Murder by the Book

Chapter 6

Bartholomew slept unusually well, and woke, wholly refreshed, just before dawn. He rose, washed in the bowl of water that Cynric had left for him, and rummaged in his chest for a clean shirt. Then he spent a few moments in the library, preparing the texts he wanted his students to read that day. It was a Saturday, so lessons would end early, but there was still a good deal that could be accomplished in the few hours available.

By the time he had finished, his colleagues were gathering in the yard, ready to walk to church. He joined them, chatting to Suttone about the plague and trying to make Clippesby understand that rats in the College were unacceptable, even when they came to inform Michaelhouse that strange men had prowled the town the night before, and that one had sworn at a barking dog.

‘Ayera was out all last night,’ said Thelnetham snidely. ‘Perhaps he did the swearing.’

‘He likes dogs,’ said Clippesby, his eyes wide and without guile. ‘He would never offend one with vulgar language.’

‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Thelnetham, regarding him askance. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I joined this College, for none of its Fellows are normal. You are a lunatic; Suttone is obsessed with the plague; Bartholomew is a warlock; Langelee and Ayera are womanising hedonists; Michael is the Bishop’s spy; and William is … well, William is William.’

‘And what do you mean by that, pray?’ demanded William, narrowing his eyes.

Fortunately, Thelnetham was prevented from providing an answer because the gate opened to admit one of Tulyet’s soldiers. He was breathless and white faced, and had clearly run as hard as he could. His name was Helbye, and he was one of Tulyet’s most trusted sergeants.

‘You are needed at the castle, Doctor,’ he gasped urgently. ‘Now.’

Bartholomew looped his medical bag over his shoulder, and followed him out. Helbye immediately started running, so Bartholomew did likewise. He was growing alarmed. He was often summoned to tend Tulyet’s men, but was rarely expected to sprint there.

‘We have been attacked,’ gasped Helbye, by means of explanation. ‘There are casualties …’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Attacked? But the place is a fortress!’

Helbye flapped his hand to tell Bartholomew to go on without him. ‘I should ring the bell in All Saints … warn folk to be on their guard.’

The bell began to clang shortly afterwards, its panicky jangle distinctly different from the gentle chimes that announced dawn prayers. People poured from their homes, and word soon spread that the castle had suffered a raid by armed men. Meryfeld, emerging from his house wearing a long nightgown, tried to waylay Bartholomew and ask questions, but the physician only yelled at him to dress and run to the fortress as quickly as possible. If the situation was as serious as he was coming to suspect, then he would need all the help he could get.

Tulyet was waiting when the guards – vigilant and heavily armed – ushered Bartholomew through the Gatehouse. The Sheriff was pale, and there was blood on his shirt.

‘Not mine,’ he said, waving away Bartholomew’s concern. ‘And not the enemy’s either, more is the pity. I was trying to help the injured – until Holm and Rougham ordered me away.’

He led Bartholomew across the bailey to where a number of soldiers lay in a row. The faces of some were already covered, and Holm and Rougham were nearby, deep in discussion.

‘It all happened so fast,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘They took us completely by surprise.’

‘Who did?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the first casualty. The man was groaning, clutching an arm that poured blood, and the physician wondered why Holm had not stemmed the flow. He bound it quickly, then moved to the next patient; he would suture the wound later, once he was sure he was not needed more urgently elsewhere first. It was a practice he had learned at Poitiers, when he had been all but overwhelmed with men screaming for his help.

‘I wish I knew. Christ, Matt! You and I joked only yesterday about the place being raided, and I declared so flippantly that it would never happen!’

Bartholomew became aware that Tulyet was not the only person hovering behind him. He glanced around, expecting it to be Holm or Rougham, but it was Cynric. The book-bearer was breathless, having dashed to the castle the moment the bells had announced that trouble was afoot. Without a word, he pulled a handful of bandages from the physician’s bag, ready to pass to him as and when they were needed.

‘We had no inkling it was going to happen,’ Tulyet continued. His voice was unsteady with shock. ‘Obviously, we knew armed men had been prowling at night – you and Isnard told us about them – but we did not anticipate this! I had arrived at dawn to begin work on the taxes, and suddenly, without any warning, my bailey was full of howling intruders.’

‘French?’ asked Cynric, watching Bartholomew remove his cloak and tuck it around a man who had only moments to live. ‘They howl. I heard them at Poitiers.’

‘Their army is still in disarray and in no position to invade,’ replied Tulyet tersely. ‘And would not pick on Cambridge if it were – there are far more lucrative and easily accessible targets than us. I have no idea who these men are, but they came on us like furies.’

‘What did they want?’ asked Bartholomew, moving to a man with a chest injury that was well beyond his skills. He looked around, saw Michael hurrying towards him, and indicated that he was to give last rites. As a monk, Michael should not have been qualified, but he had been granted dispensation to hear confessions during the plague, and had continued the practice since.

‘The tax money, of course,’ replied Tulyet impatiently. ‘They aimed straight for the Great Tower, where we keep it. Fortunately, my archers reacted with commendable speed, and we were able to fend them off.’

‘Did you take prisoners?’ asked Cynric. ‘They will give you the location of their comrades’ lair in exchange for their lives. Then we can raid them.’

‘Just one.’ Tulyet nodded to where a man was being bundled towards the castle gaol, guarded by three tense soldiers. ‘But he declines to talk.’

‘Will you track them, then?’ asked Cynric eagerly. ‘I will help.’

Tulyet gripped his shoulder gratefully. ‘Thank you. If anyone can catch them, it is you.’

Bartholomew regarded them uneasily. ‘It might be a trap, to lure you out and capture you. We talked about ransoms only yesterday, and a Sheriff’s will cost a fortune.’

‘We will be careful,’ promised Tulyet. ‘And I am not waiting here for them to do it again.’

Bartholomew moved to the next victim, who had been shot in the neck. Fortunately, the arrow had missed the main blood vessels, although it would not be easy to remove the barb without compounding the damage, and he wondered whether Holm would be up to the task. The surgeon was still talking to Rougham, and now Meryfeld had joined them.

‘We shall need a table, a good lamp, plenty of hot water and strips of clean cloth,’ Bartholomew said to Tulyet. He glanced at the row of injured. ‘Holm has enough work to keep him busy all day.’

‘I want you to tend them, not him,’ said Tulyet, snapping his fingers at a passing servant to organise what was required. ‘They must have the best.’

There was a clatter of hoofs as saddled horses were backed out of stables. Strapping on a broadsword, Tulyet ran towards them, beckoning to Cynric as he went. He mounted up and galloped out of the bailey without another word, his men and the book-bearer trailing behind him. Michael sketched a blessing after them, but Bartholomew kept his attention on the injured. The next soldier he inspected was dead, and the one after that had lost part of his hand.

‘Holm!’ he shouted, wondering what the surgeon thought he was doing. ‘Help me!’

‘I am in conference,’ Holm snapped irritably. ‘A scribe has had a seizure, and we are discussing how best to treat him.’

Bartholomew saw a friar sitting on the ground at their feet, but did not think he deserved three medici while the rest of the injured were left with one.

‘This soldier has just bled to death,’ he yelled angrily. ‘He need not have done, had someone thought to bind his wound. He died while you were chatting!’

‘How dare you imply that I am to blame!’ Holm took several angry steps towards him.

‘What needs to be done?’ It was Gyseburne, breathing hard as he raced across the bailey. ‘We are all here now. Organise us, Matthew. You are the one with battlefield experience.’

‘I have battlefield experience,’ declared Holm indignantly. ‘I have saved many a life with–’

‘Then save some today,’ interrupted Bartholomew curtly. ‘See to this man. Gyseburne, tend the neck injury. Rougham, check my bandages are holding. Meryfeld, help me here.’

Once given specific tasks to perform, the medici worked well together. There were two arrows to be removed, five broken limbs to set, seven serious wounds to suture, a head injury to monitor, and a host of lacerations and bruises to treat. It promised to be a very busy day.

Although the castle was a hive of activity, with a lot of hectic coming and going, security had never been tighter, with every soldier armed to the teeth and archers stationed all along the walls. Tulyet’s office was hastily converted into a makeshift hospital, and it was there that Bartholomew sawed, stitched, severed and sliced. Holm assisted to start with, but was more hindrance than help, and the physician soon relegated him to the less serious cases. Holm complied with obvious relief, and it was clear that he had been well out of his depth.

‘No,’ said Rougham firmly, when Bartholomew asked him to take Holm’s place. ‘I do not consort with blood. You must assign me to those patients who have already stopped leaking.’

‘And I must leave you, I am afraid,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his filthy hands together. ‘I have important business elsewhere.’

Bartholomew watched him bustle away in dismay, wondering what sort of man abandoned his colleagues in a crisis.

‘It is the money,’ explained Gyseburne. ‘He knows that Tulyet will spend all available funds on catching these invaders, and so will not have enough to pay us for our work here today.’

‘You are right!’ cried Rougham in dismay. ‘I had not thought of that. Damn!’

Gyseburne nodded to where Holm was struggling to wrap a sprained wrist, and lowered his voice. ‘I am unimpressed with our surgeon. I distrusted him the moment I met him – my mother always says you cannot trust a man with an overly pretty face – and his ineptitude today does nothing to make me revise my opinion. If he was at Poitiers, then I am the Pope!’

‘Never mind him! What about our fees?’ asked Rougham. Then an acquisitive expression crossed his face. ‘But Willelmus is a Carmelite, and they are a wealthy Order. Do you think they will pay for a horoscope? He has recovered from his seizure now, but an analysis of his stars might prevent it from happening again.’

Bartholomew glanced up from his work, and saw that the man who had commanded the attention of the three medici earlier was the White Friar who liked drawing chickens. He was sitting disconsolately on a bench, sipping wine. Once it had been established that Prior Etone would indeed pay for any course of treatment deemed necessary, Rougham volunteered to take him off Bartholomew’s hands by escorting him home and tendering some personal care. Overhearing, Holm abandoned his bandaging and hared after them, declaring that such a serious case would require surgical expertise as well as whatever Rougham had to offer.

That left Gyseburne, whose contribution was to examine the urine of every patient. Surprisingly, some of his diagnoses were helpful, and when he saw his efforts were appreciated, he even agreed to hold the head of the man with the arrow in his neck while Bartholomew removed the missile, although he was careful to keep his eyes averted.

It was dark before Bartholomew had done all he could. He sank wearily on to a stool, wiping his face with his sleeve. His clothes were soaked in blood, right down to his shoes, and he was exhausted. But he had the satisfaction of knowing that six men now had a fighting chance of survival, while another four might live if they did not develop fevers. Three more had died.

Tulyet arrived shortly after nightfall, empty handed and dispirited. He immediately came to ask after his men, listening with a bowed head to the depressing tally.

‘They have been with me for years,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘When I find the villains who did this, I will hang every last one of them. No one kills my troops and lives to tell the tale.’

‘You caught one,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Will you hang him?’

‘Not yet. But I had better speak to him, to see whether a day in my dungeons has loosened his tongue. Come with me, Matt. I am less likely to run the bastard through if you are there.’

Bartholomew stood to follow him to the Gatehouse, the basement of which served as a gaol, but Tulyet looked him up and down, and then grabbed a cloak that was lying on a bench.

‘Wear this. I do not want you sauntering around bespattered with gore; it will frighten the men. Of course, I may ask you to remove it when we reach our prisoner – you look like a torturer.’

Bartholomew glanced down at himself, and saw the Sheriff’s point. He took the garment, and Tulyet led the way across the bailey and down some damp steps, nodding to a guard to unlock the door. It swung open to reveal a dismal little cell with damp walls and a filthy floor. The captive, who had the look of an old soldier about him, wore a boiled-leather jerkin, and his grey-brown hair was long and greasy. There was a dull, flat expression in his eyes, a combination of resignation and defiance.

‘Your name?’ asked Tulyet coldly.

‘Why? It will mean nothing to you.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I would like it for my records nonetheless.’

‘Very well. Then I am Robert Ayce of Girton.’

‘Ayce,’ mused Tulyet. ‘I once knew a John Ayce. He provided the castle with eggs. He was murdered, if I recall correctly, some years ago.’

The prisoner’s composure slipped a little. ‘Your memory commends you, My Lord. I thought you would have forgotten. John was my son.’

‘He was unlawfully killed by a fellow named William Hildersham,’ Tulyet went on, frowning as details returned to him. ‘He was tried by a secular jury, but claimed benefit of clergy.’

‘Yes, Hildersham was a clerk,’ said Ayce bitterly. ‘He should have been hanged for murdering John, but just because he could read and write, he was passed to the Bishop for more lenient sentencing. But the Bishop lost him.’

‘Lost him?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

‘He escaped from the priests who were taking him to Ely,’ explained Tulyet. ‘We searched, but a man can disappear into the Fens as if he had never been born. As I have learned today.’

‘You did not look very hard for Hildersham,’ said Ayce accusingly. ‘You should have found him.’

‘Yes, we should,’ acknowledged Tulyet. Then his face turned hard and icy. ‘But there are more pressing matters to discuss this evening. Why did you attack the castle?’

Ayce shrugged. ‘I was not paid to ask questions, only to fight.’

‘Paid?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘You are a mercenary? Who hired you?’

‘They did not say, and I did not ask,’ replied Ayce insolently.

‘You are in a dire predicament,’ said Tulyet, after a pause during which it was clear he was struggling to control his temper. ‘Yet I am willing to concede certain favours – a visit from a loved one, perhaps. But only if you answer my questions. Why did you join these raiders?’

‘Why should I not?’ asked Ayce, shrugging again. ‘I have never liked Cambridge. But it is late and I am tired. If you are going to hang me tomorrow, I want my last night to myself.’

‘You will not hang tomorrow,’ said Tulyet softly.

Ayce’s composure slipped a second time. ‘What? But I am a rebel. Of course I will hang!’

Bartholomew stared at him, weighing the weary hopelessness in the man’s eyes and the injudiciously taunting remarks. ‘You want to die,’ he said in understanding. ‘You will not risk Hell by committing suicide, so you are hoping that someone else will take your life–’

‘Lies!’ snarled Ayce, although Bartholomew could see that he was right. ‘You know nothing about me!’

‘I shall keep you alive for as long as it suits me,’ said Tulyet, turning on his heel and stalking out. ‘Perhaps for years. Sleep on that, Robert Ayce.’

At that point, Ayce’s equanimity broke, and he began to howl curses and threats.

‘It seems I managed to capture the one man in that nasty little army who cannot be bribed with his life,’ said Tulyet bitterly, as he walked up the steps. ‘Luck was not with me today.’

It was impossible for Bartholomew to leave so many vulnerable patients that night, so he stayed at the castle. He slept for an hour around midnight, when Gyseburne relieved him, but then there was a crisis with the man who had been shot in the neck, and it was dawn before matters quietened again.

He had just ensured that everyone was resting comfortably when he heard footsteps. It was Holm, and he had brought visitors: Dunning and Julitta were at his side, while Weasenham, Ruth and Bonabes brought up the rear. Dunning and Bonabes wore swords, although the Exemplarius’s was ancient, and looked as if it had been dragged out of some long-forgotten store.

‘Dunning and his daughters insisted on viewing my handiwork,’ said Holm in response to Bartholomew’s questioning glance, waving a casual hand towards the more serious cases with a proprietary air, even though he had been nowhere near them the previous day. ‘And Bonabes is here to protect us all, should the invaders strike again.’

‘My father taught me how to wield a blade,’ explained Bonabes. Then he regarded the weapon anxiously. ‘However, it has been many years since–’

‘So you have said, to the point of tedium,’ interrupted Holm rudely. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘How are my patients? I hope they all survived the night?’

‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Dunning, leaping backwards when he saw Bartholomew’s clothes. ‘What in God’s name have you been doing?’

‘I imagine blood is inevitable when dealing with battle wounds, Father,’ said Ruth dryly.

‘I never make a mess when I perform,’ declared Holm. He smiled engagingly at Julitta. ‘I have always found it is better to leave a patient’s blood inside his body, where it belongs.’

‘If you really think that, then why do you practise phlebotomy?’ asked Bartholomew, tired enough to be confrontational.

‘Every respectable medical authority says that bloodletting is beneficial to health,’ replied Holm shortly. ‘And only maverick eccentrics claim otherwise. Besides, it is carefully controlled, and bowls are to hand. There is no wild splattering, such as I saw yesterday.’

‘Will they all live?’ asked Julitta, looking around with gentle compassion.

‘They have a good chance now,’ replied Holm, before Bartholomew could speak. ‘It is a good thing I was here, because Cambridge could not have managed this crisis without a surgeon.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bonabes, humour flashing in his dark eyes. ‘I imagine your arrival in the town will be celebrated on Easter Day for many years to come. Just as they will celebrate having a dependable old warrior like me to protect them.’

Holm either did not hear or chose to ignore him, and sailed away to inspect the injured, resting his hand on their foreheads to test for fevers, and poking at their dressings. They seemed reassured by the presence of another medicus, and as their well-being was his prime concern, Bartholomew resisted the urge to send him packing. Dunning went with him, and did even more to aid their recovery by pressing coins into their hands.

‘I hope you were not making sport of my fiancé, Bonabes,’ said Julitta quietly. ‘He has every right to be proud of his achievements.’

‘Well, someone needs to be,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘Because his colleagues are not: Rougham told me that he was more menace than help yesterday.’

‘That is because Rougham is jealous of him,’ said Julitta stiffly. ‘So he told lies.’

‘You may be right,’ said Bonabes soothingly. ‘Holm is a lot nicer than Rougham, after all.’

‘Do you think so?’ Bartholomew was surprised enough to voice the thought aloud.

Julitta’s eyes narrowed, and Bartholomew wished he had managed to hold his tongue: the last thing he wanted was to annoy her. She inclined her head rather coolly, and went to where Holm was talking to a man with a broken leg.

‘She adores him,’ said Ruth, watching her go. ‘And he knows exactly how to charm her, of course. I am glad she is happy, but I wish she saw him more clearly. She will be disappointed when she learns he is only human, like the rest of us.’

‘I will make her see it,’ offered Weasenham eagerly. ‘I have soured more than one happy union in the past, and will be more than pleased to do it again. Just give the word, and I shall begin.’

‘No!’ said Ruth sharply. Then she softened. ‘I appreciate your offer, husband, but your interference is likely to raise him even further in her estimation. I must think of another way.’

‘Then do not leave it too long,’ advised Weasenham. ‘The nuptials are in less than three weeks.’

Bartholomew left the sickroom after a while, to escape Holm’s self-important drone. He stood in the bailey, watching the castle’s occupants rise and go about their duties. It was still not fully light, although at least a dozen cockerels were crowing, and two cows lowed impatiently, to say they were ready for milking. The atmosphere was tense among the human occupants: they spoke in whispers, and even the smallest stable boy carried a dagger. After a while, Dunning came to stand next to him.

‘That sickroom reeks,’ he said in distaste. ‘Blood, vomit, urine and strong medicine. Horrible!’

Bartholomew nodded, although it was a smell he barely noticed any more.

‘Julitta has decided to nurse these fellows, because some of them said that a woman about the place made them feel better,’ Dunning went on. Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘I begged her to reconsider, but she is a lass who knows her own mind. Ruth has offered to help, too.’

Weasenham and Holm joined them, both bristling with indignation. ‘Who will assist me in my shop if Ruth stays here?’ demanded the stationer angrily. ‘I have already lost Adam and the London brothers. Now I am to lose Ruth, too. Well, thank God for Bonabes. He will not desert me.’

‘I say we leave them to it,’ suggested Holm sulkily. ‘They will soon learn not to waste their time on dying men.’

‘Dying men?’ asked Dunning. ‘But you just told them all that they were going to get better.’

‘Of course I did,’ explained Holm silkily. ‘All medici say that – it is the only way people will let us get anywhere near them. My dear old father always said that to be a surgeon, you need not a sharp knife and a steady hand, but a silver tongue.’

Bartholomew, disgusted and irritated in equal measure, watched Holm and Weasenham walk away. Dunning lingered, chatting about the Feast of Corpus Christi, and how it was even more important to make it a day to remember now, as morale in the town would be low.

‘I spent the entire night rethinking the pageant, making changes in the light of yesterday’s raid,’ he confided. ‘Julitta, Ruth and Weasenham helped – none of us went to bed. And Holm longed to join us, of course, but he was here all night, tending the wounded. Just as he did at Poitiers.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but Holm had disappeared long before sunset the previous evening, and had not shown his face again until he had accompanied his entourage shortly before. He could only suppose that the surgeon had lied to secure himself a good night’s sleep. He itched to say so to Dunning – along with the fact that if Holm had indeed tended the injured at Poitiers, they would have been Frenchmen, and almost certainly only after he had fled to a safe distance – but it would have sounded like sour grapes, so he held his tongue.

‘I am not very impressed with Tulyet,’ said Dunning idly. ‘He virtually invited those villains to attack, with his lax security and his cavalier attitude to essential repairs.’

‘That is untrue,’ objected Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts from Holm’s penchant for fabrication to defend his friend. ‘No one could have predicted what happened.’

‘No? There have been numerous reports of armed men sneaking around after dark, while several people have vanished or been murdered. How could Tulyet not see that all this pointed to something sinister? Is that your colleague Ayera striding towards us? What does he want?’

‘Michael said you would be here, tending the injured,’ said Ayera to Bartholomew as he approached. ‘So I came to see whether I could help.’

Bartholomew shook his head, although he was touched that his colleague should have made the effort to ask. No one else had bothered, except Michael. ‘But thank you.’

Ayera sighed. ‘What a dreadful business! Langelee posted student-guards all around Michaelhouse’s walls last night, and he and I were up all night supervising them. How is Tulyet’s hunt proceeding? Is there any news?’

‘No, but he rode out again this morning, while it was still dark.’

‘Rather him than me. Tracking men who do not want to be found is nigh on impossible in the Fens. I see he has tightened his defences here, though. It was not easy to get in this morning.’

‘But too late,’ said Dunning acidly. ‘It is like bolting a door after the horse has fled.’

‘It is not too late for next time,’ Bartholomew pointed out shortly.

Dunning stared at him. ‘There will not be a next time! The raiders were repelled, and they will not come again. I doubt such cunning fellows are stupid.’

‘No,’ agreed Ayera. ‘But Tulyet did well yesterday, given the unexpectedness of the assault. A number of his men were killed or wounded, but soldiers are expendable and it is the castle that is important. And Tulyet still holds it.’

Bartholomew supposed it was true from a military perspective, but was uncomfortable with the remark even so. ‘Tulyet would not agree,’ he said. ‘He is protective towards his people.’

‘An unwise trait in a commander,’ said Ayera. ‘He must learn indifference. Incidentally, do you know how many of the enemy were dispatched by his warriors?’

‘I heard five,’ replied Dunning. ‘Four outright, and one by his own comrades when they saw they were going to have to leave him. These men are extremely ruthless.’

Bartholomew thought about Tulyet and Cynric in the marshes, and hoped they were safe.

The sun was only just beginning to show its face when he and Ayera left the castle and began to walk down the hill together. Bells were ringing everywhere, because it was Trinity Sunday, and an important day in the Church’s calendar. St Clement’s was full of white flowers for the occasion, and their sweet scent wafted out as they passed it. Ayera inhaled deeply.

‘I have always liked flowers. They are one of life’s great pleasures.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. It was not the sort of sentiment he would have expected from the manly geometrician, especially after his comment about the expendability of soldiers.

‘Many are poisonous,’ Ayera went on gleefully, indicating that he did not have a sensitive side after all. ‘Although they present a pretty face to the world. There is much to admire in flowers.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond to such a declaration.

‘Were there any by Newe Inn’s pond? It might explain what happened to those four dead scholars. Michael said there was no obvious cause of death, you see, so I have been mulling over possible explanations for him.’

‘I did not notice. Besides, toxic plants are unlikely to kill four men simultaneously.’

‘Why not? It has happened before – when Langelee was living in York, several guests died at his dinner table. The culprit was found to be lily of the valley, which the cook had mistaken for wild garlic and had made into a soup.’

‘His guests died, but he did not?’ Bartholomew vaguely recalled Langelee telling him the same tale when they had travelled to York together a few weeks before, but the details eluded him.

Ayera nodded. ‘He had decided to forgo the broth, to save himself for the meat that was to follow. So he survived, but all his visitors perished horribly.’

Bartholomew stared at him, a sudden vivid recollection of the garden flashing into his mind. ‘Actually, there were lilies of the valley by the pond. I picked some.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Ayera with a shrug. ‘I have solved the case.’

‘But there is nothing to say that Northwood and the others ate them. And even if they did, they would not have been overcome at the same time.’

Ayera shrugged a second time. ‘Oh, well, it was just an idea. Let us talk of happier matters, then. What do you think these raiders wanted from the castle?’

‘The tax money,’ replied Bartholomew, not convinced that this constituted a ‘happier matter’.

Ayera considered his reply. ‘Yet it is going to be transported to London in a week. If I were a thief, I would have waited until it was on the road, not attempted to snatch it from a fortress.’

It was a valid point.

When Langelee saw the dried blood that stained Bartholomew’s skin, hair and clothes, he ordered him to the lavatorium, a shed-like structure built for those who cared about personal hygiene. Bartholomew usually had it to himself. Gratefully, he scoured away the gore, donned fresh shirt, leggings and tabard, and went to hand the soiled ones to Agatha the laundress.

Women were not usually permitted inside Colleges, although laundresses were exempted if they were old and ugly, and thus unlikely to tempt scholars into an amour. Agatha fitted the bill perfectly, because not even the most desperate of men was likely to mount an assault on her – her ferocious temper was legendary, and she had a powerful physique to go with it. She regarded the stained clothes Bartholomew handed her with a dangerous expression.

‘Have you been committing surgery again? You know you are not supposed to do that.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. There was no point arguing, because Agatha was not a lady to lose confrontations.

‘I shall overlook it this time,’ she went on. ‘But only because one of my nephews was among the casualties, and he said he would have died had you not been to hand.’

Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised to learn that Agatha had kin at the castle. She was related to at least half of Cambridge. ‘Which one is he?’

‘Robin, who had an arrow through his neck. It is a pity that Holm is so useless, because people will say you are a warlock as long as you flout tradition and perform the procedures that he should be doing. And one day it will see you banished from here. Or worse. I should not like that, and neither would your patients.’

‘The Senior Proctor will never let that happen,’ said Michael, hearing her last words as he came to join them. ‘Of course, Matt will lose my protection when I am appointed to an abbacy or a bishopric and I move to another town. And it is only a matter of time before important people recognise my worth, so I do not anticipate being here much longer.’

‘Modestly put, Brother,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘Perhaps that is why your grandmother is here: to size you up for promotion.’

‘No, she would have told me,’ said Michael, quite seriously. ‘She is here for something much more grave, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is to do with the raid on the castle.’

‘You think she led an armed invasion?’ asked Bartholomew. He would not put it past her.

‘Do not be ridiculous! I meant she might be here because she heard some rumour of trouble in the offing, and came to prevent it.’

‘Then she did not do a very good job,’ said Agatha. ‘Incidentally, Robin thought he recognised one of those brigands last night. He said it was Principal Coslaye of Batayl Hostel.’

‘Then he is mistaken,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Coslaye is still mending from the head injury he suffered at the Convocation, and would not be strong enough to fight.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Agatha, while Bartholomew nodded in agreement: Coslaye had made a complete recovery. ‘And he is a rough-tempered brute, obsessed with battles.’

‘Well, yes, he is, but he still would not have joined a raid on the castle,’ argued Michael. ‘However, if Robin goes around telling folk that he did, the town will fight the University for certain. Order him to desist, Agatha. He will listen to you. Go now, before the tale seeps out.’

Agatha inclined her head, and sailed majestically towards the gate.

‘As soon as we have completed our duties at church, we had better visit Coslaye,’ said Michael, walking across the yard to where their colleagues were gathering. The service would be later than usual because it was Sunday.

Bartholomew blinked. ‘You think there might be truth in Robin’s claim?’

‘Of course not, but Robin will need to be convinced that he is wrong before we can trust him to stop gossiping, and the best way to do that will be to tell him Coslaye’s alibi.’

‘If he has one,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘The raid was before dawn, when most people were asleep. His students may not be able to prove that he did not wake up and slip out.’

‘We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Michael fell into step at Bartholomew’s side as Langelee led the procession out of the College and up the lane. ‘Meadowman and I spent much of last night in Newe Inn’s garden, monitoring the pond. Just when I was beginning to think we were wasting our time, the gate opened, and we had a visitor.’

‘And?’ prompted Bartholomew, when the monk paused.

‘And he began poking about its rim with a stick. I charged forward to grab him, but Meadowman and I fell over each other in the dark, and the fellow escaped. However, the incident tells me that the pool definitely warrants further investigation.’

‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Dredge it again?’

Michael nodded. ‘More thoroughly this time. Hopefully, when we find what that fellow came for, we will understand what caused four of our scholars to die.’

‘Do you have any idea who this visitor was?’

‘None. He was cloaked and hooded – obviously a disguise, because the weather is mild.’

‘Was there anything distinctive about his cloak? Or his gait?’

‘I thought he was limping, but could not be sure.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Do you think he was one of the men who attacked me?’

‘Why would he be? They wanted your formula for wildfire, so why would one go to Newe Inn’s garden? It is not likely to be there!’

Bartholomew fiddled with a frayed seam on his sleeve as he thought. ‘We believe Northwood, Vale and the London brothers were competing with my medical colleagues to develop a clean-burning lamp. We are always being told that this invention will be worth a lot of money, so perhaps these mysterious men are interested in any new discoveries.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And then, when Northwood and the others declined to share the fruits of their labours, these men killed them. Or perhaps they did talk – for a price – and as they drank a victory toast with their new partners, they were poisoned.’

‘The men who accosted me did not offer to pay for information,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘They made it perfectly clear that they were going to take what they wanted by force. But perhaps you should discuss this with your grandmother. I doubt it was coincidence that she was to hand when those men tackled me, and I have a feeling that she knows exactly who they are.’

But Michael shook his head. ‘You are wrong, Matt – it was coincidence. I dined with her yesterday, and she confided that she is here to hunt down a dangerous French spy.’

‘So she did lie about being here to see you,’ said Bartholomew, not surprised.

Michael smiled suddenly. ‘She is an incredible woman, though, do you not think? I wish I had known her in her prime, when she won knife-throwing competitions against the King’s best warriors, and was the most feared spy the French had ever known.’

She was more than impressive enough for Bartholomew in her dotage, and the thought of her young, strong and lithe was deeply unsettling. He changed the subject to the attack on the castle.

‘Mercenaries were hired, but the one who was captured refuses to talk. His son, John Ayce, was murdered, apparently, and he still grieves. He does not care what happens to him.’

‘I remember that case,’ mused Michael. ‘Young Ayce sold eggs to the castle, but he was a brute, and his father was the only one who mourned him. His killer – one William Hildersham – escaped while being transported to the Bishop’s prison in Ely. I recall being pleased when I heard.’

‘Why?’ It was unlike the monk to condone murderers evading justice.

‘Ayce was a bullying brawler who had terrorised and even injured other scholars. Hildersham claimed self-defence, and the University believed him. We all thought Ayce had been given his just deserts.’

‘Yet the secular jury found Hildersham guilty. There must have been some reason why–’

‘Secular juries always find against us, you know that. Their verdict meant nothing.’

‘Ayce’s father does not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is bitter and angry.’

‘No parent likes to see his offspring stabbed, no matter what the circumstances. But it happened years ago, and cannot matter now.’

‘On the contrary, Brother. It led Ayce to join the force that tackled the castle.’

Michael sighed. ‘Cambridge was like a town under siege last night, its streets thick with soldiers. I rousted out all my beadles, too. I do not want these villains attacking the University.’

‘You think they might?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

Michael shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but precautions never go amiss.’

It was peaceful in St Michael’s Church that morning. Sunlight filtered through the east window, and its thick walls muted the rattle of hoofs and iron-shod wheels on the cobbled streets outside. A dove cooed in the rafters, and the only other sound was Suttone chanting mass. Someone, probably William, had swept the church the previous day, and had put flowers on the windowsills, so their sweet scent mingled with the more pungent aroma of incense.

Afterwards, Michael requested that he and Bartholomew be excused from breakfast, slyly not mentioning that there might not be any if Agatha was still at the castle with her nephew.

‘Why?’ asked Langelee. ‘Have you learned who tried to dash out Coslaye’s brains at the Convocation at last?’

‘No,’ replied Michael with a grimace. ‘Not yet.’

‘Then I suppose it must be your investigation into the four dead scholars,’ surmised the Master. ‘The only one I knew was Northwood. He often stopped for a chat when our paths crossed, especially during the last two months or so. In fact, he was a bit of a nuisance, because I did not always have time for him.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael in surprise. Bartholomew agreed: Northwood’s intolerance of slow minds made Langelee an unlikely associate.

‘He was interested in my work for the Archbishop,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘I told him a good many tales that I have never dared share with anyone else here. In fact, I probably would not have shared them with him, either, had he not plied me with claret.’

‘What sort of tales?’ asked Michael in alarm. He did not want his College’s reputation sullied by the Master’s drunken ramblings.

Langelee laughed, and waved a stubby finger. ‘Now Northwood is dead, my secrets are my own again, and I shall not make the mistake of another indiscretion. Suffice to say that they entailed my experiences in battle, my knowledge of poisons and my skills as a burglar.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, as Langelee went to lead his scholars back to Michaelhouse. ‘When he makes remarks like that, it makes me wonder whether he is the right man to be Head of House.’

‘He confessed a lot worse when we were in York a few weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am content with his rule. He is better at it than the rest of us would be.’

‘You only think so because he gives you licence to practise medicine however you see fit, and rarely condemns you for indulging in surgery. But it is too early to go to Batayl Hostel – they will still be at their devotions. We shall have breakfast in the Brazen George first.’

Although scholars were forbidden from frequenting taverns, which tended to be full of ale-swilling townsmen spoiling for a fight, Michael had always maintained that this particular stricture did not apply to the Senior Proctor, and he visited the Brazen George – a pleasant establishment on the High Street – so often that there was a chamber at the rear of the premises set aside for his exclusive use. It was a pretty room, overlooking a courtyard where the morning sunshine slanted across the herb beds, and where contented chickens scratched around a picturesque well. He ordered a substantial repast, which included cold meat, new bread and a dish of coddled eggs.

‘But no cabbage,’ he called after the departing taverner. ‘I cannot abide anything green. It upsets my stomach, and keeps me in the latrines.’

‘Only if you eat too much of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every medicus who has ever written about food says that a balanced diet, with moderate amounts of meat, bread and vegetables is–’

‘They were writing for the benefit of the general populace,’ interrupted Michael haughtily. ‘They cannot know about my innards. And these so-called balanced diets are a nonsense, anyway. How can they be balanced, when they include vegetables? Greenery is for slugs and caterpillars, not men with healthy appetites.’

Bartholomew knew better than to argue, and his attention was soon distracted from the discussion anyway – by the number of dishes that Landlord Lister brought to the table.

‘God’s blood, Brother!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and whose army will be eating this?’

‘It is only a mouthful,’ said Michael comfortably, tying a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. ‘Barely enough to keep a sparrow alive.’

‘It was a bad business at the castle yesterday,’ said Landlord Lister conversationally, as he brought a large platter of roasted beef. ‘I heard the raiders were after the taxes. Thank God they did not get them, or we would all have had to pay again.’

‘It was a close thing, though,’ said Michael. ‘The villains had reached the foot of the Great Tower before Dick Tulyet’s archers were able to drive them off.’

‘Do you really think they wanted the taxes?’ Bartholomew asked, when Lister had gone.

Michael stared at him. ‘Of course! Why else would they tackle a castle? It is not as if they were part of an invading army, and needed to secure a fortress in order to control a region.’

‘The place contains a lot more than money. There are horses, weapons, all manner of documents and deeds. There are also prisoners in the gaol, and–’

‘Then I am glad the mystery is not mine to unravel. My hands are full enough already.’

After mopping up the last of the grease with a piece of bread, Michael led the way out of the Brazen George. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively as they walked, again admiring the work that had been done to make the town pretty for Corpus Christi. The High Street looked especially picturesque, with its brightly painted houses and neat shops. The churchyards had been tidied, too – brambles and nettles trimmed back, and grass scythed.

Michael insisted on stopping at St Mary the Great as they passed, to see whether Beadle Meadowman had left him a progress report about dredging Newe Inn’s pond. The Trinity Sunday service was still in progress, and Bartholomew smiled when he heard the sweet, pure notes of the choir. The church was full of fragrant white flowers, which would be kept until Wednesday evening, when a lot of red ones would be added for Corpus Christi.

They had not been in Michael’s expensively furnished office for long – Bartholomew admiring Walkelate’s sketches of the finished library, and the monk rummaging through mounds of documents in search of a message from his beadle – when there was a cough. It was the Chancellor.

‘Come in, Tynkell,’ said Michael, without looking up. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Have you solved the Newe Inn deaths yet?’ asked Tynkell. He seemed bolder than usual, and Bartholomew wondered whether it was because he was wearing his robes of office, which conferred on him a confidence he did not normally possess. ‘The Common Library will open its doors to readers in four days, and I do not want unexplained demises hanging over the occasion.’

‘I am working as fast as I can,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘Unfortunately, I have been busy quelling spats among our scholars over your damned project – the most recent being last night, when Berwicke Hostel squabbled with King’s Hall. Moreover, there has not been much in the way of clues about what happened to those four men.’

‘Then you must find some, Brother.’ Tynkell seemed unsteady on his feet. ‘I want the opening ceremony to pass off without a hitch, and I shall hold you responsible if something spoils it.’

‘What?’ exploded Michael incredulously. ‘How dare you–’

‘You have a duty to prevent trouble,’ Tynkell went on, wagging his finger. ‘And there will be trouble, unless whoever killed those scholars is caught. So, who are your suspects?’

‘I shall tell you when I am good and ready,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am doing my best, so do not order me to work harder. I told you a Common Library was a bad idea, and I was right. You did not listen, because you are desperate to be recorded as the Chancellor who gave Cambridge what Oxford has had for years. But the whole business is a terrible mistake.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Tynkell. ‘Besides, how else will I get to study Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica?’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Why would you want to read that? It is about warfare.’

‘I happen to be very interested in siege engines and artillery,’ replied Tynkell, staggering when he tried to lean on the door frame and missed. ‘Even Northwood, Langelee and Riborowe were amazed at the depth of my knowledge, and none of them is easily impressed.’

‘Tulyet said you helped him to design a ribauldequin,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Are you sure it is appropriate for scholars to meddle in such matters?’

‘Of course, it is. Who else is going to do it? We are the ones with the clever minds.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘I may have had a cup or two,’ replied Tynkell airily. ‘It is not a habit I usually indulge first thing in the morning, but today is Trinity Sunday, so I made an exception. Perhaps I should do it more often, because I feel like a new man. Indeed, I might even exercise my authority as Chancellor and make a decision about something.’

‘The last time you did that, we ended up having to call a Convocation of Regents,’ said Michael with considerable irritation. ‘And our studium generale has not rested easy since. There are even rumours that Northwood, the London brothers, Vale and even Sawtre may have been killed because of the way they voted. So leave the decisions to those of us who know what we are doing, if you would be so kind.’

‘Then you had better make an arrest fast,’ slurred Tynkell. ‘Because catching this villain may be the only way to prevent more trouble.’

‘I know it, believe me,’ said Michael tightly.

Tynkell grinned. ‘I must be drunk, because I do not usually order you about. However, it feels very satisfying. I shall almost certainly do it again.’

‘I would not recommend it,’ said Michael, rather dangerously. ‘So please ensure you are sober when we next meet.’

‘He is right, though,’ said Bartholomew, after Tynkell had lurched away. ‘Solving the Newe Inn deaths might well prevent trouble, and you should try to have a culprit before Corpus Christi. That gives you four days.’

‘Gives us four days,’ corrected Michael. He scowled. ‘Perhaps it is as well that Tynkell is retiring next year. He has no right to tell me what to do. Who does he think he is?’

‘The University’s Chancellor, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew mildly.

When Bartholomew and Michael arrived at Batayl Hostel, Coslaye was sitting by the hearth with a book open on his knees, Browne was leaning against the wall behind him, and the students were crowded on to benches. All seemed to have recovered from their bout of illness, although several remained pale.

‘We are reading Acton’s Questio Disputata,’ said Coslaye, lifting it so Bartholomew and Michael could see. ‘So far, it is a lot of twaddle.’

‘It is the book that almost deprived us of our Principal,’ elaborated Pepin in his perfect French.

‘I think we should have sold it, personally,’ said Browne. ‘Because times are hard, and–’

‘Never! This particular tome serves to remind everyone that God saw fit to spare me,’ interrupted Coslaye. He tossed it on to the table next to him, where it made a substantial thud. Its wooden covers rendered it weighty, and explained why it had done so much damage to his head. One corner had snapped off, indicating that it had also suffered from the encounter with bone. ‘No, do not lean against that wall, Brother! It may damage my mural. Come to the front.’

Conditions were very cramped for teaching, and Bartholomew was not surprised that the Batayl men had entertained high hopes of moving to Newe Inn – it was not easy to pick his way through the students without treading on any. Michael took no such care, though, and Pepin was one of several who staggered as the monk’s bulk travelled past them.

‘Have you come to tell us who tried to kill me?’ asked Coslaye. ‘I know you have been busy of late, but I should not like to think the attempt on my life has been forgotten.’

‘It has not,’ Michael assured him. ‘I promised you I would find the culprit, and I shall.’

‘Thank you.’ Coslaye turned to Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham tells me that when you fought at Poitiers, you killed fifty Frenchmen with a spell that blasted them clean out of their armour. What a fabulous achievement! Will you tell us more?’

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘No! I have never–’

‘It seems that Poitiers was full of Cambridge scholars that day,’ interrupted Browne with rank disapproval. ‘Bartholomew, Holm, the villainous Riborowe – who says it is what precipitated his interest in ribauldequins. And now Weasenham tells me that Northwood was there, too.’

‘I wish I had been,’ said Coslaye wistfully. ‘You really must tell us your experiences on the field, Bartholomew. I guarantee you will find us an enraptured audience.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Men died horribly there, and–’

‘But most of them were French,’ stated Coslaye. ‘So who cares? Poitiers was a great day for our country, and I named this hostel after it. Batayl refers to the Battle of Poitiers.’

Pepin flushed with anger, and it was clear that he held his tongue with difficulty; Bartholomew wondered why he did not transfer to another hostel. Browne rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, although Coslaye did not seem to notice the effect his words were having.

‘We were called St Remegius’s Hostel,’ Browne said. The bitter tone of his voice indicated that this was a matter that still rankled with him. ‘But St Remegius was French, and Coslaye said that was unpatriotic, so he changed it. I did not approve, personally, and–’

‘Well, Bartholomew?’ demanded Coslaye, rudely overriding him. ‘Will you talk to us?’

‘Ask Cynric instead,’ suggested Michael tactfully. ‘He is an excellent storyteller, and more willing to glorify slaughter and bloody death than Matt.’

‘Tell him to come around tonight, then,’ said Coslaye keenly.

‘No,’ said Browne, while Pepin looked appalled. ‘I do not want to hear–’

‘Too bad,’ said Coslaye. ‘Because I do, and I am Principal here. Incidentally, did you hear what happened on Friday night? A Carmelite novice burst in here and threw soot at my painting. I was so incensed that I rose before dawn the following day, and tackled Prior Etone about it.’

‘You were in the Carmelite Friary when the raid took place?’ asked Michael, exchanging a quick glance with Bartholomew. ‘You were nowhere near the castle?’

‘Why would I be at the castle?’ asked Coslaye, frowning his puzzlement. ‘The Sheriff will not want scholars in his domain, I am sure.’

‘We came to discuss the bodies in Newe Inn’s pond again,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Coslaye was not the kind of man to take Robin’s accusation with equanimity, so it was better he did not hear about it. ‘As Batayl lies so close, we wondered whether any of you heard or saw anything odd.’

‘No, as we have told you countless times already,’ said Browne irritably. ‘However, we understand that those four men died on Tuesday night, and we were all out then.’

‘Out where?’ asked Michael.

‘At King’s Hall,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Where there was a gathering of people opposed to the Common Library.’

‘Everyone here went?’ pressed Michael.

Browne nodded. ‘Yes. We are all eager to see the grace overturned.’

‘Unfortunately, it will not be,’ said Michael sourly. ‘I do not approve of it, either, but a vote has been taken and we are stuck with the result. It is a pity, but that is democracy for you.’

‘Then democracy is a stupid system,’ averred Coslaye. He scowled at Bartholomew. ‘It is a good thing that you saved my life, because we all know which way you voted and I would have punched you for it by now, if I did not owe you some consideration.’

‘The four men who died in the pond voted in favour of the library, too,’ fished Michael.

‘So did Sawtre,’ said Browne. ‘It strikes me that libraries are dangerous places, and that we should all stay well away from them. Especially from that evil abomination next door.’

‘I understand Northwood supporting a Common Library,’ mused Coslaye. ‘He was a Carmelite, and therefore naturally sly. And Vale was not overly endowed with wits, so he probably voted the wrong way by mistake. But the London brothers should have known better.’

‘They were members of Batayl,’ Pepin reminded the visitors. ‘So they should have opposed the scheme that saw us deprived of the house Dunning promised we should have.’

‘And he did promise,’ added Browne. ‘No matter what he says now.’

‘They lived in a lovely cottage on the High Street,’ said Coslaye bitterly. ‘Because Weasenham paid them a decent wage, and they could afford it. But the rest of us were not so fortunate.’

‘Let us return to this meeting you attended on Tuesday,’ said Michael. ‘What time did it end?’

‘Dusk,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Then we came home and went to bed. Yet I did hear one odd thing during the night …’

‘Did you?’ asked Browne. ‘That surprises me. You have slept like a baby ever since Bartholomew sawed open your head.’

‘I woke,’ snapped Coslaye crossly. ‘And I heard a bell.’

‘A bell?’ echoed Michael. ‘You mean from a church? For vespers or compline?’

‘No, it was too late for either, and it was too high-pitched to have been a bell from a church, anyway. It was a small bell. And it definitely came from Newe Inn’s garden.’

Michael asked a few more questions, but the scholars of Batayl were an incurious, unobservant crowd, and had nothing else to add. Browne opened the door for them when they left, then stepped outside, lowering his voice so he would not be heard by his Principal.

‘Do not put too much faith in this bell, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Bartholomew should never have performed his evil surgery, because Coslaye has not been right since, and often claims to hear things the rest of us do not. Do not let his “testimony” lead you astray.’