house, he endangered the lives of you and my apprentices,’ said Stanmore sternly. ‘It was a thoughtless thing to do.’

‘I am sorry, Oswald,’ began Bartholomew, knowing the merchant had a point. ‘I did not–’

Edith raised a hand to silence him. ‘Matt was right to do what he did, Oswald, and any decent man would have done the same. Those louts murdered a priest right outside our door. Would you rather he turned a blind eye to such an outrage?’

‘From what I hear, the killers were priests, too,’ retorted Stanmore. ‘And so I imagine that turning a blind eye would have been a very prudent thing to do. But prudence is not something that runs in your side of the family, it seems. Thank God Richard does not take after you two.’

‘No one could ever accuse me of imprudence,’ said Richard lazily from his position in the best chair in the house – a cushion-filled seat that was placed so close to the fire that Bartholomew was surprised his nephew did not singe himself.

Bartholomew saw Michael regard Richard with interest. Richard had indeed changed from the gangling seventeen-year-old who had marched away to Oxford University some five years before with dreams of studying medicine. He possessed the same unruly black curls and dark eyes as Bartholomew, and had grown tall. But there the likeness ended. Richard’s face was plumper than it should have been for a man of his age, and there were bulges above his hips that testified to too much good living. His hands were pale and soft, as though he scorned any sort of activity that would harden them, and there was a decadent air about him that certainly had not been there when he had lived in Cambridge.

His clothes presented a stark contrast to those of his uncle, too. Whereas the physician’s shirt and tabard were frayed and patched, Richard’s were new and the height of fashion. He wore blue hose made from the finest wool, a white shirt of crisp linen, and a red jerkin with flowing sleeves that were delicately embroidered with silver thread. On his feet were red shoes with the ridiculously impractical curling toes that were currently popular at the King’s court, and in his ear was the gold ear-ring to which Edith had taken such exception. His beard was in the peculiar style that covered the chin and upper lip, but left the sides of the face clean shaven, and was so heavily impregnated with scented oil that Bartholomew could smell it from the door. The physician resisted the urge to comment on it.

‘Well,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose and smothering a sneeze. ‘You are not the awkward youth I remember from the black days of the plague.’

‘And you are not the slender monk I once knew, either,’ retorted Richard promptly, his insolent eyes taking in Michael’s considerable bulk.

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘If you recall a slender monk, Richard, then your memory is not all it should be. Michael has never been slender.’

‘When I was a child, I was so thin that my mother was convinced I was heading for an early grave,’ said Michael. ‘She took me to see a physician, who bled me and dosed me with all manner of vile potions. I have spent the rest of my life ensuring that I never warrant such treatment again.’

‘Most physicians are charlatans,’ agreed Richard, throwing Bartholomew a challenging stare. ‘They claim they can cure you, but their powdered earthworms and their lead powder and their paste of sparrows’ brains no more heal the sick than do the expensive horoscopes they insist on working out.’

‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why his nephew was trying to goad him into an argument when it would only spoil Edith’s evening. ‘I have long believed that horoscopes make no difference to a patient’s health. However, I have also learned that a patient’s state of mind is important to his recovery – if he believes a horoscope will provide a more effective cure, then he is more likely to get well if I use one.’

Richard yawned and reached out to take some nuts from a bowl that had been placed near him. ‘If you say so.’ He lost interest in his uncle and turned his languorous gaze on Michael. ‘But what brings you to Trumpington on this cold and windy night, Brother? It would not be the fish-giblet stew that Agatha is simmering at Michaelhouse, would it?’

Michael regarded him coolly, and if he were surprised that Richard had guessed the real reason for his visit he did not show it. ‘The Trumpington road is haunted by outlaws. I merely wanted to ensure that your uncle arrived safely.’

‘So, will you be returning to Cambridge now?’ asked Richard with feigned innocence. ‘You have discharged your duty and he is here in one piece.’

‘I thought I might stay a while – at least until the rain stops,’ said Michael, smiling comfortably. Bartholomew knew that Michael allowed very little between him and a good meal, and it would take far more potent forces than the irritating Richard to make him abandon one. And Michael knew perfectly well that the rain had settled in for the night, and that it was unlikely to abate until the following day. ‘You seem to have had an interesting sojourn at Oxford; I would like to hear more about it.’

‘Perhaps later,’ said Richard, reaching for more nuts. He smiled ingratiatingly at Edith. ‘Is the food ready?’

Edith returned her son’s smile. ‘Almost. I will tell the servants that we have two more guests.’

‘Two?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Who else did you invite?’

‘Not me,’ replied Edith as she left the room. ‘Richard asked a friend to come.’

‘Who?’ asked Stanmore of his son, surprised. ‘You have only been back a few days, and you have spent most of that time in bed, recovering from your “arduous journey”.’

‘It is no one from Cambridge – and certainly no one from Trumpington,’ said Richard, with a contrived shudder. ‘I do not know why you live here, father. It is little more than a few hovels stretched along a muddy track, and it is occupied almost entirely by peasants. If I were you, I would live in the house in Cambridge.’

Bartholomew found he was beginning to dislike his nephew. The manor Stanmore and Edith occupied was luxurious by most standards and certainly by anything Richard was likely to have experienced at Oxford, if Bartholomew’s memories of the place were anything to go by. It was a large hall-house near the church, which looked out across strip fields and orchards. It had red tiles on the roof, and the walls were plastered and painted pale pink. Inside, the house was clean and airy. Wool rugs covered the floor, rather than the more usual rushes, and the walls were decorated with wall hangings. There were plenty of cushioned benches to sit on, and the table at which the Stanmores and their household ate was of polished wood – of the kind that did not puncture the diners’ hands with splinters each time they ate, as at Michaelhouse. But it was the smell of the house that Bartholomew liked best. It was warm and welcoming, a mixture of the herbs Edith tied in the rafters to dry, of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, and of the slightly bitter aroma of burning wood. Bartholomew had spent his childhood at Trumpington, and the house always brought back pleasant memories.

That evening, the main chamber was even more welcoming than usual. Edith had decorated it with early spring flowers, and little vases of snowdrops and violets stood here and there, mingling their sweet fragrance with the scents already in the room. Because it was dark, lamps were lit, filling the room with a warm amber glow. They shuddered and guttered as the wind rattled the window shutters and snaked under the doors, sending eerie yellow patterns flickering over the walls.

Michael poured himself a goblet of wine from a jug that had been placed on the table, and went to sit in the chair opposite Richard. He took a sip, and then stretched his legs towards the fire with an appreciative sigh.

‘It is cold out tonight,’ he said conversationally. ‘It is just as well we rode, Matt. Walking would not have been pleasant in this wind.’

‘You rode?’ asked Stanmore. He handed Bartholomew a goblet of wine and then sat next to him on the bench near the table, since Michael and Richard had already claimed the best places. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Michael with amusement. ‘You anticipated that Matt would ask you to accompany him and took the precaution of hiring horses?’

‘I am a man prepared for every eventuality,’ said Michael silkily. He turned his attention to Richard. ‘But tell me about Oxford. Why did you abandon medicine and embrace law instead?’

‘Law is a nobler profession,’ replied Richard. ‘It is better to make an honest living than to practise medicine.’

‘Law? Honest?’ asked Bartholomew, too astonished to feel offended. ‘Is that what they taught you at Oxford?’

Richard sighed irritably. ‘I was educated just as well at Oxford as I would have been in Cambridge – better, probably.’

‘It was not your allegiance to Oxford that startled him,’ said Michael. ‘It was your claim that law is an honest profession. Where did you learn such nonsense?’

Richard regarded him coolly. ‘It is not nonsense. I decided it would be better than poking around with sores and pustules and suchlike. And then, when the Death comes again, I shall ride away as fast as I can, not linger to lance buboes and watch people die.’

‘Running will not save you,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘There was barely a town or a village in the whole of Europe that escaped unscathed. The plague would just follow you. Or worse, you might carry it with you and spread it to others.’

‘We are supposed to be celebrating,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘We will not spend the evening dwelling on the Death. We all lost people we loved, and I do not want to discuss it.’

‘Quite right,’ said Michael, holding out his goblet for Stanmore to fill. He changed the subject to one that was equally contentious. ‘I have never been to Oxford, but Matt tells me it is an intriguing place. Personally, I have no desire to see it. I imagine its greater size will render it very squalid.’

‘It is not squalid,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Richard look angry. ‘Well, not as squalid as some places I have seen.’

Richard glowered, and was about to make what would doubtless have been a tart reply when Stanmore cleared his throat noisily as Edith walked in.

‘You still have not told us who you invited to dine tonight,’ said the merchant hastily, to change the subject before Edith saw that they were on the verge of a row. ‘When will he arrive?’

‘He is here already,’ said Richard. He gave an amused grin. ‘I met him quite by chance in the town a few days ago. Apparently, he has business in Cambridge, and has been lodging at the King’s Head.’

‘Good choice,’ muttered Michael facetiously. ‘It serves both bad food and a criminal clientele.’

‘We were delighted to run across each other,’ Richard went on, ignoring him. ‘I insisted he stayed with us for at least some of his visit, and I took him to the Laughing Pig when he accepted my offer today. Unfortunately, we both drank rather more than we should have done, and he went upstairs to sleep. He is a friend from Oxford.’

Stanmore pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Oxford. I might have guessed someone from there would not be able to pass a day without availing himself of a drink.’

‘We were only toasting each other’s health,’ objected Richard. He uncoiled himself from his seat as someone entered the room – a courtesy that had not been extended to Bartholomew and Michael – and gave the newcomer a genuine smile of welcome. ‘But here he is.’

Bartholomew and Michael stood politely as a shadowy figure entered the room. And then Bartholomew saw Michael’s jaw drop in astonishment when he saw the man who stood in front of them. The newcomer seemed as discomfited by Michael’s appearance as the monk was by his.

‘William Heytesbury of Merton College,’ breathed Michael, staring at the man.

‘Brother Michael of Michaelhouse,’ replied Heytesbury. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You two have already met?’ asked Richard, surprised that the Oxford scholar, who now reclined in the Stanmores’ best chair with a brimming goblet of wine, should be acquainted with the likes of the obese Benedictine. ‘How?’

‘We are in the middle of certain negotiations,’ replied Michael vaguely. Although his plans to pass two farms and a church to Oxford in exchange for information were not a secret, he was evidently not prepared to elaborate on them for Richard’s benefit. He raised his cup to the Merton man. ‘Your health, Master Heytesbury. I was not expecting to see you until well after Easter.’

‘The roads have been dreadful,’ replied Heytesbury, stretching elegant legs towards the fire. ‘The snow and rain have turned them into one long quagmire from Oxford to Cambridge. I decided to start the journey early, so I would not be late for our meeting.’

‘But that is not until Ascension Day,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Six weeks hence. The roads are not that bad!’

Heytesbury gave a small smile. ‘True. But I have other business in Cambridge, besides the agreement I am making with you.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, affecting careless indifference, although Bartholomew caught the unease in his voice.

Michael had already gambled a great deal on the success of his arrangements with Merton, and did not want them to fail. Bartholomew was hazy on the details, but he knew that the seemingly worthless information and documents Heytesbury would pass to Michael would eventually be worth a lot more than two farms and a church. Michael anticipated that he would be able to steal the patronage of some of Oxford’s wealthiest benefactors, and that Cambridge would ultimately emerge richer and more powerful than her rival University. Bartholomew knew that Heytesbury was under the impression that the monk wanted the information simply in order to secure himself the post of Chancellor in a year or two. For all Bartholomew knew, there could be an element of truth in that, too.

Heytesbury was an influential figure in the academic world. He had written a number of books on logic and natural philosophy, and was a leading proponent of nominalism. He was also a member of Merton, one of the largest and most powerful of Oxford’s colleges. Bartholomew recalled listening to lectures given by Heytesbury during his own days there.

He studied the Oxford man with interest. In the flattering half-light of the fire and the lamps, it seemed the years had been kind to Heytesbury. He had been an intense young man in his twenties when he had first started to make a name for himself with his scholarship, and Bartholomew supposed he must now be nearing fifty. However, his face had retained its smooth skin and his brown hair was unmarked by grey; these, combined with his slight, boyish build, had led many an academic adversary to underestimate him in the debating chamber. Such opponents did not make that mistake a second time. But despite his superficially youthful appearance, the physician in Bartholomew detected a certain pouchiness beneath Heytesbury’s eyes and a slight tremble in his hands.

Heytesbury continued to smile at Michael. ‘My other work involved meeting one of your scholars with a view to taking him to Oxford. It was nothing that would influence anything you and I have discussed, so do not be concerned.’

‘Poaching,’ said Michael immediately. ‘It might not affect our agreement, but as Senior Proctor I cannot stand by and watch you entice away our best students.’

‘As luck would have it, he proved unsuitable,’ said Heytesbury. ‘I will not be taking him with me after all.’

‘What business could possibly bring a Cambridge monk and an Oxford philosopher together?’ asked Richard curiously. ‘Especially since Master Heytesbury told me today that he had never been to Cambridge before.’

Then Heytesbury was lying, thought Bartholomew, listening to the philosopher explaining to Richard that the correspondence between him and Michael had been by letter. Bartholomew remembered very clearly the last time he had seen Heytesbury – at a clandestine meeting on some wasteland in Cambridge the previous year. Heytesbury had been trying to learn from a mutual acquaintance whether Michael was a man to be trusted. Fortunately for Michael, the friend put allegiance to Cambridge above an ancient friendship, and had encouraged Heytesbury to proceed in his negotiations with the monk. Heytesbury, quite rightly, had been suspicious of an offer that seemed to favour Oxford, but the monk was hoping the man’s natural greed would encourage him to sign anyway.

Bartholomew noted that Heytesbury was as vague about their business as Michael had been, and supposed such subterfuge came naturally to men like them. He wondered what would happen if Heytesbury discovered that a number of people in Cambridge already knew that something was afoot between Michael and the scholar from Merton. Michael had been discreet, but the news had been announced the previous November – when Ralph de Langelee had wanted to make sure Michael was not elected Master of Michaelhouse and had used the Oxford story to stain the monk’s reputation – and it had not taken long for the word to spread. But Michael would not want Heytesbury to discuss the case with Richard, who knew that the monk was no bumbling incompetent whose sole ambition was for personal power, but a skilled manager of intrigues who would best even a clever man like Heytesbury, given the chance. Michael wanted Heytesbury lulled into a false sense of security, so that he would sign the agreement without his suspicions being raised.

‘You have explained why you came to Cambridge,’ said Michael, smiling politely at the Oxford man. ‘But you have not told us how you know Richard.’

‘I tutored him during his time at Merton,’ replied Heytesbury. ‘It was I who persuaded him to give up the notion of becoming a physician and to study law instead. It is safer than poking around with leprous sores and more stimulating than inspecting flasks of urine. And there is always a need for good lawyers these days.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Richard fawningly. ‘Ever since the Death, large numbers of wills have been contested, and so there is always work for those who understand the law.’

The conversation turned to legal matters, although Heytesbury did not join in. It was clear to Bartholomew that Heytesbury was uncomfortable with the notion that Michael might cheat him, and so had travelled to Cambridge to make more enquiries before he accepted the terms the monk was offering. Michael also said little, although his eyes gleamed as he sensed Heytesbury was worried enough to try to investigate him. Bartholomew saw that the monk anticipated a challenge, and was relishing the prospect of locking wits with one of Oxford’s greatest thinkers.

‘The food is ready,’ said Edith, entering the room from the kitchen, flushed from the heat of the fire that was roaring there.

‘Then let us begin,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. Bartholomew was not sure whether his words referred to the food, or to the impending battle of minds with Heytesbury.

Michael had been wise to inveigle an invitation to Edith’s house that night: the fare she provided was infinitely superior to anything that would have been on offer at Michaelhouse. There was trout stuffed with almond paste, pike in gelatine surrounded by roasted vegetables, followed by fried fig pastries, raisin slices and butter custard. Stanmore broached one of his barrels of best wine, a rich red from southern France, while Richard provided a flask of something that he claimed was the height of fashion in Oxford. It was a colourless liquid that tasted of turnips and that burned Bartholomew’s throat and made him cough. He wondered whether Richard would sell him some to use on those of his patients with painful bunions.

‘Is it true?’ asked Michael of Heytesbury, tilting his goblet and inspecting the drink inside doubtfully. ‘Do Oxford scholars really drink this?’

Heytesbury drained his cup in a single swallow. ‘It is a brew the King is said to like.’

‘Then no wonder the country is in such a state,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am surprised the man has any wits at all, if he regularly imbibes this poison. What is your opinion, as a medical man, Matt?’

Bartholomew shrugged, reluctant to engage in treasonous talk with Heytesbury present. For all Bartholomew knew, Heytesbury could be the kind of man to report any rebellious sentiments among Cambridge scholars to the King’s spies, and Bartholomew had no intention of losing his Fellowship for agreeing that any man who regularly drank the potion Richard had provided was not fit to be in control of a plough, let alone a country. He was surprised that Michael was not similarly cautious.

‘I always knew Cambridge men had weak stomachs,’ said Richard, tossing back the contents of his goblet and then fighting not to splutter. ‘We are made of sterner stuff in Oxford.’

‘We will see about that,’ said Michael, downing the remains of his own cup and then pushing it across the table to be refilled. ‘Will you accept my challenge?’

‘He will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘This is supposed to be a pleasant family meal, not some academic drinking game. I do not want either of you face down on your trenchers or ruining the occasion for the rest of us by being sick on the table.’ She snatched up the flask and rammed the stopper into it so hard that Bartholomew wondered whether Richard would ever be able to prise it out.

‘You are quite right, madam,’ said Heytesbury smoothly. ‘I drink little myself and do not enjoy the company of those who lose their wits to wine and have no sensible conversation to offer.’

Bartholomew looked at Heytesbury’s unsteady hands and the way the man was able to swallow Richard’s poison as though it were water, and was not so sure. The fact that Richard claimed the first thing he had done when he had met Heytesbury was to visit the Laughing Pig indicated that Heytesbury was not being entirely honest. Bartholomew watched as the Oxford man took a small package from his scrip, pulled a piece of resin from it and stuffed it in his mouth. He saw Bartholomew watching curiously and slipped the packet across the table for him to see.

‘Gum mastic,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the yellow substance closely. ‘This has only recently come to England, but it has many uses. For example, it makes an excellent glue and is a powerful breath freshener.’

‘Do not tell the students this,’ said Michael, taking it from Bartholomew and regarding it without much interest, before flinging it back to Heytesbury, ‘or they will all be swallowing it, and we shall never be able to prove that they have been drinking.’

Heytesbury caught the package deftly, and changed the subject. ‘Tell me about Cambridge. Is it a pretty town?’

Michael gave Bartholomew a hefty kick under the table to attract his attention, then winked, letting the physician know that Heytesbury’s untruthful statement about this being his first visit to Cambridge had not gone unnoticed. Bartholomew supposed that Heytesbury had no reason to know that the physician had personally seen him meeting scholars from Bene’t College in a place where he assumed – wrongly, as it happened – they would not be observed. Michael’s face was unreadable when Heytesbury looked at him, and Bartholomew saw the monk was content to let Heytesbury continue in his belief.

‘Cambridge is God’s own kingdom on Earth,’ announced Stanmore warmly. ‘I have lived here all my life, and I have never seen a lovelier spot.’

‘Have you travelled much, then?’ asked Heytesbury with polite interest.

Stanmore nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. I have been several times to Saffron Walden – a good fifteen miles to the south – and once I went to London. But neither compares to Cambridge.’

‘I see,’ said Heytesbury. ‘Have you ever been to Oxford?’

Stanmore shook his head, barely able to suppress a shudder. ‘I was not pleased that Richard decided to study there when we have a perfectly good University here, but he was insistent. Still, I suppose his choice was a wise one, given that he is now a lawyer, rather than a physician.’

‘At least I will make my fortune,’ said Richard. His face was flushed and sweaty from drinking too much wine in a stuffy room. He began to remove his tunic, revealing an intricately embroidered shirt underneath with huge puffed sleeves. ‘I would have been doomed to poverty had I pursued a medical career. Lord, it is hot in here!’

‘Move away from the fire, then,’ suggested Stanmore, a little acidly. ‘You would not be so warm if you allowed some of the heat to travel to other people.’

‘What,’ demanded Michael suddenly and loudly, ‘are those?’ Everyone followed his eyes to the front of Richard’s newly revealed shirt.

‘They are called buttons,’ said Richard haughtily, glancing down at them. ‘Why?’

‘I know what they are,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I have never before seen such monstrous examples of them – at least, not on a man. I understand the King’s mother goes in for that kind of thing.’

Bartholomew could see his point. Buttons had only recently gained popularity, because it was said that the King approved of them. Most were made of bone or wood and were small, unobtrusive discs that performed the function of holding two pieces of material together without the need for elaborate systems of laces. Richard’s buttons, however, were huge, almost the size of mushrooms, and were evidently made of some precious metal.

‘They are the height of fashion,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Do you know nothing of the King’s court?’

‘They are ugly,’ said Stanmore, eyeing them critically. ‘But I doubt this modern liking for buttons will last long. They will never take the place of laces.’

‘You should be careful if you ever need to run,’ Bartholomew advised his nephew with a smile. ‘If one of those things bounces upwards, it will take your teeth out.’

Michael regarded Richard with arched eyebrows. ‘Do all Oxford scholars adorn themselves with these “buttons”, as well as drink liquid that would be better employed in scouring drains? Or is it just confined to those people who study law?’

Richard bristled at the insult, but Heytesbury laid a soothing hand on his arm as he smiled at Michael. ‘It is a passing phase, no more. You will find no buttons on me. I would not have expected you to negotiate with me if I had been covered in lumps of metal.’

‘Speaking of our agreement, perhaps we should draw it up tomorrow,’ suggested Michael hopefully. ‘I am sure you need to be back in Oxford for the beginning of the new term, and if we finalise matters now, you will not be obliged to make a second journey.’

Heytesbury’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Patience, Brother. There is no hurry. I will stay here for a while, and visit your halls and Colleges to see how they compare to my own. There may be things for me to learn.’

The expression on his face made Bartholomew suspect that he had serious doubts on that score.

‘I am sure the Chancellor would be delighted if you offered to lecture here,’ suggested Richard. He turned eagerly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Master Heytesbury is one of the leading authorities on the theory of nominalism.’

‘I am not sure that is a good idea,’ said Michael hastily. ‘For some unaccountable reason, the religious Orders here have taken that debate very much to heart recently. I do not want a full-scale riot with the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines on one side and the Dominicans, Austins and Benedictines on the other.’

‘Your scholars riot over philosophical issues?’ asked Heytesbury in a contemptuous voice. ‘At Merton, we tend to fight with our wits, not our fists.’

‘Things have changed, then, have they?’ asked Bartholomew archly, not prepared to let Heytesbury get away with that one. ‘There was a good deal of fighting when I was a student there.’

‘There are fights, of course,’ said Heytesbury coolly, not pleased to be contradicted. ‘But not over issues of philosophy. What kind of world would it be if the theory that gained predominance was the one that had the most aggressive supporters?’

‘One that would suit a lot of the scholars I know,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would save them the embarrassment of exposing their inferior minds.’

‘A lecture on nominalism by its leading protagonist would be a great thing for Cambridge,’ persisted Richard. ‘It would show them the nature of real scholarship.’

‘We will see,’ said Michael vaguely.

Richard was about to add something else, when there was a loud, urgent hammering at the gates. The merchant looked at his wife in surprise.

‘Who can that be? It is late, and I am surprised anyone in the village is still awake.’

He stood abruptly when horses’ hoofs clattered on the cobbles of the yard outside. Bartholomew heard Hugh the steward demanding to know the rider’s business, but then there was the sound of approaching footsteps and the door to the hall was flung open. A cold draught swirled inside, making the fire gutter and extinguishing several lamps.

‘I am sorry to intrude, Master Stanmore,’ said Sheriff Tulyet, pushing past Hugh, who seemed about to make a more mannerly announcement. His cloak was sodden, and he was breathless from a hard ride against a fierce headwind. ‘But I must speak to Brother Michael.’

Richard Tulyet was small, with a wispy beard that gave him the appearance of a youth unable to produce the more luxurious whiskers of an older man. Only the lines of worry and tiredness around his mouth and eyes suggested that he was loaded with the considerable responsibility of maintaining law and order in a rebellious town where a significant portion of the population comprised young men.

‘Me?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘Why? What can have happened to induce the town’s Sheriff to ride through such a foul night to seek me out?’

‘Your University,’ replied Tulyet, grim-faced. ‘It is in uproar again. You must return with me immediately and take charge of your beadles, or we shall have no town at all by the morning.’

‘Who is it this time?’ asked Michael wearily, reaching for his cloak. ‘Hugh, saddle up my horse, if you please.’

‘The Franciscans have some Austin canons trapped in Holy Trinity Church,’ replied Tulyet in some disgust. ‘Apparently there was a dispute over who should preach the sermon. They tossed a coin, would you believe, and the Austins won. The Franciscans declined to listen to an Austin, and left.’

‘So what is the problem?’ asked Michael when the Sheriff paused. Stanmore poured Tulyet a goblet of wine, which he accepted gratefully. ‘If the Franciscans went home, why are you here?’

‘They did not return to their friary,’ said Tulyet. ‘Apparently, they made for the Cardinal’s Cap, where they spent the evening drinking the poor taverner dry of ale – for which they still need to pay. And then they headed back to Holy Trinity Church.’

‘Were the Austins still inside?’ asked Stanmore.

Tulyet nodded. ‘The Franciscans claim that neither I nor my soldiers have jurisdiction over them, because they are in holy orders – under canon, rather than secular law – and refuse to go home.’

‘My Junior Proctor can deal with this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I left him in charge, and he knows what he is supposed to do if the scholars cause mischief.’

Tulyet sighed, his face sombre. ‘That is the real reason why I am here, Brother. I am afraid I have some bad news for you.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.

Tulyet sighed. ‘Will Walcote is dead. Someone hanged him from the walls of the Dominican Friary.’