The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 7

The guildhall was a large black and white edifice with elegant plasterwork, located near the Market Square. Inside was a porch leading to the massive central chamber where the burgesses did their business. A good deal of money had been spent on it in the past, although funds had been tight in recent years, so its grandeur was fading into shabbiness.

It was unusually full that day, because the meeting was open to any interested parties – and there were lots of those, as the Great Bridge affected everyone who lived in Cambridge. All twenty burgesses had shown up, and sat with Morys at a table on the dais. Those who wanted to listen to their deliberations perched on benches in the body of the hall or stood at the back, and included not only merchants, but knights from the castle, an assortment of priests, and a number of scholars, ranging from the principals of impoverished hostels to the heads of wealthy Colleges. Donwich was among the latter.

The chamber was swelteringly hot, despite all the windows being open, and there were complaints aplenty about the airlessness. Bartholomew was called to help Mistress FitzAbsolon, wife of the town’s cutler, who was on the verge of passing out.

‘Watch Morys today, Matthew,’ she warned, as he took her outside. ‘He is a sly rogue, and your University should not trust him.’

Inside again a few moments later, the roar of conversation had grown deafening. He saw Edith talking to Gayton of Peterhouse and Warden Shropham from King’s Hall, so he eased through the throng to join them, arriving at the same time as Michael, Tulyet and Dickon. Even as they exchanged greetings, Morys called the meeting to order.

‘We all know why we are here,’ he began. ‘The Great Bridge must be repaired – the King himself insists on it. The decision we shall make today is whether to mend it with wood that will rot again in a year or two, or with stone that will last for ever.’

‘Nothing lasts for ever, Morys,’ called Prior Pechem piously. ‘Except God.’

‘The Great Bridge has claimed two lives this year alone,’ Morys went on. ‘Namely Baldok and Aynton. I feel it is time to end such needless suffering, and build in stone, for safety and permanence. So first, I invite Doctor Rougham, the University’s most eminent medical man, to give his professional views about the situation.’

Rougham looked startled to hear himself so described, and cast an anxious glance at Bartholomew before taking the floor, evidently afraid of being challenged. He was currently building his College a chapel, and was always looking for new ways to pay for it – Bartholomew could only suppose his testimony had been bought.

‘The Mayor is right,’ Rougham began. ‘The Great Bridge is a serious hazard to public safety. Not only is it unstable, which has led to distressing mishaps, but the river below festers with vile diseases. No one who falls in it will survive.’

This was patently untrue, as children swam in it every day, but Bartholomew did not object to the exclamations of alarm that rippled through the hall, feeling it was not a bad thing for people to be reminded that the filthy Cam represented a significant danger to health.

After Rougham came more witnesses, all of whom were in the pro-stone camp, until it was time for the last and most important opinion of all: Shardelowe, sent by the King to provide an official verdict on the matter. The builder presented such a bleak picture of the bridge’s current condition that there was not one person present who did not wonder how it could still be standing.

‘So my advice to you,’ he said in conclusion, ‘is to keep the granite piers and spandrels, but to strengthen them with a limestone balustrade and a durable cobbled pavement. And I am the man to do it for you.’

‘Why is that, Shardelowe?’ prompted Morys, nodding encouragingly.

‘Because I am cheaper than anyone else,’ replied Shardelowe, ‘and because the King admires my work so much that he sent me to assess the situation here. After all, what is good enough for His Majesty should be good enough for anyone else.’

Aware that Morys had already promised Shardelowe the work, and that the council’s decision would thus be a foregone conclusion, Bartholomew’s attention wandered. His gaze fell on Chaumbre, who had left the dais to stand with Edith instead. The dyer took her hand and gave her the sweetest smile imaginable. She returned it and Bartholomew saw there was genuine affection between them. It made him feel treacherous for having Chaumbre on his list of suspects, and he hoped the man could be eliminated before she found out, or she would be furious with him.

Next to him, Dickon sighed and fidgeted with boredom. Then the boy remembered that he had a catapult in his scrip. He pulled it out and began flicking an assortment of missiles at people he did not like. When these included Father William, Bartholomew took it away from him, earning himself a malevolent glower in the process.

‘But who will pay for this extravagant stone creation, Morys?’ called Burgess FitzAbsolon worriedly.

‘All of us,’ replied Morys smoothly. ‘Shardelowe and I have negotiated an excellent price, and the money sent by the King, plus what we have already collected in taxes, will cover three-fifths of it. Show them, John.’

The order was directed at his cousin, the battle-honed knight who was training Dickon in hand-to-hand combat. John flung open the lid of a chest that stood nearby to show it was full of coins. There was an appreciative sigh from those close enough to see them.

‘What says the University?’ asked Morys. ‘You promised a tenth of the cost of a wood bridge, but that is unfair, given that you use it just as much as we do. What about dividing the outstanding amount between us – one fifth from you and one fifth from the town?’

‘So that is why he called an open meeting,’ breathed Bartholomew in understanding. ‘Not to persuade the council to his point of view, because he has probably already bought most of them, but because it is more difficult for us to refuse with half the town looking on.’

‘No,’ called Donwich, before Michael could respond. ‘We are not obliged to contribute anything. The cost must be borne by the town alone, as is right and proper.’

‘You cannot speak for the University,’ said FitzAbsolon crossly. ‘You are not its Chancellor. I want to hear what Brother Michael–’

‘I am the Anti-Chancellor,’ interrupted Donwich grandly, ‘which means I have just as much authority as he does. Besides, it is only a matter of time before the Archbishop’s agents find in my favour, so you would be wise to watch your tongue.’

‘Brother?’ asked Morys, while most townsmen regarded each other in bafflement that such a peculiar situation could exist. ‘Will you show your contempt for the good people of Cambridge by refusing to part with a little of your University’s fabled wealth?’

He and Donwich exchanged a quick glance of triumph, and Bartholomew wondered how much Donwich had been paid to back Michael into an impossible corner. To refuse to contribute to the scheme would antagonise the town, but to agree would allow Donwich to bray to their colleagues that he would not allow himself to be bullied by the Mayor.

‘The University will provide one tenth of the total,’ said Michael tightly. ‘Which is a considerable increase on the amount we originally agreed for repairs in wood. It is a fair offer, especially as we are under no obligation to pay anything at all.’

‘Done!’ said Morys before anyone could argue. ‘When can we have it?’

Michael blinked. ‘It will take some time to–’

‘You have until next Wednesday,’ determined Morys. ‘Shardelowe will begin work at once, and I suggest we all walk to the bridge now, so he can outline his plans in more detail.’

The Mayor’s declaration signalled the end of the meeting, and Bartholomew noted that the motion to rebuild in stone had been bulled through without the council’s vote. The burgesses looked relieved, presumably so they could deny culpability later, should things go wrong.

As people began to file out of the guildhall, Donwich came to inform Michael that he had no right to squander the University’s money, and that he would not allow himself to be manipulated by the Mayor when he was confirmed as Chancellor.

‘You will refuse to give what I promised, if the vicars-general find in your favour?’ asked Michael, his voice loud enough to carry. ‘You will leave the town to pay it all?’

Donwich’s smirk slipped at the immediate growl of anger from the people who heard. ‘We shall see,’ he hedged. ‘However, I shall ensure that our scholars know it was your idea.’

‘What a loathsome worm!’ exclaimed Gayton, watching him strut away. ‘It is obvious that he had all this worked out with Morys in advance. I hope the vicars-general reject his claim soon, Brother, because he could do a lot of damage in the interim.’

Once outside, most folk disappeared to their homes or places of business. Bartholomew and Michael were among the few who followed Shardelowe to the bridge, along with Zoone, who, as an engineer, had valid opinions about the builder’s plans. Donwich decided he should be there, too, and was flanked by a tight knot of supporters that included Gille and Elsham. Morys and half a dozen burgesses came next, with Tulyet and Dickon bringing up the rear.

When they reached the bridge, Shardelowe made the point that it would have to close while work was under way.

‘But we cannot manage without it for months on end!’ cried FitzAbsolon. ‘It will cost us a fortune in lost revenue and tolls, not to mention the harm it will do to trade. I knew we should have opted for a wooden one. Morys was wrong to persuade us otherwise.’

‘If you buy the supplies as they arrive, and agree to pay me and my men the moment the work is completed,’ said Shardelowe, ‘you will have a new stone bridge in eight days.’

‘Eight days?’ echoed Tulyet, while gasps of disbelief came from everyone else. ‘That is impossible! Besides, rushed men make mistakes, and we do not want a shoddy result.’

‘Or deaths and injuries among your workforce,’ put in Bartholomew.

‘We are professionals,’ stated Shardelowe loftily. ‘We do not have accidents, and our work is exemplary. If you leave us alone to get on with it, I promise to finish by Saturday week – in time for the University’s graduation ceremony.’

‘It cannot be done,’ argued Tulyet impatiently. ‘Tell him, Zoone.’

Zoone rubbed his chin. ‘Actually, it is theoretically possible, if they work night and day, and there are no unforeseen difficulties. Of course, that assumes all the materials arrive promptly – the deadline will be missed if even one delivery goes astray.’

‘Leave all that to me,’ said Shardelowe briskly. ‘I shall offer my men a bonus if we finish on time, and there is nothing like a fat purse to motivate a fellow. Of course, it will cost a little extra, but nothing that cannot be recouped tenfold by an early resumption of tolls. What do you say?’

‘Yes,’ said Morys, so quickly that Bartholomew was not alone in surmising that he and the builder had already discussed the bonus and agreed on it. ‘Shall we put it in writing?’

Gille offered his services as a scribe, and when he produced the materials he needed to prepare the contract, Bartholomew recognised the jewelled inkpot as the one he had filched from Michael’s office in St Mary the Great the previous day.

‘I know,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew pointed it out to him. ‘But now is not the time to accuse him of theft. It will make me look petty – which is exactly why he is flaunting the thing, of course.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, astounded by the depths to which Donwich’s cronies were prepared to sink to score points.

For the rest of the afternoon and early evening, Bartholomew listened to Zoone and Shardelowe discuss the minutiae of the project. He was fascinated by the complex calculations involved, although they left everyone else with glazed eyes. Then he felt a tug on his sleeve, and turned to see Cynric. The book-bearer nodded to where Stasy and Hawick stood nearby, waylaying anyone who would stop to listen to them.

‘They are touting for business,’ the book-bearer explained. ‘They started at dawn and have not stopped since – I have watched them the whole time. There will be trouble soon, because they bought a load of Margery Starre’s remedies and are passing them off as their own. She will not be pleased.’

Bartholomew imagined she would not, and thought they were reckless to antagonise a self-confessed witch, whose hexes were generally believed to be effective.

‘What will she do about it?’ he asked uneasily.

‘Oh, just something to ensure they never do it again,’ replied Cynric airily. ‘But they have been maligning you, boy. They tell folk that you cannot cure the flux or a common cold, but they can, which makes them better physicians.’

Bartholomew was unconcerned. ‘When their “remedies” fail, they will discover that they have done themselves great harm by making reckless claims.’

When Cynric had gone, Bartholomew went to the side of the bridge and looked down. In the narrow gap between it and the ponticulus, he could see the river. Its stench made his eyes water, and he wondered how Isnard could bear to operate a ferry on it – the bargeman had a steady stream of customers, who would rather use his boat than risk the bridge.

His gaze wandered to the nearby houses. To his left was Tulyet’s, a handsome mansion that provided him and his family with a comfortable alternative to the spartan accommodations at the castle. To his right was Brampton’s, smaller than the Sheriff’s, but newer and more ornate, with glass in every window and a fine tile roof, all of which showed the Senior Proctor to be a man of considerable wealth. Bartholomew wondered if that was why Donwich was courting Lucy – with no children, the Senior Proctor was likely to leave all his worldly goods to his sister, and Donwich had always been interested in money.

At that moment, a loud shout caught his attention, and he looked up to see two carts attempting to pass each other. Unwilling to be mashed into the parapet while they manoeuvred, he left the bridge and walked down to the riverbank. A ragged band of children, led by Ulf Godenave, scampered along its shores, playing chase. Some took refuge behind the wreck of a small boat, which jutted into the river, impeding its flow and snagging anything that floated too close. It was then that Bartholomew saw the hand.

‘You are mistaken,’ called Morys, when Bartholomew shouted the news to the people on the bridge. ‘It is a dead fish or a bit or rubbish.’

But Bartholomew knew a human hand when he saw one. He began to slither across the mud towards it. Ulf and his friends stopped playing to watch him, while townsfolk and scholars clustered at the edge of the bridge. Some squashed Donwich into the rickety balustrade, and there was an ominous creak.

‘Back, back!’ he cried in alarm. ‘It is not strong enough to withstand you shoving at me, and I do not want to end up like poor Aynton.’

‘No,’ agreed Tulyet drily. ‘So perhaps you should reconsider your objections to helping us pay for repairs. Careful there, Matt. That mud is very slippery.’

‘I know,’ snapped Bartholomew, aware that it was ruining his only good shoes – the ones he would wear to his wedding, given that he had no money to buy more. ‘So will someone come down here and help?’

‘Not me,’ averred Donwich in distaste. ‘Grubbing about in the filth comes under the Senior Proctor’s remit. Where is Brampton?’

‘In St Mary the Great,’ replied Michael, evidently deciding that the task was below the dignity of the Chancellor, too, as he made no effort to join Bartholomew in the slime. He shot Donwich a cool glance. ‘He is calculating how much each College and hostel will have to pay towards Shardelowe’s improvements.’

Donwich retorted that he was not the one who had agreed to throw away the University’s money, and a spat immediately blossomed between his coterie and those who felt Michael had done the right thing. With an irritable sigh, Bartholomew resigned himself to ploughing through the muck alone. Then someone joined him.

‘It is me,’ announced Dickon grandly. ‘My father says not to let you fall over in front of everyone, because they will laugh at you. Take my hand for balance.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew did. He was surprised by the strength of the boy’s grip, and was reminded yet again that Dickon was going to be a veritable titan when he was fully grown. Together they picked their way across the slick surface, each holding the other up when he slipped or skidded. It felt like an age before they reached the boat.

‘It is a body!’ cried Dickon with unseemly glee, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he poked it with his sword. ‘And it is very dead!’

The corpse was not fresh, and maggots abounded, although Dickon was unfazed, and watched with unflinching interest as Bartholomew examined the victim.

‘It is Huntyngdon,’ the physician announced. ‘There is still a purse on his belt …’

‘Does it contain Aynton’s letter?’ called Michael urgently.

It was Dickon who whipped out a dagger and sliced through the cords to retrieve it. He opened the filthy, muck-impregnated object carefully.

‘No documents,’ he announced, relishing the fact that all eyes were on him. ‘No money either. Wait there, Brother. I shall bring it to you, so you can see for yourself.’

He slithered up the bank and vanished around the end of the bridge, before padding up to present the filthy item to Michael with a courtly flourish. The monk peered at it, but fastidiously refused to touch it himself.

‘Is Martyn down there, too?’ called Tulyet.

‘No, but you should send Dickon upriver to look for him,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘given that he is the only one willing to do anything useful.’

The remark was intended as a rebuke to the Sheriff and Michael, both of whom he felt should be helping him, so he was disconcerted when Tulyet began issuing his son with instructions. Dickon stood a little taller, thrilled to be entrusted with such a task – and one that suited his sense of the grisly into the bargain. He strutted away importantly.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew accepted Isnard’s offer to lift the body into his boat and take it to the pier at the foot of the bridge, then went to report to Michael. Tulyet came to join them, glaring at would-be eavesdroppers until they moved out of earshot.

‘Huntyngdon was stabbed,’ began Bartholomew, struggling to wipe the filth from his shoes on a patch of grass. ‘A single wound to the back.’

‘How long has he been dead?’ asked Michael.

‘It is impossible to say, but the landlord of the Cardinal’s Cap told me that he tied a red sash around his waist on the night he disappeared, and there is a sash on the body. I suspect he died not long after he left there, which accounts for the level of decomposition. And we know why he went out that night: to give Aynton’s letter to Narboro.’

Michael stared at him. ‘You think he was murdered to prevent him from delivering it?’

‘Well, we know he went to the Cap to undertake a “mission of some delicacy”, and that Aynton spoke to him and Martyn, after which they took their leave. We also know that Narboro never received the letter, but nor is it in Huntyngdon’s purse.’

Michael scrubbed at his face. ‘All this does not bode well for Martyn being alive. Are you sure it is murder?’

‘Yes, although it did not happen here. He was killed elsewhere and the river carried him downstream, probably last night, which explains why no one saw him sooner.’

‘How can you tell he was not killed here?’ asked Tulyet curiously.

‘Because of the leaves caught in his hair. No plants are growing around the bridge, so they must have come from upstream – between here and the Mill Pond.’

‘Morys’s mill was operating yesterday evening,’ mused Tulyet, ‘which means water was released through the West Dam sluice to drive it. It must have been enough to dislodge him. Dickon will find the place. Perhaps he will find Martyn’s corpse there, too.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

It was a short but sad journey from the bridge to King’s Hall, carrying Huntyngdon on a bier borrowed from St Clement’s Church. When they arrived, Bartholomew quickly searched the dead man’s clothes, to make sure the letter had not been secreted elsewhere, but there was no sign of it. He had just finished when Huntyngdon’s father burst in, his face white with grief.

‘Stabbed, you say?’ the Earl whispered hoarsely, after Michael had told him what they knew. ‘By whom?’

‘We will find out,’ promised Michael. ‘Senior Proctor Brampton, Matt and I will do our utmost to see your son has justice.’

‘You see this sash?’ the Earl asked in a strangled voice. ‘He wore it whenever he did something important. I brought it from Avignon, where it was blessed by the Pope himself.’

‘So Huntyngdon believed that giving Aynton’s message to Narboro was important,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, once they had stepped back to give the Earl some privacy. ‘Or do you think he was charged with another mission that fateful night? It makes more sense, as I cannot imagine anything involving Narboro as being of great significance.’

‘If so, there is nothing on his body to suggest what it might have been.’

‘His purse is empty. Perhaps this is just a simple case of robbery – he was obviously wealthy, and that sash is ostentatious.’

‘Where is the purse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you have it?’

Michael grimaced when he realised it was nowhere to be seen. ‘That wretched Dickon must have kept it as a memento. What a vile little ghoul he is!’

‘We will get it back when he has finished scouring the riverbanks for bodies,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Which he is not qualified to do, by the way, no matter how highly Dick rates his talents. Will you ask a beadle to do it as well? It would be terrible to miss Martyn, and leave him rotting until he washes down the river in pieces.’

‘Unless Martyn killed Huntyngdon, then fled the town,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But we should not speculate without all the facts. We shall wait and see what the searches turn up.’

At the Earl’s request, Bartholomew examined Huntyngdon’s body again, doing so with all the respect he could muster. But there was nothing to tell them who had killed the young man or why, and all he could say when he had finished was that Huntyngdon had probably had no idea he was in danger until it was too late.

‘He would have felt a brief, piercing pain, then nothing,’ he told the ashen-faced Earl. ‘It would have been over very quickly.’

He left the Earl to grieve in peace, and went to wash his hands in a bucket of clean water. Then he and Michael walked outside, where dusk had fallen. Insects swarmed around the amber light shed by a lantern on a post, and bats flitted among them, feasting. The air was hot, dusty and still, but the town was far from silent. There was a rumpus emanating from the High Street taverns as townsfolk slaked their thirst with ale, while All Saints opposite was holding a service that entailed a lot of tuneless hollering.

‘Is that your choir, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that no other body of ‘musicians’ was equal to creating such an unholy racket.

Michael shook his head. ‘It is practice night, but I cancelled it when Donwich challenged my election. I do not want him accusing me of assembling an army of townsmen to back my bid.’

It was a good point, as the Marian Singers were devoted to the monk, and certainly would object to anyone they thought meant him harm.

‘So who is singing?’ Bartholomew asked, wincing as a particularly strident Gloria began. The tune was Michael’s, although the Latin words were all but unrecognisable.

Before Michael could reply, the gate opened and a cavalcade clattered in. The riders dismounted, beating dust from their clothes and stretching stiff limbs. It was Ufford and Rawby, bringing the vicars-general and their retinue from Ely.

‘Good – all three of them came,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘I was afraid one might stay behind, which would have been problematic if the opinions of the other two were divided. Now we can be sure of getting a decision.’

‘I am amazed they did not just send one,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Donwich’s claim is a nonsense, and anyone with sense can see it. Moreover, having three vicars-general come running lends his challenge more importance than it deserves.’

Michael went to greet them, and Bartholomew followed, raising his eyebrows as yet more horses trotted through the gate. The vicars had brought an impressive train of clerks, chaplains and men of law. Donwich would doubtless be pleased by the fuss he had generated, but Bartholomew thought it was a waste of a lot of people’s time.

The vicars-general were named William Teofle, Thomas Ely and John Tinmouth. Teofle was a tall, patrician Dominican; the other two were short, plump Franciscans.

‘We are glad to be here, Brother,’ Teofle informed Michael warmly. ‘Although I was deeply saddened to hear of Aynton’s death. I have known him for years, and considered him a friend. I hope you have the culprit behind bars.’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘But he will not elude us for long, I promise.’

‘Good,’ said Ely briskly. ‘Now, I suggest we begin work straight after our devotions tomorrow morning. Is that acceptable to you?’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘I shall inform Donwich that you have arrived.’

‘Ah, your “Anti-Chancellor”,’ said Teofle, running the words around in his mouth as though tasting them. ‘I am not sure an English university has ever had one of those before.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘And I am glad it is his title, not mine.’

Ely slapped more dust from his habit. ‘We were astonished when we heard that Aynton had resigned, leaving you holding the reins. Do you know why he did it?’

‘He said he felt unequal to leading the University into the future,’ explained Michael quietly. ‘We should respect, not condemn, him for recognising his limitations and acting on them.’

‘Ineptitude has never bothered chancellors before,’ said Ely. ‘And he had you to guide him, so I fail to understand why he chose to duck his responsibilities. Shame on him!’

‘I do not envy you spending time with him,’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the Franciscan stalk towards his lodgings, his two companions at his heels. ‘He seems rather sanctimonious.’

‘He does,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘So let us hope that Teofle and Tinmouth are more amenable.’