The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 2

‘Two weeks,’ grumbled Michael the following morning. The scholars had attended Mass, broken their fast and then the Fellows had repaired to the comfortable room adjoining the hall that provided them with a refuge from students. ‘You and I were in Suffolk for two weeks over the Easter vacation, and we returned to find our entire world turned upside down!’

He was talking to Bartholomew, who sat by the fire with him. Three other Fellows were also in the room: William was by the window, practising the lecture he was to give that day; Clippesby was on the floor, conversing with an assortment of poultry; and Aungel was at the table reading an ostentatiously large medical tome, one specifically chosen to show his colleagues that he took his new teaching duties seriously. The last Fellow, Theophilis, had gone to St Mary the Great to spy on the Chancellor for Michael.

Bartholomew cast his mind back to the tumultuous fortnight that he and the monk had spent in Clare, where they had learned that Cambridge was not the only town plagued by murderers and people with grudges. It had only been a month ago, but felt longer, because both had been so busy since – Michael with his new responsibilities as Master, and Bartholomew determined to make the most of his last term in academia.

‘Not all the changes have been bad,’ he said. ‘You have made improvements–’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Michael impatiently. ‘There is no question that I am a fine Master, and if I ousted William we would easily be the best College in the University. However, I was referring to Chancellor Suttone and his inexcusable flight. How could he abandon us without so much as a backward glance?’

‘We should have predicted that his terror of the plague might override his sense of duty. He was obsessed with the possibility of a second outbreak.’

Michael glared into the flames. ‘He still should have spoken to me before resigning. When I think of all the trouble I took to get him in post …’

‘I imagine he went then precisely because you were away – if he had waited, you would have talked him out of it. He never could stand up to you.’

Michael continued to scowl. ‘I shall never forgive him. And it is not as if the Death is poised to return. There have been no rumours of it, like there were the last time.’

‘Actually, there have,’ countered Bartholomew soberly. ‘In the Italian–’

‘No,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I will not allow it to sweep among us. Not again.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘And how will you stop it exactly? Or have you set your ambitions on more lofty roles than mere bishoprics or abbacies, and aim to play God?’

Michael glared at him. ‘I was thinking that you and I have the authority to impose sensible anti-plague measures this time – setting up hospitals, separating the sick from the healthy, and burning infected clothing. Working together, we could defeat it.’

Bartholomew knew it was not that simple. ‘It would be–’

‘Of course, it is Heltisle’s fault that we have de Wetherset as Chancellor,’ interrupted Michael, more interested in University politics than a disease that might never materialise. ‘He was the one who forced an election the moment Suttone slunk away. Everyone else wanted to wait until I got back.’

‘He must have been within his rights to do it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Or you would have contested the result.’

‘Being legal does not make it acceptable,’ sniffed Michael. ‘And as Senior Proctor, I should have been here. I imagine Heltisle wanted the post himself, but when he realised no one would vote for him, he encouraged de Wetherset to stand instead. Then he demanded a reward, so de Wetherset created the post of Vice-Chancellor for him.’

Bartholomew had known Heltisle, who was also the Master of Bene’t College, for years, and had always disliked him. He was arrogant, dangerously ambitious, and made no secret of his disdain for the way Bartholomew practised and taught medicine. Their mutual antipathy meant they avoided each other whenever possible, as encounters invariably ended in a spat. Unfortunately, Heltisle’s new position meant Bartholomew was now obliged to deal with him more often than was pleasant.

‘It is a pity he and de Wetherset are friends,’ he mused. ‘De Wetherset was a lot nicer before poisonous old Heltisle started whispering in his ear.’

‘Heltisle is poisonous,’ agreed Michael. ‘Fortunately, he is not clever enough to be dangerous. The man who is dangerous is Commissary Aynton. Commissary Aynton! Yet another sinecure created without my permission!’

Bartholomew blinked. Calling Aynton dangerous was akin to saying the same about a mouse, and any teeth the new Commissary might possess were far too small to cause trouble. Indeed, Bartholomew was sorry that the bumbling, well-meaning Aynton had allowed himself to be dragged into the perfidious world of University politics in the first place, as strong, confident men like Michael, Heltisle and de Wetherset were sure to mangle him.

‘There is no harm in Aynton,’ he argued. ‘Besides, he has no real power – it is Heltisle who will rule if de Wetherset is ill or absent. All the Commissary does is sign documents.’

‘Quite!’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘Sign documents. And what do these documents entail? Agreements pertaining to money, benefactions or property; the appointment of officials; the giving of degrees; and the granting of licences to travel, preach or establish new hostels. All were matters handled by me until he came along.’

Bartholomew was astonished. ‘You let de Wetherset take those privileges away from you and give them to someone else?’

Michael’s scowl deepened. ‘I did not “let” him do anything – I returned from Suffolk to find it had already happened. I shall take it back, of course, but not yet. I will wait until Aynton makes some catastrophic blunder, then step in and save the day.’

‘If he makes a catastrophic blunder. He is not a fool.’

‘No, which is why I say he is dangerous. I call the three of them – de Wetherset, Heltisle and Aynton – the triumvirate. I am sure their ultimate goal is to oust me completely. Fortunately, I have a secret weapon: Theophilis is an excellent spy and wholly loyal to me. The triumvirate have no idea that he tells me everything they do or say.’

‘I hope you are right about him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Because he makes me uneasy.’

Michael dismissed the physician’s concerns with an impatient wave of a hand. ‘He owes all he has to me – his Fellowship, his appointment as Junior Proctor, and a nice little benefice in York that pays him a handsome stipend for doing nothing.’

‘We have met colleagues who bite the hand that feeds them before,’ warned Bartholomew, thinking there had been rather too many of them over the years.

‘Theophilis is not a viper,’ declared Michael confidently. ‘Besides, I have promised to make him Chancellor in time – which will not be in the too-distant future if de Wetherset continues to heed the dubious advice of Heltisle and Aynton over sensible suggestions from me. But enough of this. Tell me about Bonet. Dick says he was killed by the same culprit as Paris.’

‘Probably, although we cannot say for certain without more evidence. Why? Will you explore his death as well as Paris’s?’

Michael nodded. ‘The town will not approve, of course, just as scholars will resent Dick looking into Paris. All I hope is that one of us finds the killer before there is trouble over it.’

A short while later, Bartholomew returned to his room, which he shared with four medical students. They were rolling up their mattresses and stowing them under the bed when he arrived, and he reflected that this was something else that had changed since Michael had become Master. Before, a dozen lads had been crammed in with him, which meant no one had slept very well. One of the monk’s first undertakings had been to convert the stables into a spacious dormitory, so conditions were far less crowded for everyone. Matters would improve further still when the new wing was built. This would be funded by the new benefactors he had secured – three wealthy burgesses, the Earl of Suffolk, four knights and a host of alumni who remembered their College days with great fondness.

‘Do we really have to listen to Father William this morning?’ asked Islaye, one of Bartholomew’s senior students. He was a gentle lad, too easily upset by patients’ suffering to make a good physician. ‘I would rather study.’

‘We can do that while he is ranting,’ said his crony Mallett, who was not sympathetic to suffering at all, and saw medicine purely as a way to earn lots of money. ‘He will not notice.’

‘Sit at the back then,’ advised Michael, overhearing as he walked in. He sat so heavily on a chair that there was a crack and Bartholomew was sure the legs bowed. ‘If he suspects you are not listening, he will fine you.’

The students gulped their alarm at this notion, and hurried away to discuss tactics that would avoid such a calamity. Through the window, Bartholomew saw William walking towards the hall, carrying an enormous sheaf of notes that suggested he might still be holding forth at midnight.

At that moment, Cynric, Bartholomew’s book-bearer, arrived. The Welshman had been with him for years, and although he rarely did much in the way of carrying tomes, he was a useful man to have around. He acted not only as a servant, but as bodyguard, warrior, burglar and spy, as the occasion demanded. He had saved Bartholomew’s life more times than the physician cared to remember, and was a loyal friend. He was also deeply superstitious, and his hat and cloak were loaded down with talismans, charms and amulets.

‘Does a patient need me?’ asked Bartholomew, hopeful for an excuse to go out.

Cynric nodded. ‘Chancellor de Wetherset – the fat pork he ate for breakfast has given him a griping in the guts. I know a couple of spells that will sort him out. Shall I–’

‘No,’ gulped Bartholomew, suspecting Cynric meant the Chancellor harm. The book-bearer had been affronted when de Wetherset had replaced Suttone with what he considered to be indecent haste, and had offered several times to help Michael oust him. ‘I am coming. Where is he? At his home in Tyled Hostel?’

The University had eight Colleges and dozens of hostels. The difference between them was that Colleges had endowments to provide their occupants with a regular and reliable income, so were financially stable, whereas hostels tended to be poor, shabby and short-lived. Tyled Hostel was an exception to the rule, and was both old and relatively affluent. It stood on the corner of St Michael’s Lane and the High Street, and had, as its name suggested, a roof with tiles rather than the more usual thatch. It had six masters and two dozen students, and was currently enjoying the distinction of being home not only to the Chancellor, but to the Commissary as well – de Wetherset and Aynton both lived there.

‘He is in St Mary the Great.’ Cynric turned to Michael. ‘He wants you as well, Brother. The cheek of it, summoning you like a lackey! Shall I tell him to–’

‘Now, now, Cynric,’ tutted Michael. ‘I am sure he meant no offence.’

‘Are you?’ muttered Cynric sourly. ‘Because I am not.’

‘Besides, it will allow me to miss William’s lecture,’ Michael went on. ‘There is nothing worse than listening to a man who has no idea what he is talking about. I do enough of that when Heltisle and Aynton regale me with their opinions about University affairs.’

He and Bartholomew began to walk across the yard, where a dozen chickens – including Clippesby’s two philosophers – pecked. They met Theophilis on the way. The Junior Proctor handed Michael the Chancellor’s morning correspondence with a flourish.

‘I took the liberty of briefing the beadles, too,’ he said gushingly. ‘To save you the trouble. Your time is too precious for such menial tasks.’

Beadles were the small army of men who kept order among the scholars.

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, scanning the letters quickly and deciding that none held anything important. ‘You had better go to the hall now. William will start in a moment.’

The Junior Proctor regarded him in dismay. ‘You expect me to be there? I assumed you would spare me such horrors.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Michael apologetically. ‘But someone needs to supervise. Matt and I are summoned to St Mary the Great, Clippesby has a prior appointment with a pig, and Aungel is too junior. You are the only Fellow left.’

‘But I was going to St Radegund’s Priory,’ objected Theophilis. ‘One of the nuns is going to preach about sainthood, and I invited Aynton to accompany me. He will be disappointed if I tell him that we cannot go.’

‘Then I am afraid he must bear it as well as he can,’ said Michael, unmoved, ‘because you are needed here. Now, remember – seat all the Dominicans at the back, where they cannot hit the speaker, and separate the Franciscans from the Carmelites. Keep your wits about you at all times, and be ready to intervene if the situation looks set to turn violent.’

‘You think a lecture on theology will end in fisticuffs?’ gulped Theophilis, alarmed.

‘Only a man who has never heard William sounding off would ask that question,’ muttered Michael as he walked away.

Although it was May, the weather was unseasonably warm. Unusually, there had been no snow or frost after January, and the first signs of spring had started to appear before February was out. By April, the countryside had exploded into leaf. Farmers boasted that they were more than a month ahead of schedule, and predicted bumper harvests. It was so mild that even the short walk from the College was enough to work up a sweat, and Michael mopped his face with the piece of silk that he kept for the purpose.

Cambridge was attractive if one did not look too closely. It boasted more than a dozen churches, each a jewel in its own right, and a wealth of priories, as most of the main religious Orders were represented – Franciscans, Dominicans, Carmelites, Austins and Gilbertines. And then there were the eight Colleges, ranging from the palatial fortress that was King’s Hall to little Peterhouse, the oldest and most picturesque.

There were also two hospitals. One was St John’s, a venerable establishment that accommodated some of the town’s elderly infirm. The other was a new foundation on the Trumpington road named the Hospital of St Anthony and St Eloy, although everyone usually just called it ‘the Spital’. It was to have housed lepers, but incidence of that particular disease had declined over the last century, so it had opened its doors to lunatics instead.

The High Street was pretty in the early summer sunlight, the plasterwork on its houses glowing gold, pink, blue and cream. There was a busy clatter as carts rattled to and from the market square, interspersed with the cries of vendors hawking their wares. Above it all rose the clang of bells, from the rich bass of St Mary the Great to the tinny jangle of St Botolph, calling the faithful to prayer.

Despite the beauty, Bartholomew sensed a darkly menacing atmosphere. So far, the heightened tension between town and University had been confined to words and the occasional scuffle, although everyone knew it would not be long before there was a full-scale brawl. The College that bore the brunt of the town’s hostility was King’s Hall – massive, ostentatiously wealthy, and home to the sons of nobles or those destined to be courtiers or royal clerks. By contrast, Michaelhouse was popular because Bartholomew treated the town’s poor free of charge, while Michael ran the choir, a group of supremely untalented individuals who came for the free bread and ale after practices.

‘I hope there will be no trouble while the nuns are here,’ the monk said, watching a group of apprentices make obscene gestures at two Gonville Hall men, who had rashly elected to don tunics that were currently fashionable in France. ‘I hope to secure a couple of abbesses as benefactors, so I shall be vexed if they witness any unseemly behaviour.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘What nuns?’

Michael shot him a weary glance. ‘The ones who are here for the conloquium. Do not pretend to be ignorant, because I have spoken of little else since the Bishop’s letter came.’

‘Our Bishop?’ asked Bartholomew, vaguely recalling that a missive had arrived, although it had been some weeks back, so he thought he could be forgiven for having forgotten. Moreover, Michael had been the prelate’s emissary for years, keeping him informed of what was happening in the University, and the Bishop was always writing to thank him. As a result, letters bearing the episcopal seal were nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Of course our Bishop,’ said Michael crossly. ‘Surely you cannot think I would arrange such an event for another one?’

Gradually, Bartholomew remembered what Michael had told him about the conloquium. It was a once-in-a-decade event, when leading Benedictine nuns gathered for lectures, discussions and religious instruction. He recalled being surprised that Michael had agreed to let it happen in Cambridge, given that he had his hands so full already. He said as much again.

‘I did it because the Bishop is on the verge of recommending me to the Pope as his successor,’ explained Michael. ‘I cannot afford to lose his goodwill by refusing to let a few nuns get together, not after all my dedicated grovelling these last ten years.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, amused by the naked ambition. ‘But if I recall aright, the conloquium was supposed to be in Lyminster Priory this time around.’

‘It was, but Lyminster is near the coast, and the King felt it would represent too great a temptation for French raiders. He is right: not only would there be rich pickings for looters, but high-ranking delegates could be kidnapped and held to ransom.’

‘Would the Dauphin risk such an assault? We have his father in the Tower of London – a father who will forfeit his head if the son attacks us again.’

‘You can never trust the French to see sense, Matt. Our King certainly does not, or he would not have issued the call to arms. Anyway, His Majesty wanted the conloquium held inland, so our Bishop recommended St Radegund’s. I agreed to organise everything, and the delegates began arriving a fortnight ago. It has gone well, and will end in just over a week.’

‘St Radegund’s,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Was there nowhere more suitable to hold it?’

He phrased the question carefully, because that particular foundation had been the subject of several episcopal visitations, after which even the worldly Bishop had declared himself shocked by what went on there. The present incumbent was irreproachable, but the convent’s reputation remained tarnished even so. Ergo, it was not a place he would have chosen for a gathering of the country’s female religious elite.

‘It has a large dormitory, a refectory big enough for everyone to eat together, and a huge chapel for their devotions. The Bishop was right to suggest it – it is the perfect venue.’

As the monk had elected not to understand his meaning, Bartholomew let the matter of the foundation’s dubious past drop. ‘How many nuns are here?’ he asked instead.

‘Two hundred or so – the heads of about fifty houses and their retinues. St Radegund’s cannot accommodate them all comfortably, so I put ten in the Gilbertines’ guesthouse and twenty in the Spital. The lunatics were not very pleased to learn they were to have company, but it could not be helped.’

‘You brought two hundred women here?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘In term time, when we have students in residence?’

He did not need to add more. Women were forbidden to scholars, but it was a stricture few were inclined to follow, especially the younger ones.

‘They are nuns, not ladies of the night,’ retorted Michael. ‘Besides, the delegates have a full schedule of interesting events, so are far too busy for romantic dalliances. The only ones you will see in town are those going to or from their lodgings with the Gilbertines or at the Spital.’

‘Yes, but some of these “interesting events” are open to outsiders – Theophilis was invited to a lecture. Moreover, it is unreasonable to expect these women to go home without seeing something of the town.’

‘Then I shall encourage them to leave promptly – hopefully before they witness anything unedifying, especially the ones I aim to make Michaelhouse benefactors.’

‘Good luck with that! Mischief is in the air, and has been ever since we heard about Winchelsea and the King ordered everyone to train to arms. Not to mention the murders of Paris the Plagiarist and now Bonet the spicer.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael unhappily. ‘There will be a battle sooner or later, despite my efforts to prevent one. All I hope is that these rich – and hopefully generous – nuns do not see it.’

St Mary the Great was the University’s centre of power, as all its senior officers worked there. It was a handsome church, occupying a commanding position on the High Street, and was the only building in the town that could accommodate every scholar at the same time.

The largest and most impressive room should have been the Chancellor’s, but Michael had appropriated that years before, leaving the University’s titular head with a rather poky chamber near the back door. De Wetherset had tried to reclaim it while Michael was in Suffolk, but the beadles were devoted to their Senior Proctor and refused to allow it. Thus Michael’s domain remained his own.

Bartholomew glanced through its door as he and Michael hurried past. It was sumptuously decorated, with wool rugs and fine furniture. It had two desks, both set to catch the light from the beautifully glazed windows. The ornate, oaken one was Michael’s, piled high with documents bearing the seals of nobles or high-ranking churchmen. The other was Junior Proctor Theophilis’s, neat to the point of obsessional.

By contrast, de Wetherset’s room was dark, plain and smelled of damp. It was also cramped, as the Vice-Chancellor and Commissary worked there, too – Michael had declined to oust his clerks and secretaries to make room for the newly created officials, claiming that de Wetherset should have considered such practicalities before appointing anyone.

‘Ah, here you are,’ said de Wetherset, as Michael strutted in without knocking. Bartholomew hovered on the threshold, uncertain whether to follow suit, but the Chancellor beckoned him inside. ‘Good.’

He was a solid man of late-to-middle years, whose physical strength was turning to fat. He had iron-grey hair, small eyes, and wore Tyled Hostel’s uniform of a dark green academic tabard, which fitted him like a glove. Although he seemed honourable, there was something about him that had always made Bartholomew wary. Perhaps it was the aura of power that emanated from him, or his sharp, sometimes unkind tongue. Regardless, he was not someone the physician would ever consider a friend.

He had been Chancellor for years before the stress of the post had forced him to resign. To recover, he had gone on a pilgrimage to Walsingham, and had returned bursting with vitality. He claimed his good health was a miracle, although Bartholomew suspected he had just benefited from fresh air, regular meals and plenty of exercise. He had bought a pilgrim badge when he had reached the shrine, which he always wore pinned proudly on his hat.

As usual, the men he had appointed were with him. Tall, haughty, elegant Vice-Chancellor Heltisle was immaculately clad in a gold-trimmed gipon with his uniform tabard – in Bene’t College’s royal blue – over the top. His shoes were crafted from soft leather, and he wore a floppy hat that most townsfolk would automatically assume was French. He had always been wealthy, but additional funds had come his way after he had invented a metal pen. These had quickly become status symbols, with scholars scrambling to buy them, even though they were indecently expensive. Matilde had given one to Bartholomew, although he had found it more trouble than it was worth and never used it.

Commissary Aynton was a stooped, gangling man with a benign smile and dreamy eyes, so that Bartholomew sometimes wondered if he was fully aware of what was going on around him. His clothes were expensive, but he wore them badly, so he always looked vaguely disreputable. Bartholomew liked him because he often made discreet donations of medicine for the poor, something Heltisle would never do.

‘I am glad to see you, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset, one hand clasped to his paunch. ‘Do you have that remedy for a griping in the guts? I thought I was cured of my delicate innards – this is the first trouble I have suffered since Walsingham.’

‘Do not trust him to give you relief, de Wetherset,’ said Heltisle nastily. ‘You should have sent for Rougham. He is a much better physician, and does not waste time washing his hands with such irritating regularity.’

‘Oh, come, Heltisle,’ chided Aynton with a pleasant smile. ‘Matthew has a rare skill with griping guts, as you know perfectly well. Or were you the only member of your College who did not swallow his remedy after the feast that made everyone vomit?’

Heltisle’s red face provided the answer to that question, but he was not a man to recant, so he went on another offensive to mask his discomfiture. ‘If you are going to physick him, Bartholomew, hurry up. We are busy, and cannot wait for you all day.’

Bartholomew was tempted to leave there and then, but de Wetherset was looking decidedly unwell, and the physician was not in the habit of abandoning those who needed him. He indicated that de Wetherset was to lie on a bench – the Chancellor probably had indigestion, but it would be remiss not to examine him before prescribing a tonic.

‘These nuns, Brother,’ said Aynton, watching Bartholomew palpate the Chancellor’s ample abdomen. ‘Are you sure it was a good idea to bring them here? I have heard alarming stories about what St Radegund’s was like in the past.’

‘You mean when it was a delightful place to visit?’ asked Heltisle with a leer that made Bartholomew dislike him even more. ‘As opposed to now, when it is full of women who only want to pray? Of course, you had no right to arrange a conloquium here, Brother. It should have been de Wetherset’s decision.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘No, it should not. First, St Radegund’s does not come under the University’s jurisdiction. Second, de Wetherset was not Chancellor when the Bishop made his request. And third, the Bishop approached me because the delegates are from my own Order.’

Heltisle sniffed. ‘Well, do not blame me if our students take advantage of the fact that thousands of nubile young ladies lie within their grasp.’

Michael laughed. ‘There are only two hundred, and few are nubile.’

‘Nor are they within anyone’s grasp,’ put in Bartholomew, not liking the notion of someone like Heltisle marching out there in the hope that he would receive the kind of welcome he had evidently enjoyed when standards had been different.

Heltisle rounded on him. ‘And you would know, of course. You have no right to be a scholar while you have a woman waiting to wed you.’

‘He breaks no statute – not in the University and not in Michaelhouse,’ retorted Michael sharply. ‘And do not accuse him of enjoying illicit relations, because Matilde is away.’ He turned away before Heltisle could argue and addressed de Wetherset, who was sitting up to sip the tonic Bartholomew had poured. ‘Why did you send for me, Chancellor?’

‘To discuss the call to arms,’ explained de Wetherset, some colour returning to his plump cheeks. ‘The town has two knights to monitor its training, but we have no one – our scholars just arrive at the butts, loose a few arrows and go home. We need someone who can teach them how to improve.’

‘Cynric,’ said Aynton, smiling at Bartholomew. ‘He is a very good archer, and I am sure you will not mind lending him out. Beadle Meadowman will help.’

‘Not Meadowman,’ said Michael immediately, loath to lose his favourite henchman when he was needed to prevent brawls.

‘Nonsense,’ stated Heltisle. ‘He and Cynric will oversee matters, and your Junior Proctor can record the name of everyone who attends. Then we can identify those who think they are too important to sully their hands with weapons, and inform them that they are not.’

Michael concealed his irritation at such presumptuousness with a show of indifference. ‘Very well. Of course, I shall expect you three to be the first in line, setting a good example.’

‘Then you will be disappointed,’ declared Heltisle, ‘because we have hired proxies – men from the Spital, who are mad and therefore not expected to answer the call themselves.’

‘My proxy is not a lunatic,’ said Aynton hastily. ‘He is a scholar from King’s Hall – a Fleming, who is exempt on the grounds of being foreign. I dared not hire a madman, lest he forgets whose side he is on and attacks his friends. I do not want that on my conscience!’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I hate to break this to you, but the option of hiring proxies is only available to certain priests. You are not–’

‘It is available to anyone who makes a suitable donation to the King’s war chest,’ countered Heltisle smugly. ‘Several of my Bene’t colleagues will follow my example, although I imagine no one at Michaelhouse can afford it.’

Michael’s smile was tight. ‘We could, but none of us will, because it reeks of cowardice and elitism. I advise you to reconsider, lest you win the contempt of your fellow scholars.’

‘Not to mention the resentment of townsfolk,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘They will not take kindly to the fact that the wealthy can buy their way out of their military obligations.’

‘Who cares what they think?’ shrugged Heltisle. ‘Our fiscal arrangements with the King are none of their business. Besides, it is inappropriate for high-ranking members of the University to engage in such lowly activities. We have our dignity to consider. It is–’

He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared silently at the door – so silently that Bartholomew was sure he had been listening. The book-bearer gave no indication as to whether he was pleased or alarmed by the plans being made for his future, and his expression was carefully neutral as he addressed Michael.

‘You must come at once, Brother. There is a situation at the Gilbertine Priory.’

‘What kind of situation?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘And please direct your remarks to the Chancellor. He is in charge here, not the Senior Proctor.’

‘Of course he is,’ said Cynric flatly, and turned back to Michael. ‘Apparently, it is ablaze, and as you have lodged some of your nuns there, I thought you should know.’