An Order for Death

Chapter 3

ONCE MICHAEL HAD LEFT WITH TULYET TO BEGIN AN immediate investigation into Walcote’s death, Bartholomew did not feel like continuing with the celebrations at Edith’s house. He offered to accompany the monk home, afraid that the murder of a close colleague would prove to be a harrowing experience, but Michael declined, muttering that he did not want to spoil Edith’s party.

The physician did not enjoy the rest of the evening, and escaped to the bed in the attic that had been provided for him as soon as he could do so without causing offence. Meanwhile, Richard dominated the conversation, outlining his grand plans to amass wealth and fame. Bartholomew had encountered many greedy men in his time, but such brazen avarice was a quality he had never expected to see in his nephew. Heytesbury fell silent once Michael had gone, and stared into the fire, evidently lost in his own thoughts.

The following morning, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, Bartholomew crept out of his room, and tiptoed downstairs and across to the stables. He thought he had succeeded in leaving the house undetected, and was surprised and not particularly pleased to find Richard waiting for him with a huge black stallion already saddled.

‘What is that?’ demanded Bartholomew, eyeing the vast beast uneasily.

Richard seemed startled by the question. ‘It is a horse. What does it look like?’

‘That is no horse; it is a monster,’ said Bartholomew, hurriedly stepping back as the animal tossed its mighty head and pawed at the ground. ‘Where did it come from?’

Richard patted the horse’s neck fondly, although the animal did not seem to reciprocate the affection. ‘He hales from the stables of the Earl of Gloucester, and has a pedigree of which any nobleman would be proud. I bought him two days ago from the Bigod family in Chesterton.’

‘How did you pay for such an expensive item?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘You have only been in Cambridge a week or so. I had no idea practising law could be so lucrative.’

Richard shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘I was doing well in Oxford, as it happens, but I am fortunate in having Heytesbury as a friend. He has recommended me to several of his richest acquaintances. But never mind me, what do you think of my horse?’

‘Did you have to choose one that was so big?’ asked Bartholomew, taking another step back as the horse, sensing that it was about to take some exercise, headed for the open door. Richard grabbed the reins, but the animal paid him no heed, and his tugs and curses were irrelevant to the course of its progress outside.

‘I do not ride ponies,’ retorted Richard haughtily, still hauling on the reins. ‘And this beast suits my status as a lawyer. I cannot be seen mounted on something inferior, can I?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, saddling his modest palfrey. He hoped the looming presence of the black monster would not cause it to bolt, or, worse still, that it would not follow Richard’s lead and thunder off down the dark track towards Cambridge at a speed that was unsafe. Bartholomew did not enjoy riding at the best of times, but doing so at a breakneck pace along a frost-hardened track in the near-dark was definitely low on his list of pleasant ways to spend a morning.

‘The Black Bishop of Bedminster,’ said Richard.

Bartholomew gazed at him uncomprehendingly in the gloom. ‘What?’

‘That is his name. The village of Bedminster, near Bristol, is where he was bred. It is an impressive title, do you not think? It is fitting for a fine animal to have such a name.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I only hope it never runs away. I would not like to think of you wandering the town shouting “Black Bishop of Bedminster” as you try to lure it back.’

Richard scowled, and then swung himself up into his saddle. The horse pranced and reared at the weight, and Bartholomew was not entirely sure that Richard had the thing under complete control. He watched from the safety of the stables, noting that the saddle was a highly polished affair with a pommel that gleamed a dull gold in the first glimmerings of day. Such an object would have cost Bartholomew at least a year’s salary.

Richard’s clothes were equally expensive looking. He had abandoned the soft wool hose and buttoned shirt he had worn the previous night, and sported leather riding boots with silver spurs, a black tunic with flowing sleeves and dark grey hose, all topped off with a long black cloak that he arranged carefully over the back of the saddle so that it would show off his finery to its best advantage. The gold ring that pierced his ear gleamed even in the dim light of early morning, and the smell of the scented goose-grease, with which he had plastered down his unruly locks and beard, was strong enough to mask even the odour of horse.

‘What do you intend to do in the town?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what the people of Cambridge would say when they saw such an elegant peacock strutting around their streets flaunting his wealth. Richard would be lucky if he survived the day without someone hurling a clod of mud – or worse – at such a brazen display of affluence. ‘I have to attend mass at St Michael’s Church, and then spend the morning teaching.’

‘Perhaps I will accompany you,’ said Richard thoughtfully. ‘Your new Master, Ralph de Langelee, has connections at court, and would be a useful man to know. He is an unmannerly lout, but I will have to turn a blind eye to that, if I am to make my fortune in Cambridge.’

‘It looks to me as though you have already made it,’ said Bartholomew.

Richard grinned. ‘I will do better yet if profitable business keeps coming my way. But I doubt I will stay long in Cambridge; it is too rural for a man like me. I will go to London soon – now there is a place for a man who intends to make his way in the world! Opportunities in London are like leaves on the trees.’

Bartholomew heartily wished his arrogant, ambitious nephew would take his black horse and ride to London that very morning. Eager to escape from the young man’s company as quickly as possible, he climbed on a bale of hay and made an awkward transition from it to the back of the palfrey. Fortunately, Michael had selected a mount that was fairly tolerant, and although it was startled by the weight that suddenly dropped on to it, it stood its ground. Hugh the steward opened the gate, and Bartholomew and Richard began the short journey to Cambridge.

It was a Tuesday, and farmers and peasants were already making their way to the town with carts and sacks full of goods to sell in the marketplace. Six dirty-white geese were being herded along by a listless boy who wore a piece of sacking as a cloak; the birds honked balefully as faster-moving pigs were driven through their midst. Chapmen with heavy packs slung across their shoulders plodded through the mud left by the rains of the previous night, cursing as their feet skidded and slipped in the treacherous ruts that formed the road. Richard complained bitterly about the stench left by the pigs, and only stopped when Bartholomew lent him a thick bandage to wrap around his mouth and nose. Bartholomew had seen courtiers do the same, claiming to be more easily offended by unpleasant odours than the common folk. The physician supposed his nephew hoped to give the impression with his silly bandage that he, too, was nobly born.

They were just passing the Panton manor on the outskirts of Cambridge, when they saw a small group of nuns standing at the side of the road. The nuns’ heads were swathed in white veils that were bright in the dim light, and their cloaks were splattered with muck from the road. One of them glanced up, and apparently decided that Richard’s fine horse, elegant apparel and face bandage marked him as a man of breeding and wealth and therefore someone she might ask for help. A pale hand flagged him down. Richard’s attempt to leap from his horse and stride boldly to her rescue was marred only by the fact that his spur caught in the stirrup: Bartholomew’s timely lunge saved him from a tumble in the mud.

‘How might we be of assistance, ladies?’ Richard enquired suavely, unabashed by an incident that most people would have found acutely embarrassing. Bartholomew envied his resilience and confidence.

‘It is our Prioress, Mabel Martyn,’ said one of the nuns. She was a tall woman, with dark eyes and smooth brown hair that poked from under her wimple. She looked the splendid figure of Richard up and down in a brazen assessment of his physique. ‘There is something wrong with her.’

‘My uncle is a physician,’ said Richard generously. ‘He will heal her.’

‘I thought you said physicians were charlatans, incapable of healing anyone,’ muttered Bartholomew, pushing the reins of his horse at his nephew and walking to three other nuns, who were clustered around a figure on the ground.

‘We are from St Radegund’s Convent,’ announced the young woman. ‘We are nuns. Well, I have taken no final vows yet, so I suppose I am not.’

‘I hope you do not decide upon a life of chastity,’ said Richard gallantly. ‘It would be a sin to shut away such beauty in a cloister.’

‘I agree,’ said the woman fervently. ‘Although better that than being married to some old man with no teeth who sleeps all the time. I do not find gums very attractive.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Richard, apparently unable to think of any other response to her peculiar revelations.

She beamed at him, and Bartholomew realised that she was a little slow in the wits and that a cloister might be the safest place for her. He turned his attention to the Prioress, who lay semi-conscious in the long grass at the side of the road. Her wimple was askew and her breathing deep and loud. The unmistakable smell of wine was thick in the air around her.

‘I think she had a sip too much at breakfast,’ he said carefully. His natural good manners rebelled against bluntly announcing that Prioress Martyn of St Radegund’s Convent was drunk.

‘But we have not had breakfast yet,’ objected the young woman, missing his point entirely. ‘So you must be wrong.’

‘Why are you out so early?’ asked Richard, voicing what Bartholomew had also been wondering: it was unusual to see nuns travelling towards their convent at such an hour in the morning. ‘Have you been to mass at Trumpington Church?’

‘We have been nowhere,’ said the young woman. ‘We are still coming back from last night.’

Richard looked confused, and one of the others hastened to explain. She was tall and strong-looking, about forty years of age, with thick red hair and eyes that were too wise for a nun.

‘We were invited to dine at the house of Roger de Panton yesterday. Time passed more quickly than we thought, and we have only just realised that we need to hurry so as not to be late for prime.’

Bartholomew pulled something from underneath the snoring Prioress and held it up for the others to see. It was an empty wineskin. He supposed that the Prioress’s last tipple was more than her constitution could bear after what sounded like a heavy night.

‘I told you to dispose of that, Tysilia,’ said the older woman sharply.

Tysilia pouted sulkily. ‘I did, Dame Wasteneys. I took it when she was in the latrine.’

‘Perhaps she has more than one,’ said Bartholomew, hauling the semi-conscious woman to her feet. She groaned, and opened bleary eyes. ‘The walk in fresh air will do her good. When you arrive home, give her plenty to drink and make sure she has a good breakfast.’

‘We can give her plenty to drink now,’ offered Tysilia, brandishing the wineskin helpfully.

‘I meant watered ale or milk,’ said Bartholomew, regarding her askance. ‘Do not give her wine; she has had more than enough of that already.’

‘She is not drunk,’ asserted Dame Wasteneys, regarding Bartholomew sternly. ‘She is indisposed. I would not like it said that the Prioress of St Radegund’s was tipsy before prime.’

‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the walk through Cambridge with the Prioress staggering between two meaty novices would do more damage to her reputation than anything he could say. He knew that wine was sometimes more than just a pleasant beverage for some people, and the broken veins and slightly purple nose of the Prioress suggested that she was one of them. He handed Dame Wasteneys a packet containing some cloves, which he used for patients with toothache.

‘Give her some of these to chew. They will mask the scent of the wine.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dame Wasteneys, sketching a brief benediction at him. ‘You are very kind.’

Leaving the nuns to walk back to their convent, Bartholomew and Richard mounted their horses again. Bartholomew was sure that the sudden deluge of spray and pellets of mud that the Black Bishop of Bedminster kicked up with his hoofs, and that landed squarely on the startled Prioress, would do more to dispel the effects of wine than the coldest morning air. Oblivious to her indignant curses, Richard rode towards the town.

Bartholomew and Richard reached the Trumpington Gate, and waited for the guards to wave them through. The soldier on duty regarded Richard’s snorting black horse doubtfully. Sergeant Orwelle was a thickset man with a limp from a wound received in the service of the King. Bartholomew had recently treated him for rotting teeth, and one of his first tasks as a physician, when he had arrived in Cambridge more than a decade before, had been to remove a horn drinking vessel from the man’s nose, which had managed to become stuck there during some bizarre drinking game. Orwelle felt indebted to Bartholomew – not for the removal of the offending item, but for the fact that the incident had never been mentioned again.

‘Tell Brother Michael I am sorry about his Junior Proctor,’ said Orwelle, patting Bartholomew’s horse on the neck. ‘It was me who found him, you know. I was on patrol, when I saw him hanging. It was a sad sight.’

‘Did you see anything else – such as who did it?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

Orwelle shook his head. ‘If I had, then that person would now be under lock and key. It does not do for scholars to flaunt their lack of respect for the law in the town. It sets a bad example.’

‘How do you know Walcote was killed by a scholar, and not a townsperson?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Orwelle regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Of course it was a scholar. The townsfolk have nothing against the proctors – quite the opposite, in fact, because it is the proctors who punish students for misbehaving. We like the proctors.’

‘Sheriff Tulyet said Walcote was hanged from the walls of the Dominican Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that true? It is a very public place.’

‘He was around the side,’ explained Orwelle. ‘The front would have been a public place, but Walcote was hanging from a drainage pipe that juts out from the north wall. A line of trees conceals it from the road.’

‘How did you find him, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

Orwelle looked shifty. ‘Do not tell the Sheriff, but I slipped home for a cup of hot ale halfway through my patrol – it was a horrible night, with all that wind and rain. I live near the Dominican Friary, and there is a shortcut along the wall that I always take. I doubt anyone else uses it after dark, and it was lucky I found Walcote when I did, or he would have been there until this morning.’

‘But he was dead when you found him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There were no signs of life?’

‘None,’ said Orwelle. ‘And I have attended enough hangings at the Castle to be able to tell right enough. He was stone cold, too, so he had been hanging there some time before I came across him.’

‘What time did you find him?’

‘When the bells chimed for compline,’ replied Orwelle. ‘You and Brother Michael had left to go to Trumpington for the evening, and I suppose it was a couple of hours after that. Whoever killed him must have done so just after dusk – any earlier, and someone else would have found him; later, and he would have been warm.’

‘Was there anything at all that might help Michael catch the culprit?’ asked Bartholomew.

Orwelle shook his head. ‘The good Brother has already asked me all this. There was nothing. I cut Walcote down, to make certain he was not still living, then I ran to the gatehouse for help.’

‘And what about the trouble between the Austins and the Franciscans?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did they fight all night?’

‘The Franciscans went home when it became clear the rain was not going to stop that evening. They do not dislike the Austins enough to endure a drenching. By the time the Sheriff arrived with Brother Michael, the Franciscans and the Austins were tucked up in their own beds.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was expecting to hear that there had been a riot.’

‘There is unrest because the University is only teaching in the mornings this week,’ said Orwelle knowledgeably. ‘The scholars are bored – they do not know what to do with free afternoons, and so spend them looking for trouble. It is a good thing Lent is almost over.’

‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, hoping the problems would be resolved when lectures returned to normal after Easter.

Orwelle suddenly sniffed the air. ‘What is that dreadful stench? Is there a whore among the crowd waiting to come in?’

‘Not that I can see,’ replied Bartholomew, hoping Orwelle would not associate the powerful smell with Richard’s carefully greased hair. The physician moved backward as Richard’s horse grew restless at the enforced delay.

‘Make sure you keep that thing under control,’ Orwelle instructed Bartholomew, eyeing the animal distrustfully. ‘We do not want it stampeding around the town, upsetting carts and knocking people down.’

Bartholomew raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It has nothing to do with me. Tell Richard.’

‘Oswald Stanmore’s boy?’ asked Orwelle, peering up at the fine figure who sat on his horse with the bandage still around his nose and mouth. The old soldier gave a sudden beam of delight. ‘You and my Tom used to go fishing together. You remember him.’

Richard gazed coolly at the sergeant. ‘Actually, I do not. And I prefer not to dwell on such unsavoury matters as fishing in dirty water.’

Orwelle’s honest face crunched into a puzzled frown. ‘Of course you remember my Tom. It was just before the Death. You and him used to sit together on the river bank, and catch minnows.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Richard, spurring his horse through the gate and into the town beyond.

Shooting an apologetic grin at Orwelle, Bartholomew rode after him, balling his fists so he would not be tempted to knock his nephew from his fine saddle.

‘What are you thinking of?’ he demanded when he had caught up, snatching the reins from Richard’s hands to make him stop. ‘You could have acknowledged Tom Orwelle’s father. You and Tom were friends once.’

‘I cannot afford to be seen cavorting with the sons of common soldiers,’ Richard flashed back. ‘I have an impression to make on this town. I hardly think people will want to employ me if they see me discussing old times with peasants.’

‘You need not be concerned,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Tom Orwelle died of the plague. His father only wanted a kind word from you about him – the sharing of a fond memory. You have changed, Richard, and I do not like what you have become.’

Richard’s jaw dropped. ‘But I…’ he began.

It was too late. Bartholomew was already riding away up the High Street towards Michaelhouse, leaving his nephew stuttering an unheard apology.

Still angry, Bartholomew rode past the recently founded College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, or Bene’t College as it was known to most people because it stood next to St Bene’t’s Church. Work still continued on the College, which seemed to grow larger every time Bartholomew passed it. It already had two courtyards and a handsome hall building, and was being furnished with more accommodation wings and a substantial kitchen block.

The church was an ancient monument with a square, almost windowless tower that many people believed had been built before William the Conqueror had claimed the English throne in 1066. It was set in a grassy graveyard, and its amber stones were shaded by yew trees. Diagonally opposite it was the Brazen George, a large tavern known for good food and clear ale, which was a favourite of Michael’s. Rows of town houses followed, some grand and well maintained, like the one belonging to the locksmith and his family, and some in sore need of a new roof and a coat of paint, like the one where Beadle Meadowman lived.

Beyond that, the great golden mass of St Mary’s Church rose out of the filth of the High Street. Its new chancel gleamed bright and clean, elegant tracery reaching for the sky like stone lace. Its tower was a sturdy mass topped by four neat turrets that could be seen from many miles away. In a room below the bells was a great chest in which the University stored its most precious documents. To many, the sumptuous church represented all they did not like about the University, and the building was often the target of resentful townspeople.

A short distance from St Mary’s was St Michael’s, a church that had been specially rebuilt by Michaelhouse’s founder Hervey de Stanton to be used by the scholars of the College he had established. Next to the dazzling splendour of St Mary’s, with its Barnack stone and intricate tracery, St Michael’s was squat and grey. It had a low tower, barely taller than the nave, and tiny porches to the north and south. Its chancel was almost as large as its nave, a deliberate feature on Stanton’s part, because he intended Michaelhouse’s scholars to pray in the chancel, while any congregation or members of other Colleges or hostels would use the nave.

Bartholomew considered St Michael’s chancel one of the finest in Cambridge. Its tracery lacked the delicate quality of St Mary’s, but possessed a clean simplicity that Bartholomew loved. The great east window allowed the early morning light to flood in, although for much of the day the church was dark and intimate. A tiny extension to the south was called the Stanton Chapel, and housed the tomb of Stanton himself. Other tombs and monuments lay in peaceful silence among the shadows, with still figures in stone gazing heavenwards, occasionally lit by the odd beam of dusty sunlight.

Just to the left was St Michael’s Lane, a muddy track that led down to the wharfs on the river. On the corner was the handsome red-roofed Gonville Hall, where scholars were already gathering in the street to process to St Mary’s, to celebrate the beginning of a new day with a mass. Some of them nodded to Bartholomew as he passed. Usually, members of different Colleges tended to regard each other with hostility, but Master Langelee of Michaelhouse had recently sold Gonville Hall a piece of property for a very reasonable price, and the scholars of Gonville and Michaelhouse had established a truce. Bartholomew was grateful that at least some factions within the University were not at each other’s throats.

The horse slowed when it was faced with the muck of St Michael’s Lane, picking its way carefully and skilfully around the larger potholes and piles of rubbish. The walls of Gonville loomed to Bartholomew’s left as he turned down the small runnel, appropriately named Foule Lane, on which the mighty front gate of Michaelhouse stood. He hammered on the door, and was admitted by a porter who took the horse, grumbling about the amount of mud that clung to the animal, which would have to be cleaned off.

Michaelhouse’s scholars were already assembling in the yard to process to the mass at St Michael’s, most of them yawning and still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. At their head was Master Langelee, a large, heavy man with no neck, who had decided to become a scholar because life as a spy for the Archbishop of York was not sufficiently exciting. Given that his predecessor had been murdered after attempting to oust Langelee himself from his Fellowship because of an annulled marriage, he had probably been right.

Langelee called an affable greeting to Bartholomew, then strode briskly along the line of scholars to ensure they were sufficiently smart to represent Michaelhouse on the streets of Cambridge. Bartholomew did not much like the burly philosopher, whose belligerence and single-mindedness also made him unpopular with the students, but he had to admit that standards had risen since Langelee had assumed the Mastership. Michaelhouse scholars were inspected each morning, and any student whose tabard was not clean and tidy and whose shoes did not shine to Langelee’s satisfaction was fined fourpence. Scholars who could not afford or declined to pay were put to work as copyists, to add to Michaelhouse’s expanding library.

It was not only outward appearances that had improved. Lectures always started on time, and meals were served promptly. Previously, evenings had been free for the students, but Langelee had initiated a series of discussion sessions that the Fellows took it in turn to lead. The students were obliged to attend at least four each week, and Langelee kept a careful record of anyone who absented himself without permission. The topics were usually light-hearted ones, such as whether worms when cut in half were two animals or one, or whether ale tasted better in the morning or the evening, but nevertheless were valuable practice for the more serious disputations that were a major part of academic life. As long as Langelee did not take part in the discussions himself – he was not possessed of the sharpest mind in the University, and even the rawest, most inexperienced student invariably bested him – Bartholomew felt the students were benefiting enormously. There was also the fact that their busy schedules allowed very little time for causing mischief in the town. It had been many months since the proctors had paid a visit to Michaelhouse in pursuit of a student who had misbehaved.

The Michaelhouse Fellows were already waiting in their places at the front of the procession. The fanatical Franciscan Father William was first, nodding approvingly as Langelee berated one student for having hair that was too long. William’s habit was easily the filthiest garment in Michaelhouse, but even Langelee’s heavy-handed hints could not induce the friar to wash it. Like all Franciscans’ robes, the habit was grey, but William’s was so dark that he was occasionally mistaken for a Dominican. William detested the Black Friars, and Bartholomew found it extraordinary that he would risk being misidentified just because he had an aversion to hygiene.

Standing next to William, and already muttering prayers that would prepare him spiritually for the mass that was to come, was the gentle Gilbertine Thomas Kenyngham. Kenyngham had performed the duties of Master for several years, and had been a kindly and tolerant leader. However, Bartholomew was rapidly coming around to the opinion that the students fared better under the sterner hand of Langelee, although he was amazed to find it so.

Michael waited next to them, the dark rings under his eyes indicating that the previous night had not been an easy one for him. He gave Bartholomew a wan smile as the physician stepped into his place.

Behind Michael were the newest Fellows. The Dominican Clippesby stood with the Carmelite friar, Thomas Suttone. Clippesby was talking in loving tones to a dead frog he had somehow acquired, and Suttone was trying to wrest it away from him before Langelee saw it. Langelee was not particularly tolerant of the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies, mostly because he did not know how to respond to them.

Suttone was a long, bony man with short white hair that contrasted oddly with Clippesby’s wild locks. He had some of the largest teeth that Bartholomew had ever seen in a person, and was a sombre individual, wholly devoid of humour. He was not an unkind man, but his unsmiling demeanour did not make him popular with his colleagues. Even the dour, uncompromising William was not serious all the time, and enjoyed a little light-hearted banter of an evening, especially if it were at the expense of the Dominicans.

Suttone and Clippesby began a covert push – pull competition over the frog, determination to possess it clearly written in the features of both. Bartholomew and Michael watched the tussle warily, hoping that Clippesby would not have one of his tantrums if Suttone were the victor, because when Langelee locked Clippesby in his room ‘for his own safety’ the other Fellows were obliged to take over his teaching responsibilities. The struggle, however, ended abruptly when the frog broke in two. Clippesby regarded his part in surprise, and then generously presented it to Suttone, whispering that there was little anyone could do with half a frog and that Suttone should take both bits. Michael snorted with laughter as Clippesby clasped his hands in front of him in genuine innocence, while Suttone was left holding a mess of spilled entrails that he was unable to explain to the disgusted Langelee.

Considering that the Fellows of Michaelhouse comprised a Benedictine, a Dominican, a Franciscan, a Carmelite and a Gilbertine, the College was remarkably strife-free. Bartholomew sincerely hoped it would continue, and that his colleagues would not be drawn into the rivalries and disputes in which the religious Orders indulged. William posed the greatest threat, with his naked hatred of Dominicans, but, fortunately, Clippesby was not sufficiently sane to provide him with a satisfactory target. Sometimes he objected to the hail of abuse the Franciscan directed towards him, but most of the time he seemed unaware that there was a problem.

Thinking of the unease between the Orders reminded Bartholomew of why Michael had left Edith’s house early the previous night. He glanced at the monk, noting again that he looked exhausted and out of sorts.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, brushing mud from his tabard as they waited for the procession to move off. ‘Sergeant Orwelle told me how he found the body.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Walcote was a good man, despite my complaints that he was too gentle. I shall catch whoever did this, and string them up, just as they did to him.’

‘It was definitely murder, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There is no possibility it was suicide?’

‘His hands were tied behind him,’ said Michael shortly. ‘It was not suicide.’

‘Did the Dominicans do it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It seems a little brazen to use their own walls as an execution ground.’

‘They said it had nothing to do with them, and that the first they knew about it was when Tulyet hammered on their gates and demanded to know why a corpse was dangling from their wall. Prior Morden maintains that the gates have been locked since the fight with the Carmelites.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Prior Lincolne claimed the Carmelite Friary doors were shut, and that Faricius could not possibly have left the premises. But Faricius still ended up gutted like a fish in a grimy alley. These locked doors have peculiar properties, it seems.’

Michael sighed. ‘If I had a groat for every time a scholar claimed he could not have committed a crime because he was locked inside a College or a hostel, when all the time he was as guilty as sin, I would be a rich man.’

‘So, do you think the Dominicans killed Walcote, then?’

Michael rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I have no idea. Walcote was hanged from a drainage pipe that juts out from the top of the wall. Anyone outside the friary could have flung a rope over it and hauled him up by the neck.’

‘Walcote was an Austin. Do the Dominicans have a dispute with them?’

Michael sighed again. ‘The reality is that, at the moment, the Dominicans seem happy to fight anyone – anyone – who is not from their own Order.’

‘Then it is not safe for any non-Dominican to be out on the streets,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is not a healthy state of affairs.’

‘You do not need to tell me that,’ said Michael. ‘I thought the town was calm last night, or I would never have allowed you to persuade me to go to Trumpington. Priors Morden and Lincolne promised to keep their students in, and I thought the worst of the trouble was over.’

‘So, do you have any idea who might have killed Walcote? Were there any clues with the body?’

‘None. He was killed in a secluded spot, probably just after sunset, when no one would have been around. I doubt there are witnesses.’

‘So, what will you do?’

Michael fell into step beside Bartholomew as Langelee led the procession out of the yard and into the street. ‘I must be careful with this case, Matt. I liked Walcote, despite my reservations about his gentleness, and I am in danger of allowing affection to cloud my judgement. If that happens, the killer may go free.’

‘Can you delegate the investigation to your beadles?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not trust any of them with something this important. Meadowman shows promise, but he is inexperienced. I need you to help me, Matt.’

‘I will examine Walcote’s body for you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am no good at hunting down criminals. And anyway, what about my teaching?’

‘It is Holy Week, and you only teach in the mornings,’ said Michael. ‘Walcote’s murder is not only a deep personal blow, it is a strike against the University. The proctors are symbols of authority and order, and killing one of us is a statement of chaos and anarchy.’

‘I think you are overstating the case, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘It may just be that Walcote was alone, and that the attack on him was opportunistic. Or maybe some resentful student – previously arrested or fined by Walcote – saw an opportunity for revenge. His death is not necessarily imbued with a deeper meaning.’

Michael turned haunted eyes on him. ‘I hope you are right, Matt. But I need your expertise, and I need another sharp mind to assess facts that I may miss. Will you do it?’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly.

The monk nodded his thanks, and they walked the rest of the way to the church in silence. Bartholomew’s thoughts were full of foreboding when he saw that, yet again, he was about to be sucked into a world of treachery and violence that had already claimed the life of Michael’s deputy. He hoped they would solve the matter quickly, so that his life could return to normal.

‘Two murders,’ said Michael, pacing back and forth in his room after breakfast that morning, his black habit swirling around his thick white ankles. A jug on the table wobbled dangerously as his weight rocked the floorboards, and Bartholomew was grateful he was not working in his own room below, attempting to concentrate over the creak of protesting wood.

Michael had directed his three serious-minded Benedictine students to read part of an essay by Thomas Aquinas, thus neatly abrogating his teaching responsibilities for the rest of the day. Bartholomew’s pack of undergraduates were not quite so easily dealt with, and tended to be rowdy and difficult to control if he were not with them. Surprisingly, when he had learned why Bartholomew wanted to be excused, Langelee had offered to supervise them himself. Like Michael, the Master regarded the death of a Junior Proctor as a serious threat to the University on which he had pinned his personal ambitions.

‘Find the man, Bartholomew,’ he instructed. ‘You are relieved of all College responsibilities until you have the culprit under lock and key – except for the mass on Easter Sunday, when all Fellows should be present.’

‘I hope it will not take that long,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is only Tuesday.’

‘Then you will have to work quickly,’ said Langelee, glancing down the hall, where Bartholomew’s lively students were already beginning to make themselves heard as they waited for their lesson to begin. ‘If people learn that the University’s officers can be easily dispatched and the culprits never found, the town will erupt into chaos.’

Freed of his teaching, Bartholomew sat at the small table in Michael’s room, and made notes on an oddly shaped piece of parchment from Michael’s supply of scraps. Parchment was expensive, and scholars tended to recycle old documents by rubbing the ink away with sand, and then treating the surface with chalk. The piece Bartholomew had was wafer-thin from previous use, and whoever had last scraped it had done a poor job, because the words were still legible under the layer of chalk. On one side was a summary of payments for Michael’s army of beadles, while on the other Walcote had made a list of items that had apparently been stolen from the Carmelite Friary a few weeks before.

‘Two murders,’ repeated Michael, gnawing his lip thoughtfully. ‘Faricius of Abington and Will Walcote.’

‘You are not suggesting the two deaths are related, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, as he wrote down the few facts they had about Walcote’s death, chiefly where it had taken place and that it had probably happened after sunset. ‘I can see no reason to link them together.’

Michael rubbed the dark bristles on his chin. ‘Faricius, a Carmelite, was murdered when the Dominicans went on a rampage. And now Walcote is murdered outside the Dominican Friary. There is your connection, Matt.’

‘It may be a connection, but I am not sure it is a meaningful one. There is nothing nearby, other than that drainage pipe on the friary walls, that could be used for a spontaneous hanging. Perhaps that is all your connection means.’

Michael rubbed his chin harder. ‘But what about all the questions we have regarding Faricius’s murder? What about the fact that his Prior insisted he could not have left the friary? And what about the fact that we know the Carmelites are lying – or at least hiding the truth – about his death?’

‘What about them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They neither prove nor disprove the connection you are trying to make. I think the best way forward is to treat the two deaths as unrelated events. Then, if we discover evidence to the contrary, we can look at them from a new angle, and try to see whether there are other links. Is that reasonable?’

Michael sat down so hard on a stool that Bartholomew was sure he saw the legs buckle. The monk rested his elbows on his knees and gave his eyes a vigorous massage. ‘I suppose so. I find this very difficult, Matt. I have never investigated the death of anyone I liked before.’

‘I thought you were dissatisfied with Walcote’s abilities as a proctor.’

‘I was, although they seem insignificant now that he is dead. Doubtless I will come to remember him as the best deputy I have ever had. But I liked him well enough. He could be a little secretive at times, but he was a pleasant fellow to work with.’

‘We will find his killer,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly, although he was not sure how they would even begin what seemed such an impossible task.

Michael gave a wan smile and climbed to his feet. ‘I was right to ask you to help me; you have already made me feel more optimistic about our chances of success. Now, where shall we start? Will you look at Walcote’s body? I doubt there is any more you can tell me that I do not already know, but it is as good a place as anywhere to begin.’

Bartholomew nodded reluctantly. He did not enjoy looking at corpses and, although he had inspected a great many of them, the frequency of the occurrence did not make the task any more attractive. He was a physician, and he considered his work to be with the living rather than the dead.

‘And then I suppose we had better ask questions about Walcote himself,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘I do not want to pry into the poor man’s private affairs now that he is not here to defend himself.’

‘We need to establish whether his death was a case of an opportunistic slaying, or whether it was a carefully planned attack. We will not know that unless we investigate his personal life, to see whether he had angered someone sufficiently to make them want to kill him.’

‘Well, of course he had enemies,’ said Michael impatiently, beginning to pace again. ‘He was a proctor. There are plenty of students who resented spending nights in our cells, and who objected to paying the fine that secured their release.’

‘Most students accept the fact that they have been caught, and turn their minds to devising ways to avoid it next time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And most students do not kill a man over the loss of a groat or two.’

‘A groat is a lot of money to people with nothing,’ said Michael. ‘I have had my life threatened on a number of occasions for far less than a groat.’

‘You have?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Then perhaps you should not go out alone until this is resolved. I do not want to see you hanging from a pipe on the walls of the Dominican Friary – although it would take a lot more than a length of lead piping to hold up the likes of you.’

‘There is no need for rudeness, Matt,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And doubtless I shall lose a lot of weight now that I have all the anxiety associated with solving two murders; that should please you.’

‘It did not stop you from making the most of breakfast this morning,’ said Bartholomew critically, not even wanting to remember what the monk had packed away inside his substantial girth after mass that day.

‘My meals are my affair,’ said Michael irritably. ‘But we should not be discussing them; we should be trying to find out who killed Walcote and Faricius.’

He gave a weary sigh as he stared at the piece of parchment on the table with its scanty record of facts. Bartholomew understood his apprehension. The few scraps of information written there seemed a very fragile basis on which to conduct a murder investigation.

‘You will be needing my assistance,’ came a booming voice from the door as Bartholomew and Michael sat staring at the parchment. ‘I heard about the death of Walcote and have come to take his place.’

Bartholomew and Michael jumped. They had not heard Father William climb the wooden stairs that led to Michael’s room, and his sudden appearance startled them. Bartholomew immediately noticed that William had dropped a sizeable blob of his breakfast oatmeal down the front of his habit, making him appear even more dirty and disreputable than usual, a feat the physician had not thought possible.

‘It is not my decision who to appoint as Junior Proctor,’ said Michael, quickly and not entirely truthfully. Bartholomew knew perfectly well that his opinions counted for a great deal when it was time for nominations to be considered. ‘I think the Chancellor has someone else in mind.’

It was not the first time the belligerent Franciscan had offered himself for the post, and it was not the first time Michael had declined. William was an honest enough man, but he seldom admitted he was wrong, and he was always accusing innocent people of heresy. He had spent some time with the inquisition in France, before his superiors had dispatched him to the University in Cambridge because of his over-zealousness. To give William’s bigotry full rein by appointing him Junior Proctor would be in no one’s interests.

‘But that is not fair,’ protested William, crestfallen. ‘I have been waiting years to be appointed, and you must appreciate that I would be good at ferreting out criminals, killers and heretics. I am the right man for the task, and you know it!’

‘You would make a memorable proctor,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘I will tell Chancellor Tynkell of your interest. However, it is my understanding that he has promised the position to someone else.’

‘Who?’ demanded William. ‘I warrant it will not be someone with my dedication and experience.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Michael soothingly.

William rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then apparently decided to make the best of the situation. ‘But until this person has officially accepted the position, you will need someone to help you,’ he said. ‘It will be good practice for when the new Junior Proctor resigns and I take his place.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Michael hastily. ‘Matt is assisting me, and I need no one else. And anyway, I anticipate that Walcote’s replacement will take up his duties very soon.’

‘You need me,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘You see, this is not merely a matter of hunting down some criminal who has killed a man – which is all you have done in the past. This is far more complex: it is a case of unmasking a heretic.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, as William folded his arms and pursed his lips in the way he always did when he thought he had made an astute revelation. ‘And how have you arrived at this conclusion, pray?’

‘It is obvious,’ said William, inserting his solid form through the door and perching on the windowsill when he saw Michael was prepared to listen to him. ‘Walcote was an Austin canon; Austin canons follow the theory of nominalism; nominalism is an heretical notion; heretical notions are upheld by agents of the Devil. Ergo, you need a man like me to discover the Devil’s spawn who killed Walcote.’

‘There is a flaw in your logic, Father,’ said Michael. ‘If Walcote were one of these so-called heretics, why would another heretic kill him? Surely, the killer would be more likely to strike at a realist than a nominalist?’

William’s convictions began to waver. ‘Not necessarily,’ he blustered. ‘Heretics do not think in the same way as you or I. They do not always act logically.’

‘And neither do Franciscan fanatics,’ muttered Michael, eyeing the friar in distaste.

‘You are a realist, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that William was prepared to take a stand on an issue that was so complex. Normally the Franciscan had little time for intricate debates that required serious thinking.

‘We Franciscans always follow the path of truth,’ announced William. ‘Of course we support realism. You did not think we were nominalists, did you? My Prior told me that the Franciscans supported realism, and I always follow his lead in such matters.’

Michael gave a low snort of laughter. ‘Only when it suits you. He told you not to fan the flames of dissent between your Order and the Dominicans last summer, and you were brought before him three times for disobeying his instructions.’

‘That was different,’ said William haughtily. ‘And anyway, he now recognises that I was right. We should have driven the Dominicans out of Cambridge last year, when I suggested we should.’

‘You mean we should suppress anything we do not agree with, and persecute anyone who holds a different opinion from us?’ asked Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

‘That is the most sensible suggestion I have ever heard you make, Matthew,’ said William, oblivious of the fact that the physician had been joking. ‘Then we would eradicate heresy from the face of the Earth.’

‘Along with the freedom to think,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why are the religious Orders laying down such rigid rules regarding the nominalism – realism debate? In the past, they have always permitted individuals to make up their own minds about philosophical issues.’

‘Not everyone is equipped with the wits to make a rational decision,’ said William in a superior manner. ‘Like the Dominicans, apparently.’

‘And why do you think nominalism is so wrong?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘It is wrong because it is heretical,’ said William immediately.

‘Yes, but why is it heretical?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘Because it is,’ said William. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Not everyone,’ corrected Michael. ‘The Dominicans, my dead Junior Proctor and my own brethren at Ely Hall do not agree – to name but a few people.’

William stared straight ahead of him, suggesting that he knew he had been bested, but did not want to admit it.

‘A group of Carmelites gathered outside the Dominican Friary on Sunday, and were prepared to fight against highly unfavourable odds in support of realism,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when I asked them what realism was, they could not define it. The debate is simply an excuse for restless students to fight each other.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, turning a wicked grin on William. ‘So, tell us what you understand by nominalism, Father. I should like to know.’

‘Nominalism is all about giving things names,’ said William, after a few moments of serious thought and throat clearing. ‘The very word “nominalism” comes from the Latin nomen, which means name. It is not right to name things, because God did that when He created everything. It says so in Genesis.’ He shot Michael a triumphant glance, indicating that he thought he had already won the argument.

‘That is not exactly right,’ said Bartholomew, as Michael turned away in disgust.

‘Yes, it is,’ snapped William. ‘So there.’

‘Aristotle and Plato believed that the world contains abstract concepts – like the quality of blueness or beauty – that are actually real,’ began Bartholomew, determined that if the Franciscan were prepared to take a stand on the issue, then he should know what he was talking about. ‘They called these things “universals”. They also believed that the world contains individual things that are blue or beautiful – like a blue flower – which they called “particulars”.’

‘I know, I know,’ muttered William, who clearly did not. He regarded Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘But what have Aristotle and Plato to do with nominalism?’

Michael sighed heavily at his lack of knowledge. ‘They were the first realists. You should know this. It is what you claim is the non-heretical thing to think.’

‘Nominalists believe that universals have no real existence,’ explained Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s outburst. ‘They say that blue things exist – like the sky, that bowl on the table, the stone in Michael’s ring – but the quality of blueness is an abstract and does not exist. So, universals are imaginary concepts, and only particulars are real.’

‘Oh,’ said William flatly, so that Bartholomew could not tell whether he had grasped the essence of the argument or not. ‘Why are they called nominalists, then? This makes no sense.’

‘It does. The word “men” describes a group of people. It is a name, a nomen. Nominalists say that “men” is not a thing that has an actual existence, it is only a name describing a group of individuals. A “man” is a real thing – a particular – and so exists; but “men” is a universal and so does not.’

William blew out his cheeks. ‘This is all very complicated, Matthew. If you are going to explain it to your students, you will need to simplify it a good deal.’

Bartholomew caught Michael’s eye and willed himself not to laugh. He had already simplified the debate and had not even begun to explain its ramifications for the study of logic, grammar and rhetoric. When the Dominican Kyrkeby gave his lecture on nominalism for the University debate the following Sunday, Bartholomew was certain the Franciscans would not be sending William to refute his arguments.

‘And Plato and Aristotle thought all this up, did they?’ asked William, after a moment.

‘No, Plato and Aristotle were realists,’ said Bartholomew patiently, not looking at Michael. ‘Nominalism was revived a few years ago by William of Occam, who was a scholar at Oxford.’

‘Shameful man,’ pronounced William. ‘He should have left things as they were.’

‘Occam was a student of Duns Scotus,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Duns Scotus was a strong believer in realism, but Occam gradually came to disagree with his master.’

‘Duns Scotus was a Franciscan,’ said William smugly. ‘That is why I know realism is right and nominalism is wrong. But I cannot spend all day lounging in here with you when there is God’s work to be done. I have teaching to do. Let me know this afternoon what you want me to do to help you catch Walcote’s killer.’

‘You have wasted your time, Matt,’ said Michael in disgust when the Franciscan had gone. ‘You tried to teach him the essence of the argument, but he simply clung to his own bigoted notions that realism was propounded by a Franciscan and so must be right.’

‘He is not the only one to hold views like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect that most people can argue a little more coherently.’

‘I hope so. But he was right about one thing,’ said Michael, standing and reaching for the cloak that lay across the bottom of his straw mattress. ‘We should not be wasting time here when we have murderers to catch.’

‘Before we visit Barnwell Priory to examine Walcote’s body, I think I had better see Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. ‘I do not want William visiting the man and demanding to be made Junior Proctor before I have informed him who to appoint.’

‘You told William that Tynkell already has someone else in mind,’ said Bartholomew.

‘He does,’ replied Michael with a grin. ‘Only he does not know it yet.’

The Chancellor of the University occupied a cramped office in St Mary’s Church, although he fared better than his proctors, who were relegated to a room that was little more than a lean-to shed outside. Tynkell glanced up as Michael walked into his chamber, and smiled a greeting. He was a thin man, who Bartholomew understood took some pride in the fact that he had never washed, being of the belief that water was bad for the skin. His office certainly suggested that there might be some truth in the rumour, because it was imbued with a sour, sickly odour. Tynkell attempted to disguise his unclean smell by dousing himself with perfumes, although Bartholomew thought he should use something much stronger, and seriously considered offering to find out from whom Richard Stanmore purchased his powerfully scented hair oil. The Chancellor laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, transferring a long smear of ink on to one cheek. Bartholomew wondered how long it would remain there.

‘I suppose it is too soon for you to have any news about the murder of Will Walcote?’ he asked. ‘You have not had time to begin your investigation.’

‘But I have thought of little else since last night,’ said Michael. ‘We are on our way to Barnwell Priory, to inspect his body and to ask among his colleagues whether he had any enemies.’

‘I thought you would have known that, Brother,’ said Tynkell. ‘If Walcote had enemies, they were made while carrying out his duties as your deputy.’

‘Speaking of my deputy, I would like you to appoint one of the Benedictines from Ely Hall as Walcote’s replacement. Either Timothy or Janius would be acceptable.’

‘Timothy,’ said Tynkell immediately, taking up his pen and beginning to write the order. ‘Beadle Meadowman informs me that Timothy was a soldier before he took the cowl, and that is exactly the kind of man we need as a proctor. Janius would also be good, but he is smaller and thus less able to wrestle with burly young students in their cups.’

‘He is stronger than he appears,’ said Michael. ‘And he is very good at talking sense to people. On balance, I suspect he would be better than Timothy, who is slower and milder.’

‘But Janius is so… religious,’ said Tynkell, frowning.

‘He is a monk,’ interjected Bartholomew. ‘He is supposed to be religious.’

But despite his flippant words to Tynkell, Bartholomew knew what the Chancellor meant. Janius could scarcely utter a sentence without mentioning matters holy, and even Bartholomew, who was usually tolerant of other people’s beliefs and habits, found the force of Janius’s convictions unsettling.

‘There is a difference between the religion we all practise and the religion that Janius promotes,’ said Tynkell. ‘Janius always wears that serene smile that makes him appear as though he has been in direct contact with God, and that he knows something the rest of us do not.’

‘Master Kenyngham is like that,’ said Michael.

‘It is not the same,’ insisted Tynkell. ‘Janius’s religion is so intense and… preachy. I cannot think of another word to describe it. It makes me feel acutely uncomfortable and rather inferior.’

Bartholomew understood his sentiments perfectly. Kenyngham’s devoutness was much more humble than that of Janius, and the elderly Gilbertine certainly did not give the impression that he knew he was bound for the pearly gates, although Bartholomew imagined he was more likely to be admitted than anyone else he knew. Janius, however, exuded the sense that he already had one foot and several toes through the heavenly portals, and that he felt sorry for everyone else because they did not. Timothy had a similar attitude, although it was less flagrant.

‘You have a point,’ said Michael. ‘I always feel I should not swear when I am with Janius, which could prove tiresome in some circumstances. Very well: Brother Timothy it is. I shall go to Ely Hall immediately, and inform him of his good fortune.’

‘Do you not think you should ask him first?’ said Bartholomew, thinking that he would not be very pleased to be presented with a writ informing him that his days would now be spent visiting taverns to ensure they were free of undergraduates, or trying to suppress riots.

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He will be delighted to do his duty. Come, Matt. Let us go and give him the happy news.’

Ely Hall, where the Benedictines lived, was a large, two-storeyed house on Petty Cury, overlooking the Market Square and St Mary’s Church. It was a timber-framed building, the front of which had been plastered and then painted a deep gold, so that it added a spot of colour to an otherwise drab street. The door was bare, but the wood had been scrubbed clean, and someone had engraved a cross and a rough depiction of St Benedict in the lintel.

Michael’s knock was answered by Janius, whose blue eyes crinkled with pleasure when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. He ushered them inside, then preceded them along a narrow passageway to a large chamber at the back of the building, which served as a refectory and conclave. A flight of wooden stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew knew from his previous visit had been divided into six tiny chambers where the masters and their students slept.

Several black-robed monks were in the refectory that morning, most of them reading or writing. Through a window that overlooked a dirty yard at the rear of the house, Bartholomew could see a lean-to with smoke issuing through its thatched roof; cooking often started fires, and the Benedictines, like many people in the town, had opted to do most of theirs outside their house. Meanwhile, a merry blaze burned in the hearth of the refectory, and there was an atmosphere of good-natured industry.

Brother Timothy was in one corner, reading a battered copy of William Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. He frowned slightly, concentrating on what was a difficult text. Janius had apparently been sitting at the table making notes on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, a text that, along with the Bible, formed the basis of theological studies at Cambridge. Sitting by the fire was another familiar face, that of Brother Adam, an ageing monk whom Bartholomew treated for a weakness of the lungs. They all looked up as Michael and Bartholomew entered the room. Timothy stood, and came to touch Michael on the shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.

‘We were so sorry to hear about Will Walcote. We will say a mass for his soul later today.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘But I came here to ask you whether you would take his place as Junior Proctor.’

‘Me?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘But I could not possibly undertake such a task.’

‘I told you,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot expect people to abandon everything on your command.’

‘To be called to perform such duties is a great honour for the Benedictines,’ said old Adam from his fireside chair. ‘You should accept Michael’s offer, Timothy.’

Timothy shook his head, flushing red. ‘I could never fulfil such duties as well as Michael has. I would be a disappointment to him.’

‘It is true you would have high standards to aim for,’ said Michael immodestly. ‘But I feel you would be the ideal man for the post, and so does Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘The Chancellor?’ whispered Timothy, flushing more deeply than ever. ‘But I scarcely know him. What have I done to attract his attention?’

‘Accept, Brother,’ said Janius, his eyes shining with the light of the saved. ‘God has called you and you cannot deny Him.’

‘I thought Michael had called you,’ muttered Adam from the fireside. ‘It is hardly the same thing, no matter what Michael thinks of himself.’

Janius ignored him, and gripped Timothy’s arm. ‘God wants you to serve Him and our Order. To have a senior and a junior proctor who are Black Monks will be excellent for the University, and it will go a long way to setting us above the disputes between the friars.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, and suspected that many people would see Timothy’s appointment as favouritism on Michael’s part, and as a deliberate move to secure the best positions in the University for men in his own Order.

‘I cannot accept,’ said Timothy, shaking his head and refusing to look at Michael.

‘There is always Father William,’ muttered Bartholomew wickedly in Michael’s ear.

Michael’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. ‘Very well. If you have teaching that you cannot escape, or other duties that are important, then there is nothing I can do to persuade you.’

‘You misunderstand,’ said Timothy. ‘I cannot accept because I will not be good enough.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael relieved. ‘Give me a week, and I will prove that you are perfect for the task. In fact, I anticipate that you will be the best Junior Proctor I have ever had – and I have had a few, believe me.’

Timothy still hesitated, and it was Janius who spoke up. ‘We will undertake Timothy’s teaching duties when necessary, and will do all we can to support both of you. It is God’s will.’

Timothy sighed and then smiled at Michael. ‘When would you like me to start?’

‘Now,’ said Michael briskly, apparently deciding that Timothy should be allowed no time to reconsider. ‘I knew a Benedictine would be a good choice. The ink is barely dry on the parchment, and yet you are prepared to abandon your personal duties to help me in this difficult situation.’

While they were talking, Bartholomew crouched down next to Brother Adam. The monk was small and wizened, and the murky blue rings around his irises suggested failing eyesight, as well as extreme old age. A few hairs sprouted from the top of his wrinkled head, but not nearly as many as sprouted from his ears.

‘How are you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is good to see you out of your bed.’

The old monk grinned with toothless gums. ‘The brethren do not normally permit themselves the indulgence of a fire during the day, but Janius always has one lit when he thinks I might come downstairs. He imagines I have not guessed why there is always a blaze in the hearth just when I happen to leave my room. His religion can be a little unsettling from time to time, but he is a good man, to think of an old man’s pride.’

‘And your lungs?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you breathing easier now?’

‘Your potion helps,’ said Adam, ‘although I long for warmer weather. Spring is very late this year, and Lent has been interminable. Still, as I am elderly and ill, Brother Timothy insists that I be fed meat at least three times a week.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Timothy was an enlightened man not to demand that the restrictions of Lent be kept by the old and infirm. Although the Rule of St Benedict suggested more lenient guidelines for the sick, not everyone accepted them. He was sure Father William would not be so compassionate. ‘I hope you do not refuse it because meat is forbidden in Lent.’

The old monk raised his eyebrows and regarded him in amusement. ‘I am no martyr, Doctor. If I am commanded to eat meat, then eat it I shall. And my brethren have always been good to me. I will not burden them by insisting on doing things that are bad for me and that make me ill. It would be very selfish.’

‘I wish all my patients had that attitude,’ said Bartholomew fervently. He stood as Michael and Timothy made for the door.

‘If you are going to Barnwell, then I shall accompany you,’ said Janius, reaching for a basket that stood in a corner. ‘I have eggs and butter to take to the nearby leper hospital, so I can do God’s work and enjoy your company at the same time.’

He took a cloth from a rack where laundry was drying, and covered the basket to protect its contents from the rain, then set out after the others.