Death of a Scholar

Chapter 12

The following day was Sunday, when there was an extended Mass and a better breakfast. It was egg mash – eggs cooked with smoked pork – and although there was less meat than usual, the food was at least palatable. Afterwards, Bartholomew and Michael set off to Winwick, to ask who had a green cloak with black edging. Needless to say, no one admitted to owning such a garment, and Illesy procrastinated for so long before allowing a search that the guilty party would have had ample time to dispose of it. Michael looked anyway, just to make a nuisance of himself.

‘This is a fire hazard,’ he declared, when they came to the dormitory above the hall. ‘There must be sixty students in here. It was never intended to hold so many.’

‘Seventy-three,’ corrected Illesy smugly. ‘And our lads love it up here. It is new, clean and affords excellent views of the town.’

Bartholomew did not think it was clean – it reeked of sweaty feet – while the views were obscured by the clothes that had been left hanging over the window shutters.

‘We shall tidy it up before the founder arrives,’ said Lawrence, reading his thoughts. ‘Word is that he has already left London, and is on his way. He must be very excited.’

‘Are you sure it was wise to invite him?’ asked Michael. ‘He will learn that his College is unpopular with the rest of the University and the town, and I cannot see that pleasing him.’

‘He does not care what people think,’ said Illesy. ‘If he did, he would not have grown so rich and powerful. Or accepted so many lucrative posts in the Church – a dozen canonries and seven rectories, at the last count.’

‘A shameless pluralist,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, as they walked back down the stairs. ‘I shall abolish the practice when I am Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Bartholomew smothered a smile. ‘And when will that be, Brother?’

‘As soon as the University can manage without me,’ replied the monk. ‘Which it is unable to do at the moment, so do not fear my departure just yet.’

Bartholomew trailed after him as he looked in the parlura, hall and library, but was glad when the invitation to inspect the Fellows’ quarters and the Provost’s Suite was declined – the point had been made, and anything more would be a waste of their time. Michael did, however, inveigle an invitation to Winwick’s mid-morning repast, where he tried every ruse he knew to catch the Fellows out in an indiscretion, but they were lawyers and his efforts to trick them were futile. Eventually, he was forced to concede defeat, and he and Bartholomew took their leave.

‘We have two days before term starts,’ he said, once they were outside. ‘Two days! And we are no closer to the truth now than we were when all this started. Indeed, our position is worse, because we have more victims to investigate. Moreover, we have William’s tract hanging over our heads like the Sword of Damocles, and we have done nothing to retrieve our hutch.’

Bartholomew had no words to comfort him. The monk stalked off towards St Mary the Great, where he was needed for decisions about the beginning of term ceremony, after which he would hold another choir practice, while Bartholomew, still plagued with nervous thoughts about dissection, sought comfort in the familiar round of tending patients. There were a lot of them, and they kept him busy well into the afternoon.

All were eager to regale him with rumours about the agitated state of the town, and he grew increasingly alarmed by the sour atmosphere on the streets. Thus he was uncharacteristically sharp when Warden Shropham stopped him to say that Potmoor had broken into King’s Hall on Thursday.

‘How do you know Potmoor was the culprit?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I did not need to see him,’ replied Shropham, taken aback by the angry response. ‘What other criminal would be so audacious?’

‘You say a pewter jug was stolen,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I imagine a felon of his eminence would have selected something rather more valuable.’

‘He was disturbed before he had the chance to look around,’ Shropham flashed back. ‘He was obliged to make such a speedy escape that he cut himself on a window, and left splashes of his nasty blood on our nice wood floor. Let us hope it hurts, because it is the only punishment he will ever suffer – de Stannell will not move against a fellow guildsman, and Michael is too busy.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘The culprit is injured? Why did you not say so? It means that Michael can look for a gash on Potmoor and ask how it happened.’

‘Potmoor will lie – say he cut himself shaving or some such nonsense. But something should be done, because he becomes more powerful and dangerous with every passing day. Indeed, I imagine he is behind these murders, too. Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt.’

‘And Hemmysby,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

Shropham softened. ‘I am more sorry than I can say about him. He was a good man. Forgive my insensitivity, Bartholomew. I am in a bad mood, because I have just heard that Winwick has almost matched us in numbers. And by the beginning of term, it may even be bigger.’

‘Does that matter? There are students enough for both.’

‘It is the principle of the thing. We have always been the largest, and it is not right for this upstart foundation to come along and usurp our place in a matter of days. Moreover, it is our prerogative to have first pick of the wealthiest and most influential applicants, but Winwick is poaching them from right under our noses.’

‘I hope you will not fight,’ said Bartholomew anxiously. King’s Hall was jealous of its rights and privileges, and loved nothing more than to defend them with a show of arms.

‘I shall try to prevent it, but Winwick tries our patience sorely.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, then his attention was caught by a group of matriculands, who were throwing stones at a butcher’s cart. The town boys reacted with fury, and there was an ugly mêlée until Marjory Starre hurled a bucket of slops over them all. The combatants flew apart with cries of disgust. When two outraged matriculands stalked towards her, Bartholomew hastened to intervene. There was a moment when he thought they would fight him, but several members of the Michaelhouse Choir came to stand next to him, and the matriculands beat a hasty retreat. Marjory began to chortle.

‘I have been standing here for ages, waiting for an opportunity to lob. The Devil himself could not have aimed better. Did you see their faces?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘And you should not do it again. They might hurt you.’

‘Nonsense,’ she declared. ‘They would not dare. And it was good to strike the first blow, for they will be the ones to cause trouble on Tuesday, you mark my words.’

‘At the beginning of term ceremony?’

She nodded. ‘When the wind will howl for the death of another good man, and we shall have blood flowing in our gutters.’

Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and although Bartholomew knew it was a trick such people often used to make their prophecies sound more convincing, he was unable to suppress a shudder. ‘It has already howled for another good man: Hemmysby.’

‘It has not finished yet,’ she hissed. ‘Not by a long way. It blew for Knyt and it blew for Hemmysby – not for Elvesmere and Ratclyf, obviously, as they were not good men – but it will howl a third time before peace reigns again. Perhaps it will be for you. Or for His Majesty’s favourite – the man who founded Winwick Hall.’

Bartholomew regarded her in horror. The King would never forgive the University or the town if anything happened to his Keeper of the Privy Seal, and a monarch was in a position to wreak bitter and very inconvenient revenge with heavy fines and penalties.

‘But better John Winwick than you,’ she went on. ‘He does not physick the sick. Would you like a protective charm? I will let you have one for free – payment for all the medicine you give me.’

‘It is kind, but–’

‘You need one,’ she interrupted. ‘Some folk wish you harm after what you did for Potmoor. Here, take it. It is the most powerful amulet I own.’

It was a fist-sized stone on a string, etched with runes, and was so obviously heathen that he declined to take it. ‘You might need it yourself if your predictions come true,’ he said.

‘Oh, they will,’ Marjory assured him, slipping the stone into his bag. ‘I have never been more certain of anything in my life. I have heard about those poisonings, by the way.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the abrupt change of topic. ‘Have you?’

‘Yes, and in my humble opinion, Potmoor is the most likely culprit.’ She did not sound humble at all as she continued to pontificate. ‘He is often at Winwick Hall, where Ratclyf and Elvesmere were murdered, and he loves Olivia Knyt, the wife of another victim. You might want to ask what went in the medicine she made to soothe her husband’s “colic”.’

‘Bryony root,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Eyer had said.

‘Do you cure colic with bryony root? No, you do not. There are other connections to Potmoor as well. Lawrence is his tame physician, and who was the first to arrive when Olivia decided more help was needed? Lawrence!’

‘I do not think–’

‘You like him because he seems kindly. Well, I have met many a villain with pretty manners, so do not be deceived. Moreover, Surgeon Holm told me that he heard Lawrence arguing with Hemmysby the day before Hemmysby died – on the evening of the first day of the debate.’

‘Arguing about what?’

‘Hemmysby thought Winwick was being given too loud a voice in the Guild. The row was quite heated, apparently. You watch yourself, Doctor. Trust no one.’

Bartholomew was disturbed by his conversation with Marjory, partly because it was worrying that Lawrence had not seen fit to mention his row with Hemmysby, but also for her prophecies. She had a reputation for being right about such matters, and while he did not believe she had supernatural powers, he certainly believed she was astute – and party to gossip that rarely reached members of the University. He had no doubt that the trouble she foretold would come to pass.

He was disconcerted when he ran into Potmoor almost immediately. The felon nodded amiably enough, although his expression turned suspicious when Bartholomew studied him carefully for any sign of injury. There was none that he could see, so did that mean Potmoor was innocent of stealing the jug from King’s Hall?

As he walked away, Bartholomew grew despondent. He and Michael had scant leads to follow for the murders, and the next day was Monday, when the culprit expected to be paid for William’s tract. What would happen when Michaelhouse failed to comply? Would the culprit really destroy a foundation by making the thing public? The Fellows would be barred from the University if they were excommunicated, so what would he do? Leave Cambridge and hunt down Matilde? Whisk Julitta away to a place where neither was known, and live together as man and wife? But what about Edith? He could not abandon her when she was so steeped in grief.

Thinking about his sister reminded him that he should visit her. It was a good time to speak to Richard, too, and make him understand how much his dissipation and selfishness were upsetting his mother. He arrived to find his nephew out, but Edith was pleased to see him, and plied him with cakes while she talked about her continuing trawl through Oswald’s box. She had discovered several more unpaid bills, and one transaction that had been brazenly dishonest.

‘He must have been ill at the time,’ she said defensively. ‘Not thinking clearly.’

‘These date from two years ago,’ said Bartholomew, leafing through the pages she handed him, and noting that the cheated customer was Heyford. The vindictive tone of the accompanying notes suggested that the vicar had been overcharged in revenge for denigrating merchants. ‘Oswald was in perfect health then.’

Both jumped when there was a sudden roar of voices.

‘Choir practice,’ said Edith, rolling her eyes. ‘Michael is an intelligent man, so why does he waste his time with those talentless rogues? The only one who can hold a tune is Noll Verius.’

‘He does not want to deprive them of free bread and ale. They have come to rely on it.’

‘Unfortunately, a lot of matriculands have joined, too, and while some are in need of a meal, most go just to test his authority. They are certainly wearing him down – I have never seen him look so tired. He has his choir, the beginning of term ceremony, the murders, not to mention preparing his lectures. I hope you are helping him, Matt.’

Bartholomew met the monk at Michaelhouse a little later, listening anxiously to a report that a band of townsmen had been eyeing the College at dusk the previous evening. Walter the porter, pet peacock under his arm, believed they had been reconnoitring in readiness for an attack.

‘They probably think we have lots of money,’ he said gloomily. ‘But they will be in for a shock. We have so little that Master Langelee could not pay me this week.’

Bartholomew wondered how long the College servants would stay once they were not paid the following week either. Would the Fellows be obliged to perform their duties, cramming portering or cooking into a timetable so tight that they did not know how to manage as it was?

‘Beadle Meadowman has a lead on Fulbut,’ Michael said, when Walter had gone. ‘He says he will send me word later this evening. Where are you going?’

‘To look in Hemmysby’s room for crumbs. I should have done it yesterday, but there was no time.’ Briefly, Bartholomew told him what Clippesby had said about the sparrows. Then because it was on his mind, he reported Marjory’s tale about the quarrel between Hemmysby and Lawrence.

‘But it does not mean Lawrence is the killer,’ he finished. ‘Holm may have invented it.’

‘Possibly,’ said Michael. ‘But let us hunt for the remains of this tart. Who knows? Perhaps we shall find it in a parcel bearing Lawrence’s writing, and we shall solve all our mysteries tonight.’

While Bartholomew searched, Michael flopped wearily on to a chair. It creaked ominously.

‘Why do carpenters make furniture so fragile these days?’ the monk grumbled. ‘I am hardly a heavy man, yet things buckle beneath me as though they were made of straw.’

‘Perhaps you are not as slender as you think.’

‘My heavy bones require me to eat a certain amount to keep them wholesome. You are the first to stress the importance of a healthy appetite.’

‘Yours is rather too healthy, Brother.’

‘Rubbish! That is like saying that a library has too many books, or that Aristotle uses too many words. However, there is certainly one instance where “too many” is bad, and that is students. I have more than I can properly teach, and your classes are absurdly large.’

‘One will be smaller when I dismiss Goodwyn,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Edith has offered to lend me the money to repay his fees, so he can start packing the moment it arrives.’

‘Wait a day or two before parting with any cash. I saw him talking to Illesy today. They both looked very guilty when they saw me watching, and do you know why?’

‘Not really.’

‘Because Winwick has been poaching – stealing wealthy students from other foundations. Trinity Hall, Peterhouse, Valence Marie, Bene’t and Gonville have all complained. However, I am more than happy to turn a blind eye if they relieve us of our malcontents. If they go willingly, we shall not be obliged to refund what they have given us.’

Bartholomew lay flat on the floor to look under the bed. ‘I can see a box,’ he said, wriggling forward to reach it. ‘It must have slipped down here by accident, and ended up pushed right back against the wall. No wonder we did not see it when we searched the last time.’

While he was in this undignified position, Walter poked his head through the window to recite a message from Meadowman: the beadle had located Fulbut’s lodgings at last, and had learned that the mercenary was expected to be in them later that night. Michael leapt to his feet.

‘He is alive? I was sure he had been executed to prevent him from revealing who paid him to shoot Felbrigge.’

He took two or three steps towards the door, but stopped, startled, when he saw Clippesby standing there with his favourite hen on his shoulder. He had not seen the Dominican arrive, and wondered how long he had been listening. Such unnerving stealth reminded him why Clippesby managed to eavesdrop on so many private conversations.

‘Ethel thought you had forgotten her concerns about the sparrows, Matt,’ the Dominican said reproachfully. ‘She expected you to do something about them yesterday.’

Cobwebs clung to Bartholomew’s tabard as he scrambled upright, the box in his hand. He opened it and looked inside. A fruity aroma arose, and a few crumbs adhered to the bottom, still comparatively fresh. Clippesby came to peer at it, head cocked towards the chicken as he did so.

‘Ethel says that is definitely the one Hemmysby ate from on Wednesday,’ he reported. ‘It contained a raisin tart, and he tossed the remains out of the window for the birds. Are there enough fragments left to test for poison, Matt? Preferably without sacrificing some innocent creature?’

Bartholomew nodded and looked at Michael. ‘But how will it help us if they do contain dormirella? There is nothing on this container to tell us how it came to be here.’

‘It was sent – a gift,’ supplied Clippesby. ‘Ethel saw it arrive. It was not the only one either. You received a parcel at the same time, Brother.’

Michael frowned. ‘Did I? Then Walter must have forgotten to give it to me.’ His jaw dropped. ‘Are you suggesting that it contains tainted food? That someone wants me to die?’

‘Ethel thinks so,’ replied Clippesby, hugging her. ‘She says both parcels came anonymously.’

Michael looked alarmed. ‘I am often sent edible treats by those who want to curry favour with the Senior Proctor, and I thought nothing of it.’

Bartholomew hurried to his storeroom and set about assessing Hemmysby’s crumbs, while Michael fetched the Lombard slices. It did not take long to set up the necessary experiments.

‘How long before we know?’ asked Michael in a low voice.

‘Several hours,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There is plenty of time to catch Fulbut first.’

Dusk was approaching by the time Bartholomew and Michael set out for the mercenary’s house. Fulbut lived out past the King’s Head, an insalubrious tavern on the Trumpington road, noted for seditious talk and brawls. Cynric accompanied them, unwilling to miss an opportunity to hone his martial skills with a notorious soldier of fortune.

As they passed the inn, Bartholomew was surprised to hear French among the general babble emanating from within. The King’s Head was the exclusive domain of townsmen who spoke the vernacular, not the language of the aristocratic elite. He glanced through an open window and saw a large group of matriculands there, all armed to the teeth and making a good deal of self-important noise. The landlord would normally have refused to serve them, but he had been intimidated by sheer force of numbers. His regulars looked on with glowering resentment.

‘There will be trouble once the locals get more ale inside them,’ predicted Cynric. ‘And look by the hearth. Richard is there with your sister’s apprentices.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘She will be heartbroken if anything happens to them – she loves them like her own children. And you are right: a fight is all but inevitable.’

‘A trouncing might do your nephew good,’ said Michael. ‘He needs some sense knocked into him. Unfortunately, we cannot intervene. Our priority must be laying hold of Fulbut.’

‘You go ahead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will join you there after I have spoken to Richard.’

‘He will not listen to you, boy,’ predicted Cynric, as the monk hurried away. ‘He has grown nasty, and made your sister cry today with a cruel remark. I wanted to punch him, but he was drunk and I was afraid he would fight me. And I should hate to skewer him in front of her.’

Not for the first time, Bartholomew’s temper rose against his nephew. Without further ado he marched into the tavern, shaking off Cynric’s restraining hand. Fortunately, he was generally regarded as an exception to the no-scholars rule in the King’s Head, because many of its patrons were his patients, while others were members of the Michaelhouse Choir. He was not greeted with open arms, but neither was he glared at or threatened. Moreover, Isnard was there, and the bargeman had always been protective of him.

‘An ale, landlord,’ Isnard called. ‘The Doctor is a friend of mine.’

‘A friend?’ sneered a butcher, one of the few people there who was neither chorister nor the recipient of free medical care. ‘I thought you had more taste.’

A dangerous expression suffused Isnard’s face, reminding Bartholomew of the many times he had been summoned to patch the bargeman up after fights in this very tavern.

‘Mind your tongue, you,’ snapped Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Sit down and drink with us.’

Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. ‘I am just here to send Edith’s lads home.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Isnard. ‘Because then those would-be students will outnumber us, and we might lose if we challenge them to a battle. Get rid of them instead. I will help. Hey, you lot! Get your scabby arses out of here!’

‘Now you have torn it, Isnard,’ muttered Cynric, as several matriculands came angrily to their feet with knives in their hands. ‘There will be a scrap for certain.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, stepping between the youths and the feisty bargeman. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. ‘There will be no brawling tonight.’

‘And who will stop us?’ sneered the leader. It was Uyten from Winwick, cocksure, defiant and very drunk. His tooth-bereft mouth and battered ears were stark reminders that he was no stranger to violence. ‘You? I do not think so! Get out of my way.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘But it will cost you your place at Winwick. There is no room in the University for troublemakers.’

Something in the physician’s steady gaze must have penetrated Uyten’s ale-inflamed mind, because the lad returned the stare angrily for a moment, but then turned to pick up his cloak.

‘This piss is not worth drinking anyway,’ he said, pouring the remains of his drink on the floor with calculated disdain. ‘We shall go to the Cardinal’s Cap instead.’

He waited to see if anyone would react, but when the locals only stared back in stony silence, he indicated with a flick of his head that his friends were to follow him outside. They began to file through the door – until Richard brought them all charging back in again with a mocking jeer.

‘My uncle is right, Uyten. Winwick will not want doltish louts among its members. And neither shall I, when I am a Fellow there.’

‘Doltish, am I?’ snarled Uyten. ‘What about you, in company with apprentices?’

He injected so much contempt into the last word that Edith’s boys leapt up, hauling out daggers, cudgels and a variety of sharpened tools as they did so. The butcher and his friends hurried to stand with them, while the matriculands drew swords. It was not going to be mere fisticuffs this time, Bartholomew saw with mounting horror, but an affray that would result in serious injuries and perhaps even death. And it was Richard’s fault. His temper snapped.

‘Enough!’ he roared, so loudly that it stilled the clamour of taunts from both sides. He stabbed a forefinger at his startled nephew. ‘You! Take Edith’s boys home at once, and if I see any of them out after dark again, they can look for another apprenticeship.’

‘Good,’ smirked Uyten. ‘They are–’

‘And you will return to Winwick.’ Bartholomew whipped around to glower at him. Several of the matriculands began to object, but he overrode them. ‘Out, all of you! Now!’

He stood scowling, first at one faction and then the other, acutely aware that if one individual chose to defy him, there would be a fight, and he was likely to be the first casualty. Then Uyten gave a cool nod and walked away, his cronies at his heels. Richard prepared to follow, but Bartholomew stepped into his path and pointed wordlessly at the back door. With luck, the matriculands would be gone by the time his nephew and the apprentices had navigated their way across a dark and unfamiliar yard.

‘Lord!’ breathed Isnard, regarding him askance. ‘I had no idea you were such a lion, Doctor. Those tales about your valour at the Battle of Poitiers must be true after all.’

‘Yes, he is wasted as a physician,’ agreed Cynric proudly. ‘He should be sheriff.’

Bartholomew stalked into the yard, where Edith’s lads were milling about, trying to locate the gate in the gloom. He grabbed Richard’s arm, and shoved him against a wall.

‘You made Edith cry today,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘Mind your own business. And if you ever speak to me in public like that again, I will…’ Richard pulled away furiously. ‘Just stay away from me.’

Bartholomew stared at him, wrath slowly turning to sadness. ‘What has happened to you, Richard? What changed you from my nephew into someone I no longer recognise?’

‘I realised that life is for living. It is a lesson my father should have heeded, because then he might still be alive. He tried too hard to be virtuous. He should have let Zachary Steward run his business, and enjoyed a well deserved retirement. Instead, he drove himself into an early grave, just so he could feed a lot of ungrateful beggars and widows.’

Bartholomew almost laughed at the notion that his brother-in-law’s dedication to commerce had been motivated by altruism, while the claim that he was ‘too virtuous’ was patently absurd, as Edith was learning from sorting through his documents.

‘He was too good for Cambridge,’ Richard went on. ‘And too good for her as well. She never really appreciated his worth, and now she delves into his affairs looking for evidence of–’

‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘She loved him deeply.’

‘Then she has an odd way of showing it. She should be grieving for him, not probing his finances, looking for inconsistencies. She told me today that she plans to ask you for help. However, I can tell you now that if you do, you will be sorry. You will leave my father in peace, or else!’

‘What did he say to you?’ asked Cynric, as he and Bartholomew resumed their journey to Fulbut’s house. Dusk had turned to night, so it was difficult to see where they were going in a part of the town that had few houses and fewer lights.

‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew curtly, unwilling to admit that he had been threatened. Perhaps Richard was drunk, and would apologise the next time they met. Unfortunately, he had the sickening suspicion that their relationship had just crossed a line that would change it for ever, and the thought depressed him profoundly.

‘You should have clouted him,’ said Cynric. ‘And then told him not to squander his inheritance on drink and foolish friends. Did you see Goodwyn lurking in the shadows, by the way? Him and the other new lads who want to study medicine with you?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘They were with Richard?’

‘With Uyten. They made themselves scarce when you walked in, but I am sure they would have joined in any skirmish.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were bleak as he followed Cynric down an alley that reeked of urine, and in which the distinctive rustle of rats among rubbish could be heard. It was not long before the book-bearer slowed, indicating with a low hiss that the physician should tread with care. However, it quickly became apparent that stealth was unnecessary, because Fulbut was holding a party, and drunken yells, the laughter of coarse women, and the sound of someone trying to play a bone whistle cut through the silence of the night. Michael and Meadowman emerged from the gloom, two more beadles at their heels.

‘I have learned that Fulbut has only been home for a few days,’ Meadowman explained in a whisper. ‘But this soirée is to let him carouse with old friends before he leaves again. Three barrels of ale have been delivered, along with the best part of a roasted pig. He has invited at least a dozen friends, as well as a goodly number of Frail Sisters … I mean prostitutes.’

‘Twelve is too many – we are only six,’ said Cynric. ‘Can you send for reinforcements, Brother?’

Michael shook his head. ‘We shall have skirmishes for certain if we pull any more peacekeepers from their patrols. I am afraid we must manage with what we have.’

‘Then we shall have to wait until the party is over,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Nothing will be gained from challenging Fulbut while he is surrounded by friends.’

‘We can take them,’ said Meadowman confidently. ‘You and Cynric fought the French at Poitiers, and are worth ten of the villains in there. We will win with ease.’

‘No, we will not,’ countered Bartholomew, frowning at Cynric, whose tales of the battle had grown with the telling, so that they had now reached the point where the rest of the English army might as well have stayed at home. In reality, Bartholomew had comported himself adequately, but had been far more useful afterwards, when his ministrations had saved a number of lives.

‘Matt is right,’ sighed Michael. ‘And we cannot leave and come back again, lest Fulbut slips away in the interim. We shall have to lurk out here, which is a wretched waste of time. Go and listen at the window, Cynric. Perhaps the villain will brag about who paid him to shoot my Junior Proctor.’

Cynric went to oblige, but Bartholomew and Michael soon grew tired of crouching motionless in the scrubby bushes that passed as the mercenary’s garden, and crept forward to eavesdrop themselves. Unfortunately, Fulbut was more interested in chatting to the women than recounting his misdeeds, and they learned nothing at all. Time passed, and they grew colder and stiffer, their misery intensifying when it began to rain.

‘I could be preparing lectures,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Or checking my experiments on the food that was sent to you and Hemmysby. Or even sleeping.’

‘Sleeping?’ whispered Cynric. ‘But this is fun! Where is your sense of adventure, boy?’

Bartholomew was about to inform him that skulking in the wet outside people’s houses was not his idea of good entertainment when the shutter above his head was thrown open. He and Cynric managed to duck out of sight, but Michael’s startled face was clearly illuminated by the light that spilled out. Luckily, the revellers were too drunk to notice.

‘That is better,’ came a voice Bartholomew recognised: Noll Verius. ‘It is hot in here.’

‘Not him!’ groaned Michael. ‘Who will sing the solo on Tuesday if he is arrested for hobnobbing with assassins?’

Cynric elbowed him in alarm, warning him to be silent, although the chances of being heard over the raucous yells and hoots within were remote. Bartholomew stood, careful to keep in the shadows, and peered inside. Verius was by the hearth, opposite Fulbut, who transpired to be a wiry, unkempt person with bad teeth. Their companions were rough, soldierly types who wore their hoods up, even indoors. Bartholomew could see one or two faces, but none he recognised.

‘My physician tells me that I may lose the feeling in my thumb,’ Verius was saying. He scowled. ‘King’s Hall had no right to put glass in its windows. It is unfair to those who want to climb through them.’

‘So that is how he was injured,’ muttered Bartholomew, dropping back down to talk to his companions. ‘Not in a ditch, as he told his wife. Warden Shropham said the culprit had cut himself when he broke in, and I should have guessed the significance of Verius’s wound.’

‘Yes, you should,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because it means that Verius is the rogue who has been robbing the town. Potmoor is innocent.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘There have been so many crimes that I suspect there is more than one burglar at work. Moreover, King’s Hall lost a pewter jug, whereas we lost the Stanton Hutch. Those are hardly in the same class.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The other Colleges and many townsfolk have been relieved of coins, jewellery and silver plate. King’s Hall probably was targeted by a different thief.’ He thought about the day he had sewed the ditcher’s hand back together. ‘In his stupor, Verius babbled about the “money soldier”. He must have meant Fulbut the mercenary.’

‘He said that?’ hissed Meadowman irritably. ‘You might have mentioned it! Do you have any idea how many hours I have spent tracking this man?’

‘What else did Verius say?’ asked Michael.

‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘However, Holm was there. It is obvious why, of course.’

‘It is?’ asked Michael warily.

‘I wondered at the time why he came, when there was no question of him being paid, and he rarely performs surgery anyway. He had heard that Verius was drunk and wanted to be on hand to ensure that nothing was blurted to incriminate him – and if that failed, be ready to say it was meaningless babble. I have said from the start that Holm is a dangerous man, and this is proof of it.’

‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘And–’

He stopped speaking when there was a chorus of disappointed cries from the house. The second barrel had been broached, but it and the third were sour, unpalatable even to hardened imbibers. Without alcohol, the party soon fizzled out. The prostitutes took their leave and, deprived of their company, the men prepared to follow. Fulbut began to pack a bag, while the others heaved bundles of belongings over their shoulders and made their farewells to Verius.

‘They will go to the Fens,’ predicted Cynric. ‘Where Fulbut will disappear again. We shall have to tackle him with his friends after all.’

A cudgel appeared in Meadowman’s hand. ‘Well, then. Are we ready?’

‘No!’ whispered Bartholomew fiercely. ‘They still outnumber us two to one.’

‘Most will disappear at the first sign of trouble,’ declared Meadowman. ‘I know their kind. They will drink Fulbut’s ale and enjoy his whores, but they will not fight for him. Besides, they are too drunk to be a serious threat. Now, Cynric and I will make sure he does not slip out the back, while you four storm the front.’

‘They are not drunk,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Not on one barrel of ale. And they look like warriors to me. They are unlikely to run from a skirmish.’

‘But we cannot let Fulbut escape,’ said Michael desperately. ‘We need answers. We have no choice but to nab him now.’

‘This is madness,’ objected Bartholomew, but Meadowman and Cynric had already disappeared, and Michael raised his hand for silence. And then everything happened very fast.

A bloodcurdling yell from the back of the house told them that Cynric and Meadowman had attacked, and there was an immediate clash of arms. The front door flew open with such force that Michael was sent flying, and Verius emerged holding a sword. It was dark, and Bartholomew knew the ditcher would not see that it was his choirmaster he was about to impale. Bartholomew darted forward with his childbirth forceps – a heavy piece of equipment that had served as a weapon far more often than a medical instrument – but Verius swept them from his hands with ease.

‘Stop!’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Think of your wife. What will she do if you hang for murder?’

But bloodlust burned in Verius’s eyes, and he did not hear. He swung his weapon with such force that the blade whistled as it cut through the air. Bartholomew jerked back, then charged at the ditcher before he could regain his balance. Verius swayed for a moment before crashing to the ground, dragging the physician with him. Bartholomew’s medical bag burst open, sending pots, packets and bandages scattering in all directions.

He heard Cynric’s wild Welsh battle cry, along with the ring of steel against steel, sounds that told him Meadowman’s prediction was wrong – Fulbut’s friends had stayed to fight. Then all his attention was taken by Verius, who was trying to stab him. In an instinctive move that shocked the physician in him, Bartholomew grabbed Verius’s injured thumb and twisted. While the ditcher bellowed in pain, Bartholomew scrambled away, feet and hands skidding on the contents of his bag. The twine on Marjory Starre’s charm entangled itself around his fingers.

Verius grabbed Bartholomew’s leg, and hauled him backwards. The physician ducked the first punch, and to prevent the ham-sized fist from swinging again, he lashed out with the talisman. There was an unpleasant thwack as it hit Verius’s nose, and the ditcher crumpled to the ground. Appalled by the sound it had made, Bartholomew knelt next to him and felt for a pulse.

‘Verius is dead,’ came a shrill shriek from behind. ‘And they are defiling his corpse!’

Bartholomew started to say that he was doing nothing of the kind, but the shout had caused panic. Men began to race away, a mad stampede that knocked him head over heels. By the time his wits had stopped reeling, the night was still and silent. He sat up slowly, and was scrabbling for a weapon when someone loomed over him.

‘It is only me, boy,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Are you hurt?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You?’

‘No, although Meadowman has a slashed arm. You can sew him up in a moment. But first you had better see to Fulbut.’

Dazed, Bartholomew climbed to his feet, noting that Verius’s ‘corpse’ had run off with its cronies. He sincerely hoped he would not be credited with a second resurrection. He followed Cynric into the house, which reeked of spilt ale and the pig that still roasted over the fire.

Meadowman was clutching his wrist, but nodded to say that Bartholomew should tend Fulbut first. The mercenary was near the hearth, a tankard in one hand and a piece of meat in the other – he had been so confident his cronies would win the fracas that he had not bothered to join in himself, and had passed the time eating and drinking. So why was he breathing shallowly, with blood frothing through his lips?

‘Save him, Matt,’ ordered Michael urgently. ‘He cannot die yet.’

‘Give him some of that salt almanac,’ suggested Meadowman.

Bartholomew examined Fulbut quickly. ‘A blade has penetrated his lung,’ he explained to Michael. ‘It is filling with blood, and there is nothing I can do for him.’

‘Then ask whether he wants Extreme Unction,’ said Michael heavily.

Monks were not priests, but Michael had been granted special dispensation to give last rites during the plague, when men qualified to perform such services had been in desperately short supply, and he had continued the practice since. While he busied himself with chrism and stole, Bartholomew eased the mercenary into a more comfortable position.

‘Bastard,’ muttered Fulbut between gritted teeth. He spoke with the musical inflection of a man from near the Scottish border. ‘I should not … have trusted him.’

‘Trusted whom?’ asked Michael, leaning close to hear. It was not easy: Fulbut had very little breath, and his voice was no more than a rustle.

‘The man who … hired me. He told me … to stay away after Felbrigge … But this is … my home now … I miss it … so I came … back.’

‘Who gave you these orders?’ demanded Michael, seeing the mercenary was fading fast. He put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, then glanced at Bartholomew in despair.

‘He is rambling! He just told me that the culprit had a big year. Fulbut, listen to me. You must say who hired you.’

‘Not everyone here … a friend,’ whispered Fulbut. ‘One … stabbed me.’

‘Whom did you invite?’ pressed Michael urgently. ‘Tell me their names. I will catch the killer and ensure he pays for what he has done to you. I promise.’

But Fulbut was dead.