The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 1

Early February 1358, Cambridge

When the yellow-headed thief reached the Griffin, a large tavern located just beyond the Great Bridge, Matthew Bartholomew knew he was going to escape. Sure enough, the fellow tore into the stables, and emerged moments later on a prancing stallion.

Bartholomew put on a last, desperate spurt of speed and made a grab for the reins, but the man kicked him away. Bartholomew fell backwards, landing heavily among the frost-hardened ruts that scarred the road. A cart bore down on him, its driver yelling for him to move, and he only just managed to roll away from its lumbering wheels. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet, and watched his quarry disappear along the track that led to the nearby village of Chesterton.

Bartholomew was a physician, who taught medicine at the College of Michaelhouse. Thanks to his unorthodox ideas, he was not one of the University’s most respected scholars, but even so, he knew he should not have been haring after thieves at an hour when he should have been in church. It was hardly dignified.

He had been summoned before dawn by one of his patients, a fierce old lady named Emma de Colvyll. As she had been describing her symptoms to him, they had heard noises coming from her parlour – a burglar was in her house, and instinct had led Bartholomew to obey her screeched command to give chase. As he rested his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath, he recoiled at the notion of telling her he had failed. Despite her advanced years, she was a force to be reckoned with, and even the Sheriff – one of the bravest men in the shire – freely admitted that she terrified him.

He waited until his breathing returned to normal, then began to retrace his steps. There was always a market on Mondays, and despite the early hour, the streets were already crowded with carts bearing fish, grain, pottery, candles, wool, baskets and vegetables. There were also animals, herded in hissing, honking, lowing and bleating packs towards Butchery Row, and he ducked smartly behind a water-butt when a feisty bull decided it had no intention of being taken anywhere and made a determined bid for escape.

When he arrived at Emma’s High Street mansion, he paused for a moment to admire it. It was unquestionably one of the finest buildings in Cambridge, boasting three spacious chambers on the ground floor, and a number of smaller ones above that provided sleeping quarters for her family and sizeable retinue. The window shutters were new and strong – a wise precaution, given that disagreements between town and University were frequent and often turned nasty – and there was a very sturdy front door.

Of course, Bartholomew thought acidly, Emma had other reasons for being conscious of her security. She had grown rich on the back of the plague, a ruthless opportunist who had made her fortune by buying up properties left vacant after the deaths of their owners. She had paid the grieving heirs a pittance, and was now reaping the benefits of a sellers’ market.

Her ever-expanding empire had recently required her to move into the town centre so that she could better monitor her myriad affairs. This had been greeted with mixed emotions by Cambridge’s residents. On the one hand, she was generous to worthy causes, but on the other, most people were rather frightened of her and did not like her being in their midst.

Bartholomew was about to knock on her door when a movement farther down the street caught his eye. It was the scholars of Michaelhouse, leaving church after their morning devotions. The College’s Master, Ralph de Langelee, headed the procession, and behind him were his six Fellows – they totalled seven with Bartholomew – and sixty or so students, commoners and servants.

Langelee nodded approvingly when he saw what Bartholomew was doing. Emma had offered to fund the repair of Michaelhouse’s notoriously leaky roofs, although her bounty had not come without a price: in return, she wanted masses for her late husband’s soul, and free medical treatment for herself. Langelee was delighted with the arrangement, but Bartholomew was not: Emma was a demanding client, and tending her meant less time for his teaching and other patients.

One of the Fellows detached himself from the line, and walked towards the physician. Brother Michael, a portly Benedictine, was a theologian and Bartholomew’s closest friend. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, which meant he was in charge of maintaining law and order among Cambridge’s several hundred scholars. Over the years, he had contrived to expand and enhance his authority to the point where he now ran the entire University, and its Chancellor was little more than a figurehead – someone to take the blame in times of trouble.

‘Has Emma demanded yet another consultation?’ he asked, pulling Bartholomew away from the door so they could talk. ‘You spend half your life with her these days.’

‘She summoned me before dawn,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But we were interrupted by a burglar. When he ran away, she ordered me to give chase.’

‘Lord!’ murmured Michael, round eyed. ‘It is a rash fellow who dares set thieving feet in her domain – she will have him hanged for certain. Did you catch him?’

‘No.’ Michael’s words made Bartholomew glad he had not. ‘And I am about to tell her so.’

Michael frowned. ‘Then perhaps I should accompany you, lest she is seized by the urge to run you through. The presence of the Senior Proctor may serve to curtail her more murderous instincts.’

Bartholomew was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘Thank you. Personally, I would rather have leaking roofs than be obliged to deal with her. It may sound feeble, but I find her rather sinister.’

‘So do I. Unfortunately, Langelee drew up the contract when I was away in Clare, and by the time I returned, all was signed and settled. I was disgusted – not with him, but with the rest of you Fellows for letting him go ahead with it.’

‘We did not let him go ahead, Brother,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just went. Ever since last autumn, when one of his scholars transpired to be corrupt, he has insisted on making all the important decisions alone. We argued against accepting Emma’s charity, but he overrode us.’

‘He would not have overridden me,’ declared Michael, a hard, determined glint glowing in his baggy green eyes.

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we should not judge him too harshly. We lost a lot of money on reckless financial ventures last year, and this hard winter means food prices are unusually high. He is only trying to keep us solvent.’

‘Then he should have found another way – I dislike the fact that you are at Emma’s beck and call all hours of the day and night. It is not right.’ Michael grimaced as he glanced at their benefactress’s handsome house. ‘I suppose we had better go and break the news that you were less than successful with her thief. But I cannot face her on an empty stomach. We shall eat first.’

‘I cannot return to Michaelhouse for breakfast,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, not liking to think what Emma would say if he did. Meals at College could be lengthy, and she would be waiting.

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall visit the Brazen George instead. That will not take long, and I do not see why everything we do should revolve around that wretched woman’s convenience.’

They began to walk the short distance to Michael’s favourite tavern. Trading had started in the Market Square and labourers were at their daily grind, so the cacophony of commerce and industry was well under way – yells, clangs and the rumble of iron-shod wheels on cobbles. The High Street thronged with people. There were scholars in the uniforms of their Colleges or hostels, merchants in furlined cloaks, apprentices in leather aprons or grimy tunics, and even a quartet of pilgrims heading for the Carmelite Priory. The pilgrims were identifiable by the wooden staffs they carried, and by the badges pinned on their clothes that told people which holy places they had visited

‘The Carmelites are doing well these days,’ remarked Michael, watching the little party pass. ‘St Simon Stock’s shrine attracts a lot of visitors, and is an important source of revenue for them.’

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, not very interested. He grinned suddenly when mention of the Carmelites reminded him of another of the religious Orders. ‘Have you identified the pranksters who put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ chapel roof yet?’

‘No,’ replied the monk tightly. ‘I have not.’

‘It was a skilful trick,’ Bartholomew went on, full of admiration for the perpetrators’ ingenuity. ‘I cannot imagine how they lifted a bull, a cart and thirty sacks of sand on to a roof of that height.’

‘It was stupid,’ countered Michael, whose duty it was to catch the culprits and fine them. ‘Could they not have applied their wits to something less disruptive? It took me two days to assemble the winches needed to lower them all down again.’

‘Do not be such a misery!’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, students playing tricks is better than students fighting. Do you have any suspects?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And I shall list them all for you once we are out of this biting cold.’

Bartholomew followed him inside the Brazen George. Taverns were off-limits to scholars, on the grounds that they sold strong drink and contained townsmen, a combination likely to lead to trouble. But Michael had decided that such rules did not apply to him, and, as Senior Proctor, he was in a position to do as he pleased. Given that he fined others for enjoying what taverns had to offer, it made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.

The Brazen George was a pleasant place, and Michael was so well known to its owner that there was a room at the back reserved for his exclusive use. The chamber had real glass in its windows and overlooked a pretty courtyard. A fire blazed merrily and welcomingly in the hearth.

‘I am concerned about this thief,’ said Michael, lowering his substantial bulk on to a stool and stretching his booted feet towards the flames. ‘If he is reckless enough to chance his hand against Emma, then no one is safe. He may try his luck on the University, and invade one of the wealthy Colleges.’

‘He will not choose Michaelhouse then,’ said Bartholomew, standing as close to the fire as it was possible to get without setting himself alight. Even his high-speed chase had failed to dispel the chill that morning – he had woken shivering and with icy feet, and had remained frozen ever since. Because the College was going through one of its lean phases, fires in the Fellows’ rooms were an unthinkable luxury – unless they could pay for one themselves, which he could not.

‘No,’ agreed Michael gloomily. ‘We have nothing to interest a thief, more is the pity.’

‘Who are your suspects for the ox and cart trick?’ asked Bartholomew, to change the subject. Michaelhouse’s ongoing destitution was a depressing topic for both of them.

‘The Dominicans are partial to practical jokes,’ Michael began. ‘While Principal Kendale of Chestre Hostel is famous for his understanding of complex mechanics. They all deny it of course, presumably so they can add outwitting the Senior Proctor to their list of achievements.’

‘Kendale?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘I doubt he took part in a jape. He seems too…’

‘Surly?’ suggested Michael when his friend hesitated, looking for the right word. ‘Malicious?’

‘Humourless,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘I doubt he has a sense of fun.’

When the taverner appeared, Michael ordered his ‘usual’ – a substantial repast that involved a lot more than he would have been given at Michaelhouse.

‘Kendale does have a sense of fun,’ he said, when they were alone again. ‘Unfortunately, it is one that finds amusement in the misfortune of others. When that King’s Hall student was injured in the trick involving the bull last week, he and his students laughed so hard that I was obliged to spend the rest of the day making sure they were not lynched for their heartlessness.’

‘I cannot imagine what started this current wave of antipathy between Colleges and hostels,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know there has always been some jealousy and resentment, but it was never this strong.’

Cambridge’s eight Colleges had endowments, which meant they tended to be larger and richer than the hostels, and occupied nicer buildings – although Michaelhouse was currently an exception to the rule. They were also more permanent; hostels came and went with bewildering rapidity, and Bartholomew was never sure how many were in existence at any one time. Some Colleges were arrogant and condescending to their less fortunate colleagues, which inevitably resulted in spats, but it was unusual for the ill feeling to simmer in quite so many foundations simultaneously.

‘It is Kendale’s doing,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He is busily fanning the flames of discord as hard as he can, for no reason other than that it amuses him to see two factions quarrel.’

‘The rivalry is mostly innocent, though,’ said Bartholomew, watching the landlord bring a platter of assorted meat, bread, custard and a bowl of apples. ‘No one has been hurt – except the student with the bull, and that was largely his own fault.’

‘It is mostly innocent so far,’ corrected Michael. ‘But I have a bad feeling it will escalate. It is a pity, because we have been strife-free for weeks now. Relations between town and University have warmed, and the last squabble I quelled was back in October. Damn Kendale for putting an end to the harmony! I really thought we might be heading towards a lasting peace this time.’

Bartholomew doubted that would ever happen. Even when the town was not at loggerheads with the studium generale it had not wanted within its walls in the first place, academics were a turbulent crowd. The different religious Orders were always fighting among themselves, and there were more feuds within and between foundations than he could count. The concord they had enjoyed since October was an aberration, and he had known it was only ever a matter of time before Cambridge reverted to its usual state of conflict.

‘There is a rumour that Jolye was murdered by the hostels, too,’ Michael went on.

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘The boy who fell in the river after Trinity Hall did that clever balancing act with Chestre Hostel’s boats? I thought you had decided that was an accident.’

‘You told me it was an accident,’ countered Michael. ‘I was led by your expertise.’

In addition to teaching medicine and being a physician, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to supply an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for any townsman who breathed his last on University property.

‘I said there was nothing to suggest foul play,’ he corrected. ‘No suspicious bruises or marks. However, I also said that a lack of evidence did not necessarily mean there was no crime.’

‘Well, Jolye’s fellow students agree with you. They have declared him a College martyr.’

Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘Do you think they will retaliate with a murder of their own?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Michael grimly. ‘My beadles are ever vigilant, and so am I. But eat your apples, Matt. We cannot sit here all day.’

Bartholomew followed him outside, and back on to the High Street. He looked around uneasily, searching for signs of unrest. He was horrified to see some immediately: the lads of Essex Hostel were enjoying some unedifying jostling with Clare College’s law students. They desisted sheepishly when they became aware that the Senior Proctor was glaring in their direction.

‘You see?’ asked Michael, continuing to scowl until both groups had slunk away. ‘At first, the rivalry was light-hearted and harmless – amusing exercises in resourcefulness and intelligence. But then Kendale sent the crated bull to King’s Hall – he denies it, of course, but I know it was him – and now the competition will turn vicious.’

‘There he is,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where Chestre’s Principal was yelling at one of the town’s burgesses. Kendale was a large, handsome man, who wore his thick, fair hair in a braid that made him look like a Saxon pirate. By contrast, John Drax, the town’s wealthiest taverner, was small, dark and unattractive. Both had lost their tempers, and their angry voices were accompanied by a lot of finger-wagging.

‘Kendale leases his hostel building from Drax,’ said Michael, watching intently. ‘They are doubtless quarrelling about the rent. It is a pity they are not gentlemen enough to keep their disputes private, because if they carry on like that, others will join in and we shall have a brawl.’

As if he sensed Michael’s disapproving gaze, Kendale grabbed Drax’s arm and hustled him down an alley. Drax resisted, but Kendale was strong, and they were soon out of sight.

‘Good!’ said Michael, relieved. ‘Why could they not have done that in the first place? But we had better visit Emma de Colvyll, or she will be wondering what has happened to you. Did you know she currently owns more than fifteen houses in the town, not to mention estates and manors all across the Fens?’

‘I know she owns Edmund House, near the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The canons are eager to buy it from her, to use as a student hostel, but she refuses to sell it. I cannot imagine why she is so determined to keep it. It is not an especially attractive place.’

‘She will have her reasons,’ said Michael. ‘And they will be concerned with profit, you can be sure of that.’

Bartholomew knocked at Emma’s door, shivering as he did so; the wind was biting, and he wondered whether it might snow again. A servant answered almost immediately. The fellow was white-faced and trembling, and Bartholomew supposed he had been given a dressing-down for not being on hand when a thief had invaded his mistress’s domain.

‘She is waiting for you,’ was all he said.

Bartholomew and Michael followed him along a short corridor and into the solar Emma used for business. It was a luxuriously appointed room, with tasteful hangings on the walls and a plethora of thick rugs. As she was wealthy enough to afford the best, her glass window panes had been fitted in such a way as to exclude draughts. A fire blazed in the hearth, and an appetising selection of nuts, sweetmeats and dried fruits sat on a table nearby. They were clearly for Emma’s consumption only, and even Michael, a shameless devourer of other people’s treats, was sufficiently wary of her to refrain from descending on them.

Emma’s family was with her that morning. Her daughter Alice, who was sewing by the fire, was a heavy, sullen woman who rarely spoke unless it was to voice a complaint. Her husband was Thomas Heslarton, a powerfully built soldier with a bald head and missing teeth. He was a ruffian, but there was a certain charm in his quick grin and cheerful manners, and Bartholomew found him by far the most likeable member of the clan.

With such hefty parents, their daughter Odelina was not going to be a petite beauty, and nor was she. Her fashionably tight kirtle revealed an impressive cascade of bulges, and her hair was oddly two-tone, as if she had attempted to dye it and something had gone horribly wrong. She was twenty-four, and had so far rejected the suitors her family had recommended, because a fondness for romantic ballads was encouraging her to hold out for a brave and handsome knight.

But by far the most dominating presence in the room was Emma de Colvyll herself. Extreme age had wasted her arms and legs, although she still possessed a substantial girth, and she never wore any colour except black. There was something about her that always put Bartholomew in mind of a fat spider. She had beady eyes, which had a disconcerting tendency to glitter, and she had been known to reduce grown men to tears with a single word.

‘You took your time,’ she snapped, when Bartholomew and Michael were shown in. She thrust out a hand, all wrinkled skin and curved nails. ‘Give me the box.’

‘What box?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

Emma glowered. ‘The box that yellow-haired villain stole – the one I sent you to retrieve.’

‘He did not have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would have slowed him down, so he must have–’

‘It was a small one,’ Emma interrupted harshly. ‘I imagine he tucked it inside his tunic, so it would not have slowed him down at all.’

Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I did not see a box. Are you sure he took it?’

‘Of course I am sure,’ hissed Emma. She eyed him coldly. ‘I assume from your replies that not only did you fail to recover my property, but you failed to lay hold of the scoundrel, too. How did that happen? You were only moments behind him.’

‘He could run faster than me.’ The reply was curt, but Bartholomew disliked being spoken to like an errant schoolboy. ‘And he had a horse saddled ready in the Griffin.’

‘It was unfair to send a scholar after a felon,’ added Michael, also resenting her tone. ‘We are forbidden to carry weapons, and Matt might have been injured had he–’

Emma sneered. ‘Everyone knows he fought at Poitiers, where he was rewarded for his valour by the Prince of Wales. A mere felon could not best him, armed or otherwise.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He had spent eighteen months overseas, when bad timing had put him in Poitiers when the English army had done battle with the French. He had taken up arms, but it had been his skill in treating the wounded afterwards that had merited the Prince’s approbation. Unfortunately, his book-bearer Cynric, who had been with him, loved telling war stories, and the physician’s modest role in the clash had been exaggerated beyond all truth.

Emma turned to Heslarton. ‘That box is important to me, Thomas. Would you mind…’

Heslarton beamed amiably. ‘Of course, Mother! I would have gone immediately, but you said Bartholomew could manage. I will get your property back, never fear.’

She smiled, and Bartholomew was reminded that, despite their disparate personalities, she was fond of her loutish son-in-law, a feeling that seemed wholly reciprocated. In fact, Emma and Heslarton seemed to admire each other a good deal more than either liked Alice.

‘Do be careful, Thomas,’ said Alice snidely, watching the exchange with barely concealed contempt. ‘Cornered thieves can be very dangerous.’

Heslarton pulled an unpleasant face at her on his way out, and Odelina did the same, before going to talk to someone who was sitting by the window. Bartholomew started: he had not known anyone else was in the room, because his attention had been on Emma and her kin. The visitor was Celia Drax, the taverner’s beautiful wife. She had been Bartholomew’s patient until rumours began to circulate about his penchant for unorthodox medicine, when she had promptly defected to another physician. He wondered what she was doing in the Colvylls’ company.

‘I will pull my mother’s hair out one day,’ muttered Odelina sulkily. ‘She has a cruel tongue.’

‘Now, now,’ admonished Celia mildly. ‘Come and sit by me. We have our sewing to finish.’

‘Thomas will catch the villain,’ said Emma confidently to Bartholomew and Michael, watching the younger women huddle together over their needles. ‘By this evening, I shall have that dishonest rogue locked in my cellar.’

‘You must hand him to the Sheriff,’ Michael reminded her. ‘It is his business to deal with felons, not yours. And if, by some remote chance, the culprit is a scholar, then he comes under my jurisdiction. You cannot dispense justice as you see fit.’

Emma inclined her head, although it was clear she intended to dispense whatever she pleased. Bartholomew glanced around the room, taking in the gold ornaments and jewelled candlesticks, and wondered what was in the box that meant so much to her. He asked.

‘Things my late husband gave me,’ she replied shortly. ‘Incidentally, did Michaelhouse say those masses for his soul that I paid for? When I die, I shall be furious if I arrive in Heaven and find he is not there, just because your College has not kept its side of the bargain.’

Michael raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘You seem very certain that you are upward bound.’

Emma regarded him askance. ‘I am generous to priests and I support worthy causes – like paying to mend your College’s roof. Of course I shall have a place in the Kingdom of God.’

‘I think you will find it is not that straightforward,’ said Michael dryly. ‘You cannot buy your way into Heaven.’

‘Actually, you can,’ countered Emma with considerable conviction. ‘And my great wealth will secure me the best spot available. Although, obviously, I will not be needing it for many years yet.’

Michael was spared from thinking of a reply because a sudden clatter of hoofs sounded in the yard outside. Emma told Alice to open the window, so she could see what was happening. It revealed Heslarton astride a magnificent black stallion. He had assembled a posse of about ten men, and his horses were far superior to any of Michaelhouse’s nags. His retainers were tough, soldierly types, and Bartholomew felt a pang of sympathy for the thief.

‘Do not stay out after dark, Father,’ called Odelina worriedly. ‘It is not safe.’

Heslarton grinned up at her, clearly relishing the opportunity for a spot of manly activity. ‘Do not worry, lass. This villain will be no match for me.’

‘I was thinking of other dangers,’ said Odelina unhappily. ‘Such as not being able to see where you are going, and the fact that it might snow.’

‘You may break your neck,’ added Alice sweetly. ‘That would be a pity.’

‘I will return by nightfall, Odelina,’ promised Heslarton, pointedly ignoring his wife, and then he and his men were gone in a frenzy of rattling hoofs and enthusiastic whoops.

‘We should go, too,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary is tomorrow, and there is a lot to do before then.’

‘You mean teaching?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the huge classes Michaelhouse’s Fellows had been burdened with after the Master had enrolled twenty new students the previous year, in an effort to raise revenues.

‘I mean making sure the cooks do not stint on food,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘I have not had a decent meal in weeks, and the Purification is one of my favourite festivals.’

Bartholomew suspected it was one of his favourites because a former Fellow had bequeathed funds to provide a post-church feast. It was not a large benefaction, however, and there were more mouths to feed than in previous years: the monk was likely to be disappointed. Still, Bartholomew thought, surveying the ample bulk with a professional eye, it would do him no harm. Michael had lost some of his lard over the previous weeks – a combination of being busy, and the College’s dwindling resources – and was much healthier for it.

‘Are you coming?’ asked Michael, when the physician made no reply. ‘We have delivered the bad news, so you are free to leave.’

‘Where are you going, Doctor?’ demanded Emma, when the scholars aimed for the door. ‘Your chasing criminals on my behalf did nothing to relieve the agonies in my jaws, so we shall finish the consultation we began earlier. The monk can leave, though.’

‘I cannot stay,’ said Michael, determined to give the impression that he was leaving because he wanted to, not because he had been dismissed. ‘I am far too busy. Good morning, madam.’

‘I am going to the kitchen,’ announced Odelina, when he had gone. ‘The cook is making marchpanes, and you may share them, Celia. Mother may not – she needs to watch her figure.’

As Odelina was a good deal portlier than her dam, Bartholomew expected a tart rejoinder, but Alice merely rolled her eyes and followed her daughter out. It was not many moments before Bartholomew and Emma were alone.

‘My torment is getting worse,’ said the old lady, putting a gnarled hand to her face.

‘Well, yes, it will,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I have explained before, you have a rotten tooth, and the pain will persist until it is taken out.’

‘But you have also informed me that the procedure will hurt.’

‘It will hurt,’ Bartholomew acknowledged. ‘But not for very long, and then you will recover. However, if you delay, the poisons may seep into your blood. They could make you extremely ill.’

Emma shook her head firmly. ‘I do not approve of this “cure” of yours. Devise another.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘There is no other cure, but if you do not believe me, then hire another medicus. Gyseburne and Meryfeld arrived in the town a few weeks ago, and they are skilled practitioners. Or there is Rougham of Gonville Hall.’

Emma grimaced. ‘Rougham is a pompous ass, while Gyseburne and Meryfeld are not members of the University. Besides, you come free, in return for my generosity in mending Michaelhouse’s roof, and I do not see why I should squander money needlessly. So, you had better consult a few books and invent a different treatment, because I am not letting you near me with pliers.’

Bartholomew tried to make her see reason. ‘But it is the only–’

‘Why can you not calculate my horoscope, and use it to provide me with potent herbs? I know you own such potions, because Celia Drax told me you gave her some when she was your patient.’

‘Potent herbs will afford you temporary relief, but they will not solve the problem long-term.’

‘I will take my chances,’ said Emma brusquely. ‘Besides, only barbers pull teeth, and you are a physician. It would be most improper for you to do it.’

It was something Bartholomew’s colleagues were always telling him – that not only was it forbidden for scholar-physicians to practise surgery, it was demeaning, too. But Bartholomew believed patients should have access to any treatment that might help them, and as the town’s only surgeon now confined himself to trimming hair, he had no choice but to perform the procedures himself.

‘It is the only–’ he began again.

Emma cut across him. ‘Give me some of your sense-dulling potions, so I can rest for a few hours. The agony kept me awake all last night, and I am exhausted. We shall discuss the matter again later, when my wits are not befuddled by exhaustion.’

Bartholomew was tempted to refuse, in the hope that pain would bring her to her senses, but there was something in her beady-eyed glare that warned him against it. He was not usually intimidated by patients, especially ones who were less than half his size, but Emma was not like his other clients. With a resentful sigh, he did as he was told.

It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew had finished with Emma, and he left her house with considerable relief. Cynric, his book-bearer, was waiting outside with a list of other people who needed to see him. The most urgent was Isnard the bargeman, who had cut his hand. The gash needed to be sutured, and Bartholomew wondered how his fellow physicians treated wounds, when they would not insert stitches themselves and there was no surgeon to do it for them.

As he sewed, half listening to Isnard’s inconsequential chatter, he thought how fortunate he was that Master Langelee had never tried to meddle with the way he practised medicine. But would it last? He had recently learned that most of his patients were cheerfully convinced that he was a warlock, and that they believed he owed his medical successes to a pact made with the Devil. They did not care, as long as he made them better, but his colleagues objected to having a perceived sorcerer in their midst, and constantly pressed Langelee to do something about him.

He left Isnard, still pondering the matter. He heard a yell, and glanced across the river to the water meadows beyond, where a group of townsmen were playing camp-ball. Camp-ball was a rough sport, and the rivalry between teams was intense. The men stopped playing when they saw him looking, and stared back in a way that was distinctly unfriendly. He could only suppose they were practising some new manoeuvre and did not want him to report it to the opposition.

Ignoring their scowls, he entered the row of hovels opposite, to tend two old women, neither of whom he could help. Their bodies were weakened by cold and hunger, and they did not have the strength to fight the lung-rot that was consuming them. When he had finished, sorry his skills were unequal to saving their lives, he headed towards the Carmelite convent on Milne Street, where a case of chilblains awaited his attention. He had not gone far before he met someone he knew.

Griffin Welfry was a jovially friendly Dominican in his thirties, with a shock of tawny hair and a tonsure barely visible beneath it. He wore a leather glove on his left hand, and had once confided to Bartholomew that it was to conceal the disfiguring result of a childhood palsy. He was flexing the afflicted fingers as he walked along the towpath.

‘No, it is not the cold affecting it,’ he said in answer to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘It is agitation. The Prior-General of my Order has arranged for me to be appointed Seneschal – the University official who liaises with the exchequer in London.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Bartholomew warmly. He liked Welfry, and was pleased his considerable abilities were being recognised. ‘You will make a fine Seneschal.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Welfry doubtfully. ‘My Prior-General told me only a few months ago that I was good for nothing except making people laugh. He intended it as an insult, but I was flattered. As far as I am concerned, humour is one of God’s greatest gifts.’

Bartholomew did not need to be reminded of Welfry’s love of mirth. All the Cambridge Dominicans liked practical jokes, but Welfry excelled at them, and since he had arrived a few months before, his brethren had rarely stopped smirking. Indeed, Bartholomew was fairly certain it had been Welfry who had hoisted the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof.

‘I suppose I had better accept,’ Welfry went on unenthusiastically. ‘The Prior-General sent me to Cambridge to pen a great theological tract that will glorify our Order, but I do not seem able to start one. Perhaps these solemn duties will concentrate my mind.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the Prior-General was hankering after a lost cause. Welfry was incorrigibly mischievous, and the physician doubted he would ever use his formidable intellect to its full potential. Indeed, he suspected it was only a matter of time before Welfry played some prank on the exchequer, simply because he was bored. The King’s clerks were unlikely to appreciate it, and the University would suffer as a consequence.

‘I have been told I must be solemn at all times,’ said Welfry glumly. Then a grin stole across his face. ‘But maybe I should regard it as a challenge – I am sure I can make the exchequer laugh. Incidentally, how is the King’s Hall student who was gored by the bull? That was a nasty trick.’

‘It was,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But he is recovering. I have been told it was the work of Chestre Hostel. What do you think?’

Welfry grimaced. ‘There is insufficient evidence to say, although they did happen to be walking past when the crate was opened, which was suspicious. However, I cannot believe they intended harm. Jokes are never funny if someone is hurt when they are implemented.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, wishing everyone shared Welfry’s benign attitude.

The Carmelites, popularly known as the White Friars, had done well for themselves since their priory had been established in Cambridge the previous century. It had been founded by St Simon Stock, an early Prior-General, and from humble beginnings it had expanded until they owned a spacious site and a number of elegant buildings.

Bartholomew was admitted to their compound by a lay-brother, and escorted to the pretty cottage in which Prior Etone lived. Etone was a grim-faced man, said to spend more time with his account books than at his prayers, although Bartholomew had always found him pleasant enough. He was suffering from chilblains, a common complaint in winter, when footwear never dried and feet were rarely warm. While Bartholomew applied a poultice to the sore heels, Etone regaled him with a detailed description of the new shrine he intended to build.

‘The number of pilgrims warrants the expenditure,’ he explained. ‘Four more arrived just this morning and they look wealthy. I am sure they will leave us a nice benefaction when they go.’

Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘Why do pilgrims come? What shrine do they visit?’

Etone regarded him askance. ‘How can you ask such questions? I thought you were local!’

‘I am, but–’

‘It is because of what happened to St Simon Stock when he was here,’ interrupted Etone indignantly. ‘He had a vision: our Lady of Mount Carmel appeared to him, and presented him with the scapular all Carmelites now wear.’

A scapular was two pieces of cloth joined together and worn over the shoulders. It formed a distinctive part of the White Friars’ uniform.

‘I have heard the tale,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘But I thought it was a myth – that no one could prove Simon Stock even had a dream, let alone when he was in Cambridge.’

‘It is most assuredly true!’ cried Etone. ‘And the increasing pilgrim trade proves it. Our Lady handed St Simon Stock his scapular here, in our very own priory, and I intend to exploit … I mean develop the place for the benefit of all mankind.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But just because pilgrims come does not mean it is a genuine–’

‘It is genuine!’ insisted Etone. He stood carefully, and slipped his feet into soft shoes with the backs cut away. ‘Come with me, and I shall show you where it happened. You will feel its sanctity. And if you do not, it means you are Satan’s spawn and God has not deigned to touch you.’

Bartholomew was not very susceptible to atmospheres, being a practical man of science, and did not want to be denounced as the Devil’s offspring by an influential friar.

‘Another time, Father,’ he mumbled hastily. ‘I still have several patients who need–’

‘Even diligent physicians should never be too busy for God,’ declared Etone piously. ‘Come.’

Supposing he would have to prevaricate if not immediately overwhelmed by the shrine’s holiness, Bartholomew followed him across the yard to a wooden hut. It was well made, and had been nicely painted, but it was still a hut.

‘Is this it?’ he asked uneasily, not sure he could feign suitably convincing reverence over something that looked as though it belonged at the bottom of a garden.

Without speaking, Etone pushed open the door. Inside was a tiny altar with a brass cross, two candlesticks and an ornate, jewel-studded chest, which he unlocked with a key that hung around his neck. Then he stood aside, so the physician could inspect its contents. Bartholomew did so, and saw a piece of cloth. It was old, dirty and of indeterminate colour. He studied it for a moment, then looked blankly at Etone, wondering what he was supposed to say.

‘It is a piece of the scapular Our Lady presented to St Simon Stock,’ averred Etone reverently, crossing himself. ‘So, you see, this is not just a sacred place because of the vision that occurred here, but because we have this important relic.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, itching to ask how he had come by it: according to the legend, Simon Stock, as per the instructions given in his dream, was said to have worn the garment for the rest of his life and then had been buried in it. Etone did not look like a tomb robber.

‘It is a disgrace!’ came a sudden, furious shout from outside. ‘We are pilgrims, and you think people would respect that.’

‘It is a bad winter and the poor are desperate.’ Michael’s voice was soothing and calm. ‘I doubt he knew what he was taking. He just saw the glint of metal, and assumed it was a brooch.’

‘It was a badge from the Holy Land,’ came the agitated voice. ‘Not a brooch.’

Bartholomew followed Etone outside, relieved to be spared the awkwardness of pretending that he had been touched by what he had been shown, when the reality was that he had felt nothing at all. Perhaps God did consider him a disciple of Satan, he thought uneasily, and his constant flying in the face of all that was orthodox had finally been too much. It was not a comfortable notion.

Michael was standing in the yard with the four pilgrims they had seen earlier – two men and two nuns. All looked angry.

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Etone, hobbling towards them. ‘What has happened?’

‘Brazen robbery,’ declared one of the pilgrims, turning to face him. He was a thickset man with an unhealthy complexion that said he was probably ill. His hat and cloak bore more pilgrim insignia than Bartholomew had ever seen on a single person, and he imagined the fellow must have spent half his life visiting shrines, because besides the distinctive ampoules of Canterbury and St Peter’s keys from Rome, at least two suggested he had been to Jerusalem, as well.

‘Robbery?’ repeated Etone uneasily. ‘Not in my priory, Master Poynton.’

‘Yes, here!’ declared Poynton heatedly. ‘One of my badges has been stolen. It was pinned to my saddlebag, and now it has gone.’

‘I saw it happen,’ added one of the nuns. ‘I saw the signaculum snatched with my own eyes.’

‘So did I,’ added the second nun. ‘The villain aimed straight for it, and ripped it away. He did not even look at our purses.’

‘Signacula are extremely valuable,’ snapped Poynton. ‘Especially that one. It was gold – a cross from the Holy Land, no less.’

‘What was it doing on your saddlebag, then?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself. But it was a fair question: an item of such worth should have been treated with more care.

‘Because there is no more room on my clothes,’ snarled Poynton, rounding on him. ‘And these items are meant to be seen, so everyone will know of the great journeys I have undertaken for the sake of my body and my soul. Who are you, anyway?’

While Bartholomew thought Poynton’s body and soul must be in a very poor state indeed, if they required quite so many acts of penance, Etone introduced him. Then he indicated the pilgrims.

‘Master Poynton is a merchant,’ he said. ‘Hugh Fen is a pardoner, while Agnes and Margaret Neel are nuns of my own Order. They were both married to the same man.’

‘But not at the same time,’ added one of the nuns hastily. They were both short, middle-aged and plump, and in their identical habits, were difficult to tell apart.

‘A pardoner,’ said Michael, regarding Fen with distaste. He detested pardoners – men who peddled indulgences and relics to the desperate. Fen, however, looked a cut above his fellows. He was a tall, handsome man with a neat black beard, and if he had undertaken lots of pilgrimages, he did not advertise the fact by covering himself with tokens. He bowed politely to Michael, revealing fine white teeth in a smile, although he must have detected the disapproval in the monk’s voice.

‘He makes a fine living from it,’ said Poynton. ‘There is much money to be made from pilgrims.’

‘I hope so,’ muttered Etone. He smiled ingratiatingly at the merchant. ‘Brother Michael will retrieve your cross, Master Poynton, never fear. He is our Senior Proctor, and very good at investigating crimes that occur on University property.’

‘I am good,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But I do not see how I shall solve this one. All you can tell me is that the thief wore a green tunic, but I shall need more than that if I am to succeed.’

‘He dashed in from the street,’ said Poynton, bristling with anger at the memory. ‘It happened so fast that I only had a glimpse of him. Damned villain!’

‘He had bright yellow hair,’ said Fen helpfully. ‘Lots of it.’

‘Yellow hair?’ asked Bartholomew, looking sharply at him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It cannot be the same man you chased, Matt,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘He fled the town, and Heslarton is now hot on his heels. He is unlikely to have returned within a couple of hours and committed a second offence.’

‘Why not?’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘If Heslarton is scouring the Chesterton road, then Cambridge is as safe a place as any to hide. Here, there are crowds to disappear into.’

‘I accept that,’ said Michael. ‘But the operative word here is hide. If he did return, he will be lying low, not drawing attention to himself by stealing from pilgrims.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘If you say so. But it is an odd coincidence.’

When Prior Etone changed the subject from theft to shrines, Bartholomew took his leave, unwilling to be asked in front of quite so many devout penitents whether he had been struck by the sanctity of Simon Stock’s scapular. He muttered something about patients, and continued with his rounds. He visited a student with stomach pains, then aimed for Michaelhouse, eager to spend at least some time teaching before the day ended – it was already mid-afternoon.

He was walking down St Michael’s Lane, pondering a lecture he was to give on the theories of Maimonides the following day, when he became aware that his path was blocked by a wall of men. Academic thoughts flew from his mind when he recognised Principal Kendale and the scholars of Chestre Hostel.

Chestre was located not far from Michaelhouse, so the two foundations’ paths often crossed. Michaelhouse’s Fellows were mostly sensible, sober men, who took care to ensure the encounters were amiable, but the same could not be said for their students. Ever since Kendale’s trick had seen a College man gored by a bull, they had taken to bawling insults at Chestre. There had been no physical fighting so far, but Bartholomew sensed it would not be long in coming.

That day, Chestre’s scholars had ranged themselves across the alley in such a way that no one could pass. Kendale was in the middle, distinctive with his braided hair and sturdy bulk. He was a philosopher, with exciting ideas about mathematics and natural philosophy, and Bartholomew had been impressed when he had heard him in the debating chamber.

‘You are in our way, Michaelhouse,’ Kendale said coldly. ‘You had better retrace your steps.’

Bartholomew was half tempted to do as he suggested, just to avoid a confrontation, but was aware that if the same tactic was then tried on Michaelhouse’s students, there would be a fight for certain. With a stifled sigh of resignation – he did not want to bandy words with Chestre when he could be teaching – he adopted his most reasonable tone of voice.

‘This is no way to behave,’ he said quietly. ‘Why not live peacefully, and take advantage of–’

‘Peacefully?’ sneered Chestre’s Bible Scholar, a man named Neyll. He was a bulky, pugilistic Scot in his early twenties, with dark hair and curious black eyebrows that formed a thick, unbroken line across his forehead. There was something about him that reminded Bartholomew of an ape, and he could not imagine a fellow less suited to the task of daily scripture reading. ‘You mean to lull us into a false sense of safety, so the Colleges can slit our throats while we sleep!’

‘No one means you harm,’ said Bartholomew, although he suspected that the bull incident might well have changed that. ‘And it is–’

‘All College scum mean us harm,’ Neyll flashed back. ‘But they will never best us.’

Bartholomew declined to be drawn. He smiled at Kendale and tried a different tack. ‘I enjoyed your lecture the other day. Your contention that non-uniformly accelerated motion is–’

‘I was wasting my breath,’ said Kendale disdainfully. ‘No one at the Colleges has the wits to understand my analyses. I might just have well have been speaking Greek.’

‘You could have done,’ retorted Bartholomew coolly. There was only so far he would allow himself to be insulted. ‘Many of us would still have followed your reasoning.’

‘Liar!’ snarled Neyll, raising his fists as he stalked forward. ‘I am going to give you a–’

‘Hold, Chestre!’ came a loud, belligerent yell.

Bartholomew glanced around and saw a group of Michaelhouse students returning from a sermon in St Bene’t’s Church. They outnumbered Kendale’s lads by at least two to one, and Neyll’s aggressive advance immediately faltered. At their head was John Valence, Bartholomew’s best pupil, a freckle-faced lad with floppy fair hair.

‘We were just discussing Kendale’s lecture on the mean speed theorem,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before there was trouble. ‘But we have finished now, and it is time to go home.’

Valence did not look convinced, but began to walk towards Michaelhouse anyway, beckoning his cronies to follow. Neyll was ‘accidentally’ jostled as they passed, and his dark eyebrows drew down in a savage V, but he was not so reckless as to voice an objection.

‘You are a warlock, Bartholomew,’ hissed Kendale, as the physician turned to leave, too. ‘And a heretic – not the sort of man who should be teaching in any university. I will see you ousted.’

Bartholomew ignored him, but was relieved when he reached the sanctuary afforded by Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates.

‘At least we know where we are again now,’ said Walter, the College’s surly porter, after he had opened the gate and Bartholomew had remarked sadly that the recent peace seemed to be crumbling. ‘I did not like everyone being nice to each other. It did not feel right.’

‘You mean you prefer to be constantly on the brink of a riot?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Walter nodded, unabashed. ‘Of course I do. It means I can suspect everyone of evil intent, which is much more satisfying than sickly cordiality. And the trouble is only within the University anyway – the town is quite happy to sit back and watch us squabble among ourselves this time.’

He picked up his pet peacock and hugged it. It crooned and nestled against him. Bartholomew had always been surprised by the relationship between porter and bird, because both were sour tempered and inclined to be solitary.

‘Incidentally, the uncanny calm in the town is Emma de Colvyll’s doing,’ Walter went on when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘She has driven the other criminals out of business, see.’

‘She is not a criminal,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is a businesswoman.’

‘She is a criminal,’ asserted Walter firmly. ‘She may not go around burgling and robbing, but there are other ways to deprive a man of his wealth. She is deeply wicked, and I dislike the fact that my College accepted her charity.’

He scowled into the yard. Scaffolding swathed the building where Bartholomew lived, and he was alarmed when he saw most of the roof tiles had been removed since he had gone out. If it rained – and the sky was ominously dark – the rooms beneath would be drenched. He hoped the workmen knew what they were doing.

‘It will not be for long,’ he said, wincing when a carelessly placed strut slithered off the roof to land with an almighty crash that reverberated around the whole College. The peacock issued one of its piercing shrieks in reply. The mason imitated it, and his workmates guffawed uproariously. None of them could be seen, because they were all on the far side of the roof – the section that overlooked the gardens at the back. ‘The repairs will soon be finished.’

‘The repairs will soon be finished,’ agreed Walter, hugging his bird more tightly. ‘But the debt will last for ever, and it will not be long before Emma starts demanding payment. And I do not refer to money. She will want other things.’ His voice dropped meaningfully. ‘Like services.’

Bartholomew frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes, she has asked for services. The priests among us have agreed to say masses for her husband’s soul, while Master Langelee ordered me to tend her–’

‘I do not mean prayers and medicine,’ interrupted Walter impatiently. ‘I mean other things. She will be asking for dubious favours soon. I tell you, it is not a good idea to do business with her, even if she is making us watertight. Which I seriously doubt.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The workmen seem to be doing well enough.’

‘The mason – Yffi – is careless and shoddy. Take this morning, for example. He arrived at dawn, and has been labouring ever since. Look at how much he has done.’

Bartholomew looked at the roof, trying to understand Walter’s point. ‘His apprentices have removed all the old tiles, and he has laid two rows of new ones. He has achieved a lot.’

‘Exactly!’ pounced Walter. ‘A good mason would have taken twice as long. The roof will leak again as soon as he leaves, and all this chaos and upheaval will have been for nothing. And we shall have Emma de Colvyll after us for dark favours.’

Bartholomew left, hoping Walter was wrong, then stood for a moment, looking around him. His College comprised a handsome stone-built hall, with two accommodation wings set at right angles to it. He lived in the northern wing, the older and shabbier of the pair, where he occupied two chambers – a large one he shared with his students, and a cupboard-like space that was used for storing the accoutrements necessary for his work as a physician.

There was just enough space in the little room for a mattress, and he had taken to sleeping there following an incident involving missing potions the previous term: he felt people were less likely to help themselves to what were some very dangerous substances if he was present. The smell had been uncomfortable to begin with, but he had quickly grown used to it, and his students were pleased to have the additional space in the main chamber.

He started to walk again, but had not gone far before he was intercepted by Robert de Blaston, the carpenter. Blaston, his wife Yolande and their fourteen children were Bartholomew’s patients, and he had known them for years. Blaston was a conscientious, talented craftsman, who would never be rich because he was too honest. Bartholomew was fond of him, and considered him a rare ray of integrity in a town that was mostly out for its own ends.

‘I do not know about that roof,’ Blaston said, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Yffi has not used enough battens, and I doubt the ones he has put up are thick enough to support a structure of that weight – tiles are heavy.’

Bartholomew was no builder, but could see that Blaston had a point – the wooden frame Yffi had constructed did appear too flimsy. ‘I will speak to the Master about it.’

He aimed for the hall straight away. Blaston’s concerns had made him uneasy: Emma’s thriftiness, combined with the natural skimming that went along with any building project, meant corners were going to be cut. And that might prove dangerous to Michaelhouse’s residents.

He passed through the door bearing the founder’s coat of arms, now woefully caked in dust from the renovations, then trotted up the spiral staircase to the hall, where the day’s teaching was under way. As usual, benches had been placed to face individual masters, who then held forth to classes that ranged in size from two students to ten, depending on the subject.

Normally, there was no problem with everyone being in the same room – the Fellows were used to lecturing at the same time as their colleagues, and the students were used to tuning out other lessons to attend to their own – but that day they were obliged to contend with the workmen, too. This included not only rattling pulleys, assorted crashes and hammering, but the manly banter that went along with them. Closing the window shutters would have eliminated some of the racket, but then lamps would have been needed, and fuel was far too costly to squander in such a way.

‘Blaston and Walter are worried about the quality of Yffi’s work,’ Bartholomew murmured in Langelee’s ear as he passed, en route to his own class. ‘And so am I.’

The Master of Michaelhouse was a burly man with a barrel chest. He looked more like a wrestler than a philosopher, and was not a talented academic. He had been the Archbishop of York’s henchman before deciding on an academic career, and remarks he had let slip about his duties indicated he had not been employed in any capacity the prelate would care to have made public.

‘Me, too,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘There do not seem to be enough battens, although Yffi told me I did not know what I was talking about when I said so. Damned impertinence! But I will tackle him again when teaching is finished.’

Bartholomew was about to leave him to his work when he noticed that one corner of the hall was empty. It was where Thelnetham, the College’s Gilbertine theologian usually taught, but his students were sitting with Michael’s pupils.

‘Where is Thelnetham?’ he asked. The Gilbertine was conscientious about teaching, and it was rare for him to miss a lesson.

‘At his friary,’ replied Langelee. ‘There is a meeting to discuss the purchase of some house or other, and he wanted to be there, to voice an opinion. I envy him. I would not have minded an excuse to miss hollering my way through the afternoon, either.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Suttone, a portly Carmelite, looking up from his grammar books. ‘We shall all be after you for sore-throat remedies before the day is done, Matthew. I am already hoarse.’

It was not long before Bartholomew appreciated what they meant. The masons were enjoying a lewd discussion about the famously creative talents of Blaston’s wife. Yolande worked as a prostitute to supplement the family income, and when Yffi began to describe some of her more innovative techniques, Bartholomew saw he was losing his class’s attention – they were all staring in open-mouthed fascination towards the roof on which the builders were working.

‘What does Galen say about blood that is excessively salty?’ he asked loudly, indicating that Valence should answer the question.

But Valence was transfixed by Yffi’s description of what Yolande could do with a handful of chestnuts and a warm cloth, and it was Rob Deynman, the dim-witted librarian, who answered. Deynman had been a medical student himself, until he had been ‘promoted’ in an effort to keep him from practising on an unwary public, and prided himself on what he could remember from the many years of lessons he had attended. Unfortunately, his memory was rarely equal to his enthusiasm.

‘He said salty blood is white,’ he replied, with one of his bright and rather vacant grins. ‘Because salt is white. And if blood is white, then it means it has turned into phlegm.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering whether anything he had taught the lad had been retained in anything like its original context. ‘Can anyone else tell me what–’

But he was interrupted by a furious screech from outside, which had students and masters alike rushing to the window to see what was going on. It was Agatha the laundress, the formidable matron who had inveigled herself into a position of some power among the servants. It was an unorthodox arrangement – women were not permitted inside Colleges – but neither the Master nor his Fellows were bold enough to tell her so. She was chasing a dog, which had a ham in its jaws. Cheers from the roof indicated the builders had also abandoned their work to enjoy the spectacle.

Determined to retrieve the meat, Agatha gradually corralled the animal into a corner, where it took refuge behind a large pile of tiles, all covered with an oiled sheet. Then she lunged. The dog yowled its outrage as she laid hold of its tail, although its jaws remained firmly fastened around its booty. It became entangled in the sheet in its efforts to escape. Workmen and students alike howled their laughter, although the Fellows were more restrained, knowing from personal experience what could happen if Agatha took umbrage.

‘Go and help her, Bartholomew,’ instructed Langelee, fighting to keep a straight face. ‘Or we shall be here all day, and lessons will suffer.’

Bartholomew went to oblige, hurrying down the spiral staircase before Agatha or the dog could harm each other. When he emerged in the yard, she was hauling furiously on the sheet in an effort to locate her quarry, roughly enough that some of the tiles were falling off their stacks. Yffi was scrambling down the scaffolding, yelling angrily about the damage. Blaston and the watching apprentices were helpless with laughter.

‘Stop, Agatha,’ urged Bartholomew, running towards her. ‘Let me help you.’

‘I do not need help,’ snarled Agatha, jerking the sheet so violently that several more tiles crashed to the ground. The dog’s agitated yips added to the general cacophony. ‘I just want to–’

With a tearing sound, the sheet came away, sending Agatha lurching backwards. The dog was catapulted free and made the most of the opportunity by racing towards the gate. But neither she nor Bartholomew noticed it. Their attention was taken by what her tugging had exposed – a man lying half buried by the tiles she had dislodged.