The Lost Prophecies

As ancient foes do burn and fight,

And foul fair fields with their woeful dead,

The Hammer of the Unruly will show his might,

The glorious sun, the golden head.

And then, when war-blood stains the trading stones,

Will murder spoil the rock’s most sacred place.

And while the King’s house mourns its shattered bones,

Will blaze the traitor’s sainted face.

When scarce a decade since the plaguey scourge,

Far worse than northern wars have ravaged sore,

Then kings and rock will clash and purge,

And strife will visit colleges once more.

I

Cambridge, November 1350

It was a good night for crime – dank, foggy and dark. The robber stood in the shadows cast by the college of Peterhouse and bided his time. The only light was from the lamp that hung above the gate, a pale, sickly gleam that did little to dispel the blackness. He smiled grimly. Perhaps God had sent the mist to help him. It was not such a wild thought: the so-called Black Book of Brân, with its uncannily accurate prophecies, was considered dangerous by the Church, and God might well have decided He did not approve of what its current owner – William de Drayton – intended to do with it.

And He was right to be worried. Drayton was a despicable creature, who claimed to have rescued the book from a fire in Hemel Hempstead. The robber suspected that Drayton had set the blaze himself, ruthlessly ensuring that no one survived to accuse him. Of course, it was all Prior Robert’s fault. The foolish, trusting head of Hemel Hempstead Priory had rashly taken Drayton – who by chance had been stuck there for a few days after his horse had gone lame – into his confidence one night, telling his visitor all about the strange and wonderful book that had been entrusted to him, stored in its special box of stone. The robber grimaced. Prior Robert must have been drunk, because he would certainly not have told someone like Drayton such a closely guarded secret. Perhaps the plague, which had been sweeping the country when the priory had burned, had addled Prior Robert’s mind.

Once he had snatched the book from the smouldering ruins, Drayton had disappeared, scuttling from settlement to settlement in an effort to avoid the foul disease that was claiming one in every two or three of the population. It was almost two years before he had deemed it was safe enough to emerge and sell Brân’s prophecies to the highest bidder. He had originally intended to hawk the tome in London, but then had decided to travel to the University at Cambridge instead, on the grounds that scholars loved books and were more likely to pay top prices than the book-dealers of London.

The robber grimaced a second time as he recalled the interest Drayton had managed to drum up – the Black Book of Brân had been kept secret for hundreds of years, yet Drayton flaunted it as though it were an undergraduate textbook. At least a dozen academics had clamoured to buy it, and immediately began bidding against each other – the different colleges had always enjoyed a degree of antipathy towards each other, and no one wanted a rival foundation to gain the upper hand. Now there were only two left: Bardolf of King’s Hall had offered fifteen marks, but Wittleseye of Peterhouse had managed to scrape together seventeen. The robber did not have that sort of money, but he wanted the book – or, rather, his master did, and no one liked disappointing him. So he decided there was no choice but to take it by force. He did not take pleasure from the fact that he would have to kill Drayton in order to get it; it was simply a necessary part of the plan.

The robber reflected on his master for a moment. He was still young but already showed the mettle and determination that would make him great one day – and he showed the cool ruthlessness that would allow him to succeed in all he did too. The robber had never taken a life before, but when his master had ordered him to do so, he had not dared demur: clearly, his master wanted the book at all costs, and as Drayton was unlikely to hand it over without demanding a princely sum in return, then Drayton was going to have to die.

The robber scratched his chin in the darkness. Perhaps Drayton’s death would be foretold in the book – his master had told him that it contained remarkable predictions about all manner of events. And that was why he was so determined to have it, of course – to see whether his own destiny was announced by the ancient prophet, and to see how he might use the verses to claw more power and wealth towards himself.

In the distance a night-watchman called the hour, and the robber shivered, hoping that Drayton would not renege on the arrangements he had made that day. It had not been easy to stalk Drayton without being noticed, and it had been pure luck that the robber had happened to overhear Wittleseye agreeing to hand over his seventeen marks at midnight. Of course, Wittleseye should have been suspicious of the fact that Drayton insisted on trading at a time when honest men were abed, but the Peterhouse Fellow was so determined to have the book that he did not seem to care. The robber knew for a fact that Wittleseye had not told his colleagues what he was going to do – perhaps he intended to run off with it and make his own fortune. The book had a habit of bringing out the worst in people.

The robber wondered what Bardolf of King’s Hall would say the following morning when he learned that the book had been sold while he was asleep. He allowed himself a second mirthless grin. Except that would not happen, because Drayton would be dead and the Black Book of Brân nowhere to be found. By dawn it would be miles away, en route to his master.

Just when the robber was beginning to think that Drayton must have decided against selling to Wittleseye, the man appeared. He had been drinking and was unsteady on his feet, no doubt celebrating the seventeen marks he thought he was about to acquire. Soundlessly, the robber left his hiding-place and padded towards him. Drayton had a bag looped across his shoulder; even in the dim light of the lamp above the gate, the robber knew it contained the book. Before Drayton realized what was happening, the robber slipped up behind him and plunged a dagger into his back. He used his other hand to cover his victim’s mouth, to prevent him from crying out. Holding a man while the life ebbed out of him was not pleasant, but it did not take long. The robber dropped the body and grabbed the bag.

The book was inside, wrapped in oiled parchment to protect it from the damp. Deftly, he pulled away the wrappings, keen to see the thing that had led him down such a dark path. What he found made him gape in horror.

Drayton had brought Aristotle’s On Dreams to the meeting instead. It was the same size as the Black Book of Brân and had the same crude wooden covers, but that was where the similarity ended. Filled with rage and frustration, the robber hurled the tome at Peterhouse’s door. What had Drayton done with the real text? The robber knew for a fact that it was not in his lodgings on the High Street, because he had searched them thoroughly. And Drayton had no friends in the town so could not have left it with a third party. Had he sold it to King’s Hall for fifteen marks, and planned to deceive Wittleseye and get Peterhouse’s seventeen too?

The robber cursed softly in the darkness: the one man who could have answered his questions was dead. Would the Black Book of Brân disappear yet again, before someone else ‘discovered’ it and attempted to use it for his own ends?

II

Cambridge, July 1357

Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at the college of Michaelhouse and the University’s official Corpse Examiner, only just parried the blow that was intended to deprive him of his head. He staggered, struggling to lift his sword to meet the next lunge. His opponent’s face was infused with battle-lust, and Bartholomew knew he could not deflect many more vicious swipes – he was a physician, not a warrior, and although he had acquired a modicum of skill with weapons through the years he was no match for a trained professional.

All around him were the sounds of affray: clashing weapons, war cries, clanging bells, the crackle of fire. It was not the first fracas that had raged in the little Fen-edge town, but it was certainly one of the most serious. He could hear the moans of the dying, and the sandy soil of the Market Square was stained dark with blood.

‘Say your prayers,’ snarled Hugh Bardolf, preparing for his final assault. ‘I will show you what happens to those who declare an allegiance with Peterhouse.’

‘I have not declared an allegiance to Peterhouse,’ objected Bartholomew, ducking behind a cart of onions. Hugh kicked it out of the way as if it were no more solid than straw.

‘Liar! The Master of your college made a speech today, swearing to fight against King’s Hall.’

‘He cannot have done,’ protested Bartholomew, knowing there was no point in trying to reason with Hugh when the man was so inflamed but persisting anyway. ‘He is away.’

Hugh ignored him, concentrating instead on driving him back with a series of determined hacks. Bartholomew’s arms burned from the effort of defending himself, but then Hugh performed a fancy manoeuvre that saw the sword fly from his opponent’s hands. Weaponless and exhausted, Bartholomew braced himself for the blow that would kill him, but even as he raised his head to look Hugh in the eye he saw the man’s fury fade to shock. Then Hugh dropped to his knees, before pitching forwards to land face down on the ground.

‘Lord!’ murmured John de St Philibert, clutching his bloody dagger with unsteady hands. ‘Brother Michael told me you could hold your own in a skirmish, but I thought Hugh was going to kill you.’

Bartholomew retrieved his sword, knowing the danger was not yet over. Hugh had brothers in King’s Hall, and it would be only a matter of time before one raced to avenge his fallen sibling. He pushed John behind him; the Junior Proctor was an even less accomplished warrior than he, and a vengeful Bardolf would hack him to pieces in moments.

But no one came, and a quick glance around told Bartholomew that the violence was ending as abruptly as it had started. The bells grew silent, the clash of steel petered out and calls to arms were replaced by the moans of the wounded. Eventually, Market Square residents felt it was safe to open their doors; they emerged cautiously, making disparaging remarks about the University’s insatiable penchant for fighting. A month ago the friars had been at each other’s throats over some edict from the Pope; now it was the turn of King’s Hall and Peterhouse. The two colleges had suddenly taken against each other after years of peaceful coexistence, although the feud had been confined to sharp-tongued exchanges in the High Street until now.

John was still gazing at Hugh’s body. The Junior Proctor was a handsome man, betrothed to the Earl of Suffolk’s eldest daughter and so destined for a life of power and influence. Until the earl chose a date for the wedding, John was studying law at Cambridge. Afraid that academia would not prepare him for the rough politics of a baron’s household, he had volunteered to serve as the University’s Junior Proctor, which meant he was one of the men responsible for maintaining law and order amongst students. He worked hard at both, although neither peacekeeping nor scholarship came easily to him.

‘I stabbed him in the back,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I should have told him to face me first.’

‘Then he would have killed you,’ said Bartholomew practically, knowing that Hugh would have thought nothing of pitting his great broadsword against John’s slender dagger.

‘What will Joan say when she hears about this?’ John’s voice was full of anguished remorse. ‘She will not want to marry a man without honour.’

Bartholomew thought Joan was the least of John’s problems. ‘Do not tell anyone else what you did,’ he advised. ‘Hugh has brothers, and you do not want them coming after you for revenge.’

John was horrified, the courage he had mustered to save the physician dissipating now the danger was over. ‘I did not think of that. Lord! What have I done?’

‘Cut short a killing spree,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Hugh was an accomplished warrior, and he had no right sparring with Peterhouse’s boys. I saw him kill three myself, and if you had not stopped him there would have been more. You did the right thing. Just do not discuss it with anyone.’

‘Is that why you fought him?’ asked John. ‘You saw him cut that bloody swath through those hapless students, and you wanted to stop him?’

‘They were unarmed,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Witnessing such brutal carnage had been harrowing, and he knew it would haunt him for a long time to come. ‘I had to do something.’

‘You should have been unarmed too,’ said John, eyeing the blade that the physician still held. ‘And so should Hugh. Weapons are forbidden to scholars.’

Bartholomew nodded towards the corpse of a King’s Hall student: Hugh’s blind blood-lust had led him to kill a lad from his own side as well as ‘enemies’.

‘I borrowed his. Do you know how the fighting

started? As far as I understand, it is because my college has announced an alliance with Peterhouse – or so Hugh claims. However, our Master is away, so perhaps one of the other Fellows…’

‘I did hear a rumour to that effect,’ said John, nodding. ‘However, I suspect what happened today had nothing to do with anything your colleagues may or may not have said. It was meant to happen – it was predicted in the Black Book of Brân.’

Bartholomew stared at him in confusion. ‘In the what?’

John regarded him askance, as if astonished that he should have to explain. ‘It is the text everyone is squabbling over. Surely you have heard about it?’

The physician had not heard about a book that was being squabbled over, but was not inclined to ask questions about it when there were wounded men who needed his attention. He pushed all thoughts from his mind except medicine and began the grisly business of stitching cuts, setting bones and pasting poultices over bruises. Most physicians declined to perform such lowly tasks, but Cambridge’s only surgeon was an unsavoury character with a notoriously poor success rate, and Bartholomew disliked entrusting him with anyone’s well-being.

As he worked he became aware that the ringleaders of the feud had declined to leave the field of battle. They were bickering with each other, their voices growing increasingly acrimonious. John tried to order them home, but they were disinclined to listen to him, and the Senior Proctor – Brother Michael – was chasing after some of Peterhouse’s more feisty students, hoping to prevent them from embarking on another brawl.

‘They started it,’ a Peterhouse scholar named Wittleseye was declaring. He was an overweight cleric who liked to brag about the fact that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s nephew. ‘We came to buy bread, and they began baiting us.’

‘They did,’ asserted his colleague, another plump priest who claimed kinship with the archbishop. Neuton had hidden behind a cart the moment fists had started to fly, and he took a sip from the wineskin that was never far from his reach, to steady his nerves. ‘Then Hugh drew his sword for no reason and started hacking at people.’

‘He drew because Peterhouse called him a bastard,’ explained Beadle March, one of the army of men hired by the proctors to keep the peace. He had a pink face, small eyes and an upturned nose, features that were redolent of a pig. Although he had more brains than the average beadle, he was vindictive and petty, and there was a general belief amongst the students, albeit without evidence, that he had enjoyed a criminal past.

‘Well, Hugh is a bastard,’ said Neuton, taking another swig of wine. ‘The Bardolf clan share a father, but they all have different mothers. And we only mentioned his illegitimacy because he insulted us.’

‘He called them thieves,’ supplied March.

Bartholomew looked up sharply; the trouble was likely to reignite if the beadle insisted on repeating the barbs that had started it in the first place.

William Bardolf, the one member of the Bardolf tribe who was not illegitimate, shrugged indolently. He was vice-warden of King’s Hall, a large, black-haired man with a beard. ‘That is not an insult; it is the truth. You make no secret of the fact that you want to steal our lawful property.’

‘The Black Book of Brân is not yours,’ shouted Wittleseye. ‘It is mine. I paid for it seven years ago, and it promptly went missing. You are the thieves.’

William’s expression darkened. ‘We have stolen nothing. The book came to us by the hand of God. Besides, you did not pay for it – Drayton was murdered before you could give him anything.’

Neuton glowered. ‘And who was responsible for that? King’s Hall! You killed Drayton and stole the text. Now you claim to have come by it miraculously. Well, your story is ludicrous!’

‘Not as ludicrous as yours,’ snapped William. ‘Wittleseye went behind your back seven years ago, trying to buy the book for himself. Now you pretend you were all united? It is laughable!’

‘Who told you what I did seven years ago?’ demanded Wittleseye, looking decidedly shifty.

March began to whistle airily, looking anywhere except at the Peterhouse men. Fortunately for him, the scholars were more interested in each other than in gossiping beadles.

One of William’s siblings, who looked just like him except for being twice his size, stepped forward. ‘Peterhouse murdered Drayton, not us,’ snarled Roger Bardolf. ‘Wittleseye did not want to part with his money, and murder ensured he got to keep his silver and the book.’

‘Then why is it not in my possession now?’ demanded Wittleseye, eyeing him disdainfully. ‘If I acquired it by sinister means seven years ago, then how does King’s Hall come to have it?’

‘Divine intervention,’ replied William when Roger hesitated uncertainly. ‘God took it from the hands of thieves and gave it to men who will treat it with respect.’

‘I do not care who stole what,’ said John, speaking quietly to calm them all. ‘Just go home. Brother Michael will hear your grievances as soon as he has seen to the dead. He-’

‘There would not be any dead were it not for these… these devil’s spawn,’ yelled Wittleseye, incensed. ‘But what can you expect from men whose mothers are French witches?’

Roger stepped forward menacingly, but his brother stopped him with a warning glance. Roger clenched his fists, clearly itching to use them, while Wittleseye hastily ducked behind his colleagues.

‘The proctors will fine anyone who swings a punch,’ said March, nevertheless grinning his delight at the prospect of more violence.

Bartholomew stood quickly, acutely aware that threats were more likely to aggravate than ease the situation. He gestured to John that he should send the beadle away before his interjections made matters worse, but the Junior Proctor did not see him.

‘You speak without knowing the facts, Wittleseye,’ said William. His voice was mild, but there was menace in it. ‘Our grandmother is a French witch, but our mothers are all barons’ daughters.’

‘And we would rather be bastards than kin to an archbishop,’ added Roger, wrinkling his nose in exaggerated disgust.

‘I am not keen on archbishops either,’ said March conversationally. ‘They are invariably devious. Well, they have to be, if they are going to rise very high in the Church. Everyone knows that.’

‘No wonder the Bardolf clan steals books,’ said Neuton to Wittleseye, loud enough to be heard by half of Cambridge. ‘Their French blood means they cannot help themselves. They are all villains.’

‘You took leave of absence from your studies last year,’ said William, smiling malevolently at the two priests. ‘Remind me where you went.’

‘They went to France,’ supplied March helpfully. ‘To see the Pope in Avignon, and they came back telling everyone how lovely it was, and how charming were the people. Of course, we are at war with the French, so these sentiments are hardly patriotic…’

‘Stop it!’ cried John, trying hard to be forceful. ‘Everyone will go home immediately, or I will-’

‘Our brother Hugh is dead,’ said Roger in a dangerous growl. ‘I am not going anywhere until his murder is avenged.’

‘It has been avenged,’ said John. He swallowed hard, and his eyes flicked towards Bartholomew. He was an uncomfortable prevaricator and felt guilty about what he had done, no matter how justified. ‘Hugh is dead, but so are five Peterhouse men.’

‘But unlike them, Hugh deserved to die,’ said Wittleseye spitefully. ‘He was an abomination with his over-ready sword, and the world is a better place without him.’

‘I will tear your heads off,’ shouted Roger, shaking off his brothers’ warning hands and striding towards the Peterhouse priests. ‘And then I will play camp-ball with them.’

‘You need only one head to play camp-ball,’ said March, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Any more would be confusing.’

‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew, intervening when he saw Roger’s dagger emerge from its sheath. John was apparently unequal to preventing a second brawl, and the physician did not want more wounds to stitch. He interposed himself between the two factions. ‘Take your injured friends and go home before anyone else dies.’

For a moment he thought they were going to ignore him too, but the Peterhouse clerics were unnerved by the appearance of Roger’s dagger. Wittleseye flashed an obscene gesture at his enemies – a vulgar sign that Bartholomew had never seen a priest make before – and stalked away, pulling Neuton with him. After a moment, lingering just long enough to look as though they were dispersing of their own volition, the Bardolf clan sauntered off in the opposite direction.

‘Thank you,’ said John, relieved. ‘I thought they were going to fight again, and the Bardolfs would have slaughtered the priests. It was the Peterhouse students who did the fighting before – Wittleseye and Neuton did not risk their own skins.’

‘They urged them on, though,’ said March. ‘I do not like those cowardly clerics.’

‘You should confine him to desk-duties,’ advised Bartholomew, watching March strut away to join his fellow beadles. ‘He is too poisonous to be allowed out.’

Bartholomew returned to the wounded, but there were a number of them and it was afternoon by the time he had finished. He was on his way home, disgusted by the whole affair, when he met March. The beadle informed him that the dead had been taken to Holy Trinity and, as Corpse Examiner, Bartholomew was required to inspect them and give an official cause of death. The proctors did not want bodies to act as rallying points for further bloodshed, and the quicker they were in the ground, the better. Bartholomew was in no mood for viewing more victims of violence, but went to do his duty.

Brother Michael was waiting for him. Besides being Senior Proctor, Michael was a Benedictine monk and taught theology at Michaelhouse. He was also the physician’s closest friend. His face was grim, and it was clear he was both unsettled by and angry about the trouble afflicting his town.

Beadle March pointed to where the bodies lay in a row, his porcine features alight with ghoulish malice. ‘Do you need help? I am excellent at identifying killers from wounds.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that March intended to settle a few scores by naming men he did not like as the culprits. ‘John will be here in a moment. He will help me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ replied March disagreeably. ‘I will just stand here and watch, then.’

‘He is not a performing ape,’ said Michael curtly. ‘And you have your own work to do.’

Just then, John approached with parchment and pen, ready to marry the name of each victim with the official cause of death. March slouched away, but it was clear he resented being omitted from the proceedings and did not go far. Bartholomew began his examination. There were seven bodies, including Hugh’s. All were young, and Bartholomew did not find it easy to kneel next to them and inspect their wounds. John was oddly quiet, and when Bartholomew glanced up to make sure he was paying attention, he saw the Junior Proctor’s cheeks were wet with tears.

‘It is so senseless!’ he blurted when Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I know bloodshed was predicted in the Black Book of Brân, but I was not expecting this…’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew kindly. He had no idea what John was talking about, but he understood his distress. ‘Go outside for some fresh air. I can finish on my own.’

John did not need to be told again. He left as fast as his legs would carry him, calling out to Michael as he went that he would organize the beadles for the next patrol. March watched him go with an amused grin, but the expression faded when Michael glared at him. The beadle muttered something about joining his colleagues and made himself scarce.

‘If I were not so short-handed, I would dismiss March,’ said the monk, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. ‘But I need every man I can get at the moment – at least until King’s Hall and Peterhouse come to their senses. What can you tell me about these foolish young men?’

‘I saw Hugh kill three, including the boy from his own college.’ Bartholomew pointed them out. ‘And the rest have sword cuts that make me suspect they were his victims too.’

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘I watched you grab a blade and challenge him. What were you thinking? I was sure he was going to kill you – and then who would have inspected corpses for me? Thank God John was able to come to your rescue. Did you hear how it all started? A rumour that Michaelhouse plans to side with Peterhouse and against King’s Hall. It is untrue, of course.’

‘Do you think the gossip was a deliberate attempt to cause trouble?’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I wish I knew. I came as soon as I heard the two factions were yelling accusations at each other, but Hugh attacked Peterhouse before I could stop him.’

‘Hugh started this fight?’

Michael nodded. ‘Although I saw someone standing beside him, murmuring in his ear. I suspect one of his clan was determined to have a spat and used him as a means to start one. Hugh’s temper was notoriously volatile.’

‘Did you see who it was? He bears some responsibility for what happened – for Hugh’s death, as well as these others.’

‘It was raining, and he wore a hood that conveniently masked his face. However, I shall find him. No one disturbs the peace in my town and evades justice.’

‘In the verbal squabble that followed the riot, when you were chasing those lads from Peterhouse, the ringleaders accused each other of stealing some tome – the Black Book of Brân. What is that about?’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you jesting with me? The question of who owns the thing has been the talk of the town for the last two weeks. Surely you have heard of it? It lies at the heart of the Peterhouse-King’s Hall dispute.’

‘I have been busy. There are student disputations to organize and I have patients to see.’

‘Where have you been doing all this? The moon?’ Michael waved away the physician’s objections and began to explain. ‘The Black Book of Brân is said to be eight hundred years old and was written by a monk who either went mad or vanished – the explanatory notes are difficult to decipher, apparently. It comprises poetry that predicts the future.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘No one with a modicum of sense believes in that sort of nonsense.’

‘And therein lies the problem: the scholars of King’s Hall and Peterhouse do not have a modicum of sense. They are convinced that the book is a powerful tool for predicting future calamities, and each group maintains it is the rightful owner.’

‘What sort of future calamities?’

‘Well, the verse that has them all clamouring about the book’s uncanny accuracy mentions strife visiting colleges. Of course, there is an air of horrible inevitability about the whole business – that trouble was predicted, so someone has ensured that trouble we shall have.’

‘Which college has the stronger claim to the text?’

Michael frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘Neither, as far as I am concerned. It came here seven years ago, brought by an unsavoury character called William de Drayton, who said he had rescued it from a burning priory. I doubt he came by it honestly, and there was a suspicion that he had set the inferno himself. Despite this, two colleges expressed an interest in buying the book: Peterhouse and King’s Hall.’

The tale rang a bell in Bartholomew’s memory. ‘I remember Drayton. He was stabbed not long after the plague. We investigated, but we never found his killer.’

Michael nodded. ‘What we were not told then, but seems common knowledge now, is that he probably died because someone wanted the book he had been carrying in his bag.’

That did not fit with what Bartholomew remembered. ‘The book was one of Aristotle’s, although I cannot recall which. We wondered what kind of killer would have left such a valuable tome behind, and it led us to conclude that the culprit was probably not a scholar.’

Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Well, I am told now that Drayton’s bag was supposed to contain the Black Book of Brân. He was taking it to Peterhouse, where Wittleseye was ready with seventeen marks. Wittleseye waited in vain for the delivery that night – or so he says.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But I was under the impression, from the quarrel in the Market Square, that King’s Hall has the book. Does that mean someone from King’s Hall murdered Drayton?’

‘Peterhouse certainly thinks so. But King’s Hall says the sale was never made – that Drayton died before Peterhouse could pay for it.’

‘So where has it been these last seven years?’

‘That is what I would like to know, but no one seems able to enlighten me. According to King’s Hall, it simply appeared in their chapel one morning. I am not one to believe such fanciful notions, but no one has stepped forward to offer a more plausible explanation.’

‘Why did no one mention this when Drayton died?’ asked Bartholomew, a little angrily. ‘We might have found his killer, had we known he was peddling crooked goods. We spent days trying to uncover a motive for his murder but were forced to admit defeat in the end.’

Michael nodded, then sighed unhappily. ‘I do not want more bloodshed. Will you come with me to King’s Hall and Peterhouse, to ask questions about this damned book? If we can solve Drayton’s murder and learn where the tome has been these last seven years, then perhaps these two colleges will stop sparring with each other.’

The streets were unusually empty as Bartholomew and Michael walked to King’s Hall. Townsmen and scholars alike were unsettled by the uneasy atmosphere that pervaded the place, and rumours about the bloodiness of the most recent brawl warned sensible folk to stay indoors. Churches were locked, shops were shuttered and colleges and hostels posted extra guards on their doors. The pair had not gone far when they heard the sounds of a violent scuffle. It was coming from St Michael’s churchyard, and a sharp yelp of pain prompted them to go and investigate. When they arrived, the Junior Proctor was lying on the ground, clutching his middle. He pointed with an unsteady finger when Bartholomew and Michael approached.

‘He ran that way,’ he gasped urgently, trying to struggle to his feet. ‘Quickly!’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael, hurrying forward to help him.

‘The man who attacked me,’ shouted John, agitated by the length of time it was taking them to understand. ‘Go after him before he escapes. He has a dagger, so be wary.’

Knowing he would make better time than the fat monk, Bartholomew left Michael to tend the wheezing deputy and began to run in the direction John indicated. A path wound through the undergrowth, used as a short cut between the High Street and the area of tangled alleys known as the Jewry. But by the time Bartholomew emerged in the Jewry, there was nothing to see, and John’s assailant was long gone. He retraced his steps and found the Junior Proctor sitting on a tombstone, holding his stomach, while Michael stood next to him.

‘You did not catch him,’ said the Junior Proctor accusingly. He looked disgusted.

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, taken aback by the irritation in John’s voice. ‘What happened?’

Michael was also furious. ‘Someone tried to kill my deputy. And from John’s description, it sounds as though it was the same hooded man who aggravated the trouble earlier.’

‘He lobbed a knife at me, but it missed – more by the grace of God than any skill on my part,’ continued John. ‘So he punched me instead. He was preparing to clout me over the head with that stone when you arrived.’ He pointed to a rock that would have caused serious damage had it been pitted against a human skull.

‘Why would anyone harm you?’ asked Bartholomew. John was only the Junior Proctor, and it was Michael who carried the real power.

‘Because he is my deputy, of course,’ snapped Michael. ‘The culprit knows I rely on him to help quell this brewing unrest. It is an attack against peace – against the very authority of the University.’

Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Then you should be careful that the same thing does not happen to you. There will be a riot for certain if the Senior Proctor is not here to stop it.’

They escorted John to the proctors’ office, to rest until he felt better, and resumed their walk to King’s Hall. It had been founded with royal money and was the largest and most powerful college in Cambridge. It boasted more than a hundred members, and its buildings were amongst the finest in town. The grandest edifice of all was its gatehouse, designed to protect it from hostile invasion. Bartholomew surveyed its thick, crenellated walls and well-placed arrow-slits and thought it was not surprising that the scholars of King’s Hall were not afraid to antagonize Peterhouse.

‘I like Warden Powys,’ he said while they waited for their knock to be answered. ‘And I am surprised he has allowed his college to be drawn into a war.’

‘Powys is away. King’s Hall would never be in this situation if he were home – or if the current vice-warden were someone other than William Bardolf. Incidentally, he did not see you fighting Hugh, and, although most sane men would applaud your courage, I would advise against your mentioning it.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Do you think me a lunatic, to need to be told?’

Michael chuckled. ‘I am obviously spending too much time with John, who was all for racing here and confessing. I think Beadle March overheard us, and I hope to God he does not gossip.’

The door opened before they could discuss it further, and Michael demanded an audience with the vice-warden. While a porter went to see if William was receiving visitors, Bartholomew thought about what he knew of the Bardolf family.

Its head was Lord Thomas, a baron who had fought bravely in the French wars and whose long string of mistresses had provided him with an equally long string of illegitimate children. He acknowledged them all and did his best to set them on the road to prosperity. He enrolled some at King’s Hall, where he hoped they would make the connections necessary for distinguished careers at court. Unfortunately, he tended to sire louts who preferred fighting to politics. William Bardolf, his sole legitimate son, was the exception and was more intelligent than the others, although that was not to say he did not also appreciate a brawl.

When the porter conducted them to a suite of rooms in the gatehouse, Bartholomew saw that William lived in style. Thick woollen rugs covered the floor, and the furniture was of the highest quality. William was not alone. Four of his kinsmen, including Roger, lounged on benches, all swarthy individuals with bushy beards. They were also heavily armed, despite the fact that it was against University rules to carry weapons. None seemed bothered by the fact that the Senior Proctor possessed the authority to fine them for such an infraction.

‘Brother,’ drawled William with a lazy smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can make sure there is no recurrence of today’s brawl,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘It was reprehensible. Seven men are dead, including two from King’s Hall.’

‘And five from Peterhouse,’ one sibling murmured. ‘It is a fair exchange.’

‘They started it,’ said Roger hotly. ‘They said Michaelhouse had taken their side – a claim we now know to be false – and were gloating. Hugh was right to punish their insolence with his blade.’

William’s expression was unreadable. ‘Someone encouraged Hugh to do it, though – whispered in his ear that killing Peterhouse boys would be God’s work. Perhaps that person should bear some of the blame for what Hugh did.’

Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘From that statement, I judge that you are keen to distance yourself from Hugh’s actions?’

William shrugged, silencing Roger’s indignant splutter with a warning glance. ‘I do not want it said that King’s Hall is full of ruffians. But you know I am right about the whisperer, because you observed him yourself. I saw you watching him.’

‘I did, but he kept his face concealed by his hood. Who was he?’

‘Everyone was wearing his hood today, Brother,’ said William, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘It was raining. Perhaps it was someone from Peterhouse, aiming to see King’s Hall in trouble with the Senior Proctor.’

Bartholomew regarded him closely, not sure what to think. Was he lying, and one of his own clan had goaded Hugh into launching his violent attack? Or had someone else done it, perhaps to underline the fact that King’s Hall housed some very unpleasant men?

‘He is almost certainly the same fellow who attacked my Junior Proctor,’ said Michael in a low, dangerous voice. ‘And I will discover his identity. Perhaps you can make that known.’

William continued to smile. ‘Yes, if that is what you want.’

‘Tell me about the Black Book of Brân,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly in an effort to disconcert. ‘Drayton was stabbed trying to sell it to Peterhouse, so how do you come to own it?’

‘We had nothing to do with Drayton’s death,’ replied William, allowing his impassive mask to slip and reveal his indignation. ‘And I resent the implication that you think we do.’

‘Drayton was a snake,’ said Roger. ‘He told so many lies about how he came by the book that no one knew what to believe in the end. However, such a fine thing did not belong in his tainted hands. Perhaps the saints thought so too, and they killed him for touching it.’

‘Saints do not commit murder with cheap daggers bought from the Market Square,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Why did you decline to tell me about this book seven years ago?’

William shrugged again. ‘Why? So you could include us on your list of suspects for Drayton’s murder, because we tried to buy the book from him?’

‘If you were innocent, then you had nothing to fear,’ Michael shot back.

William laughed, genuinely amused. ‘We are innocent of starting today’s trouble, but you are still here, making accusations. We had nothing to do with Drayton’s death, Brother. We did not even know he had elected to sell the book to Peterhouse until his body was found the next day. Until then, we believed he was going to do business with us.’

‘I understand it disappeared after his murder,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And now, seven years later, you claim to be its rightful owners. How did that come about?’

‘God arranged it,’ said Roger matter-of-factly. ‘We do not usually bother with morning prayers, but two weeks ago it was our college’s Foundation Day, and we decided to make an exception. We use All Saints’ Church as a chapel, and when we arrived there was the Black Book of Brân, lying on the altar. The Almighty put it there, you see, because He wanted us to have it.’

‘And why would He want that?’ asked Michael cautiously.

‘Because we intend to give it to our father, Lord Bardolf,’ replied Roger, as if the answer were obvious. ‘He is a good man, and predictions about the future will be useful for when he goes to war.’

‘But Peterhouse would give it to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ added William. ‘And the Church has a habit of burning books it does not understand. God knows we are not narrow-minded fanatics, so He put it in a place where He knew we would find it.’

‘Why else would He have chosen that particular day to lay it on the altar?’ asked Roger.

Bartholomew was bemused by the tale. ‘So you arrived for your morning devotions, and the book was just there?’

Roger beamed at the memory. ‘Waiting for us. Ask your Junior Proctor if you do not believe us. He came in for morning prayers moments after we made our miraculous find.’

‘He says he saw you admiring it but has no idea how it got there,’ said Michael. ‘May I see it? Given that it is causing so much trouble, I should at least know what it looks like.’

‘We prefer to keep spectators away,’ said William, ‘for security reasons. But I think we can make an exception for you.’

All Saints’ Church was on the High Street, and because it was used by King’s Hall as a chapel it was one of the most lavishly decorated buildings in Cambridge. Its lectern and pulpit were studded with precious jewels, and there were gold statues in its niches. Unfortunately, this made it attractive to thieves, so the college was obliged to take precautions. Its elegant windows were fitted with heavy shutters, and its doors were nearly always locked. These made it one of the most secure buildings in the town, and it was generally acknowledged that it would prove a challenge for even the most determined of criminals. It was thus an excellent place in which to store a book that another college had vowed to steal.

In addition to the usual safety measures, the brothers had hired a full-time guardian, a studious priest named Thomas de Shirford. Shirford looked as though he needed the money. His robes were threadbare, and there were holes in his shoes. He had a reputation for solid but dull scholarship, and his colleagues tended to use words like ‘reliable’ and ‘sensible’ to describe him. He opened the door to William’s knock and stood aside to let him, Roger, Michael and Bartholomew enter. The church was gloomy, the only illumination from a small lamp in the chancel.

‘Has Peterhouse tried to get the book today?’ asked William. ‘Or has it been quiet?’

‘Neuton came,’ replied Shirford. ‘But I declined the bribe he offered to let him inside.’

‘And he would not get the book, even if he did charm his way in,’ said Roger, clearly proud of himself, ‘because I secured its back cover to the altar with nails. They are big ones, and I hammered them in very hard. The only way to release it would be to rip it free – and few scholars can bring themselves to damage a book.’

Michael hid a grin. ‘If it is so well affixed, how are you going to take it to your father?’

Roger’s face fell, indicating he had not planned that far ahead, so William stepped in to rescue him. ‘We shall take book and altar together. It will make the tome more difficult to steal en route.’

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ said Michael. ‘May I see it? If you have only attached the back cover to the altar, I presume it can still be read?’

‘We shall leave you to it, then,’ said William, beckoning Roger to follow him. ‘Be sure to lock the door when they go, Shirford.’

‘Obviously,’ said Shirford a little testily. ‘I am likely to be harmed if anyone breaks in, so I am careful for my own sake, as well as for the book’s. But you are leaving, Master Bardolf? You will not stay until they have finished?’

‘I am needed at King’s Hall,’ replied William. ‘I am afraid Peterhouse will attack, given that they lost five scholars today.’

Shirford shot Bartholomew and Michael an uneasy glance as he barred the door after the King’s Hall men. ‘I accepted this task on one condition: that there would be no showing of the book to spectators. Gratuitous opening of the door is a risk that does not need to be taken, and there is always a danger that viewers may decide to take the tome for themselves – dispatching me along the way.’

‘But I am the Senior Proctor, and so exempt from such restrictions,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, no one can deny that you have accepted a dangerous commission. What made you do it?’

Shirford smiled. ‘William promised me a country living when this is over. I am not a good scholar, but I might be a good parish priest. It is a chance to make something of my life.’

‘What do you think about the way the Black Book of Brân came into King’s Hall’s hands?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Do you really believe it was divine intervention?’

‘The Bardolfs rarely attend church, but the day they did the book happened to be on the altar. Perhaps God did want them to have it.’

‘Why them?’ asked Michael. ‘They are not scholars, to study it. They are not priests, to explore it for holy wisdom. On the contrary, they plan to give it to their father as a battle aid.’

‘It is not for me to judge my fellow men,’ said Shirford. ‘All I know is that the book was not in the church when I said my prayers at midnight, but it was there when the Bardolfs arrived the following dawn. God moves in mysterious ways, Brother, and who knows His plans?’

‘Right,’ said Michael, declining to comment further. He took a deep breath. ‘We had better look at this text, then, to see for ourselves why it is stirring up so much trouble.’

Shirford led them to the chancel. ‘Inspect it at your leisure, although you must handle it with care.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because it harms anyone it deems unworthy. Look what happened to Drayton. I heard he set a priory alight to get the book, killing all its occupants. Then his own life was ended by violent means.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you about the priory?’

‘Roger. But it was common knowledge seven years ago.’

‘Common knowledge to everyone except us,’ grumbled Michael.

The Black Book of Brân was a shabby thing and did not seem worthy to be graced with such a grand title. Its wooden covers were crude, and it did not seem any great pity that Roger had hammered six large nails through the back of it, because there was a long cut, probably from a sword, scored across the front. There was also a dark stain that looked suspiciously like blood on the edge. Michael opened it and was pleasantly surprised to find that the writing was a work of art – the scribe had taken considerable care with his work.

The text was in Latin. He tried to resist the notion that there was something mystical about it, but the silent church and the crackle of ancient parchment as he turned the pages were having an effect. He began to lose himself in the strange poetry, and found himself linking some of the verses with events from the past, such as the early death of Richard the Lionheart and the murder of the current king’s father. He was so engrossed that when Bartholomew spoke, he jumped violently.

‘It is a lot of gibberish,’ said the physician, who had been reading over his shoulder. ‘Some verses may pertain to real events, but they are written so vaguely that it is impossible to be certain.’

Michael rubbed his eyes. Reading in low light was a strain, and he knew he would have a headache if he persisted. He found himself reluctant to stop, even so. ‘I can see why the Church might want to suppress it, though, and why William is keen to give it to his warrior father. It contains just enough material to make one pause for thought. The lines that seem to refer to Queen Isabella and her paramour are uncanny.’

‘You do not need to be a fortune-teller to predict that a queen will take a lover at some point in the future,’ said Bartholomew dismissively. ‘Inevitability is not the same as prophecy – most “predictions” will come true over eight hundred years.’

‘Even the end of the world?’ asked Michael, trying to shrug off the nagging sense that Brân’s ‘wisdom’ should not be so summarily dismissed. ‘There is mention here of cities being destroyed, and of the sinful being purged before a “Sun-bright fire of blood” appears.’

‘The end of the world is the greatest inevitability of all,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It had a beginning, so logic dictates that it will also have an end.’

Michael frowned. ‘Look at this one:

“As ancient foes do burn and fight,

And foul fair fields with their woeful dead,

The Hammer of the Unruly will show his might,

The glorious sun, the golden head.”

‘Do you not think that sounds like the wars King Edward fought with Scotland? They caused him to be known as the Hammer of the Scots, and he had bright gold hair.’

‘I suppose so, but it is hardly specific, is it. You needed to explain it to me.’

Michael tapped another quatrain with a chubby forefinger. ‘Then what do you make of these lines?

“When scarce a decade since the plaguey scourge,

Far worse than northern wars have ravaged sore,

Then kings and rock will clash and purge,

And strife will visit colleges once more.”

‘It has been less than ten years since the pestilence was here, and we do have strife in our colleges.’

‘I admit that rock – petra in Latin – may refer to Peterhouse, and kings may refer to King’s Hall, but these words could just as easily have nothing to do with us.’

‘What about the next verse?’ asked Michael:

‘“And then, when war-blood stains the trading stones,

Will murder spoil the rock’s most sacred place.

And while the King’s house mourns its shattered bones,

Will blaze the traitor’s sainted face.”’

‘Even you cannot deny that war-blood stained the trading stones – the Market Square – today.’

Bartholomew shrugged, bored with the analysis. ‘It is possible that King’s Hall and Peterhouse had a spat there because of that verse. Someone read that it was predicted, so made it happen.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Michael. ‘Because if you are not, and the author of this book really did foresee what was going to happen, then we have more unnatural deaths coming – murder in Peterhouse, and shattered bones in King’s Hall. What do you think about the traitor’s sainted face?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is gibberish. However, that said, we should visit Peterhouse and warn them against more violence with King’s Hall. You do not need a prophet to tell you their mood is dangerous.’

Peterhouse was located at the southern end of the town, outside the protective gates. Although it did not have King’s Hall’s wealth and power, it was the University’s oldest college, and its buildings were accordingly handsome. There was a large hall, used for teaching and as a refectory, and several pleasant houses provided living quarters. Daily prayers took place in the ancient Church of St Mary the Less, which stood next door and which the scholars had claimed as their collegiate chapel. Beadle March was on duty outside, his hood up to protect him from the drizzle that had begun to fall.

‘Your Junior Proctor ordered me to stand here,’ he said resentfully. ‘He expects me to prevent any Peterhouse man from leaving to cause trouble.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, knocking at the door. ‘Yet you do not seem happy. What is the matter?’

March’s pig-like face was angry. ‘I was scheduled for tavern patrol today, not standing about in the rain. I do not want to be here all night, when I could be-’

‘Drinking?’ finished Michael, knowing exactly why the beadle was dissatisfied with his lot. ‘I am sorry your duties are interfering with your pleasures, but these things happen.’

‘Will he stay at his post?’ asked Bartholomew, watching March stamp off to check a back gate.

‘Who knows?’ said Michael. ‘I have never trusted him – I think it was he who started the poisonous rumour that set the friars against each other last month, and I cannot help but wonder whether he has been doing the same with Peterhouse and King’s Hall. Perhaps the tales about him are true, and he was a criminal before he settled in Cambridge seven years ago.’

A porter conducted the visitors to the hall, where Wittleseye was presiding over a disputation. Bartholomew did not know whether to be alarmed or amused when he learned that the topic under discussion was ‘Let us enquire whether sacred books should be in the hands of warriors’. Wittleseye asked a colleague to take over the debate and took Bartholomew and Michael to a solar, where they could talk undisturbed.

‘Our Master is in Ely, at a synod with the heads of the other colleges,’ said Wittleseye, sitting on a bench. ‘He left me in charge – naturally, given that I am the archbishop’s nephew.’

‘I had forgotten the Masters were away,’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘But it makes sense: the real heads of Peterhouse and King’s Hall would have stamped out this feud the moment it began.’

‘Have you arrested the Bardolfs?’ asked Wittleseye, trying without success to hear what the physician was saying. ‘They killed five of our students today.’

‘And they will kill no more,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Neither will you. Hugh was mostly responsible, and he is dead himself, so let that mark the end of this unedifying business.’

‘It is unedifying,’ agreed Wittleseye. ‘But the Bardolfs started it by gloating over the fact that they have the Black Book of Brân. They are not suitable custodians for such a dangerous tome. I urge you to take it from them and place it in the hands of priests.’

‘How they come to own the book is a curious tale,’ said Michael, ignoring the demand. ‘They say it was waiting for them on the altar, just as they were making one of their rare appearances in church.’

‘They are liars,’ replied Wittleseye bitterly. ‘One of them put it there, and they only pretended to find it. How dare they expect intelligent men to believe such nonsense!’

‘What do you think happened, then?’ asked Michael.

‘I think they stole it seven years ago and could not think of another way to justify it suddenly being in their possession.’

‘If you think they stole the book, then you must think they killed Drayton too,’ said Michael. ‘Murder is a serious crime, and such allegations should not be made lightly.’

‘Their guilt is obvious. They also wanted to buy the book and were furious when Drayton accepted my offer rather than theirs. Of course they killed Drayton – to get the book and to avenge themselves on him.’

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘If the tome had reappeared a few weeks later, then I might be inclined to believe you. But the Bardolfs are not patient men – they would not have been able to wait so many years.’

‘Especially with a book of prophecies,’ added Bartholomew dryly. ‘Delaying its “discovery” might mean missing a few.’

Wittleseye ignored him. ‘Well, someone put that book on the altar, and if it was not the Bardolfs, then who was it?’

‘Someone who wanted them to give it to their father?’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘And who might that be?’ demanded Wittleseye. ‘Lord Bardolf is said to be honourable – although I deplore the number of French witches he seems to have impregnated – but he is a warrior. The book should belong to the Church. I was going to give it to my uncle, the archbishop.’

‘It is all nonsense anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How can a monk writing eight hundred years ago know what is going to happen tomorrow?’

Wittleseye shot him a sour look. ‘The same way you physicians use astrological charts to devise more effective courses of treatment for patients, I imagine.’

Michael raised a hand when Bartholomew started to argue. ‘We did not come for a debate. We came to hear what you had to say about the Market Square incident, and to warn you against more scandalous behaviour. Where is Neuton? He did nothing to calm troubled waters, and we should speak to him too.’

‘He is probably in the kitchen, filling his wineskin,’ replied Wittleseye sulkily, resenting the reprimand. ‘He usually is at this time of day. I will take you there.’

But the kitchen was deserted, and the door that allowed the unloading of supplies direct from the street stood ajar. Wittleseye slammed it shut with a bad-tempered kick.

‘I have told the cooks a dozen times to be more careful. Do they want King’s Hall to sneak in and slit our throats while we sleep? They say the latch sticks, and they leave it open for convenience, but we cannot afford to be lax-’

‘Neuton is not here,’ said Michael, interrupting what promised to become a tirade.

‘No, but there are his wine flasks.’ Wittleseye pointed to a shelf that contained several identical containers. He took one down and shook it. ‘And they are full, so he was here not long ago. You cannot accuse me of trying to mislead you.’

‘It had not entered my mind,’ said Michael, forcing himself to be patient. ‘But I still need to speak to him. Where else might he be?’

‘In the church.’ Wittleseye looked defensive. ‘Not to drink without being bothered by students, naturally, but to pray at a time when the place is quiet.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Take us to him, then.’

Wittleseye led the way across a cobbled yard to where a tiny priests’ door allowed access to the church from the college grounds. It was cool inside the chapel, and the noise of the street was muted through its thick walls. It was growing late, and the light was beginning to fade, dulling the colourful brilliance of the new stained-glass windows.

Neuton was sitting on a bench, provided for ageing scholars whose legs would not support them through the lengthy sermons preached by wordy men like Wittleseye. His eyes were closed, and one fist was wrapped around his flask. At first, Bartholomew thought he had slipped into a tipsy doze, but when his cousin tapped him on the shoulder he listed to one side. Bartholomew caught him before he fell, staggering under the weight.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Michael. ‘Is he drunk?’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew, lowering the body to the floor. He inspected it briefly, then glanced up at the monk. ‘I think he has been poisoned.’

It was a long time before Bartholomew and Michael were able to leave Peterhouse. Wittleseye was convinced that his cousin had been murdered by King’s Hall, and his students were all for marching on the Bardolfs and demanding a fight that night. Michael was obliged to send for more beadles to ensure that they stayed in until tempers had cooled, aware that March could not do it single-handed. Even then, it was almost midnight before he felt it was safe for him and his Corpse Examiner to go home. Wearily, they made their way along the High Street towards Michaelhouse.

‘That wretched book has precipitated all this trouble,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘And I will not be able to sleep without knowing it is safe. The last thing we need is for it to be stolen – there will be a blood-bath for certain.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘It is locked in a church with a full-time guardian. How could anyone steal it?’

‘I am probably overreacting, but I cannot help it. There is too much at stake.’

It was not far out of the way, so Bartholomew went with him. All Saints’ was a dark mass against the sky, although a faint light could be seen under the west door. While Michael began the protracted process of explaining to Shirford why he wanted access at such an hour, Bartholomew did a circuit of the building, checking the windows and the back door. All were locked, and he returned to the front thinking the Black Book of Brân had chosen the right place in which to make its miraculous appearance, if security was what it was after.

‘It is very late,’ said Shirford, opening the door a crack and peering out suspiciously. ‘I was asleep. What do you want?’

‘To make sure you and the book are safe,’ replied Michael, pushing past him and indicating that he was to re-bar the door once they were inside. ‘There was a murder tonight.’

‘I know,’ said Shirford. ‘Junior Proctor St Philibert told King’s Hall there may be trouble, and warned them to take extra precautions. Roger was all for storming Peterhouse immediately, to strike a pre-emptive blow, but your deputy said anyone who leaves the college will spend the next month in prison. He has posted beadles on all their gates to make sure no one escapes.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pleased by John’s initiative. ‘Perhaps we shall avert trouble yet.’

‘I am beginning to have second thoughts about this job,’ said Shirford unhappily. ‘William underplayed the dangers, and I am a priest, not a warrior. It is all very well for him to issue orders that say no one can come in, but he does not have to bear the consequences. Agatha the laundress was livid earlier, when I told her she could not see the book.’

‘You mean Michaelhouse’s Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You refused her? Then you are a braver man than me! She has a long memory, so you had better hope the Bardolfs find you a parish as soon as your duties here are done. You will not be safe in Cambridge now.’

Shirford swallowed hard. Michaelhouse’s laundress was one of the most formidable characters in the county, and even the sheriff was wary of her.

‘We shall just ensure that the book is still nailed down, and then we will go,’ said Michael tiredly. He walked to the chancel and approached the altar. The book was open, and Shirford explained that he had been studying it before he fell asleep.

‘The verse about Tartarus’ hordes worries me deeply,’ he said. ‘The current ruler of Scotland is named Alexander, and England might be one of the six Christian kingdoms to be defiled.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘The current King of Scotland is called David.’

Shirford brightened. ‘Really? That is a relief! I did not like the notion of being assailed by Latin traders with long spoons. I had a feeling Roger was wrong when he said that would be the next verse to come true – after the ones about Peterhouse and King’s Hall.’

‘You discuss the contents of the book with Roger?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Although enrolled at a college and so technically an academic, Roger had never made any pretence at scholarship, and it was rumoured that he was barely literate.

‘He is the only person I ever see,’ explained Shirford. ‘He brings me food each night and usually stays to chat. We have nothing in common but the book, so we invariably talk about that. He often holds forth on current affairs, so I am disappointed to learn that his grasp of world politics is dubious.’

‘So is yours, apparently,’ said Michael. ‘But what do you know about events that took place seven years ago? We did not discuss Drayton’s murder when we were here earlier, and I would be grateful for any insights you have to offer.’

Shirford frowned as he struggled with ancient memories. ‘I know there was a rumour that Drayton acquired the book by burning down Hemel Hempstead’s priory. I also recall that Wittleseye was expecting to buy it the night Drayton died, but Drayton had brought Aristotle’s On Dreams to Peterhouse instead.’

‘No one told us about the Black Book of Brân,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘We were left to assume that there was nothing odd about the presence of the Aristotle. If people had been honest with us, we might have solved that murder years ago.’

Shirford shot him a crooked smile. ‘Can you blame them, when anyone admitting such knowledge would have found himself on your list of murder suspects? I met Drayton once. He was a vile creature, full of lies and craven words, and I recall thinking he was exactly the kind of fellow to burn down a priory for personal gain. No one mourned his passing, so perhaps his killer did the world a favour.’

Michael eyed him coolly. ‘I have heard that argument before, but murder is murder, no matter how unpopular the victim. You are not withholding information, are you? Because you approved of what the killer did?’

‘Of course not!’ The priest was shocked by the notion that he might be implicated in a crime. ‘I am just saying that Drayton was no innocent. Surely, you talked to witnesses who confirmed that? He was unpleasant to everyone.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Michael grudgingly. ‘I did come away with the impression that he had not a single redeeming quality.’

They left Shirford, ensuring he barred the door behind them, and began to walk home. They passed John, who was directing the beadles to patrol the areas in which he expected most trouble. He complained that they were spread too thinly, given that so many were tied up at Peterhouse and King’s Hall. Meanwhile, Beadle March grumbled that he was being forced to work too hard.

‘He made me stop Agatha the laundress just now,’ March whined. ‘I thought she was going to tear my head off and eat it. What man would not need a drink after that experience?’

John was sheepish. ‘We did not know it was Agatha until she removed her hood. To be honest, I thought she was Roger – she is the right height and build. Besides, she should not have been out at this time of night – the curfew bell sounded hours ago.’

‘Agatha goes out when she feels like it,’ said March. ‘And we do not get paid enough to discuss curfew bells with her. When we saw who it was, we let her pass unmolested.’

‘Not before you had treated her to the most grovelling apology I have ever heard,’ said John, disgusted. ‘She was breaking the law and you should have ordered her home.’

Michael frowned at him when March had gone. ‘One of the lessons you should learn as a proctor is picking the battles you know you can win. Agatha is invincible and unassailable, so leave her alone. You are not a perfect deputy, but you will suffice, and I do not want to be looking for a replacement because you have tackled Michaelhouse’s feisty laundress.’

John grimaced. ‘You may not want to lose a deputy, but Joan will not want to lose a fiancé, so I suppose I had better follow your advice. Will you take a cup of wine with me before you go home? We are right outside my house.’

‘So we are,’ said Michael, peering at the pleasant timber-framed building that John indicated. It was one of the more exclusive residences on the High Street, and a fitting abode for a man who was destined to become kin to the Earl of Suffolk. ‘Did you know Drayton rented a room here? It was long before you came, but he hired the attic on the top floor.’

‘Did he?’ asked John, startled. ‘No one told me.’

‘And that is another lesson you should learn,’ said Michael grimly. ‘People have a bad habit of declining to share information with proctors. Do you know any of your housemates well enough to ask them about Drayton? I questioned them when he was killed, of course, but no one was very helpful. Perhaps they will be more forthcoming with you.’

John regarded the dark house doubtfully. ‘Now? But they will all be in bed.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Of course not now. I need you to patrol tonight – to make sure the likes of March do not neglect their duties. Meanwhile, I shall try to devise a way to defuse this ridiculous business without further loss of blood.’

When Bartholomew reached home, he fell asleep almost immediately, although it was a fitful rest and he could hear Michael pacing in the chamber above. The creaking of floorboards continued for what remained of the night, as the monk used the silence to think about what he had learned. By morning he had assessed the murder of Neuton – and Drayton – from every conceivable angle, but had reached no firm conclusions, although he had theories aplenty. The problem, he thought irritably, was the crippling lack of evidence.

When Bartholomew awoke, the sun was up. The summer air was warm and still and stank of the river, the open drains that meandered along the town’s main streets, and the sharper tang of urine from the latrines. He went to St Michael’s Church for prayers and tried to keep his mind on his devotions, although images of the recent dead invaded his thoughts far too readily. He had a breakfast of pickled herrings and stale bread with his colleagues, eating the unappetizing fare in silence as they listened to the droning voice of the Bible Scholar, then waited for Michael in the yard.

The monk emerged from the kitchens a few moments later, jaws working furiously. An enraged screech from Agatha indicated that he had supplemented his paltry meal by stealing something, although his face was the picture of innocence when she demanded to know the whereabouts of a pie. Nevertheless, he headed for the gate while he was still in one piece, informing Bartholomew that he wanted to return to Peterhouse and ask questions of Neuton’s friends, to see if any of them remembered anything suspicious, now they had had a night to dwell on it.

‘I have been thinking about the poison,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it may have come from France. When I was there last year, fashionable folk were taking a cordial made from some kind of poisonous fish and regional herbs. It is supposed to aid digestion, but only when diluted – it is quite toxic in its concentrated form. It has a distinctive smell, which I think I detected in Neuton’s wineskin.’

‘So our poisoner has French connections, does he?’ Michael gave the matter serious thought as they walked towards the High Street. ‘Most of the Bardolfs have French mothers. Perhaps they decided to avenge their brother Hugh by claiming a high-ranking victim from Peterhouse.’

‘Having a French mother does not necessarily mean a supply of French cordials.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘But their grandmother is a witch, and it is not inconceivable that she thought such a potion might come in useful for her ambitious but not very talented grandsons.’

‘It is possible, I suppose. Neuton was never without a drink, so it was an obvious way to dispatch him. The door to the kitchen, where he filled his flasks, was often left open, according to Wittleseye, which means anyone could have come in and tampered with them. But there is a flaw in the theory: how would the Bardolfs know about the poor security? I did not.’

‘But you do not hate Peterhouse. You have no cause to study the weak points in their defences.’

Bartholomew acknowledged his point with a nod. ‘But King’s Hall are not the only ones with French connections. Wittleseye and Neuton visited the Pope in Avignon last year. Perhaps the poison belonged to them.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You think Neuton killed himself? But he was in fighting spirits yesterday, and a long way from suicide. And do not say he wanted his enemies accused of a capital crime, because he would have left more in the way of obvious clues had that been the case.’

‘Actually, I was thinking of Wittleseye. He was more angry than grieved by his cousin’s murder, and in the kitchen he made sure we noticed the open door. What better way to strike a blow at the Bardolf clan than have them under suspicion of poisoning a priest in a church?’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I am still bothered by the hooded whisperer, who seems so determined to have our town awash with blood. John was lucky when he was attacked yesterday, because I suspect he would have been killed had we not arrived when we did – he is a decent organizer of patrols, but no fighter. I believe the whisperer ambushed him to eliminate a peacekeeper – to give this feud a better chance of igniting. Perhaps Neuton was killed for the same reason.’

‘What reason?’

‘To escalate the violence. Perhaps the culprit has a liking for fighting in the streets. Or maybe he has a grudge against Peterhouse or King’s Hall and wants them in flames.’

‘If you place any faith in the Black Book of Brân, and interpret “Will murder spoil the rock’s most sacred place” to mean Neuton’s death in Peterhouse’s collegiate chapel, then you still have King’s Hall’s shattered bones to come. Your whisperer may be in luck: the feud is predicted to worsen.’

Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘I thought you did not believe in this sort of thing.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I do not. However, it is an uncanny coincidence.’

Michael shivered suddenly, although the day was warm. ‘Then we had better hurry and do our work, because I do not want more deaths in my town, no matter what that madman wrote.’

They met John on their way to Peterhouse. He tried not to be proud of the fact that the night had passed without violence, but he did not succeed. He grinned smugly when he reported that all was well, and was so pleased by his performance that he insisted he was not in the least bit tired and would accompany the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner to see what more could be learned about the death of Neuton.

‘I think Joan would have been impressed with my performance,’ he said, trying to keep the triumph from his voice and failing miserably. ‘Lads from Peterhouse and King’s Hall slipped past the beadles and went looking for trouble, but they did not get far. I anticipated their every move, and the proctors’ gaol is bursting at the seams to prove it.’

‘And no one made any more attempts on your life?’ asked Michael. ‘Or the beadles’ lives?’

John shook his head. ‘We were all careful. Did I tell you the Peterhouse contingent slipped past their guards because they intended to steal the Black Book of Brân? I heard Shirford screaming for help, and when I arrived they were trying to batter down the door. I arrested the lot of them.’

‘And King’s Hall?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did they sneak out?’

‘Beadle March found them lurking behind Peterhouse making fire-arrows.’

Michael was genuinely impressed. ‘You have done well.’

John preened, but then a shadow crossed his face. ‘I do not suppose you would put that in writing and send it to the Earl of Suffolk, would you? The last time we met, he told me I was too scholarly.’

Michael smiled. ‘He is not stupid; he knows wits can serve him just as well as swords, especially at court. I have heard that Joan prefers ruffians, but I am sure you will win her round.’

John looked rather daunted by the prospect, but mustered a manful smile. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the matter in hand. ‘Are you sure Neuton was poisoned? He did not die of a seizure, or some such thing?’

‘There were burns in his throat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a more clear case of death from toxins. The killer made no attempt to conceal his handiwork.’

John shuddered. ‘Then the sooner we catch him, the better. I am inclined to look to King’s Hall for the culprit. They are the ones with a grudge against Neuton.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘However, we have not a shred of evidence, so we must ask some careful questions of Neuton’s colleagues first. A false accusation could start all manner of trouble, and I do not want “shattered bones” on my conscience.’

Peterhouse wanted everyone to know that King’s Hall had killed five of their students. They had painted the victims’ names on a sheet, which was pinned across the front of their church. For the benefit of those who could not read, drawings of the dead lads’ faces had been included, each with a skull below it, to represent death. When Bartholomew, Michael and John arrived, Wittleseye was ordering the artist to add a picture of King’s Hall with flames coming out of it.

‘You will do no such thing,’ snapped Michael. ‘It would be akin to a declaration of war, and I told you last night that I want the violence to end.’

‘That was before they murdered Neuton,’ said Wittleseye sullenly, watching the artist slink away before the Senior Proctor could fine him for his handiwork. ‘The situation has changed now.’

‘We came to ask you about Neuton,’ intervened John hastily, seeing Michael’s temper begin to fray. The Senior Proctor did not like scholars defying him. ‘Had you known him for long?’

‘Of course I had,’ snarled Wittleseye. ‘He was my cousin, and we had known each other since childhood. The archbishop will be furious when he hears what has happened.’

‘Did Neuton have any enemies other than the Bardolf brothers?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not fob me off with nonsense about him being popular, because we both know he was anything but.’

Wittleseye glared at him but then relented. ‘All right, I admit that wine made him dour on occasion. But he was not so irascible as to make someone want to kill him.’

‘Sometimes the most obvious solution really is the right one,’ whispered John to Michael. ‘The Bardolfs lost Hugh, so they reciprocated by eliminating a Peterhouse man.’

‘Will you agree to a search of Neuton’s room?’ asked Michael of Wittleseye. ‘I must ensure that your cousin did not have a secret stash of French cordial before I tackle King’s Hall.’

‘I will agree to no such thing,’ declared Wittleseye, incensed. ‘We are the injured party here, with Neuton and five students slaughtered. Why should we submit to such indignities?’

‘Because it is part of the process of learning the truth,’ replied John soothingly. ‘Please let us do our duty, sir. It will be better for everyone in the end.’

Wittleseye was mollified by the polite plea. ‘Very well, John de St Philibert. But only Neuton’s chamber. If you set so much as a toe in anyone else’s, I shall have you removed by force.’

Michael narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the caveat, and immediately launched into an interrogation of Wittleseye that was only just short of offensive. Bartholomew left them bickering and accompanied John to Neuton’s quarters, afraid the Junior Proctor might not recognize the French cordial if he found it. It did not take long to root through Neuton’s worldly goods, but Bartholomew had the distinct impression that someone had been there before them, although whether to hide poison or just to see what there was to inherit was impossible to say.

‘I did not like the way Wittleseye ordered us not to search anywhere else,’ John whispered when they had finished. ‘I am going to have a quick look around. You keep watch.’

Bartholomew was acutely uneasy with that. ‘We have no authority-’

John gripped his arm, his voice urgent. ‘Wittleseye wants us to accuse King’s Hall of the crime, but his own behaviour is deeply suspect. This will not take a moment, and I have a bad feeling about Peterhouse’s vengeful priests.’

He had disappeared before Bartholomew could object further, then took far longer than ‘a moment’. When footsteps warned that someone was coming, and John still declined to break off his hunt, the physician braced himself for the embarrassment of discovery. But with impeccable timing, the Junior Proctor appeared an instant before Wittleseye came to see what was taking so long.

‘There you are,’ said Wittleseye. He glanced at the door to his chamber, which now stood ajar. ‘I hope you confined your activities to my cousin’s room and have not trespassed elsewhere.’

‘Of course not,’ said John, although the uncomfortable expression on his face screamed that he was lying. He turned to Michael and began to gabble. ‘Have you finished, Brother? If so, then we should let Wittleseye go about his business. I am sure he is very busy.’

Michael raised his eyebrows when they were outside. ‘You need to learn how to dissemble, man! Wittleseye would have to be a drooling idiot not to guess that you had extended your search.’

John raised his hands defensively. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but he was so vehement about keeping us out of his room that it made me suspicious.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Me too – and I am delighted that you had the nerve to act on it. Well? What has unsettled you so? Did you find evidence that he poisoned his own cousin in order to see King’s Hall blamed for the crime?’

In reply, John shook his arm, causing an object to slide from his wide sleeve and fall to the ground. It was a mallet, the kind that was used to smash stones into gravel. It had a metal head, and something red adhered to it. Bartholomew bent to inspect it, then rose slowly and met John’s eyes.

‘I found it hidden under Wittleseye’s bed,’ explained John quietly. ‘Wrapped in some old linen. Is it blood?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘So what?’ asked Michael, looking from one to the other. ‘Neuton was poisoned, not bludgeoned. And it cannot be connected to yesterday’s slaughter, because all those victims died from wounds inflicted by swords or daggers.’

‘Perhaps we just have not found the body yet,’ said John. He scowled, as if this was a personal affront. ‘I thought I had prevented mischief last night, but maybe I gloated too soon.’

‘The beadles claim a mouse could not have wandered about unseen last night,’ said Michael. ‘March was complaining bitterly about it, because he was obliged to work for once.’

John looked angry. ‘But we were looking for groups, not lone men. It is possible for a stealthy fellow to have slipped through my net. Damn! I thought I had done a decent job. I hope the earl does not hear about this – or Joan. She told me she is rather good at organizing military-style manoeuvres.’

‘She does have something of a reputation in that respect,’ agreed Michael. ‘But you are jumping to conclusions, man. There is nothing to say Wittleseye harmed anyone with that mallet.’

‘Then why was he so determined to keep us from searching his room?’ demanded John. ‘And why wrap the thing in rags and hide it under his bed?’

‘If you are so convinced of his guilt, then why did you not confront him with it?’ asked Michael. ‘Why wait until you were out here before showing us what you found?’

John sighed. ‘Because I wanted to think about it first. If I had launched into an interrogation ill-prepared, he would have fobbed me off with lies. I needed to gather my thoughts first. Was I wrong?’

‘No,’ said Michael, although the expression on his face said otherwise. ‘Take the mallet to the proctors’ office and put it somewhere safe. We may need it to challenge him later. Meanwhile, Matt and I will go to King’s Hall to ensure that everyone there is hale and hearty.’

The town was wary after the trouble of the previous day, and the streets were quieter than normal. Carts still clattered to and from the Market Square, and merchants still opened their shops for business, but the atmosphere was subdued and cautious, and there was none of the customary banter as folk went about their affairs. Some churches remained closed too, while all the colleges and hostels retained the extra guards on their gates. Without the usual crowds to hinder their progress along the High Street, it did not take Bartholomew and Michael long to reach King’s Hall.

They found it in a state of turmoil. Even from outside, they could hear folk running this way and that, and voices raised in anger and alarm. Michael’s first knock went unanswered, so he pounded the metal-studded gate until he was able to attract someone’s attention. He was astonished when it was Beadle March who opened the door.

‘What are you doing here?’ the monk demanded. ‘You are supposed to be at All Saints’.’

‘I have resigned,’ said March smugly. ‘I am tired of being treated like an ordinary beadle, when I am more intelligent than the rest of them put together. Besides, I overheard John de St Philibert tell you that he killed Hugh, and I do not want to work for proctors who condone murder.’

Michael glowered at him. ‘If you have aggravated the situation by telling tales, you will spend the next four weeks in gaol. But you have not answered my question: what are you doing here?’

March glowered back. ‘Vice-Warden Bardolf hired me, because he says I might prove useful.’

‘Then he is a fool,’ said Michael, regarding the ex-beadle with rank disdain. ‘However, there are more important issues than you at the moment, such as why is everyone in such a panic?’

‘Murder,’ replied William coldly, coming to greet them. He was wearing a military-style jerkin in place of his academic tabard and boiled-leather leggings. He carried a sword, and there was a mace tucked in his belt. His brothers were similarly armed, and so were many students.

Michael was alarmed. ‘I know you grieve for Hugh, but-’

‘Not Hugh,’ snapped William, rounding on him so furiously that the monk took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Although that was outrage enough. It is Roger.’

‘Roger is dead?’ asked Michael, shocked.

‘March found him at dawn,’ replied William angrily. ‘His body lies in our hall, although you will not need your Corpse Examiner to tell you he was unlawfully slain.’

‘Show me,’ ordered Michael, intending to keep him occupied until his temper had cooled, in the hope that he would have second thoughts about leading his troops in a frenzy of revenge.

‘With pleasure,’ snarled William. ‘We want the Senior Proctor to see what Peterhouse did.’

‘Follow me,’ said March, clearly enjoying himself. ‘I will lead the way.’

Roger’s body had been placed on a table behind the servants’ screen. He was covered by a blanket, which Bartholomew peeled away at a nod from William. Roger’s unattractive face was pale and waxy in death, the eyes half-open. There was a dark stain behind his head, and when March helped him turn the body Bartholomew saw that the back of Roger’s skull had been stoved in.

‘Where did you find him, March?’ asked Michael, watching the physician assess the body for other wounds.

‘All Saints’ churchyard.’ March tried to keep his face sombre, but he was too pleased with all the attention to succeed. ‘John de St Philibert made me patrol the High Street, and I discovered Roger when I went to rest on a tombstone for a while. I immediately came here, to bring the news to-’

‘It did not occur to you to report the incident to me first?’ asked Michael, fighting down his anger. The news could have been broken more gently by a proctor, and the potential for violent revenge considerably reduced.

‘No,’ replied March insolently. ‘I thought his kin had a right to know before you.’

Michael shot him a disgusted look, then addressed William. ‘Why was Roger out in the first place? I asked you all to stay in.’

‘He wanted to be near the book,’ replied William. His temper was only just under control. ‘He was afraid it might be stolen, and was eager to help Shirford protect it.’

‘Did he go alone?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes. I offered to accompany him, but he said he could look after himself. I thought he was right.’ William sounded bitter as well as angry.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew completed his examination. ‘What can you tell me?’

‘He died from a blow to the back of the head, delivered by something heavy and blunt. The wound is too well defined to have been made by a stone, and not well defined enough to have been made by a sword. It was caused by some other implement.’

‘Such as a mallet,’ said Michael flatly, seeing where the physician was going.

‘A mallet would be a likely contender,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And there is something else.’

‘Yes,’ said William tightly. ‘The killer was not content with just bludgeoning poor Roger. He insisted on mocking us too.’

Bartholomew turned Roger’s face to one side so it caught the light. The left cheek was untouched, but the right one had a bloody mark carved into it. It was the letter P.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Michael, gazing at it in bewilderment.

‘It stands for Peterhouse, of course,’ replied March. ‘What else could it be?’

Michael was deeply uneasy as he left King’s Hall and followed William to All Saints’, Bartholomew in tow. He had managed to persuade the vice-warden to refrain from tackling Peterhouse until the proctors had inspected the scene of the crime and spoken to witnesses, although agreement was given reluctantly, and he was not sure William could be trusted to keep his word. The man was mad with grief and fury, and it would take very little for him to gather his troops and head off for a confrontation with the foundation he had grown to hate.

‘It seems so unlikely,’ said Michael to Bartholomew as they walked. He spoke in a low voice, so William would not hear. ‘Why would Peterhouse advertise what they had done?’

‘Peterhouse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You mean Wittleseye. He is the one with the bloody mallet under his bed.’

‘Not necessarily. Perhaps one of his students did it – killed Roger, cut the mark into his victim’s face, then realized it was stupid, so hid the hammer in Wittleseye’s room because he did not know how else to extricate himself from his predicament.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ conceded Bartholomew, although with scant conviction. ‘Do you think Roger killed Neuton and was dispatched in revenge? I would not have thought Roger was the type to poison someone, but then I would not have said he was the type to discuss prophecies with Shirford either.’

‘I am not comfortable with March’s abrupt defection to King’s Hall,’ said Michael, voicing another concern. ‘I would not put any low deed past him – poisoning, bludgeoning, planting murder weapons on innocent parties, assaulting proctors. And not carving letters on a dead man’s face either.’

‘Can he write?’

‘Yes, unusually for a beadle. But speculation is taking us nowhere: we need solid proof.’ Michael called out to William, who was walking a few steps ahead of them. ‘After yesterday’s brawl, everyone from King’s Hall went home. Did Roger leave the college at any point, other than to go to All Saints’ and guard the book?’

William turned to face him. ‘No. Some of our lads escaped in the night, to be caught by John de St Philibert. But my brothers and I held a wake for Hugh. It started immediately after you left and did not finish until morning Mass. Roger was the only one to leave, which he did about an hour before dawn – to watch over the book, as I said.’

‘And when did March come to tell you what he had found?’

‘Shortly after sunrise. Roger must have been killed not long after he left us, because his corpse was cooling. I have been in enough battles to know about that sort of thing.’

They arrived at All Saints’, but Shirford had heard what had happened to Roger and was loath to answer the door. He yielded only when Michael threatened to set fire to it. The priest’s face was pale, and he looked as though he had been crying. Whether the tears were for Roger or for his own unenviable predicament was impossible to say.

‘The book has precipitated some evil deeds,’ he said miserably. ‘Poor Roger! He was a sullen devil at times, but he had a good heart. He brought me food every evening.’

‘Even yesterday?’ asked Michael. He glared at William when Shirford nodded. ‘You said Roger did not leave Hugh’s wake until an hour before dawn.’

William shrugged. ‘I forgot about the earlier excursion. But he was gone less than an hour.’

‘An hour?’ Michael was not amused. ‘That is a long time for delivering victuals.’

‘He was not with me that long,’ said Shirford, before catching William’s eye and falling silent.

‘Perhaps I misremembered the length of his absence,’ hedged William. But he saw he was not going to fool the Senior Proctor and gave an impatient sigh. ‘All right. Roger left the wake before sunset to take Shirford his supper. But I decided not to tell you about it, because I knew what you would think – that he used the time to go and kill Neuton.’

‘He had a motive,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And now we learn he had an opportunity.’

‘If you think that, then you are a greater fool than you look,’ snapped William. ‘Roger would never stoop to poison, not when he had a dagger in his belt.’

‘He might follow orders, though,’ argued Michael. ‘Such as to deliver something to a kitchen while cooks were out. I imagine he was excellent at fulfilling that sort of duty.’

Shirford smiled, keen to say something positive about the man who had been kind to him. ‘Oh, he was very good at errands. He ran them for me all the time – fetching books from the library, ensuring I had clean clothes, buying fuel for my lamp…’ He trailed off when he became aware that he was the subject of another furious glare from William.

Bartholomew stepped forward when he saw the vice-warden beginning to lose his temper. ‘Michael will find out what happened to Roger,’ he said soothingly. ‘He knows what he is doing.’

‘But I will not succeed unless people are honest with me,’ added Michael. ‘How can I solve any murder when no one tells me the truth?’

‘I have not lied,’ snapped William. ‘I just neglected to mention something.’

Michael grimaced but declined to argue. He turned to Shirford. ‘Roger’s body was found in the churchyard, right outside. You must have heard something.’

Shirford’s expression was apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, I did not. After you left, all was calm until your Junior Proctor caught those Peterhouse lads trying to break in. And then all was quiet again until March found Roger’s corpse.’

‘So,’ summarized Michael, ‘Roger brought you your supper around the time when Neuton was poisoned. Then he returned to King’s Hall and joined the wake with his brothers. Shortly before dawn, he left the party because he was worried about the book.’

‘Why are you wasting time here?’ barked William, his patience finally breaking. ‘Peterhouse killed Roger. The culprit might even be Wittleseye himself. He claims he is no warrior, but warriors do not sneak up behind someone and batter out his brains.’

‘Shattered bones,’ murmured Michael, so only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Roger’s bones are shattered, and the King’s house is certainly mourning – far more so than the occupants of the rock, when murder spoiled their most sacred place. Now all we need do is wait for the traitor’s face to blaze. Whatever that means.’

‘Judging by the speed at which these events are coming true, I do not think we need wait for long,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Indeed, I think the traitor might be standing right here in front of us.’

‘William? Yes, I see why you settled on him as your prime suspect. He is mine too.’

‘Not William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirford.’

Michael was startled by the physician’s choice but knew better than to dismiss his opinion out of hand, no matter how outlandish it sounded when phrased so tersely. They escorted William home to King’s Hall, where they left a whole pack of beadles to ensure that he could not escape to wreak havoc. William was furious to find himself effectively imprisoned in his own college, but the monk tartly informed him that he could spend the day in the proctors’ gaol if he would prefer. March came to stand next to the seething vice-warden and began whispering in his ear.

‘He will not stay in long, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew as they left. ‘He wants revenge, and if you do not present him with Roger’s killer soon he will go out and find himself a culprit.’

‘Bartholomew is right,’ said John. He was waiting for them outside the gate, having delivered the mallet to the proctors’ office. ‘William Bardolf is out for blood, and I suspect yesterday’s riot will be nothing if he is allowed to do as he pleases today.’

‘If anyone dies as a result of his agitating, he will stand trial for murder,’ vowed Michael. ‘His father may be the king’s favourite, but that will not save him from the full rigours of the law if he disregards my orders. I will see to that.’

‘He is on the verge of presenting “the king’s favourite” with a powerful book of prophecies,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘I imagine all manner of blind eyes might be turned in repayment for that sort of service. The only way to prevent further bloodshed is to solve these murders fast.’

John pulled the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner into the churchyard surrounding All Saints’, near the spot where March had found Roger’s body. It was peaceful, and they were shielded from view by a row of trees, so it was a good place in which to talk without distractions.

‘Then you two had better start analysing,’ he said practically. ‘You need to review all you have learned, to put the clues together and see if you can come up with a viable suspect.’

Michael was loath to chat when time was so critical, but he saw the sense in his deputy’s suggestion. He took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Then tell us why you think Shirford is the culprit, Matt.’

Bartholomew marshalled his thoughts. ‘Shirford insists that Drayton was unpleasant, as if that justified his murder. And I am suspicious of why he agreed to become the book’s guardian, when it is obvious the task would transpire to be dangerous.’

‘Is that it?’ demanded Michael in disbelief. ‘I thought you had something sensible to suggest! You only have to look at Shirford to see why he accepted the Bardolfs’ offer: he is desperately poor and wants a parish of his own. This task represents a few weeks of risk in return for a lifetime of comparative ease and security.’

John nodded his agreement. ‘Furthermore, your theory does not explain who killed Neuton and Roger. Shirford cannot be the culprit, because he was locked inside All Saints’ when they died.’

‘We have only his word for that,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he slipped out.’

‘But why would he kill them?’ asked John. ‘What could he gain?’

‘He obviously does not want Peterhouse to have the book,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking fast, ‘or he would not have agreed to protect it for King’s Hall. So he poisoned Neuton in order to frighten Peterhouse into dropping their claim.’

‘And Roger?’ demanded Michael, deeply unimpressed by his reasoning. ‘Roger was kind to him, bringing him supper and conversation. Why would Shirford kill him?’

Bartholomew was struggling for answers. ‘Perhaps he did not like the fact that Roger was of no use in interpreting the prophecies. He gave false information about the King of Scotland.’

‘Men do not kill for such paltry reasons,’ declared John disdainfully.

‘Actually, they do,’ countered Michael, who had a lot more experience of murder than his deputy.

John sniffed. ‘Well, I refuse to believe Shirford is such a ruthless villain. As far as I am concerned, Bartholomew’s theory is seriously flawed – and accusing the wrong man may lead to even worse trouble than we have already. I sincerely hope you have a more convincing suspect, Brother.’

‘I do: William. Why else would he be so determined to go on the rampage? He is trying to cause so much chaos that we will be overwhelmed, and the murders he committed will be forgotten amid a wider slaughter. The only way to stop him is to arrest him.’

‘But if you are wrong, the consequences will be catastrophic,’ argued John. ‘One of his kinsmen will assume command, and they are far more brutal than he. And if William is innocent, then his father will have your head – and mine – on a platter. And my prospective father-in-law, the earl-’

‘This is not the time to think about ourselves,’ snapped Michael, beginning to aim for the road.

John put out a hand to stop him. ‘I know you are keen to discharge your duty, but we must take time to review the situation – to use wits and logic, and ensure we take the course of action that will bring this vile business to a swift and bloodless conclusion.’

Michael knew he was right, and that relations between the two colleges had reached a critical point. A wrongful accusation might well precipitate more strife. He took another calming breath. ‘We have three murders,’ he began, ‘all connected to this damned book. At least two – Neuton and Roger – seem to have been predicted by it. Drayton’s death was seven years ago, but his killer still walks free, and I cannot help but wonder whether William has turned to slaughter again.’

‘You think all were murdered by the same hand?’ asked John in surprise. ‘I suppose it makes sense, although it does not explain why William waited so long before claiming a second victim.’

‘He is not killing for killing’s sake,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘He is killing for a purpose – a purpose clearly connected to the book. I imagine he stabbed Drayton to lay hands on it, then arranged for its miraculous reappearance after the passing of what he thought was a suitable amount of time. But his plans went awry, and he was obliged to kill again.’

‘Your argument does not make sense,’ said Bartholomew dismissively. ‘It leaves too many unanswered questions.’

Michael made an exasperated gesture. ‘Then that is too bad, because we do not have time for lengthy explanations. William will transpire to be the culprit. Or rather, William and Roger together. I imagine they killed Drayton because they did not want Peterhouse to have the book. Then they poisoned Neuton in revenge for Hugh.’

Bartholomew was not convinced. ‘William and Roger are not the kind of men to wait years before capitalizing on the proceeds of a crime. You said so yourself. They are crude and impetuous.’

‘William can be patient when he wants – he must have managed patience when he was elected vice-warden, because his colleagues do not bestow that sort of honour on hotheads.’

‘I took the opportunity to gossip with some King’s Hall students last night.’ John spoke hesitantly, unsure whether he should share what he had learned. He hurried on when Michael glared at him. ‘When Roger was sick of the flux last term, William doctored him with a remedy sent by their grandmother, the French witch.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Michael in triumph. ‘Perhaps she sent other potions too. Such as cordial.’

‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So Roger put the poison in Neuton’s flask after he took Shirford his supper – and it is suspicious that William “forgot” to mention him going out at the pertinent time – but then what? Who killed Roger?’

‘William.’ Michael held up his hand when the others started to voice their objections. ‘He was not overly distressed when Hugh died, so why should Roger be any different? His so-called grief is a ruse, so we will not think he killed his own kinsman.’

‘And what has he gained by dispatching Roger?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

‘Safety – no one to let slip that he ordered Neuton’s death. And he is right to take precautions, because Roger was indiscreet and stupid, and might well have blurted out something by mistake. However, all this would make a lot more sense if we knew where this wretched book has been for the last seven years. And do not say God was looking after it, because it is not the kind of tome that warrants divine attention.’

‘Why not?’ asked John, startled by the assertion.

‘Because I do not see Him protecting a text that describes a queen’s dalliance with a lover or a spat between colleges. These events are important to people, not to the Almighty. Ergo it is a person who has had this book for the last seven years, and the obvious suspect is William.’

‘Or Shirford,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘And we have overlooked the whisperer in our analysis too. Shirford claims he was locked in the church during the riot, but perhaps he was out with his hood hiding his face. He goaded Hugh and later tried to kill John.’

Michael looked dubious. ‘Shirford will desire peace, Matt. He will not want Peterhouse trying to take the book by force, because he is the one obliged to protect it.’

‘Wittleseye!’ exclaimed John suddenly. ‘He killed Drayton and hid the book for seven years. But somehow he lost it, and it appeared in All Saints’ to be claimed by the Bardolf brothers. That is why he maintains King’s Hall has no legal right to it. And it is obvious that Wittleseye killed Roger, because the murder weapon was in his room.’

‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘Then why did he poison Neuton?’

‘Perhaps Neuton found out that he killed Drayton,’ suggested John, ‘and threatened to blackmail him over it. So Wittleseye poisoned Neuton, but was careful to ensure you noticed the lax security at the back door, so you would assume he was killed by an outsider.’

Michael frowned unhappily. ‘You are right: the evidence does make sense when we have Wittleseye as the killer.’

‘There is another suspect too,’ said Bartholomew, deep in thought. ‘March enjoyed yesterday’s brawl and is clearly eager for another. He encourages William, whose side he has joined, to defy the proctors, and he had access to Peterhouse and All Saints’ last night. Moreover, he was muttering to William today, so perhaps he whispered to Hugh yesterday.’

John nodded slowly. ‘And he was in Cambridge when Drayton was killed, because he told me some tale about Drayton pilfering library books. Plus there is his criminal past to consider.’

Michael began to stride towards the street. ‘We have talked enough. It is time to act.’

‘And do what?’ asked John, hurrying after him. ‘We cannot agree on a suspect.’

‘Extreme situations call for extreme measures. Our first priority is to prevent further bloodshed, so that is what we shall do. We shall arrest the whole Bardolf clan, Wittleseye, March and Shirford. Perhaps it will mean trouble with Lord Bardolf and the Archbishop of Canterbury, but we shall just have to weather that storm when it comes.’

There was a sudden crash, followed by furious yelling.

‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run. ‘William must have overpowered your beadles and made a bid for escape.’

‘Not William,’ said Michael, skidding to a halt and staring at the crowd that was massing outside King’s Hall. ‘Peterhouse. They are laying siege to their enemy’s camp.’

The High Street was full of noise. The Peterhouse men were armed mostly with sticks, but they had also brought pitch torches and an ancient bow, and it was clear that they intended to shoot burning missiles over the walls. Because it was not just King’s Hall that had thatched roofs and timber-framed halls, residents from the surrounding houses were trying to stop them. The result was pandemonium, and a number of skirmishes were in progress. Meanwhile, the scholars of King’s Hall leaned out of their windows and jeered at the besiegers.

‘Fetch the Black Book of Brân,’ said Michael urgently to John. A plan was forming in his mind.

John demurred. ‘That would be unwise, Brother. Peterhouse will grab it, King’s Hall will rush to grab it back, and we shall have a riot for certain. Besides, it is nailed to the altar.’

‘Only the back cover,’ argued Michael. ‘Tell Shirford to rip it free and bring it to me. Hurry, man!’ He gave his bewildered deputy a push to send him on his way.

‘I hope you know what you are doing,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘The book is more likely to inflame the situation than calm it. And look over there: March is organizing bowmen in King’s Hall’s gatehouse, while Peterhouse has requisitioned three carts and intends to use them as battering rams. The situation is already precarious.’

Michael’s beadles began to arrive, some gasping apologies that they had been unable to keep Peterhouse from breaking out. The monk directed them to stand between the two factions. They were alarmed at having arrows pointed at them from both directions at once, and only their devotion to Michael kept them from running away. Their unquestioning obedience, when compared with the defiance of Peterhouse and King’s Hall, was the last straw for Michael.

‘This has gone far enough,’ he roared. The volume of his yell, and the anger in it, stilled the babble of excited voices. ‘Peterhouse will go home, and King’s Hall will put up their weapons. Anyone who disobeys can consider himself no longer a member of the University.’

‘We will disarm when Peterhouse leaves,’ yelled William. March was at his side, leading cheers of encouragement. ‘Not a moment sooner.’

‘Killers!’ howled Wittleseye. ‘Poisoners! Thieves! You deserve to be roasted alive.’

‘Where is John?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew. ‘If he does not bring the book soon, nothing will stop these turbulent scholars from attacking each other. Shirford must be refusing to let him have it. Go and hurry them up.’

Although Michael had considerable experience at quelling riots, Bartholomew still did not like the notion of leaving him. ‘I should stay and-’

‘Go! I have a plan, but it hinges on the tome. Do not just stand there! Hurry!’

Hoping Michael knew what he was doing, Bartholomew left the brewing riot and raced towards All Saints’. He ran hard, and it took but a moment to reach the church. He found John outside, perched negligently on a tombstone, humming to himself. When he saw the physician, the Junior Proctor leaped to his feet and began to hammer on the door.

‘Who is it?’ called Shirford from inside. His voice was uneasy. ‘One of the Bardolf brothers?’

Bartholomew frowned, trying to understand why John had dallied before doing as Michael had ordered – he could tell from Shirford’s response that it was the first time John had attempted to rouse him with a knock.

‘Shirford must have been asleep,’ explained John. ‘I rapped several times, but there was no reply. He has obviously just woken up.’

Bartholomew was sure that could not be true. ‘He knows there is trouble afoot today, and will be alert to any kind of disturbance. He would have heard even the slightest tap.’

‘No one has knocked since you left earlier,’ called Shirford, overhearing the discussion. ‘And I never sleep during the day. What do you want? I am not opening the door, regardless.’

‘I do not blame you,’ replied John. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘The pressure of the situation has addled Michael’s wits, because only a madman would take the book from its sanctuary when a riot is brewing. You must see-’

‘Oh, God!’ gulped Bartholomew suddenly, as all became clear. ‘It is you! You are the killer.’

John gaped at him. ‘What?’

‘The prophecy! After the murder in Peterhouse’s sacred place and King’s Hall’s shattered bones comes the traitor with his saintly face. You are John de St Philibert!’

John’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I thought you did not believe in fortune-telling. Besides, accusing me of treachery on the basis of a single word is-’

‘It is not the book’s garbled verses that tell me you are guilty; it is logic and hard evidence. Although the use of the word “saintly” is a curious coincidence…’

John made a moue of impatience. ‘How can I be the killer? I was almost one of his victims.’

‘We have only your word that the attack even happened. There are no witnesses and-’

Bartholomew only just managed to duck away from the dagger that came slicing towards him. John followed his swipe with a kick that caught the physician on the knee. Pain blazed down Bartholomew’s leg, and he knew the injury would slow him down, doubtless exactly as the Junior Proctor had intended. He had no weapon, and all he could do to defend himself was to back away, acutely aware that while he dallied, Michael was in ever-increasing danger.

‘You will not survive this encounter,’ said John softly, so Shirford would not hear. ‘I may not be a warrior, but I can best an unarmed man. Give up, and you will have an easy death.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaotic jumble, solutions and answers coming to him so fast that he barely knew where to begin. ‘You engineered today’s trouble,’ he said, scrambling behind a tombstone. ‘And yesterday’s too. I thought it was March, who is goading William to violence even as we speak, but it was you.’

John sneered at him. ‘But you would never have guessed it, had I not shown my hand by deciding to kill you.’

Bartholomew felt sick. ‘The discussion you insisted on having just now was not to stop Michael from accusing the wrong culprit, but to give Peterhouse time to mass outside King’s Hall. You started the rumour about my college siding with Peterhouse for the same reason, and it was you, disguised by a hood, who whispered poisonous thoughts at Hugh until he drew his sword.’

John’s expression was dangerous, and he hurled himself across the tombstone in a determined effort to reach his quarry. Bartholomew jerked away and managed to score a punch before limping to safety. John gasped when the physician’s fist connected with his ribs.

‘The dispute between King’s Hall and Peterhouse could never have reached this pitch on its own,’ the physician went on. While John climbed to his feet, hand to his side, Bartholomew seized a piece of fallen timber. It was slimy with rot, but better than nothing. ‘Someone has coaxed it and nurtured it every step of the way.’

‘I killed Hugh to stop him from slaughtering you,’ John snarled. ‘I should not have bothered.’

‘You killed Hugh because you wanted his death to fuel the quarrel,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It did not work, because King’s Hall were content to lose two scholars to Peterhouse’s five, so you saw you would have to try again. You poisoned Neuton, knowing from your duties as proctor that he filled his wineskins in a kitchen that was often left unlocked.’

John’s face creased into a smug grin. Like many killers, he could not resist the urge to brag about his cleverness – or his protagonists’ stupidity. ‘It never occurred to you that I had the run of the town last night and could do what I liked – visit Peterhouse or All Saints’. You probably have not realized that I am from St Philibert either, and that my French father sends me a certain cordial…’

Bartholomew blocked a blow with his piece of wood. It flew into pieces, showering them both with rotten splinters. He ignored the jibe about the cordial, because John was right: the Junior Proctor’s Gallic connections had not crossed his mind.

‘And then, to make sure there would be trouble today, you killed Roger,’ he said, continuing to back away. He was running out of space, and furious yells from the High Street told him that Michael’s situation was not much better. ‘You may even have told March where the body lay, knowing he would respond by charging to King’s Hall and urging them to retaliate. And it was you who “found” the bloody mallet in Wittleseye’s room.’

John shook his head incredulously. ‘I could not believe it when you and the monk refused to accept that Wittleseye had bludgeoned Roger. The mallet and the P carved into Roger’s face were as brazen a set of clues as I could concoct, and yet you still declined to arrest him.’

Bartholomew staggered when John came close to spearing him by feinting one way and striking hard the other. John was tiring of the game, and the physician knew it would not be long before he made a concerted effort to finish him so he could be back in the affray, coaxing the trouble until it erupted. He tried to distract him with more conclusions.

‘You did not kill Drayton, though, because you were not in Cambridge at the time. Of course, that was why you were willing to accept Michael’s contention that there was only one killer – you are innocent of Drayton’s death, so logic dictates that you cannot have killed Roger and Neuton either. The only question I cannot answer is why did you do it? To impress your future family? I know that is why you became a proctor.’

‘Joan will adore me when she hears it was I who saved the town from certain destruction.’

Bartholomew hurled the remnants of the branch at him in a futile attempt to stall the relentless advance. ‘And how do you plan to do that?’

John ducked. ‘It is all explained in the book. The verse about the Hammer of the Unruly refers to me. I am the glorious sun with the golden head, using my might to quell unrest.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Are you sure it does not refer to King Edward, nicknamed Hammer of the Scots?’

John did not think the issue worth debating. He resumed his advance, waving the dagger in front of him. ‘You can think what you will, but everything predicted in the book has come to pass.’

‘Only because you made it so,’ objected Bartholomew. Something else became clear too. ‘You live in the house that Drayton once rented. He must have hidden the book before he went to do business with Peterhouse. You found it.’

‘Plastered inside a hole in the wall,’ acknowledged John. ‘I discovered it when I was replacing some rotten floorboards. I knew Peterhouse would try to claim it, so I devised a plan to prevent that: I left it in All Saints’, intending to be the person who discovered it lying on the altar.’

‘But you bargained without the Bardolfs attending church, and they got it first.’

John gave a beatific smile. ‘I was appalled to start with, but then I realized it did not matter. What is important is the prophecy – and that is going to come true regardless.’

Without warning, he came at Bartholomew with a series of vicious swipes that drove the physician backwards so fast that his bruised knee could not support him. He fell, crashing against a buttress. John moved in for the kill. The dagger began to descend. Then the church door was hauled open, there was a loud thud and John collapsed to the ground in a heap.

For a few confused moments Bartholomew did not understand what had happened. Then he saw Shirford standing over the insensible Junior Proctor with the Black Book of Brân in his shaking hands. Hoping the priest would not hit him too, Bartholomew crawled forward to examine John. He was still breathing, but a darkening mark on the back of his head said he would not feel well when he regained his wits.

‘I heard everything,’ whispered Shirford, white with shock. ‘John spoke softly to start with, but then he forgot himself and began to gloat. It is only right that this self-proclaimed Hammer of the Unruly should be hammered by the book he was trying to abuse. I am not sorry.’

There was a sudden roar of voices from the direction of King’s Hall. ‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, snatching the tome from Shirford and beginning to hobble towards the High Street. He would see to John later.

The scene outside King’s Hall had degenerated badly. The Peterhouse students were hurling themselves at Michael and his beadles, furiously trying to get past them and attack King’s Hall with their makeshift battering rams. Arrows rained down on them all, hitting the peacekeepers as well as the enemy, and the cries of the wounded added to the cacophony. March was screaming at the Bardolfs to aim true, and Wittleseye was encouraging his lads with fiery prayers. The ex-beadle’s tirade stopped abruptly when a well-aimed stone struck him in the throat. He staggered back, hands to his neck, and did not appear again.

‘At last!’ snapped Michael, ripping the book from Bartholomew’s hands. ‘Where in God’s name have you been? And where is John?’

‘Later,’ gasped Bartholomew. He ducked as a fire-arrow sailed over his head. ‘If you have a plan, Brother, now is the time to implement it.’

‘Behold the Black Book of Brân!’ yelled Michael at the top of his voice. He climbed on to a horse trough to wave it aloft, ensuring it could be seen by everyone present. Bartholomew itched to drag him down, aware that he made a tempting target for both sides. There was, however, an immediate hush as the combatants saw what he held.

‘It has been damaged,’ cried Wittleseye in horror. ‘There are holes in its back cover.’

‘It is not the cover that is important,’ declared Michael. ‘It is the poetry. And I want you to hear some of it before you go any further with this feud. Can everyone hear me?’

‘We can,’ called William from a window in King’s Hall. ‘But this had better be important, Brother. If you are wasting our time, the next arrow will be for you.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘Right,’ said the monk, riffling through the pages. ‘Then take heed of this:

“When rocks and kings a brawl incite,

God’s anger doth begin to boil.

And when arrows fly and scholars fight,

God kills them all with a thunderbolt.” ’

There was absolute silence amongst the assembled horde, followed by some urgent whispering. William ducked back inside his window to confer with his brothers, while Wittleseye gestured that his own scholars were to gather around him.

‘That was terrible!’ hissed Bartholomew in alarm, certain that no one was going to be deceived by such a transparent ploy. ‘Your poem has a different rhythm from the rest of the verses, and it does not rhyme properly. Was that your grand idea? You are insane!’

‘No,’ whispered Michael furiously. ‘My grand idea was to invite the ringleaders to my office – with the book – to discuss the dispute like civilized men. But you took so long to bring it that the time for such gestures had passed. I was obliged to improvise.’

‘Let me see that,’ demanded Shirford loudly, snatching the book back before the monk could stop him. ‘I have been studying the text for the last two weeks, and I do not recall this quatrain.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Bartholomew, sure Michael was about to pay dearly for his bravado.

‘Ah. Here it is,’ announced Shirford loudly. ‘Near the end. You are lucky the good Brother remembered this particular verse, because it would be a pity to lose you all to divine fury.’

‘We had better go home, then,’ said Wittleseye in alarm. There was a rumble of assent from his students, and the bowmen in King’s Hall began to lower their weapons. ‘Nephews of the Archbishop of Canterbury do not defy God. Other prophecies in that book have come true, so there is no reason why this one should not, and I am a priest – it would be embarrassing to be struck by a thunderbolt.’

‘Thank you!’ breathed Michael to Shirford. ‘I was not sure they were going to fall for it.’

‘I would have been astonished if they had,’ replied Shirford dryly. ‘You should have asked me to compose something; I would have made a more convincing job of it. But I could not stand by and see you shot, not when you took the trouble to ensure I was safe last night. You were bone-weary, but you came anyway, and I appreciated your concern. No one else bothered.’

‘The dispute is not over, though,’ called Wittleseye to King’s Hall as he left, students in tow. ‘The book belongs to Peterhouse, and-’

‘Actually, it does not,’ interrupted Michael, moving away from Shirford to brandish a piece of parchment. ‘I had a message from the king this morning, and he wants it. If anyone feels we should not do as His Majesty desires and make him a gift of it, he can leave his name at the proctors’ office and I will be sure to mention him in the missive I write.’

‘You are a clever man, Brother,’ said Shirford admiringly, watching the scholars disperse. Wittleseye was white-faced with anger, and William bitterly disappointed, but neither were about to argue with a ‘request’ from the king. ‘You left them with no choice but to let you send the book to Westminster. But how timely that you should happen to receive His Majesty’s letter today.’

‘How timely indeed,’ muttered Bartholomew.

III

Although Michael had prevented the trouble from going too far, there were still casualties, and Bartholomew was overwhelmed by demands for his services. Meanwhile, the monk was busy ensuring that the embers of the quarrel were well and truly dead, so it was more than a week before they were able to discuss what had happened. They went to sit in Michaelhouse’s orchard, where a fallen apple tree provided a comfortable bench.

‘Any word about John?’ asked Bartholomew. The Junior Proctor had vanished by the time the beadles had been free to go to All Saints’ and arrest him, and he had not been seen since. Michael believed he had fled to the Earl of Suffolk, hoping to convince his future kinsman that there had been a misunderstanding.

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘But Shirford told me everything John said – that he found the book Drayton had hidden, engineered a dispute between King’s Hall and Peterhouse, poisoned Neuton, bludgeoned Roger and pretended that he had been attacked. He did it because he read the verses about kings and rocks and thought it was all foretold.’

‘He also decided he was the Hammer of the Unruly. It was all to impress the earl.’

‘But unfortunately for him, the wedding is off,’ said Michael with gleeful malice. ‘The earl sent word to say that he has other plans for his daughter now. I wonder what will become of John – I cannot imagine the earl wanting that sort of embarrassment roaming about freely.’

Bartholomew did not want to think about it. He had liked John and thought it a pity that two months of able proctoring had ended in two weeks of needless havoc. He also thought it rather pathetic that John had had such a low opinion of his own abilities that he had felt compelled to manufacture a situation in which he could be a hero.

‘He could not have stopped the fighting outside King’s Hall,’ he said, more to himself than to Michael. ‘It would never have occurred to him to compose bad poetry and tell lies about letters from the king. And even if it had, he would not have had the audacity to try it.’

Michael grinned. ‘I admit it was reckless, but I could see no other way to end the confrontation. Did I tell you the book is currently on its way to Westminster?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Is it? I thought the king’s request was something you invented.’

‘It was, but then it occurred to me that it was a good way to get rid of the thing. The king is away, but the Prince of Wales has agreed to accept it in his stead.’

‘I hope he is not expecting a real book of prophecies,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Because if he is, he is going to be disappointed. It is just not possible to predict the future.’ He hesitated. ‘Except that I still cannot explain the reference to the traitor’s “sainted face”, which prompted me to consider John de St Philibert as the killer.’

‘Coincidence,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘It is bound to happen over eight hundred years.’

‘It is a pity we did not solve Drayton’s murder, though. As long as his killer remains free, King’s Hall and Peterhouse will be suspicious of each other.’

‘But I have solved it,’ said Michael. ‘Did I not tell you? It was Shirford.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Prove it.’

Michael began to count off points on fat fingers. ‘First, he knew that the book Drayton took with him to Peterhouse the night he was murdered was Aristotle’s On Dreams; we never made that detail public, so it was something only the killer could have known. Second, he made sure we knew Drayton was a reprehensible character whom no one mourned. Third, I do not believe he took the post as guardian in order to get a parish; I think he did it because he wanted to grab the book as soon as he could safely do so.’

Bartholomew remained sceptical. ‘Why? He is not ambitious.’

Michael smiled and handed him a piece of parchment. ‘And fourth, this arrived yesterday.’

Bartholomew read it quickly. ‘It is a royal writ, issuing a pardon for Shirford’s killing of Drayton. It is signed by the Prince of Wales.’ He regarded Michael with troubled eyes. ‘Who took the book to the prince in Westminster?’

‘Shirford, its faithful guardian. Who else? It seems to me that orders were issued from high places long before we knew of the existence of the Black Book of Brân. And these orders have allowed Shirford to get away with murder.’

HISTORICAL NOTE

Thomas de Shirford, priest and scholar at the University of Cambridge, really did kill William de Drayton in 1350 and was later pardoned for the crime at the behest of the Prince of Wales (the ‘Black Prince’). Shirford lived until at least 1387 and did well for himself, rising to the rank of archdeacon and Keeper of the Spiritualities at Norwich. We will never know why he killed Drayton, or why the prince should have ordered him pardoned.

William Bardolf, kin to Lord Thomas Bardolf, was admitted to King’s Hall in the 1380s, where he studied civil law. He went on to become a canon and prebend at York. Meanwhile, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s nephew was enrolled at Peterhouse. Wittleseye became an archbishop himself, and his will mentions a kinsman called Roger Neuton. Adam de la March was a University beadle in the mid-fourteenth century. Finally, John de St Philibert was indeed betrothed to Joan, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. But the marriage never took place, and John disappears into the mists of history without further mention.