The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 6

During the night, Bartholomew received two summonses from patients. The first was Zoone, who had failed to drink enough during the day and had given himself a bad headache – the pain eased after two jugs of the ubiquitous boiled barley water. The second was Walter the surly porter, and Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised the first symptoms of the flux. Thus far, Michaelhouse had escaped it.

‘What have you eaten or drunk outside the College?’ he asked, hoping there would be a tavern involved, so he would be able to isolate one source of infection.

‘Nothing,’ groaned Walter, both hands to his stomach. ‘It is too hot for wandering about, and I have not left the porters’ lodge in days.’

‘You must have gone out to check the gates or to admit visitors. Or to feed the poultry.’

A weak smile lit Walter’s surly features: his birds were the only creatures that had ever truly touched his heart, and he loved them far more than any human.

‘I might have slipped to the kitchens to fetch them treats,’ he admitted. ‘But I do not leave my lodge to meddle with gates or escort visitors about. That is what students are for.’

As security was clearly a low priority for Walter, Bartholomew went to see if Cynric would guard the College until Stasy and Hawick no longer posed a threat. The spiteful pair would certainly know about Walter’s relaxed attitude to his duties, and he did not want to make it easy for them, should they attempt to exact revenge for their expulsion.

Cynric was in the kitchen with Agatha. Bartholomew was not surprised to be informed that the laundress had not left it since the heatwave had begun – being stone-built and low, it was the coolest part of the College, and thus a very comfortable place to be.

‘Do not worry, boy,’ said Cynric, pleased his skills were needed. ‘They will not get in, I promise. And we should be on our guard, given all the curses they mutter. Margery is going to be very busy on our behalf as long as they are at large.’

‘They had better not have cursed me,’ declared Agatha belligerently. ‘If they have, I shall trounce them with a ladle. Where are they now, Cynric?’

‘In the shop they rented in Shoemaker Row,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘They worked on it all night, and opened this morning as medici. I reminded them that they never got their degrees, but they said they do not need one to practise medicine.’

‘They do not,’ sighed Bartholomew, aware that anyone could declare himself a healer, regardless of education, knowledge or skill. He had asked for the profession to be regulated, but neither the University nor the town thought it necessary. ‘As long as they do no obvious harm, and do not annoy the apothecaries and barber-surgeons, they can do what they like.’

‘They will not do it for long,’ predicted Cynric darkly. ‘The Devil will want to gather two such dedicated servants to his bosom before they have second thoughts and become Christians again.’

‘My nephew Robin came late last night,’ said Agatha, who was related to half the town; Robin was a sergeant at the castle. ‘He told me that Stasy has invented a remedy for the flux and will start selling it today.’ She glared accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘But you said nothing will cure it, other than time and boiled barley water.’

‘If every remedy was required to work, no medicus or apothecary would ever be able to prescribe one again,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘Ergo, Stasy and Hawick will claim what they like, and blame any lack of success on the patient’s stars or abnormal humours, just like all the other charlatans. All I hope is that whatever they have concocted is harmless.’

‘We shall find out soon enough,’ said Agatha. ‘Because Robin told me that they sent a pot to Beadle Meadowman. They feel sorry for him, because he has been ill for so long, and you have failed to mend him.’

Bartholomew decided to visit the beadle immediately, lest the remedy contained something to make him worse.

‘Here,’ said Cynric, tossing Bartholomew a tiny packet. ‘If Stasy and Hawick come for you with evil intent, throw this in their faces. Margery says it will stop them dead.’

Bartholomew tried to hand it back. ‘I cannot be seen deploying magic powders. I do not want to follow Stasy and Hawick in being expelled from the University.’

‘You will not be part of it for much longer anyway,’ said Cynric carelessly. ‘But it is not a magic powder – she knows you are frightened of those – it is fine-ground pepper. She says it will sting their eyes and stop them from bothering you.’

Bartholomew poured some into his hand, and saw the book-bearer was right; it was just pepper. ‘I still cannot accept it. It is far too expensive for–’

‘She likes you,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘And she does not like them. Take it, boy. It may save your life, should they launch an attack and I am not there to protect you.’

‘He is right,’ said Agatha. ‘Take it and be grateful that such an important lady thinks so highly of you. The poor Chancellor was thrown off the bridge to his death, and we do not want the same thing happening to you.’

‘You think Stasy and Hawick killed Aynton?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘I would not put it past them,’ replied Agatha. ‘They are malicious, greedy and callous.’

‘There are rumours that another scholar killed Aynton,’ put in Cynric. ‘Master Donwich or Narcissus Narboro, for example, who want to be Chancellor themselves.’

‘Narboro!’ spat Agatha. ‘I felt sorry for Lucy when he spurned her, but now I think she is the luckiest woman alive. Can you imagine what it would be like married to him? She would never get the chance to check herself in the mirror, because he would hog it all day.’

‘Perhaps you should throw pepper in his eyes,’ suggested Cynric. ‘Being blind for a while would give him the opportunity to think about something other than his hair.’

‘He made a terrible fuss about falling down a dye-pit yesterday,’ chuckled Agatha. ‘So much that Robin says Chaumbre was forced to fill it in at once – the man he hired worked all night. Of course, now Chaumbre has done one, he will forget about the others. Personally, I think he hopes to store his dye-balls there again one day.’

‘I do not like those holes,’ said Cynric, and shuddered. ‘They look like something Satan might have dug with his claws.’

Bartholomew left when book-bearer and laundress began a sharp disagreement about whether the Devil would use his nice sharp talons for such menial work, or ask familiars like Stasy and Hawick to get a spade out.

It was still dark when Bartholomew arrived at Meadowman’s house. The beadle was no better, and as it had been more than a week since the illness had started, he was beginning to look thin and haggard, with lines of pain around his mouth. Bartholomew inspected the boiled barley water – from a batch flavoured with honey and camomile – that he had sent the previous day, and saw that very little, if any, had been drunk.

‘Your students came at dawn,’ Meadowman whispered. ‘They told me you were cursed and could never make me well. They left me that.’

He nodded to an expensive-looking phial on the windowsill. Bartholomew picked it up and smelt it warily. All he could identify was mint, although he knew there were very dangerous substances that would take more than a sniff to detect.

‘Have you taken any of it?’ he asked uneasily.

‘A tiny sip,’ admitted Meadowman. ‘I know I should have resisted, given that they are sorcerers, but I have been ill for so long that I yielded to temptation.’

At that moment, Isnard arrived, full of mucus and unpleasant snorting noises. His eyes were bloodshot and when he spoke, his voice was an octave lower than normal.

‘I met your students – the warlocks – on my way home from the Griffin last night,’ he growled. ‘It was hot, so they recommended a cooling dip in the Mill Pond. It sounded like a good idea, and I only remembered once I was in that I cannot swim.’

‘Ale will kill you one day, Isnard,’ said Meadowman. ‘You might have drowned.’

‘I nearly did,’ said Isnard. ‘Luckily, Master Gayton from Peterhouse fished me out. I swallowed half the Mill Pond before he arrived, so if you notice it is emptier this morning …’

‘Other than your cold, how do you feel?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the myriad diseases which lurked in that foul body of water. ‘Any nausea or sickness?’

‘No, but this ague is killing me. I do not even have the energy to pull my ferry, and had to hire some of the Marian Singers to do it for me. Are you sure you do not have a remedy hidden away somewhere, Doctor? I will pay whatever you ask.’

‘I wish I did,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘But no one does, including Stasy and Hawick, so if they offer to sell you one, do not buy it.’

Isnard sniffed revoltingly. ‘I will not – not after they tried to kill me last night. Once I was in the Mill Pond, screaming for help, they raced away sniggering. If Master Gayton had not happened past, I would have died.’

‘They left you?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked, although he supposed he should not be surprised that the malevolent pair should strike at him by targeting his patients.

‘The moment they were sure I was in trouble,’ replied Isnard. ‘But they will not hurt me a second time. If they come anywhere near me again, I shall punch them.’

‘Senior Proctor Brampton came last night,’ Meadowman told Bartholomew, ‘to assess if I was malingering. More beadles have the flux, you see, so he is desperately short of men. He said the University cannot pay us while we are laid up, so thank God for that saint – the man who gives money to the priests to help us.’

Bartholomew poured him a beaker of barley water. The beadle took it, and very cautiously used it to wet his lips.

‘You need more than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lots more.’

‘But I do not like it,’ objected Meadowman, trying to hand it back. ‘And I only sick it back up again, so what is the point? Besides, such insipid medicine cannot possibly cure this terrible sickness. How could it?’

Bartholomew had explained several times about the importance of replacing lost fluids, and knew that repeating it again would be futile. Instead, he rummaged in his medical bag for the pepper from Margery Starre. He did not usually deceive patients, but Meadowman’s plight had grown desperate, and the beadle could just as easily die from refusing to drink as from the flux.

‘This is a very potent powder,’ he said, and put a pinch on the back of Meadowman’s hand, hoping the beadle would be unfamiliar with expensive condiments, and so would not recognise the taste. ‘Touch your tongue to it and see.’

‘Goodness!’ gasped Meadowman. ‘That is strong. Is it dangerous?’

‘Very, in the wrong hands,’ replied Bartholomew gravely. ‘I will add a dose to the barley water, but you must drink the whole jug this morning, or the flux will …’ – he flailed around for a pretext that the beadle would take seriously – ‘… will burst out of your nose and kill you. I will send a student with more this afternoon.’

Wide-eyed, Meadowman took the beaker, and Bartholomew watched him drain it. If the ploy worked, he could conclude that the beadle’s reluctance to follow medical advice was responsible for his abnormally slow recovery.

When Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, he found his colleagues assembling in the yard. He was bemused, because dawn had broken while he had been with Meadowman, and they were usually in church by now. Then Michael appeared in his best habit, and the physician recalled that it was the Feast of St Benedict. Michael always marked the occasion with later morning prayers, to which he invited fellow Benedictines. There were not many Black Monks in Cambridge, as the University tended to be more popular with the mendicant Orders than the monastic ones, but there were enough to make the ceremony noisy and joyful even so.

At one point, Bartholomew spotted Stasy and Hawick at the back of the nave, although they had gone by the time the rite had finished. He and Cynric inspected the spot where they had been, and found a lot of grease on the floor.

‘They want one of us to slip and break his neck,’ surmised the Welshman. ‘I had better follow them today, to make sure they try nothing else to hurt us.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I do not want them targeting you in the hope of avenging themselves.’

Cynric sniffed his disdain. ‘They are no threat to me, boy. But I hope I do catch them doing something illicit: as they are no longer scholars, they cannot claim protection from the University, which means I can hand them to the Sheriff. Or better yet, to Dickon.’

On that note, he padded off to begin. Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, where an especially fine breakfast had been provided in honour of the Master’s favourite saint. When it was over, and Bartholomew was in his room preparing for the day ahead, Michael came in.

‘Summarise where we are with Aynton’s murder,’ he ordered. ‘Who is still on our list?’

‘Donwich is at the top,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He has no alibi, he was at loggerheads with Aynton over his affair with Lucy, and he was furious that Aynton refused to endorse his candidacy for Chancellor. Moreover, when Donwich returned from visiting Lucy on the night of the murder, he was “sweaty and agitated”.’

‘As anyone would be after dispatching a fellow scholar,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. ‘Who is second on the list?’

‘Narboro,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Who also has no alibi, and may have killed Aynton to make sure the election went ahead. He makes me uneasy, although I cannot say why. Perhaps it is his narcissism, which is so extreme that I find myself wondering if it is real.’

‘Third?’

‘Donwich’s henchmen, Gille and Elsham, who are eager for him to be Chancellor, because he will make them his proctors. They were absent from the feast during compline, when Aynton was killed …’

‘Have you asked them where they were? No? Then that must be done today. Fourth?’

‘Stasy and Hawick – they were among the onlookers when we found Aynton and refused to go home. Further, they harboured malicious intentions towards the University even before you expelled them – why else would they have cast spells in St Mary the Great? They were never my favourite pupils, but they revealed a new side to themselves yesterday.’

‘To me, too, and it makes me wish I had expelled them sooner. When you next speak to them, find out where they were when Aynton was killed. Fifth?’

‘Mayor Morys, who wants Donwich to be Chancellor, because he is bribable. He may not have pushed Aynton himself, but he has kinsmen who will do it for him. Dick has offered to interview him with me today.’

‘Good. Sixth?’

‘Brampton. You see nothing amiss with the fact that he spied on Aynton, is full of venom, did not tell you about the quarrel he witnessed between Aynton and Chaumbre, and is good friends with Donwich, but I do.’

‘Include him if you must,’ said Michael, rolling his eyes. ‘But if you do, I want Chaumbre, who also argued with Aynton and who left Clare Hall’s feast to look at dye, which no one can corroborate. He may be lying. Next?’

‘Those are all so far. I suppose you want me to question them on my own today, because you will be too busy fighting off Donwich’s challenge.’

‘Actually, I want you to teach. Your students are disturbed by the expulsion of two of their number, so it is important to make sure they follow their usual routines today. Thus you will lecture, and I shall investigate murder.’

Bartholomew blinked his surprise. ‘Truly? You do not need my help?’

‘I will take Brampton instead. It will be good for him. Besides, I cannot do anything about Donwich’s claim until the vicars-general arrive, but Aynton clamours at me for justice. Perhaps I shall have his killer by tonight. If not, though, I will need you tomorrow.’

Bartholomew did not hear the last part – he had hurried away before Michael could change his mind.

To make up for lost time, Bartholomew drove his students hard that morning, and was astonished when the bell rang for the midday meal, feeling as though he had barely started. As he ate, he noticed that some of the food was on the verge of spoiling, despite being bought fresh that day. Again, he wondered when the weather would break.

Before he could resume his gruelling schedule, a message came from the Spital, where several residents had the flux. He left Aungel to lead the discussion he had planned on Galen’s De ptisana and hurried out, feeling the sun burn through his hat as he walked. It was the hottest part of the day, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched earth. Trees wilted, their leaves curled, brown and crisp from the lack of rain.

He tended his patients, and was just passing the Gilbertine Priory on his way back when he met Michael. The monk reported that he had spent his morning racing after Morys, but had missed him at every turn. As he looked cool and fresh, Bartholomew suspected that he had not so much raced as strolled, with plenty of stops for refreshment along the way.

‘While I was tearing about like a March hare,’ the monk went on, ‘I met Donwich and his henchmen in St Mary the Great, Brampton and Chaumbre in the Market Square, and Stasy and Hawick in Shoemaker Row. I questioned them all but learned nothing useful.’

‘Did you press them on their alibis?’

‘Of course. Brampton said he was on University business, although he has no one to confirm it; Chaumbre was looking at dye, which we know; and Stasy and Hawick claim they were with each other, which is no answer at all.’

‘Is Dick helping you hunt for Morys?’

‘He is busy – something about a new clue for the murder of Baldok, which he still hopes to solve – so he sent Dickon in his stead. I endured the brat’s company for an hour, but sent him home when he suggested prising information from our suspects with a sword.’ Michael grimaced. ‘Although I wish I had accepted his offer with Stasy and Hawick.’

‘They were uncooperative?’

‘Naturally enough. I expelled them, after all.’

‘Hawick wants you to reconsider. Is there any way to let them have their degrees?’

‘They can appeal to the vicars-general, but my decision is unlikely to be overturned – the Archbishop’s men cannot be seen condoning witchery either. Hah! There is Narboro. Shall we question him together, as he is here?’

They walked towards where Narboro was adjusting the buckles on his elegant shoes. He straightened as they approached. Michael opened his mouth to speak, but the Peterhouse man cut across him.

‘You should know that I have lodged proceedings against Philip Chaumbre for leaving those great holes in St John’s cemetery,’ he declared haughtily. ‘I fell down one and suffered a grievous injury yesterday, so it is only right that he compensates me with money.’

‘Let me see it,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘I may be able to help.’

‘That would be unethical,’ blustered Narboro, backing away. ‘You are related to the defendant.’

‘Anyone can see there is nothing wrong with you,’ said Michael sternly, ‘and that your sole aim is to win some easy money. If you have any sense, you will drop the suit before it lands you in trouble.’

Narboro’s expression turned sulky. ‘Well, how else can I raise the vast sum that your Senior Proctor demands of me for not marrying his sister?’

‘I do not understand why you agreed to wed her in the first place,’ said Michael. ‘You must have known ten years ago that she was not the right lady for you, or that you might prefer to remain unattached.’

‘I was young and reckless back then,’ sniffed Narboro. ‘And she had all her teeth.’

As Bartholomew and Michael walked towards the Trumpington Gate, they saw Morys, who was engaged in a furious altercation with the sentries.

Cambridge lay on a major highway, so all traffic paid a toll to pass through the town – money that was then used to keep the road in good working order. As there was always a shortfall between what was collected and what was needed for repairs, individual householders along the street were obliged to pay the difference. Naturally, they resented it, so to keep costs to a minimum, the guards were assiduous about what they allowed in. Any cart deemed too heavy was ordered to divide its load or divert to another route.

That day, an enormous wagon had arrived, piled high with huge blocks of stone, and drawn by eight oxen. It would mangle the road if permitted to trundle on, and the guards were right to stop it. Unfortunately, Morys had decided that he had the authority to grant an exemption.

‘But look at the thing!’ one soldier shouted. ‘It will destroy the High Street!’

‘Nonsense,’ stated Morys in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Now step aside before I dock your wages for insolence. Carter? Proceed.’

The sentries watched in dismay as the great vehicle began to lumber forward. It knocked a chunk off the gate when the driver misjudged its width, and its wheels left deep furrows in their wake. As he passed, the carter winked conspiratorially at Morys and tossed him a purse. Michael was outraged and stormed over to say so.

‘The guards are right – that thing should never have been allowed through,’ he declared angrily. ‘Look at the ruts it has made! Who will pay to mend them? You?’

‘Those were already there,’ lied Morys. ‘Besides, it is none of your business.’

That was true, but rather than admit it, Michael began to interrogate him about the Chancellor’s murder instead. ‘You and Aynton quarrelled on the day he was killed. Why?’

‘It was not a quarrel, it was a difference of opinion,’ retorted Morys. ‘And it did not result in me shoving him off the bridge, if that is the direction your thoughts have taken.’

‘So where were you when he died?’

‘At Clare Hall, with a whole roomful of witnesses.’

‘Not during compline, which is when Aynton was killed,’ countered Michael. ‘We have reliable witnesses who say you left long before then.’

‘Oh, so I did,’ said Morys smoothly. ‘I remember now. However, I am not at liberty to divulge more, because my errand concerned confidential guildhall business.’

‘Then tell us who you met,’ ordered Michael. ‘Because I am sure you want to help us by eliminating yourself from our list of suspects.’

‘I am not in the habit of breaking council secrets,’ retorted Morys loftily. ‘So you will have to take my word that I was nowhere near your Chancellor when he died.’

‘Do I indeed?’ muttered Michael. ‘Then tell me about your argument with Aynton instead. What was the “difference of opinion” about?’

‘The bridge,’ replied Morys, and his expression turned sly. ‘He agreed to pay half the cost of a stone one, so I expect you to honour his promise.’

Michael shook his head in disbelief. ‘Aynton thought wood would suffice, and was vehemently opposed to building in stone. Do not lie to me, Morys.’

Morys smirked, unrepentant. ‘It was worth a try, and if you had believed me, I would have won something good for the town. The truth is that he offered to pay a tenth of a wooden one, but that is miserly, and I am sure the new Chancellor will want to reconsider in the interests of good town – University relations. Yes?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Legally, we are not obliged to pay anything at all, so be grateful for what you have. However, I want to know precisely why you argued with Aynton. Did you demand more money of him, as you have just done with me?’

‘Our discussion was private,’ said Morys archly. ‘But I cannot stand around gossiping with you all day – I should be at the guildhall. You do know that the burgesses will vote to build a stone bridge today, do you not?’

‘How do you know what they will decide?’ asked Bartholomew, although even as he spoke, he recalled the discussion on the bridge after Aynton’s murder, where Morys had promised Shardelowe that very outcome in exchange for free repairs on the ponticulus.

‘I have a nose for such things,’ replied Morys blithely. ‘Besides, it is the right thing to do. It will be expensive though, so I shall expect everyone to reach into his purse to pay for it – the University and the town.’

‘The town will refuse,’ predicted Michael. ‘They have already given a fortune for the bridge – a fortune that you recklessly entrusted to the thieving Baldok. Why should they hand you more?’

‘Baldok did not steal that much,’ argued Morys. ‘Just one instalment. We still have the bulk of it.’

Michael ignored him and forged on. ‘Some were almost beggared by the first levy, and even wealthy merchants like the Mortimers, FitzAbsolon, Chaumbre–’

Morys interrupted with a laugh. ‘I shall not be troubling Chaumbre, because he is not as rich as he would have everyone believe. But the University will pay its share. I can promise you that.’

‘I think we had better attend this meeting, Matt,’ said Michael, watching the Mayor strut away. ‘He is up to something, and I want to know what.’