The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 2

The Great Bridge was in the north of the town, and spanned the Cam at a point where it was narrow but deep. The piers and spandrels were stone, but the top part was wood and so in constant need of repair. Despite it being a vital part of the town’s infrastructure, no one wanted to pay for its upkeep – Mayor Morys thought the Crown should do it; the Sheriff argued that it was the burgesses’ responsibility; and the University thought it should be done by anyone except scholars.

As a result, repairs tended to be only grudgingly made, and it was not uncommon for bits to fall off before any action was taken. The situation was more precarious than ever that summer, as the bridge had been badly damaged by spring floods. Money had been squeezed from the merchants to mend it, and there had been great anger and dismay when Burgess Baldok had made off with some of it in June. Most people considered his subsequent murder to be divine justice, and confidently waited for the money to reappear with God’s compliments. It never had, and its whereabouts continued to remain a mystery.

Bartholomew and Michael hurried up the High Street, both grateful for Cynric’s reassuring presence at their heels. The town was rarely safe after dark, but it was worse when hot nights drove thieves and robbers out of their beds. Moreover, a large number of beadles were ill with the flux, and without them to keep law and order, trouble was never far away.

‘I hope the bridge will be completely rebuilt in stone,’ said Michael as they trotted along. ‘It will be a lot safer, and will require much less maintenance.’

‘Morys promised it would be,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, that was when he wanted to get elected. Now he is nearing the end of his year in office, he need not bother.’

‘Actually, he does,’ countered Michael, ‘because the King approved the tax that was levied to pay for it, and he keeps writing to Morys, demanding updates on its progress.’

‘Someone should tell him that Baldok stole the money.’

‘Morys did, but His Majesty just ordered him to collect some more. Then he sent one of his own builders to assess whether the bridge should be rebuilt in stone or patched up with wood. This man will present his findings at the guildhall on Friday, following which the council will make a decision about it.’

Bartholomew was contemptuous. ‘The only decisions they make are ones that benefit themselves, so I doubt we shall see a decent bridge any time soon.’

‘Do not be so sure, Matt. The King is watching this time, and he even sent a small donation to encourage matters along. Ergo, the council will have to do the right thing – and the right thing is a bridge of stone.’

‘It is, but I shall only believe it when it happens,’ said Bartholomew, who had heard dozens of promises to repair the bridge for good, but none had ever borne fruit.

Their journey took them past Matilde’s house, where lamps were lit within. A glance through the open window revealed her sitting with a book in her lap, while Lucy knelt on the floor with a length of cream silk.

‘That will be the cloth for Matilde’s wedding kirtle,’ surmised Michael. ‘I wish she was as interested in the minutiae of this marriage ceremony as Lucy, because it might serve to distract her from the school for women she intends to establish.’

‘Surely, you do not believe that education is only for men?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘I thought you were of the opinion that everyone should have a chance to learn.’

‘I am – my grandmother would skin me alive if I thought anything else! The thing that concerns me is what happens when these women have completed their studies. What if they demand places at the University?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who is more worthy of one: Matilde and your grandmother, or Father William and Dodenho?’

Michael pursed his lips, aware that there were actually rather a lot of men who had no business claiming to be scholars. ‘All I hope is that her venture will not cause me too many headaches at the start of my reign as Chancellor. After a few months, she can do what she likes, because I shall sit so firmly on my throne that nothing will ever dislodge me.’

Bartholomew laughed, although he suspected that Michael had not been joking.

Just past Matilde’s house was King’s Hall, the University’s largest and most prestigious College. One of the missing men was a Fellow there, as was Dodenho, who was no doubt inside at that very moment, labouring over his speech for the next day’s election.

Then came the Hospital of St John, which comprised an untidy sprawl of buildings on the left side of the road, and a cemetery with gravelled paths on the right. On the southern edge of the graveyard were four large timber-lined pits, each deeper than a man was tall. They belonged to Philip Chaumbre, Bartholomew’s new brother-in-law, who had used them for storing fermenting dye-balls until people complained about the stench. He had moved his festering wares to a site outside the town, but had so far failed to fill in the holes, which represented something of a hazard to anyone walking through the cemetery in the dark.

‘He must be short of money, to leave them open for so long,’ said Michael as they passed. ‘I can tell you for a fact that your sister bought her own wedding kirtle. As you know, the husband always sees to that, as a token of his devotion.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘You mean I should pay for Matilde’s?’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You have not done it? Lord, Matt! I wonder she has not deserted you a second time. Of course you must! What are you thinking, man?’

‘Can I borrow some money? I spent all this term’s stipend on barley water.’

‘Poor Matilde has no idea what she is letting herself in for,’ muttered Michael, and changed the subject as they turned into Bridge Street, where bobbing lights indicated a commotion around the Great Bridge. ‘Have you met Mayor Morys’s wife Rohese, by the way? She is rather loose with her affections.’

Bartholomew blinked at such a confidence out of the blue. ‘Is she?’

‘She and Burgess Baldok were lovers, and it is whispered that the affair gave her a taste for dangerous liaisons.’

‘Very dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially for her partners. I would not want to run foul of Morys.’

Michael nodded sombrely. ‘He is not a man to overlook being cuckolded, and while he would not sully his own hands with violence, he hails from a clan of Fenland louts who will happily oblige him.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Is that what happened to Baldok? It would not surprise me to learn that Morys ordered his murder, then, finding the stolen bridge money on his body, decided to keep it for himself.’

Michael pulled a wry face. ‘If so, it will never be proven. Morys is all-powerful, and the council is steeped in corruption. Of course, Morys is great friends with your new kinsman Chaumbre …’

‘Chaumbre is great friends with everyone,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘But he left Cambridge years ago to make his fortune in London, and he has not yet been back long enough to forge unsavoury alliances – with Mayor Morys or anyone else.’

‘Well, Morys made him a burgess the moment he came home again,’ persisted Michael. ‘And he does not do that for just anyone. I hate to speak ill of Edith’s new husband, Matt, but please be cautious in your dealings with him. I fear he is not all he seems.’

Although mishaps on the Great Bridge were not unusual, they always attracted a lot of attention, so the area thronged with spectators when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. Many had brought lamps, which meant the scene was very brightly lit. The light attracted insects, which swirled around them in a dense cloud. Some onlookers held sleeves over their faces to avoid inhaling them, while others ducked and flapped at the buzzing, fluttering swarms.

A number of students were among the crowd, and a small group of beadles struggled in vain to move them on. In charge was Junior Proctor Brampton, a short, nondescript man who was not very good at imposing his authority on boisterous young men. By contrast, Michael strode forward with a scowl that saw most of them scatter like leaves in the wind. Bartholomew wondered how Brampton would cope when he was Senior Proctor. If he could not break up a peaceful gathering, how would he quell a riot?

‘I had it under control, Brother,’ he objected stiffly. ‘There was no need for you to stamp up, glaring like a great fat gargoyle.’

‘You should have yelled at them,’ said Michael, manfully ignoring the insult. ‘Forced them to listen to you.’

‘I was yelling,’ said Brampton sulkily. ‘They just did not hear me.’

‘Nor did I,’ retorted Michael. ‘But never mind this now. Just tell me what happened.’

‘I have been too busy keeping the peace to ask questions,’ retorted Brampton haughtily. ‘Shall we do it now? Together?’

Bartholomew left them to it, and threaded through the onlookers, looking for Sheriff Tulyet. A number of burgesses were there, although not Chaumbre. Then a flash of movement caught his eye, and he saw a boy named Ulf Godenave dart among them. The Godenaves were a family of light-fingered layabouts who lived near the castle – which was convenient, given that at least one of them was usually imprisoned in it at any given time. Although no more than seven or eight years old, Ulf was already a skilled pickpocket, and his coat bulged with what he had stolen that night.

A few bold scholars had not melted away under Michael’s basilisk stare, and clustered together near the burgesses. One was Narboro, resplendent in a fine linen robe and extravagantly pointed shoes. Bartholomew watched as Ulf sidled up to him, and dexterously sliced the purse from his belt. As Narboro had not noticed, Bartholomew went to tell him.

‘Damn it!’ cried Narboro in dismay. ‘That contained money I can ill-afford to lose. I would give chase, but running kicks up dust, and there is nothing more unbecoming than a man covered in dirt. Do you not agree?’

He looked Bartholomew up and down, decided the physician could say nothing worth hearing on the subject, and flounced away without waiting for a reply.

Bartholomew walked on, unimpressed to recognise two more scholars who had defied Michael by lingering: Stasy and Hawick. They were with a pair of Fellows from Clare Hall, and he experienced a lurch of alarm. There was no love lost between these two foundations, and he was afraid they might be about to quarrel. If they did, others would join in, and there would be an all-out brawl.

‘Go home,’ he told his students curtly – he had no authority over Clare Hall. ‘You should not be out at this time of night. You know it is against the rules.’

‘We came to see if you needed help,’ said Stasy smoothly, although Bartholomew did not believe him, because they had never done it before.

‘Go home,’ he repeated, and glared until they slouched away. The Clare Hall men started to follow, but Bartholomew contrived to stand in their way, which was enough to make sure they went off in the opposite direction. When they had gone, he resumed his hunt for the Sheriff and found him at the edge of the bridge.

Richard Tulyet was a small man with an elfin face and a wispy beard, although his delicate features disguised a bold warrior and an iron will. He was honest, shrewd and efficient, and was willing to work with the University, which meant there was none of the jurisdictional sparring that afflicted most other shires with powerful academic or religious foundations in their midst. Bartholomew liked him enormously, and considered him a friend.

The same was not true of his son Dickon, a strapping lad who was already bulkier than his sire and would tower over him when fully grown. Dickon’s voice had dropped an octave in the last year, and he was growing a moustache that promised to be a lot lusher than his father’s. He carried himself like a soldier, despite the fact that his knightly training had been cut short on account of his overly aggressive behaviour. There was a rumour that the Devil had sired him, and most people who knew him were ready to believe it. A collective murmur of approval had echoed all across the town when Tulyet had recently announced that he was sending Dickon to join the King’s army in France.

‘Your Chancellor has had an accident,’ the boy announced before his father could speak. He smirked gleefully. ‘One with lots of blood. He has fallen on the ponticulus.’

The Great Bridge had wooden railings to prevent people from toppling off it, but these were so rotten that they could no longer be trusted. As a temporary solution for pedestrians, a rope bridge had been provided, which hung off the west side of the main one. Everyone called it the ponticulus – the ‘little bridge’.

Bartholomew hurried forward and saw the Chancellor had evidently been walking over the main bridge when he had crashed through the railings to the ponticulus below. He had landed in such a way that one of the posts had speared him through the middle. Unfortunately, it had not yet killed him, and his chest rose and fell as he struggled to breathe. He was alone, although dozens of people peered down at him from the bridge above.

‘Where are the other medici?’ demanded Bartholomew, shocked that nothing had been done to help the wounded man. ‘All live closer than me – one should have come at once.’

‘Two are away,’ explained Tulyet, watching Bartholomew begin to climb down, ‘while Rougham and the surgeon are at a feast in Clare Hall. You are the only one left.’

‘Donwich invited them there, to celebrate the victory he thinks he will win in tomorrow’s election,’ put in Dickon, and smirked again. ‘They will both be drunk by now.’

‘When do you go to France?’ asked Bartholomew coolly, feeling that the sooner the lad was out of the country, the better. Even Tulyet was beginning to acknowledge that Dickon was not all that could be desired in a son, while his mother openly admitted that he frightened her.

‘Next month,’ replied Dickon happily. ‘I shall find something interesting to do there, even if tormenting peasants and burning villages is no longer allowed.’

‘If you are to win your spurs and become a knight, you must remember the chivalric code,’ lectured Tulyet. ‘To protect the weak and–’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Dickon impatiently. ‘Although the weak would not be weak if they learned how to fight, so they only have themselves to blame.’

It was not easy for Bartholomew to reach the dying Chancellor, as his fall had caused the ponticulus to twist dangerously. He managed eventually, moving with care lest a sudden jolt should pitch them both into the river below. He was not pleased when he felt a thump at his side and saw that Dickon had followed him. He was about to order the boy away when Tulyet called out.

‘He is stronger than me and lighter than Michael. He will be of more use to you than either of us, if you need help.’

Bartholomew knelt next to Aynton and told Dickon to hold a lamp so he could see. The post had entered the Chancellor’s side and emerged through his back, rupturing vital organs as it went. There was nothing Bartholomew could do to save him, and he was glad that Aynton had lost his senses, so knew nothing of what was happening.

‘Shall I haul the rail out?’ offered Dickon eagerly. ‘I am not afraid of blood.’

‘I am sure you are not,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him in distaste. ‘But neither of us will be doing any hauling. We are going to let him die peacefully and with dignity.’

‘You mean you will leave that thing inside him?’ asked Dickon, bemused.

Bartholomew nodded, aware that Michael had heard his assessment of the Chancellor’s condition, and was already murmuring last rites. Although not a priest, the monk had been given special dispensation to grant absolution during the plague and had continued the practice since. Tulyet began to order the spectators away, to give Aynton privacy in his final moments.

Dickon remained nonplussed. ‘So we just kneel here until he stops breathing?’

Bartholomew nodded again. ‘So stay back and keep quiet.’

Dickon retreated obediently, although not so far that he could not see what was happening. Then Aynton opened his eyes. Sorry for it, Bartholomew rummaged in his bag for the powerful poppy juice syrup he kept for those in extremis, aiming to make him sleep again. The Chancellor guessed what he was going to do and raised a bloodstained hand to stop him.

‘I cannot … feel anything,’ he gasped. ‘Am I … dying?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew, knowing Aynton would not thank him for a lie. ‘Michael is giving you absolution. Can you hear him?’

‘He is a … good man,’ whispered Aynton, and shifted, causing a welling of blood. ‘He … make a fine chancellor … The task … beyond me … I did my best … never enough.’

‘It does not matter now. Lie still and listen to his prayers.’

But Aynton grabbed Bartholomew’s hand to pull him closer. ‘Hear … confession. You … not a priest … God will not mind … unburden my soul … I have … grave sins.’

Bartholomew seriously doubted it. ‘Michael!’ he called urgently. ‘Come down.’

‘One stains … my conscience … especially,’ Aynton went on, so softly that Bartholomew could barely hear him. ‘I must tell–’

There was a loud crack when the monk stepped on the unstable parapet, and Dickon yelped as a lump of wood fell and hit him on the shoulder. Tulyet yanked Michael back before he did any more damage, and Bartholomew saw there would be no confessor coming.

‘I … brought death … on the innocent,’ Aynton continued; his grip on Bartholomew’s fingers was weak and clammy. ‘I sent Huntyngdon … to deliver a letter.’ He shifted again and more blood gushed. ‘To Narboro.’

‘He must be babbling,’ declared Dickon, who had inched forward to listen. ‘Dying men do, apparently, although I have not seen many yet. Look at all that blood! Why is it–’

‘Hush!’ snapped Bartholomew.

‘I was pushed,’ Aynton breathed, his eyes full of anguish. ‘I … was on the bridge … a shove … and over I …’

Bartholomew regarded him in shock. Then he glanced up at the broken railings, and saw it was unlikely that Aynton had fallen through them by chance. The bridge would have been empty at that time of night, with no bad-tempered jostling as there was during the day, so the chances of him stumbling violently enough to snap them by accident were remote. Someone had done to the Chancellor what had been done to Baldok a few weeks before.

‘Who pushed you?’ Bartholomew demanded urgently.

Aynton’s grip tightened, but his voice dropped so low as to be all but inaudible. ‘… instaribam … litteratus … do … understand?’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘It was a learned person? You mean a scholar?’

A spasm of agony gripped the Chancellor, and his voice faded lower still. ‘… n litteratus … hoc…’

‘What is he saying?’ demanded Dickon, craning forward keenly. ‘Is it Latin?’

Aynton’s eyes closed. He took two more shuddering breaths and the life slipped out of him. For a moment, all that could be heard was Michael on the bridge above as he continued to murmur prayers of absolution. Then Dickon began to clamour questions.

‘Is he dead? What was he talking about? Did he tell you that a scholar killed him?’

‘I thought so at first, but then it sounded like non litteratus – someone without formal learning,’ replied Bartholomew, bemused. ‘So now I have no idea which he meant.’

It quickly transpired to be impossible to carry Aynton off the twisted ponticulus. Bartholomew and Dickon tried, but it tipped at such a precarious angle that they were forced to stop. Then Michael suggested a stretcher with a winch, and hurried away to see what could be organised, leaving the Sheriff to control the ever-expanding crowd of ghouls on the bridge and the nearby riverbanks.

Mayor Morys arrived while Michael was gone, and began dispensing loud, impractical and unwanted advice on how to deal with the situation. He was more concerned with preserving the ponticulus than the dignity of the victim, and when he suggested dropping Aynton into the river and retrieving him by boat, Bartholomew’s patience snapped.

‘He is our Chancellor, not a sack of grain.’

‘I stand corrected,’ said Morys with an unrepentant smirk. ‘Although, in my defence, I should remind you that he resigned, so technically, he is nothing at all.’

Bartholomew did not dignify that remark with a response. He was acutely uncomfortable, kneeling on the swaying ponticulus with Dickon. He had placed his tabard over Aynton’s upper body, but the jutting rail made it impossible to cover the rest, and the spectators were going nowhere as long as there was an impaled corpse to hold their attention. Time passed slowly, and he wished Michael would hurry up.

‘I hope Donwich wins the election tomorrow,’ he heard Morys announce to his cronies. ‘I could work with him – he is a man who understands the ways of the world.’

In other words, thought Bartholomew sourly, Morys believed Donwich to be more amenable to bribes. He glanced up at the Mayor, noting the sharp eyes, narrow face and expensive clothes. Morys was reputed to have quadrupled his wealth during his year in office, and Bartholomew was glad the man’s tenure would expire at the end of the month.

‘I could work with him, too,’ came a woman’s voice, and he saw the speaker was Morys’s wife Rohese. ‘I like the men from Clare Hall. They are all very fine specimens.’

She was twenty years her husband’s junior and full of sensual vitality. Her lips were painted scarlet, and she had a provocatively undulating gait. He recalled what Michael had said about her, and wondered how much Morys knew about her indiscretions.

‘Go home, Rohese,’ the Mayor ordered sharply. ‘This does not concern you.’

‘You said that when John Baldok was killed,’ pouted Rohese. ‘But he was a friend.’

Morys regarded her coolly. ‘This victim is Chancellor Aynton, and I am sure you do not include him in your circle of acquaintances.’

‘I do not,’ she conceded, then smiled. ‘Is that young Dickon? What are you doing down there, my lovely?’

‘Helping,’ replied Dickon proudly, and for the first time ever, Bartholomew saw him blush. ‘Because I am stronger than my father.’

‘You are a very fine lad,’ purred Rohese with a look so sultry that Dickon went redder than ever and, for once, could think of nothing to say.

With a final, smouldering glance that encompassed not only Dickon and Bartholomew, but – somewhat unsettlingly – Aynton, too, she turned and sashayed away.

‘She knows my name,’ said Dickon in a strangled whisper. ‘Did you hear? I did not think she knew me.’

Given his unsavoury reputation, Bartholomew thought it highly unlikely that anyone in Cambridge would be unaware of Dickon’s existence. He did not say so, though, because Dickon carried a sword, knives and probably other weapons as well, and might whip one out if he sensed an insult – and the ponticulus was far too unstable for a fracas.

When Rohese had gone, another head peered over the bridge. It belonged to a burly, bearded man in a dusty tunic, who carried himself with considerable authority. Bartholomew was about to order him away when he heard Michael’s voice.

‘You see the problem, Shardelowe? The ponticulus has torqued, so carrying Chancellor Aynton off it is impossible and–’

‘Ah, the King’s builder,’ interrupted Morys, nodding approvingly. ‘A man used to winching heavy objects hither and thither. It was a good idea to fetch him, Brother. However, whatever is done must not harm the ponticulus. It is too valuable.’

‘So is our Chancellor,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘Now move back so we can retrieve him, if you please.’

Shardelowe assessed the situation with a professional eye, then set about constructing a hoist. While he worked, Dickon whispered in Bartholomew’s ear.

‘The King sent Shardelowe to look at the bridge. His Majesty plans to come here next year, you see, and he wants to ride across it without being pitched in the river. He even gave us some money to help with the repairs, although my father says he was not very generous.’

Knowing His Majesty’s reputation for thrift, Bartholomew suspected he had parted with the barest minimum – enough to ensure the town was forced to do what was necessary, but not enough to make much of a dent in the final bill.

Eventually, the winch was ready, so Bartholomew yielded his place on the ponticulus to the builder, who deftly secured Aynton with ropes. Dickon remained where he was, watching with rapt attention. Bartholomew went to join Michael and Tulyet.

‘We are lucky this wretched bridge has not claimed more victims,’ said Tulyet unhappily. ‘Let us hope the council agrees to rebuild it in stone at the meeting on Friday, so that no one else will fall prey to the thing. Wood rots too easily.’

‘Aynton told me he was pushed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Deliberately.’

‘You mean murdered?’ breathed Michael, horrified and disbelieving in equal measure. ‘But who would do such a thing?’

‘He did not say. He was insistent, though.’

‘Was he pushed?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Can you tell?’

‘Not with certainty. However, I doubt he would have stumbled with enough force to have landed where he did. So I believe him – I think he was shoved.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘That he gave Huntyngdon a letter for Narboro, but he feared the errand may have caused Huntyngdon’s death.’

‘What sort of letter?’ demanded Michael. ‘Personal or University business?’

‘There was no time to ask. I heard him say litteratus, which made me think he was accusing a scholar, but then I thought he said non litteratus, suggesting someone with no claim to education. But which did he mean?’

Michael glared at him. ‘Well, you had better decide, Matt, because we must catch whoever did this. Not only was he a friend and a colleague, but we cannot have high-ranking University officers murdered with gay abandon.’

Tulyet called his son over. ‘Dickon, you have sharp ears. What did you hear the Chancellor say before he died?’

‘Not much, because he was muttering,’ replied Dickon. ‘But I thought he told Doctor Bartholomew that a scholar pushed him. It is probably true – they are a violent horde.’

Coming from Dickon, this was damning indeed.

Bartholomew raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘I am sorry, Brother. His voice was just too soft for me to catch.’

They stood in silence for a moment, all thinking of the man they had known for so many years. Then Tulyet became businesslike.

‘I used the ponticulus just before compline and he was not here then. Ergo, the culprit struck while the office was being recited, because the alarm was raised moments after it had finished. This may help you to establish alibis among your suspects.’

Michael glanced at the Chancellor’s body, now suspended in a cocoon of ropes. ‘What suspects? A scholar, angry with him for resigning? A townsman, aiming to strike a blow at the University? A common robber, hoping for his purse?’

‘Well, if the culprit is a scholar, you have less than ten days to find him,’ said Tulyet. ‘Most will leave on Saturday week, and some will never return. You must work fast.’

‘Brampton will,’ said Michael. ‘I have an election to win, and then a University to run. But who found the body? Do you know?’

‘The vicar of St Clement’s,’ replied Tulyet, and led the way to where the hapless priest stood wringing his hands in distress, white-faced and trembling.

‘I saw no one else in the vicinity,’ he blurted as they approached, anticipating their first question. ‘And all I heard were awful groans from the victim, which is what made me look over at the ponticulus. I shall never forget the horror of what I saw, not even if I live for a thousand years.’

‘Nor will we,’ said Michael grimly.

It was not long before Aynton was placed gently on the bridge, where Cynric was waiting to cover him with a blanket. Once the Chancellor was safe from prurient eyes, Michael knelt to pray again, while the book-bearer went to recruit bearers to carry him home. Aynton had lived in Clare Hall, where he had accepted a Fellowship after he had been made Chancellor.

Bartholomew stood with Tulyet, waiting for Michael to finish and Cynric to return, and together they watched Shardelowe dismantle the hoist. The builder was not alone for long, because Morys sidled up to him.

‘Our ponticulus must be mended by dawn, Shardelowe, or it will adversely affect tomorrow’s trade,’ he began. ‘If you do that free of charge tonight, I guarantee that the council will vote for a stone bridge on Friday.’

Shardelowe regarded him coolly. ‘I thought we had already agreed that they would.’

Morys shook his head. ‘What we agreed was that, rather than putting it out to tender, we will just appoint you to do whatever repairs you recommend. I made no mention of which materials would be used.’

‘But it must be stone!’ cried Shardelowe angrily. ‘Wood would not be worth my time.’

‘And I shall ensure it will be stone,’ said Morys smoothly. ‘But only if you repair the ponticulus tonight. Well? Shall we shake hands on it?’

Bartholomew would not have trusted Morys as far as he could spit, but Shardelowe grasped the proffered hand and allowed himself to be led away to discuss the particulars.

‘Morys did not even have the decency to lower his voice,’ he said, watching them go. ‘He just offered to fix the outcome of a council meeting, and cared nothing that the Sheriff was within earshot. I shall be glad when he steps down next month, so someone honest can take over.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘Morys flourished by being dishonest, and his replacement will likely do the same. Indeed, there is no other reason to take the job, unless you enjoy imposing unpopular taxes, dealing with fractious colleagues, and fending off the University.’

‘Will you report his antics to the King? Such brazen corruption cannot go unpunished.’

Tulyet grimaced. ‘I already have, but Morys greased the palms of a few royal judges, and my complaint was quietly forgotten. However, I have no objection to his machinations this time, because he is right to secure us a stone bridge – even more so, now I have seen what happened to Aynton. But speaking of the University’s officers, what is your Junior Proctor doing?’

Brampton was struggling to keep a group of drunken rowdies off the bridge. They were townsmen, so he had no authority over them, which they knew because they were jeering at him. His response was to flap his hands at them, which at first elicited a startled silence, then a chorus of mocking guffaws. Tulyet went to intervene, doing so with such consummate diplomacy that Brampton emerged with his dignity intact, which was nothing short of a miracle. Bartholomew wondered how Brampton would cope with a murder investigation, and hoped Aynton would not be deprived of justice because Michael’s deputy was an inept nonentity.

Because the monk had dismissed most of the gawping scholars when he had first arrived, Cynric was having trouble finding anyone suitable to carry Aynton to Clare Hall. Then two students came to offer their services, although Bartholomew was not pleased to see that they were Stasy and Hawick, who had rebelliously ignored his order to return to Michaelhouse.

‘I am not letting them near a corpse,’ hissed Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘They may swipe bits of it for dark purposes.’

Cynric was deeply superstitious and spent a lot of time with Margery Starre. He claimed to be a Christian, although the pagan amulets on his hat suggested that he was not a very committed one. He saw the hand of Satan everywhere, even – on occasion – in students.

‘I do not think–’ began Bartholomew, but Cynric cut across him.

‘They are not to be trusted. You sent them home, but here they are, clamouring to tote cadavers about. It is not natural. Anyway, I do not like them.’

Nor did Bartholomew, but as the book-bearer had failed to find anyone else to help with Aynton, he had no choice but to accept their help.

‘They can take the front, while you and I carry the back,’ said Bartholomew, seeing his consternation. ‘They will not misbehave while we are right behind them.’

‘They might,’ countered Cynric. ‘But I have a charm that should keep them in line. If they try anything nasty, they will disappear in a puff of smoke.’

Bartholomew knew better than to reason with him, and was about to walk towards the stretcher himself when Dickon arrived with the clear intention of lending a hand, too. The boy was nearly a head shorter than the two students, but considerably bulkier, and Bartholomew had no doubts that he was equal to the task, despite his tender years.

‘And he is another who Satan loves,’ whispered Cynric, shooting him a venomous glare. ‘My charm will work against him as well.’

‘At this rate, you will be carrying Aynton by yourself,’ said Bartholomew.

Cynric regarded him admonishingly. ‘It is no laughing matter, boy. Now, keep your distance as we go, because I should not like you to be singed by stray sparks.’

He placed his three helpmeets where he wanted them and they set off. Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet followed at a respectful distance.

‘I still cannot believe that someone killed him,’ said Michael, a catch in his voice – he had liked the inept, bumbling, amiable Aynton. ‘His tenure was so short that no one can have found fault with it. Virtually no decisions were made, and I took responsibility for the ones that were. Ergo, the culprit must be a townsman – a non litteratus – who aims to damage the University.’

‘I disagree,’ said Tulyet. ‘First, we have been at peace for weeks now, and I have not heard so much as a whisper of trouble. And second, it is pitch black and he wore a plain robe, so how could any townsman identify him? Do not lay this murder at our door, when it is obviously a scholar’s work. A litteratus.’

‘But I have just explained why it is not,’ argued Michael. ‘Aynton was an affable soul, who had no time to accrue enemies among his colleagues.’

‘Then his death must be connected to his resignation,’ shrugged Tulyet. ‘Someone who objects to the fact that his replacement will be appointed tomorrow, and hopes that his murder will slow everything down.’

‘I sincerely doubt it! Usually, everyone clamours at me to get a move on, and my colleagues will be delighted by the speed with which I have organised this election.’

‘If you ask me, it is too fast,’ persisted Tulyet. ‘Your rivals have had no time to rally support, and they will resent it.’

‘In which case, Brampton has his first three suspects,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘Namely Donwich, Narboro and Dodenho.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘It is possible, I suppose. This election is important, because once I am in post, it may be years before I decide to move on to greater things. My rivals will have a long wait before they can stand again.’

‘Would any of them kill to be Chancellor?’ Tulyet hid a smile at the monk’s hubris.

‘We shall have to find out,’ replied Michael. ‘However, even if one of the three did not strike at Aynton in person, they may have supporters to do it on their behalf. What is wrong, Matt? I can tell something is bothering you, because you are oddly quiet.’

He was right. ‘Stasy and Hawick,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Why were they out when they should have been home? Why did they linger when I ordered them away? And why do they insist on carrying the stretcher?’

‘Does your concern arise from the fact that you think them capable of murder?’ asked Tulyet, eyeing him shrewdly.

‘I am not sure what to think,’ hedged Bartholomew, not about to speak his mind in front of the University’s most powerful scholar and the Sheriff, although the truth was that his students were an unpalatable pair who might stoop very low indeed if they thought they would benefit from it.

‘So these are the men Brampton must interview tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘Donwich, Narboro and Dodenho; any followers they might have; and Stasy and Hawick.’

Clare Hall was the fourth College to be founded in the University, following on the heels of Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Michaelhouse. It stood on Milne Street, between Trinity Hall and the church of St John Zachary, and owed its wealth to the generosity of a rich baroness who had taken it under her wing.

Michael tapped on its gate, unwilling to hammer when the hour was late and the residents would be sleeping. He need not have worried, though, because the porter opened the door to reveal a hall that blazed with lights and the sounds of a party in progress.

‘For tomorrow,’ the man explained. ‘Master Donwich anticipates a victory.’

‘Does he indeed?’ said Michael, startled. ‘But never mind that. I am afraid Chancellor Aynton is dead. We have brought him home. Shall we put him in the chapel?’

The porter disappeared towards the hall to ask his Master for instructions, leaving the visitors to set their burden down in the yard while they waited for a response. They were not alone for long: a scholar named John Pulham approached, carrying a lamp.

The Fellows of Clare Hall were all much of an ilk – suave, self-satisfied men whose contribution to academic life tended to be in University politics rather than any intellectual achievements. Bartholomew was not surprised that one of their number intended to run for the chancellorship the following day.

‘Aynton?’ breathed Pulham, when Michael told him what had happened. ‘No! He was a gentle man. Who could have done this terrible thing?’

‘Brampton will find out,’ promised Michael. ‘I would do it myself, but it is the Senior Proctor’s responsibility, and I cannot fulfil those duties as well as being Chancellor.’

‘Donwich thinks he will win,’ said Pulham, casting a wry glance towards the hall.

‘Where would you like Aynton?’ asked Michael, declining to comment. ‘The chapel?’

Pulham led the way, asking questions about Aynton’s death that the monk was mostly unable to answer. His sadness seemed genuine, and there was a tremble in his voice that would have been difficult to fabricate.

The chapel was small, but boasted beautiful wall paintings, fabulous misericords, and stained glass that was among the best in the town. It smelled of expensive incense and new wood. The bearers set the bier on the floor, then Cynric, Stasy and Hawick went to stand in the yard, while Tulyet and Dickon left to quell a spat in a nearby tavern. Bartholomew waited inside the chapel with Michael, who had knelt to say more prayers. The monk had barely begun when Master Donwich strode in, two more Fellows at his heels.

John Donwich was an impressive figure – tall, elegant and haughty. His two companions were also handsomely attired, but there was a coarseness about them that made them different from the other members of Clare Hall. They were the pair who had been talking to Stasy and Hawick earlier, and Bartholomew wondered again why his students should associate with them when Michaelhouse and Clare Hall had never been friends.

‘What is going on?’ demanded Donwich. ‘Why are strangers in our domain?’

‘They brought Aynton to us,’ explained Pulham quietly, watching Michael clamber to his feet. ‘I am afraid he is dead.’

‘You gave them permission to enter?’ snarled Donwich. ‘You overstep your authority, Pulham! I do not want the Senior Proctor and his minions in my College, thank you.’

‘Master!’ breathed Pulham, shocked by his incivility. ‘You cannot–’

‘You may leave now,’ said Donwich, looking Michael up and down with undisguised distaste. ‘Forgive me for not offering you refreshment, but it is late.’

‘Not too late for a feast apparently,’ retorted Michael, cocking his head at the sounds of continued merriment. ‘Will you end your frivolities now that one of your Fellows lies dead?’

‘That is none of your business,’ snapped Donwich indignantly. ‘Gille, Elsham? See him and his lickspittles out.’

‘Steady on, Master,’ gulped Pulham, acutely embarrassed. ‘There is no need to insult the Senior Proctor with such–’

‘He will not be a proctor tomorrow,’ interrupted Donwich. ‘Because I shall dismiss him and appoint Gille and Elsham instead. They have always supported me, unlike some people.’

‘If you refer to me and the other Fellows,’ said Pulham tightly, ‘then perhaps you should stop favouring new-comers over old friends.’ He glared at Gille and Elsham. ‘Moreover, it was wrong to make a bid for the chancellorship without discussing it with us first. The outcome will affect the whole College and–’

‘I do not need your permission,’ snarled Donwich. ‘I am Master, and I can do what I like. Now, if you will excuse me, I have invited guests to entertain.’

He stalked out. Pulham glowered at his retreating back, then indicated that Bartholomew and Michael were to walk with him to the gate. Stasy and Hawick hung back, and Bartholomew glanced around to see them talking to Gille and Elsham again. Cynric lurked nearby, and Bartholomew hoped the book-bearer would eavesdrop, because he wanted to know what they were saying to each other.

‘I am sorry,’ said Pulham, opening the gate. ‘As you can see, our Master is rather ungovernable at the moment. Being elected head of house has turned him into something of a despot. Obviously, the rest of us do not condone his behaviour, but as long as Gille and Elsham indulge his every whim, there is little we can do about it.’

‘Gille and Elsham are the only two Fellows who support him?’ fished Michael, always interested in the internal squabbles of rival foundations.

Pulham nodded. ‘The rest of us will not vote for him tomorrow. We want you, Brother.’

Bartholomew was astounded. There was an unspoken law that members of a foundation always stuck together, no matter what, so Donwich must have seriously ruffled his colleagues’ feathers to have precipitated such open dissent.

Michael indicated the brightly lit hall. Its occupants were growing rowdier by the moment, suggesting they were already drunk or heading that way.

‘Who is celebrating with him, if he has alienated all but two of his Fellows?’

‘A lot of hostel men, who he thinks will vote for him,’ replied Pulham. ‘They will not, of course, and are just enjoying a good night at our expense. And some wealthy burgesses, who he hopes will become benefactors.’

Bartholomew glanced up at the window and was unsettled to recognise the distinctive profile of Philip Chaumbre. What was his brother-in-law doing in such company?

‘I pity anyone trying to sleep,’ he said, wincing as someone began to bawl a tavern song and others joined in with gusto.

Pulham gave a disgusted snort. ‘It will not bother any of our students, because Donwich has let them all go home.’

‘Before the end of term?’ asked Michael indignantly. ‘But only the Senior Proctor has the power to grant that sort of indulgence.’

‘I know,’ said Pulham tiredly. ‘But Donwich thinks that particular statute is perverse, and aims to overturn it when he is Chancellor.’

‘He is not Chancellor yet,’ said Michael stiffly, ‘and I cannot have Masters ignoring the rules to please themselves. There would be anarchy! Clare Hall can expect a substantial fine tomorrow. But tell me, Pulham, would anyone here harm Aynton? It did not escape my notice that Donwich did not ask how he came to die.’

Pulham blinked. ‘No, he did not, did he! It was almost as if he already knew what had happened, so did not need an account from you.’ Then he shook himself. ‘What am I saying? The more likely explanation is that he could not bring himself to beg you for answers.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael.

Pulham nodded firmly. ‘Donwich would never hurt Aynton. On the contrary, he was delighted with him for resigning, as it allowed him a chance to further his own ambitions.’

‘Delighted enough to have coerced him into it?’ pressed Michael. ‘And then killed him lest he changed his mind?’

‘Donwich has recently revealed a side of himself that none of us knew existed,’ acknowledged Pulham. ‘But murdering a colleague? No, never.’

‘Then what about his henchmen?’ asked Michael, lowering his voice so the pair behind them would not hear. ‘Are Gille and Elsham the kind of men who would do anything to promote their Master’s interests?’

Pulham opened his mouth to deny it, then reconsidered. ‘I would hope not,’ he said eventually. ‘They are Aynton’s colleagues, too.’

‘So, our list of murder suspects has expanded by two,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked home; Stasy and Hawick trailed along behind them, and Cynric brought up the rear. ‘Pulham was unable to say with certainty that Gille and Elsham are innocent.’

‘Donwich did nothing to eliminate himself either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has always been ambitious, but, as Pulham pointed out, being elected Master of Clare Hall seems to have ignited a lust for even more power.’

Michael counted off the names on chubby fingers. ‘Donwich and his henchmen Gille and Elsham; Narboro and any supporters he might have; Dodenho and any supporters he might have; and Stasy and Hawick, who are suspiciously friendly with two Fellows from a rival foundation.’

Bartholomew stopped walking and waited until the students caught up. ‘What were you discussing with Gille and Elsham?’ he demanded bluntly.

‘They wanted a remedy against the flux,’ replied Hawick, so smoothly that Bartholomew knew he was lying.

‘They cannot afford to catch it, because Donwich relies on them so heavily,’ put in Stasy with one of his irritatingly sly smirks.

Bartholomew peered at them in the dim light of the lamps lit outside Trinity Hall. ‘The only “remedy” anyone can offer is good hygiene, rest, and plenty of fluids.’

Stasy’s face was full of smug disdain. ‘So you claim, but we have invented one, and we shall sell it when we open our practice. However, the recipe is a secret, so do not ask us for it, because we shall refuse to tell you.’

‘There is no remedy,’ insisted Bartholomew firmly. ‘And if you concoct something and sell it, knowing it will not work, you will be guilty of fraud.’

‘Which will see you arrested,’ put in Michael. ‘Not by me, but by the Sheriff, as you will come under his jurisdiction once you leave the University. Moreover, someone will sue you if you promise a cure and it fails. A lawsuit could ruin you before–’

‘We learned enough law at Michaelhouse to defend ourselves,’ interrupted Stasy dismissively. ‘Besides, our remedy will work. It will not only mend those who have the flux, but protect those who do not.’

‘Impossible!’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is like the common cold: all we can do is alleviate the symptoms – tinctures to relieve pain, and plenty of boiled barley water.’

Aware that once Bartholomew began talking about medicine, he might wax lyrical for hours, Michael walked on alone. Cynric waited patiently for the lecture to finish.

‘You and your boiled barley water,’ sneered Stasy. ‘You endorse it as the answer to everything. Well, in my opinion, it is worthless, and anyone who swallows it in the quantities you recommend is wasting his time.’

Bartholomew was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was cold enough to wipe the challenging grin from Stasy’s face.

‘My advice to patients is based on years of experience and observation, not something cooked up one night in a tavern. Boiled barley water will not cure the flux or a cold – nothing can – but it will help the body to recover lost fluids.’

Having had his say, he turned and strode away. A moment later, he heard Stasy chant in a voice so deep and sinister that all the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

‘May Matthew Bartholomew never cure the flux or the common cold,’ the student intoned. ‘Dark lord, hear the supplication of your faithful servant.’

Bartholomew whipped around, but Stasy was not there. Nor was Hawick, although Cynric emerged from the shadows.

‘They left,’ the book-bearer said. ‘Do you want me to fetch them back?’

‘Did you hear Stasy curse?’ demanded Bartholomew, wondering if his ears had deceived him, as the student had sounded very close – within touching distance, in fact.

‘I did, but do not worry,’ said Cynric. ‘Mistress Starre knows how to reverse nasty hexes, and when she has helped you, I shall ask her to turn it on him instead.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, although he knew he was pleading in vain, as the book-bearer always felt he knew best where witchery was concerned. ‘But never mind that – did you hear what he and Hawick said to those Clare Hall men? Gille and Hawick?’

‘Every word,’ replied Cynric. ‘Unfortunately, they chose to converse in French, so I did not understand any of them.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew.