Death of a Scholar

Prologue

Cambridge, Lammas Day (1 August) 1358

Oswald Stanmore knew he was dying. He also knew it was time to push earthly concerns from his mind and concentrate on his immortal soul, but he could not bring himself to do it. At least, not yet. His beloved wife Edith sat at his bedside, and her good opinion was important to him – he did not want her to learn that not everything he had done during his long and very successful career as a clothier had been legal or ethical.

He had managed to destroy all evidence of his more serious transgressions – the reek of burnt parchment still hung about him – but what about the rest? It had not been easy to be a merchant in such turbulent times. The interminable war with France, famine, plague, years of unpredictable weather – all had taken their toll on trade, and only the strongest had survived. Stanmore had done what was necessary to protect his family from the wretchedness of poverty.

He closed his eyes, aware that he was deluding himself, which was hardly wise at such a time. The truth was that he loved the darker side of commerce – outwitting competitors, avoiding the King’s taxes, driving a ruthless bargain. His willingness to bend the rules had given him an edge his rivals had lacked, and had made him one of the wealthiest businessmen in the shire. Edith knew nothing of it, of course, and the thought that she might find out when he was dead sent a pang of distress spearing through him. He groaned aloud.

‘Doctor Rougham will be here soon,’ said Edith, misunderstanding the cause of his anguish. Her bright smile reminded him that she had no idea of the gravity of his condition. ‘You have chosen a bad time for a fever, dearest. Matt is away.’

She referred to her brother, Matthew Bartholomew, considered by the family to be the town’s best physician. Rougham, on the other hand, was an indifferent practitioner, more interested in making money than in his patients’ welfare. Stanmore grimaced. He could hardly blame Rougham for that – a fondness for money was a failing he owned himself.

The door clanked, and Rougham entered the room. As befitting a man of his academic and social standing, he had spent a small fortune on his clothes. The material had come from the Stanmore warehouses, naturally, but there was a flaw in the weave that prevented the tabard from hanging as well as it might, and Stanmore was gripped by a sense of shame. He remembered that particular bolt, and should not have charged Rougham full price for it.

‘Marsh fever,’ announced Rougham, after the briefest of examinations. ‘It always strikes at this time of year. Indeed, I have only just recovered from a bout of it myself.’

Stanmore knew otherwise, but made no effort to say so. Why bother, when it would make no difference? Rougham and Edith began to discuss remedies and tonics, so he let his mind wander to what he had done that day.

He had spent most of it in his solar, frantically destroying records in the hope of sparing Edith some worrisome discoveries – a difficult task when the deceitful was so intricately interwoven with the honest. A summons had come in the early evening, inviting him to a secret meeting. He had gone at once, hoping it might win him a little more time. It had not, for which he was heartily sorry – another day would have seen evidence of all his misdeeds eliminated, and he could have died safe in the knowledge that Edith would never learn what he had kept from her for so many years.

If he had known then that he would not see another dawn, he would have hurried home and spent his last few hours finishing the task he had started. Instead, he had attended a gathering of the Guild of Saints. The Guild was a charitable organisation that he himself had founded as a sop to his nagging conscience. He had encouraged other rich citizens to join, too, and was proud of the good work they had done. He had gone that night to reassure himself that it was strong enough to continue after his death. After all, it might count in his favour when his soul was weighed.

He had started to feel unwell during a discussion about the widows’ fund, but he had paid the signs no heed. However, when he had stood up at the end of the meeting, he had known that something was badly amiss. He had hurried home, and succeeded in burning a few more documents before pain and weakness drove him to his bed, at which point Edith had sent for Rougham.

Stanmore glanced at the medicus, who was haughtily informing Edith that the only remedy for marsh fever was snail juice and cloves. How the man could have made such a wildly inaccurate diagnosis was beyond Stanmore – Matt would certainly have seen the truth. But there was no point saying anything; it was not important. In fact, perhaps it was even better this way.

‘I have changed my will, Edith.’ Stanmore felt as though he was speaking underwater, every word an effort. ‘You will inherit this house, the manor in Trumpington and the business. Richard will have everything else. He will be pleased – he has never been interested in cloth, and this leaves him rich without the bother of overseeing warehouses.’

Edith blinked. ‘You are not going to die! You will feel better in the morning.’

He did not try to argue. ‘Richard is not the son I hoped he would be. He is selfish and decadent, and I dislike his dissipated friends. Do not turn to him for help when I am gone. Zachary Steward knows the business, and can be trusted absolutely. Matt will support you with everything else. He is a good man.’

A good man who would be guilt-stricken for being away when he was needed, thought Stanmore sadly. It was a pity. He would have spared him that if he could.

‘Stop, Oswald!’ cried Edith, distressed. ‘This is gloomy talk.’

He managed to grab her hand, but darkness was clawing at the edges of his vision, and he sensed he did not have many moments left. He gazed lovingly at her, then slowly closed his eyes. He did not open them again.

Mid-September 1358

Few foundations had ever been as unpopular as Winwick Hall. The University at Cambridge, a body of ponderous, exacting men, liked to take its time over important decisions, and was dismayed by the speed with which the new College had sprung into existence. One moment it had been a casual suggestion by a wealthy courtier, and the next it was a reality, with buildings flying up and Fellows appointed. Now, it was to receive its charter – the document in which the King formally acknowledged its existence – which would be presented at a grand ceremony in St Mary the Great.

John Winwick, Keeper of the Privy Seal, smiled his satisfaction as the University’s senior scholars began to gather outside the church, ready to process inside and begin the rite. Winwick Hall was his College, named after him. He had bought land on the High Street, he had hired masons to raise a magnificent purpose-built hall, and he had chosen its first members. He had even worked out the curriculum that would be taught.

It had all been an unholy rush, of course. Indeed, the mortar was still damp in places, and haste had rendered the roof somewhat lopsided, but Winwick was an impatient man who had baulked at the notion of waiting years while the University deliberated about whether to let him proceed. He wanted students to start their studies that term, not in a decade’s time.

Unfortunately, his aggressive tactics had earned enemies for the fledgling foundation. The other Colleges felt threatened by it, jealous of its prestigious position on the High Street and its connections to Court, while the hostels envied its luxurious accommodation and elegant library. The townsfolk were a potential source of trouble, too – they hated the University anyway, and were appalled by the notion of yet more scholars enrolling to swell its ranks. Bearing all this in mind, John Winwick had taken measures to safeguard his creation.

First, he had arranged for sturdy walls and stalwart gates to be raised, like the ones that protected the other Colleges, and had employed the most pugnacious porter he could find to oversee its security. Second, he had chosen as Fellows men who knew their way around the dark corridors of power, who would be adept at fighting back should rivals like Bene’t, King’s Hall or Michaelhouse conspire to do it harm. And third, he had secured an alliance with the Guild of Saints, a masterstroke of which he was inordinately proud.

The Guild of Saints was unusual in that it boasted both townsfolk and scholars as members, although only those who were very wealthy were invited to join. Oswald Stanmore had created it to help the poor, but its objectives had been changed since his death, so it now supported a much wider range of worthy causes. Winwick had persuaded it that his College was one, and had cajoled it into making a substantial donation. This was a clever move on two counts: it eased the pressure on his own purse – a relief, given that the venture had cost twice what he had anticipated – and it gave the guildsmen a vested interest in the place. They would defend it, should he not be on hand to oblige.

Now all he had to do was sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labour, although he would have to do it from afar. He would be with the King, making himself indispensable in the hope of winning yet more honours and wealth. And in time, clerks from his College – law was the only subject that would be taught at Winwick Hall – would help him in his designs, men who would be grateful for the chance they had been given, and who would repay him with loyal service and favours.

He smiled. Life was good, and he looked forward to it being even better. Smugly, he turned to his scholars, and told them the order in which he wanted them to process into the church. Unfortunately, both the Guild and the academics themselves had other ideas, and an unseemly spat began to blossom. A short distance away, three men watched as tempers grew heated. They were the University’s Chancellor and his two proctors.

‘I still cannot believe this happened so quickly,’ said the Senior Proctor, a plump Benedictine named Brother Michael. ‘I go to Peterborough for a few weeks, leaving you two to maintain the status quo, and I return to find Winwick Hall half built and its doors open to students.’

‘Its founder has a very devious way with words,’ said Chancellor Tynkell defensively. He was a timid, ineffectual man, and it was common knowledge that it was Michael, not he, who ran the University. ‘I found myself agreeing to things without realising the consequences.’

‘I did suggest you let me deal with him,’ said John Felbrigge, a stout, forceful individual who liked being Junior Proctor because it gave him the opportunity to tell other people what to do. ‘I would not have been bullied.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, not entirely approvingly. Felbrigge had not been in post for long, but had already managed to alienate an enormous number of people. Moreover, he had designs on the Senior Proctorship, and Michael disliked an ambitious underling snapping at his heels. ‘Having a ninth College does make our University stronger, yet I am uneasy about the whole venture.’

‘You worry needlessly,’ said Tynkell, comfortable in the knowledge that he would retire soon, so any trouble would not be for him to sort out. ‘Besides, would you rather John Winwick took his money to Oxford?’

‘Of course not!’ Michael hated the Other Place with every fibre of his being. ‘But I do not like the kind of men who have flocked here, hoping to study in Winwick Hall.’

‘True,’ agreed Felbrigge. ‘There have already been several nasty brawls with the townsfolk.’

‘Things will ease once term starts,’ said Tynkell, although with more hope than conviction. ‘These young men will either become absorbed in their studies, or Winwick Hall will decline to take them and they will leave.’

‘You are half right.’ Michael eyed him balefully. ‘Many will leave when their applications are rejected. However, some will win places, and as Winwick Hall is taking only the richest candidates, regardless of their intellectual ability, we shall have a lot of arrogant dimwits strutting around.’

All three looked towards Winwick’s Fellows. So far, there were five and a Provost, although provision had been made to add more during the year. They were resplendent in their new livery – blue gowns with pink hoods – a uniform far more striking than the sober colours favoured by the other foundations.

‘Provost Illesy,’ said Michael sourly. ‘Why not Master or Warden, like everywhere else? “Provost” implies that he has control of a collegiate church, and as Winwick Hall is in the parish of St Mary the Great, he might try to take the place over. And we work in that church.’

‘It is a concern,’ agreed Felbrigge. He lowered his voice to a gossipy whisper. ‘John Winwick said that he chose Illesy as Provost because he is the most talented lawyer in Cambridge. Yet I cannot forget that Illesy has represented some very unsavoury clients in the past – criminals, no less. However, I have taken steps to keep him and his College in their place.’

Michael was indignant at the presumption. ‘What steps?’

‘I am a member of the Guild of Saints, as you know,’ replied Felbrigge. He smirked superiorly: Michael and Tynkell would never be asked to join, as neither was sufficiently affluent. ‘And we have a say in what happens at Winwick Hall, because it could not have been built without our money. So I have used my influence to install one or two safeguards.’

‘Such as?’ demanded Michael.

‘I am afraid I cannot say, Brother. Blabbing about them will undermine their efficacy. But do not worry. Everything is under control.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But if it affects my University, I want to know what–’

‘Your University?’ interrupted Felbrigge insolently. ‘I thought it belonged to all of us.’

Michael was so unused to anyone challenging his authority that he was startled into silence. Then Winwick’s procession began to move, and his belated rejoinder was drowned out by shouts from onlookers – a few cheers, but mostly catcalls and jeers. He heard a hiss and a thump over the clamour, but thought nothing of it until Chancellor Tynkell issued a shrill shriek of horror.

He turned to see Felbrigge on his knees, an arrow protruding from his middle. He glanced around quickly, but the road was so full of buildings and alleys that the archer might have been anywhere. Pandemonium erupted. Scholars and spectators scrambled for cover, while Felbrigge slumped face-down on the ground. A physician hurried to help him.

‘Dead?’ asked the monk unsteadily, when the medicus sat back on his heels, defeated.

‘I am afraid so, Brother.’

Chesterton, the Feast of St Michael and All Angels

(29 September) 1358

John Potmoor was a terrible man. He had lied, cheated, bullied and killed to make himself rich, and was hated and feared across an entire region. No crime was beneath him, and as he became increasingly powerful, he recruited more and more like-minded henchmen to aid him in his evil deeds. Yet it was a point of pride to him that he was just as skilled a thief now as he had been in his youth, and to prove it, he regularly went out burgling.

Although by far the richest pickings were in Cambridge, Potmoor did not operate there – he was no fool, and knew better than to take on the combined strength of Sheriff and Senior Proctor. Then an opportunity arose. Sheriff Tulyet was summoned to London to account for an anomaly in the shire’s taxes, and Brother Michael went to Peterborough. Potmoor was delighted: their deputies were members of the Guild of Saints, as was Potmoor himself, and guildsmen always looked after each other. He moved quickly to establish himself in fresh pastures, and they turned a blind eye to his activities, just as he expected.

Not every guildsman was happy with his expansion, though: Oswald Stanmore had objected vociferously to Potmoor’s men loitering around the quays where his barges unloaded. Then Stanmore died suddenly, and those who supported him were quick to fall silent. By the time Brother Michael returned, Potmoor’s hold on the town was too strong to break, and the felon was assailed with a sense of savage invincibility. But he had woken that morning feeling distinctly unwell.

At first, he thought nothing of it – it was an ague caused by the changing seasons and he would soon shake it off. But he grew worse as the day progressed, and by evening he was forced to concede that he needed a physician. He sent for John Meryfeld, and was alarmed by the grave expression on the man’s normally jovial face. A murmured ‘oh, dear’ was not something anyone liked to hear from his medicus either.

At Meryfeld’s insistence, Surgeon Holm was called to bleed the patient, but the sawbones’ expression was bleak by the time the procedure was finished. Unnerved, Potmoor summoned the town’s other medical practitioners – Rougham of Gonville, Lawrence of Winwick Hall and Eyer the apothecary. The physicians asked a number of embarrassingly personal questions, then retreated to consult their astrological tables. When their calculations were complete, more grim looks were exchanged, and the apothecary began to mix ingredients in a bowl, although with such a want of zeal that it was clear he thought he was wasting his time.

A desperate fear gripped Potmoor at that point, and he ordered his son Hugo to fetch Matthew Bartholomew. Although the most talented of the town’s medici, Potmoor had resisted asking him sooner because he was Stanmore’s brother-in-law. Potmoor did not know the physician well enough to say whether he had taken his kinsman’s side in the quarrel over the wharves, but he had been unwilling to take the chance. Now, thoroughly frightened, he would have accepted help from the Devil himself had it been offered.

Hugo rode to Cambridge as fast as his stallion would carry him, but heavy rain rendered the roads slick with mud on the way back, and Bartholomew was an abysmal horseman. Hugo was forced to curtail his speed – the physician would be of no use to anyone if he fell off and brained himself – so the return journey took far longer than it should have done.

They arrived at Chesterton eventually, and the pair hurried into the sickroom. It was eerily quiet. The other medici stood in a silent semicircle by the window, while Potmoor’s henchmen clustered together in mute consternation.

‘You are too late,’ said Surgeon Holm spitefully. He did not like Bartholomew, and was maliciously gratified that his colleague had braved the storm for nothing. ‘We did all we could.’

Hugo’s jaw dropped. ‘My father is dead? No!’

‘It is God’s will,’ said Meryfeld gently. ‘We shall help you to lay him out.’

‘Or better yet, recommend a suitable woman,’ said Rougham. It was very late, and he wanted to go home.

‘But he was perfectly well yesterday,’ wailed Hugo. ‘How can he have died so quickly?’

‘People do,’ said Lawrence, an elderly gentleman with white hair and a kindly smile. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘How do you know he is dead?’ demanded Hugo. ‘He might just be asleep.’

‘He is not breathing,’ explained Meryfeld patiently. ‘His eyes are glazed, he is cold and he is stiff. All these are sure signs that the life has left him.’

‘Declare him dead so we can go,’ whispered Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘I know it is wrong to speak ill of the departed, but Potmoor was a vicious brute who terrorised an entire county. There are few who will mourn his passing – other than his equally vile helpmeets and Hugo.’

Bartholomew stepped towards the bed, but immediately sensed something odd about the body. He examined it briefly, then groped for his smelling salts in the bag he always wore looped over his shoulder.

‘Sal ammoniac?’ asked Eyer in surprise, when he saw the little pot of minerals and herbs that he himself had prepared. ‘That will not work, Matt. Not on a corpse.’

Bartholomew ignored him and waved it under Potmoor’s nose. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Potmoor sneezed, his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.

‘I have just been in Heaven!’ the felon exclaimed. ‘I saw it quite clearly – angels with harps, bright light, and the face of God himself! Why did you drag me back from such a paradise?’

‘That is a good question, Bartholomew,’ muttered Rougham sourly. ‘Why could you not have left him dead?’