The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 4

The next morning dawned cool, damp and wet. Bartholomew fancied he could smell burning in the misty drizzle from the still-smouldering Spital shed, although this was impossible as it was too far away. His sleep had teemed with nightmares, so he had risen in the small hours and gone to the hall to read. But even Galen’s elegant prose could not distract him from his thoughts, so he had spent most of the time staring at the candle, thinking about the fire.

By the time it was out, the rubble had been far too hot for retrieving bodies, so Tulyet, whose responsibility it was to investigate, had asked him to return the following day to examine the victims. A roll call had revealed five people missing – the rescued girl’s parents, uncle, aunt and teenaged brother.

The bell rang to wake the scholars for Mass, so he went to the lavatorium – the lean-to structure behind the hall, built for those interested in personal hygiene. Until recently, only cold water had been available, but Michael liked the occasional wash himself, and had ordered the servants to provide hot as well. It was an almost unimaginable luxury.

Bartholomew stank of burning, so he scrubbed his skin and hair vigorously, then doused himself with some perfume that someone had left behind. He wished he had used it more sparingly when it transpired to be powerful and redolent of the stuff popular with prostitutes. He started to rinse it off, but the bell rang again, this time calling scholars to assemble in the yard, ready to process to the church. He left his soiled clothes in the laundress’s basket, and sprinted to his room for fresh ones, wearing nothing but a piece of sacking tied around his waist.

‘You had better not do that when you are married,’ remarked Theophilis, watching disapprovingly. ‘Not with a woman about.’

Bartholomew was tempted to point out that Matilde was unlikely to mind, but held his tongue lest Theophilis thought he was being lewd. Back in his room, he donned a fresh white shirt, black leggings and a clean tabard. Then he forced his feet into shoes that were still wet from fire-drenching water, and hurried into the yard.

Michael was already there, hood up to keep the drizzle from his immaculately barbered tonsure. His Benedictine students stood in a small, sombre cluster behind him, while Bartholomew’s medics formed a much noisier group near the hall. Aungel was with them and they were laughing. When he caught the words ‘chicken’ and ‘debate’, he surmised that they were reviewing William’s attempt to debunk Clippesby’s thesis the previous day.

Clippesby and Theophilis were by the gate, so he went to join them. The Dominican was kneeling, and Bartholomew thought he was praying until he realised he was talking to the College cat. Theophilis listened carefully as Clippesby translated what the animal had said, then rolled his eyes, mocking the Dominican’s eccentricity. Bartholomew bristled, but William strode up before he could take issue with him.

‘I have a bone to pick with you, Matthew,’ the friar said coolly. ‘Your students kept asking questions during my sermon yesterday.’

‘Of course they did,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Theophilis sniggering. ‘They have been trained to challenge statements they deem illogical or erroneous.’

William’s scowl deepened. ‘My exposition was neither, and the next time I give a lecture, they will not be invited.’

Bartholomew was sure they would be delighted to hear it. Then Aungel approached.

‘Yesterday was great fun, Father,’ he declared enthusiastically. ‘I have never laughed so much in all my life. The best part was when you claimed that all robins are nominalists, because they know the names of the worms they eat.’

‘I never did! You tricked me into saying things I did not mean.’

‘We did it because it was so easy,’ said Theophilis in his eerily sibilant voice. ‘And our students learned one extremely valuable lesson: to keep their mouths shut when they do not know what they are talking about.’

‘But I do know what I am talking about!’ cried William, aggrieved. ‘I am a Franciscan theologian, and my understanding of the realism–nominalism debate is far greater than that of Clippesby’s stupid chickens.’

‘In that case, Father,’ said Theophilis slyly, ‘perhaps you should debate with them directly next time. You might find Ma and Gertrude easier to defeat than the students.’

William narrowed his eyes. ‘You want me to appear as mad as Clippesby! Besides, all his hens look the same to me. How will I know which are the right ones?’

Theophilis regarded William warily, not sure if he was serious, while Bartholomew laughed at them both.

‘Audrey has just mentioned something interesting,’ said Clippesby, indicating the cat. Bartholomew was glad he never took umbrage at William’s insults, or the College would have been a perpetual battleground. ‘She was hunting near the Spital just before dawn, and she saw what appeared to be a ghost – a spectre that undulated along the top of the walls.’

The Dominican often went out at night to commune with his animal friends. When he did, he sat so still that he was all but invisible, which meant he frequently witnessed sights not intended for his eyes. Unfortunately, he invariably reported them in a way that made them difficult to interpret.

‘You mean you saw a person on the wall,’ said Aungel. ‘Who was it? A townsman trying to get inside to see the charred bodies? A lunatic trying to escape?’

‘It was a white, shimmering shape, which rippled along until it vanished into thin air,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Audrey has never seen anything like it, and she hopes never to do so again.’

‘Are you sure she was not dreaming?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Clippesby would not mention the tale to Cynric, or they would never hear the end of it.

Clippesby nodded. ‘She recited prayers to ward off evil, and ran home as fast as her legs would carry her.’

‘What was she doing out there in the first place?’ asked Theophilis suspiciously. ‘It is not safe, given the unsettled mood of the town.’

‘She went to make sure that no horses were involved in the fire,’ explained Clippesby. ‘Burning would be a terrible way to die.’

‘It would,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘As five hapless people have discovered.’

Eventually, the last student emerged yawning from his room, and Michael led the way to church. This was something else that had changed since he and Bartholomew had returned from Clare. The two of them had spent years walking side by side, talking all the way. Now Michael was obliged to be in front, leaving Bartholomew with William, who was not nearly such good company. Aungel and Theophilis were next, followed by Clippesby and any animal he had managed to snag. The students tagged along last, those in holy orders with their heads bowed in prayer, the remainder a noisy, chatting throng.

They arrived at the church, where it was William’s turn to officiate, with Michael assisting. As William prided himself on the speed with which he could rattle through the sacred words, Mass was soon over, and Michael led the way home.

The rain had stopped and the sun was out, bathing the town in warm yellow rays. Everywhere were signs of advancing spring – blossom on the churchyard hedges, wildflowers along the sides of the road, and the sweet smell of fresh growth. Then a waft of something less pleasant wafted towards them, from the ditch that Tyled Hostel used as a sewer.

They reached Michaelhouse, where Agatha, the formidable laundress who ran the domestic side of the College, had breakfast ready. Women were forbidden to enter Colleges, lest they inflamed the passions of the residents, although exceptions were made for ladies who were old and ugly. Agatha was neither, although it would be a brave man who tried to force his attentions on her.

A few students peeled off to change or visit the latrines, but most went directly to the hall, where vats of meat-heavy pottage were waiting. There was also bread and honey for those who disliked rich fare first thing in the morning. Bartholomew opted for the lighter choice – he had already let his belt out once because of Michael’s improved victuals, and did not want to waddle down the aisle to marry Matilde.

The meal was soon over, and Michael intoned a final Grace. Usually, Bartholomew went to the conclave to put the finishing touches to his lectures, but that day he went to his room to collect what he would need for examining bodies. Michael joined him there.

‘I cannot stop thinking about yesterday,’ said the monk, and shuddered. ‘Those poor people were inside that burning shed for an age – we did not exactly hurry to the Spital, and even when we did arrive, it was some time before Eudo raised the alarm. Why did no one hear them sooner?’

Bartholomew had wondered that, too. ‘Maybe the firefighters made too much noise.’

‘But they did not, Matt. One of the first things I noticed was that they were labouring in almost complete silence, with none of the yelling and screeching that usually accompanies such incidents. If the victims had shouted, they would have been heard.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily – his reflections during the night had led him to much the same conclusion. ‘So either their pleas were deliberately ignored or something happened to keep them quiet until it was too late.’

Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Yet everyone seemed genuinely shocked by the tragedy – I was watching very closely. Of course, the Spital’s patients are insane …’

‘The staff are not. They are all members of Tangmer’s family.’

‘Could it have been a suicide pact – the victims decided to die together, but one opted to spare the girl at the last minute?’

‘Perhaps the bodies will give us answers. But the Spital is a curious place, do you not think? Its patients are like no lunatics that I have ever encountered.’

Michael agreed. ‘There is an air of secrecy about it that is definitely suspicious. However, I think I know why. Not one madman spoke the whole time I was listening, and at one point, Prioress Joan shouted orders in French. I assumed no one would understand her, but most of them did.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think they are French raiders, poised to attack us as they did in Winchelsea? That does not sound very likely!’

‘I think they are French,’ said Michael quietly, ‘but not raiders. Most are women, children and old men, so I suspect they are folk who have been living peacefully in our country, but who suddenly find they are no longer welcome. The Spital is their refuge.’

Bartholomew considered. The monk’s suggestion made sense, as it explained a lot: the peculiar silence, the inmates keeping their distance, the policy of discouraging visitors, and Tulyet, Leger and Norbert being asked to repel spectators.

‘Amphelisa is French,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they are her kin. Moreover, she told me that the child we rescued is called Helene Girard … Hélène Girard.’ He gave it two different pronunciations – the English one Amphelisa had used, followed by the French. Then he did the same for the other name he had heard: Delacroix.

‘Then I am glad I have decided to investigate the matter,’ said Michael, ‘because if we are right, the chances are that the fire was set deliberately with the Girard family inside. Ergo, five people were murdered. It would have been six if you had not saved Hélène.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘That is a wild leap of logic, Brother! Moreover, the Spital is outside your jurisdiction – you have no authority to meddle.’

‘The Senior Proctor will meddle where he likes,’ declared Michael haughtily. ‘And such a ruthless killer at large most certainly is my business, as I have an obligation to keep our scholars safe. Besides, I have not forgotten Paris the Plagiarist, even if you have.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘You think that whoever stabbed him also incinerated an entire family? But what evidence can you possibly–’

‘Paris was French, and I am sure we shall shortly confirm that the Girards were French, too. So was Bonet the spicer. It cannot be coincidence, and as Paris was a scholar, it is my duty to find out what is happening. But I cannot sit here bandying words with you. I must visit the castle, and tell our Sheriff what we have reasoned.’

‘What you have reasoned,’ corrected Bartholomew, then pointed out of the window. ‘But you are spared a trek to the castle, because Dick is here to see you.’

The suite allocated to the Master of Michaelhouse was in the newer, less ramshackle south wing, and comprised a bedchamber, an office and a pantry for ‘commons’ – the edible treats scholars bought for their personal use. Needless to say, Michael kept this very well stocked, so Tulyet was not only furnished with a cup of breakfast ale, but a plate of spiced pastries as well. The Sheriff listened without interruption as Michael outlined his theory, although he gaped his astonishment at the claim that the Spital was a haven for displaced Frenchmen.

‘I am right,’ insisted Michael. ‘The King issued his call to arms because of what the Dauphin did in Winchelsea, so, suddenly, the war is not something that is happening in some distant country, but is affecting people here. Even many of our scholars, who should be intelligent enough to know better, are full of anti-French fervour.’

‘While the town is convinced that the Dauphin will appear at any moment to slaughter them all,’ acknowledged Tulyet ruefully. ‘A belief that Sir Leger and Sir Norbert exploit shamelessly to make folk practise at the butts.’

‘Leger and Norbert,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘I have heard them in taverns, ranting that all Frenchmen should be wiped from the face of the Earth. It is a poisonous message to spread among the ignorant, who are incapable of telling the difference between enemy warriors and innocent strangers – as Paris the Plagiarist may have learned to his cost.’

‘And Bonet,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘But Leger and Norbert have been moulded by the army, where they fought French warriors, massacred French peasants and destroyed French crops. I do not offer this as an excuse, but an explanation.’

‘So you believe me?’ asked Michael. ‘About the Spital “lunatics” being French?’

Tulyet nodded slowly. ‘On reflection, yes. I heard some of the children whisper in that language yesterday. Moreover, none of the adults seemed mad, which suggests they are there for some other reason.’

‘So what will you do about it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Speak to them – determine whether they are hapless civilians caught in a strife that is none of their making, or spies intent on mischief.’

‘They cannot be spies,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Half of them are children.’

‘It would not be the first time babes in arms were used as “cover” by unscrupulous adults,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘However, I can tell you one thing for certain: something or someone prevented the Girards from escaping the fire, which means they were murdered.’

‘Do you think they were killed because they were French?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps, but we will find out for certain when you examine the bodies – or when Michael and I poke around the remains of the shed together.’

Michael smiled. ‘You do not object to joining forces with the University, a foundation stuffed to the gills with enemy soldiers, if the town is to be believed?’

Tulyet raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you blame them? Your scholars strut around whinnying in French, and flaunting the fact that few of them are local. It is deliberately provocative.’

‘It is,’ conceded Michael. ‘And I shall speak to de Wetherset again later, to see if we can devise a way to make them desist.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘Because now is not the time to antagonise us – not when so many are being taught how to fight. More than a few itch to put their new skills into practice.’

Michael stood. ‘Then we had better make a start. If our killer hates Frenchmen enough to burn women and children alive, we need to catch him fast.’

‘I have just come from the Spital,’ said Tulyet, not moving. ‘The shed is still too hot for retrieving the victims, so I suggest meeting there at noon.’

‘Then in the meantime, Matt and I will question the folk who live along the Trumpington road. Perhaps one of them will have noticed someone slinking along intent on murder and arson.’ Michael raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s immediate objection. ‘I know it will interfere with your teaching, but it cannot be helped. We must catch the culprit – or culprits – before any more blood is spilled.’

‘I will speak to my informants,’ said Tulyet. ‘See if they have heard rumours about groups of Frenchmen living in the area. I hope they would have already told me if there were, but there is no harm in being sure.’

‘None at all,’ agreed Michael.

The three of them left the College, and walked to the High Street, where Tulyet turned towards the castle, and Bartholomew and Michael aimed for St Mary the Great. It was Wednesday, the day when the market was dedicated to the buying and selling of livestock, so the town was busier than usual. Herds of cows, sheep and goats were being driven along the main roads, weaving around wagons loaded with crates of poultry. The noise was deafening, as none of the creatures appreciated what was happening and made their displeasure known with a cacophony of lows, bleats, honks, squawks and quacks.

It seemed normal, but Bartholomew knew the town well enough to detect undercurrents. Locals shot challenging glances at the students who trooped in and out of the churches, looks that were, more often than not, returned in full. Then he saw four King’s Hall men backed into a corner by a gaggle of angry bakers. The scholars’ hands hovered over the hilts of their swords, but it was the bakers who made a hasty departure when Michael bore down on them.

‘They accused us of being French,’ said one student defensively. His name was Foxlee, and it had been him and his three friends who had tried to pick a fight with Isnard the previous day. ‘But I was born not ten miles from here, and I have lived in England all my life.’

‘Whereas I hail from Bruges,’ put in another, ‘and while France may consider Flanders a vassal nation, my countrymen and I will never yield to their vile yoke.’

‘At least they had heard of Bruges,’ said a third. ‘When I told them I was from Koln, they asked which part of France it was in. Do none of these peasants have brains, Brother?’

They spoke loudly enough to be heard by passers-by. These included Isnard and one of his more dubious associates – Verious the ditcher, a rogue who supplemented his meagre income with petty crime.

‘If you are English, why do you wear them French clothes?’ Verious demanded.

‘What French clothes?’ asked Bruges, startled, although Bartholomew could understand why Verious had put the question, as all four scholars wore elegant gipons, tied around the waist with belts made from gold thread. The skirts fell elegantly to their knees, and their feet were encased in calfskin boots. Around their heads were liripipes – scarves that could double as hoods. All were blue, which was King’s Hall livery, although there was no sign of the academic tabards that should have covered their finery. But it was the dash of the exotic that rendered the ensemble distinctly un-English – mother-of-pearl buttons, lace cuffs and feathers.

‘He cannot tell the difference between French fashions and those favoured by the Court,’ scoffed Foxlee. ‘If the King were to ride past now, this oaf would probably accuse him of being French as well.’

‘You seem to have forgotten your tabards,’ said Michael coolly, preventing Verious from snarling a response by raising an imperious hand. ‘Doubtless you will want to rectify the matter before the Senior Proctor fines you.’

‘And any townsman who jeers at them will be reported to the Sheriff for breaking the King’s peace,’ put in Bartholomew hastily, as Verious and Isnard drew breath to cackle their amusement at the speed with which the King’s Hall lads departed.

‘We will be in flames within a week unless Dick and I impose some serious peacekeeping measures,’ muttered Michael as he and Bartholomew went on their way. ‘The only problem is that the triumvirate veto anything I suggest.’

Bartholomew frowned his mystification. ‘Do they want the University to burn then?’

Michael scowled. ‘This is what happens when our colleagues elect a man who thinks he knows better than me. When de Wetherset was last in charge, the town was a very different place. He does not understand that things have changed.’

‘Then you had better educate him before he does any irreparable harm.’

They began their enquiries at the Hall of Valence Marie and then Peterhouse, although no one at either College could tell them anything useful. Opposite Peterhouse was a row of houses, some of which were rented to the University for use as hostels. Unfortunately, the residents had either been out or had noticed nothing unusual until they had seen the smoke, at which point the culprit would likely have been well away. The fourth house they visited was larger than the others, and had recently been renovated to a very high standard.

‘It is a dormitory for Tyled Hostel,’ explained Michael as they knocked on its beautiful new door. ‘That place has more money than is decent.’

A student came to escort them to a pleasant refectory at the back of the house, where he and his friends were entertaining – the triumvirate were ensconced there, enjoying cake and honeyed wine. De Wetherset and Aynton were members of Tyled, but it was strange to see Heltisle – the Master of Bene’t – in a hostel, as he usually deemed such places beneath him, even wealthy ones like Tyled, and was brazen in his belief that Colleges were far superior foundations. Then Bartholomew saw several metal pens displayed on the table, and realised that Heltisle was there in the hope of making a sale.

The triumvirate looked sleek and prosperous that day, and had donned clothes that were bound to aggravate the locals. De Wetherset’s gold pilgrim badge glittered on a gorgeous velvet hat; Heltisle seemed to have done his utmost to emulate the Dauphin; and even the usually sober Aynton wore French silk hose. It was needlessly provocative, and Bartholomew was disgusted that they did not set a better example.

‘We have already asked these lads if they saw anything suspicious yesterday,’ said Aynton with one of his benign grins. ‘None did, because they were all at a lecture.’

‘But Theophilis told us that the dead lunatics were from a family called Girard,’ said Heltisle, pronouncing the name in the English way. ‘Is it true?’

‘Yes,’ replied Michael cautiously. ‘Why? Did you know them?’

‘They are the ones that de Wetherset and I hired as proxies in the call to arms,’ replied Heltisle. ‘At considerable expense.’

‘What a pity,’ said Bartholomew with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘Now you will have to go to the butts yourselves.’

‘We are too important to waste our time there,’ declared Heltisle. ‘Besides, I do not need to practise. I am already an excellent shot and very handy with a sword.’

‘Not that we will ever have to put such talents to work, of course,’ put in de Wetherset. ‘If we are obliged to march to war, we shall be employed as clerks or scribes.’

‘No – generals,’ countered Heltisle. ‘Directing battles from a safe distance.’

Bartholomew laughed, although he knew the Vice-Chancellor had not been joking.

‘I did not hire a Girard,’ put in Aynton. ‘My proxy was Bruges the Fleming from King’s Hall. But after you said such an arrangement smacked of cowardice, Brother, I released him from my service. I do not want to earn the contempt of townsfolk or of fellow scholars.’

‘His name is Bruges, you say?’ asked de Wetherset keenly.

‘Yes, but you are too late to snag him for yourself,’ said Aynton apologetically. ‘Theophilis overheard me talking to him, and hired him on the spot. He told me the University would need to keep some of its officials back, if the Chancellor, the Vice-Chancellor, the Commissary and the Senior Proctor are obliged to go and fight the French.’

‘You see, Brother?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘You are reckless to trust Theophilis – he has ambitions to rule the University all on his own.’

Michael ignored him. ‘How well did you know these Girard men?’

‘We met them twice,’ replied Heltisle. ‘Once to discuss the matter, and once to hand over the money we agreed to pay.’

He named the sum, and Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. It was a fortune.

‘We understand one of the children survived,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Perhaps you would see that the money stays with her, Brother. We had a contract with her kin, and it is hardly her fault that they are no longer in a position to honour it.’

‘That is generous,’ said Michael suspiciously.

‘It is,’ agreed Heltisle, and smiled craftily. ‘Perhaps word of our largesse will spread, and another lunatic will offer us his sword.’

‘No,’ said de Wetherset sharply. ‘It is not self-interest that guides us. The truth is that I feel sorry for the girl – parents, aunt, uncle and brother, all dead. It is a heavy burden to bear.’

Heltisle retorted that he was a sentimental fool, and an ill-tempered spat followed, with Aynton struggling to mediate. While they bickered, Bartholomew pulled Michael to one side and spoke in an undertone.

‘Do you think someone heard what the Girards were paid and decided to steal it? There are plenty who would kill for a fraction of that amount.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ Michael whispered back. ‘But why would the Girards offer to bear arms against their countrymen? Or did they take the money with no intention of honouring the arrangement? After all, it cannot be cheap to stay in hiding, so any means of gaining a quick fortune …’

‘Perhaps we should include de Wetherset and Heltisle on our list of murder suspects – they realised the Girards aimed to cheat them and took revenge.’

‘If they are capable of incinerating an entire family, they would not be hiring proxies to go to war on their behalf – they would be itching to join the slaughter in person.’

Bartholomew supposed that was true, although he decided to watch both scholars carefully until their innocence was proven. He was about to say so, when there was a knock on the door and two men were shown in bearing missives for the Chancellor’s attention. Michael’s jaw dropped when he saw the couriers’ clothes.

‘Those are beadles’ uniforms!’ he breathed, shocked. ‘How dare you wear–’

‘These are a couple of the new recruits Heltisle has hired,’ explained de Wetherset. ‘To protect us against the growing aggression of the town.’

Michael gaped at him. It was the Senior Proctor’s prerogative to choose beadles, and he took the duty seriously. They were no longer a ragtag band of louts who could gain employment nowhere else, noted for drunkenness and a love of bribes, but professionals, who were paid a decent wage and were treated with respect. They were picked for their ability to use reason rather than force, although they were reliable fighters in a crisis. Heltisle’s men were surly giants, who looked as though they would rather start a fight than stop one.

‘If you thought we needed more men, you should have told me,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘I would have been more than happy to–’

‘I assumed you would not mind,’ said Heltisle slyly. ‘After all, you regularly relieve de Wetherset of the duties that go with his office, so I thought you would not object to me doing the same to you.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Michael indignantly.

‘I took on a dozen,’ interrupted Heltisle, enjoying the monk’s growing outrage. ‘All good fellows who will make townsmen think twice about crossing us.’

‘And how will you pay for them?’ demanded Michael curtly. ‘Because it will not be out of the Senior Proctor’s budget.’

‘We shall use the Destitute Scholars’ Fund,’ replied Heltisle, and shrugged when Michael regarded him in disbelief. ‘It is only penniless low-borns who need it, and I do not want them here anyway.’

‘These “penniless low-borns” are often our best thinkers,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Our University will be a poorer place without them.’

‘Rubbish,’ stated Heltisle contemptuously, and turned back to Michael, indicating the new beadles as he did so. ‘My recruits are a cut above the weaklings you favour, and will be a credit to the University.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Michael tightly. ‘Because any inadequacies on their part will fall at your door, not mine.’

‘No, all beadles are your responsibility,’ said Heltisle sweetly. ‘And there is another thing: a letter arrived from the Bishop this morning. It was addressed to you, but I assumed it was really meant for the Chancellor, so I opened it.’

Michael struggled not to give him the satisfaction of losing his temper. ‘How very uncouth. I would never stoop to such uncivilised antics.’

This was a downright lie, as he stole missives addressed to the triumvirate on a daily basis. Grinning, Heltisle produced the document in question. It was thick with filth, so he had wrapped it in a rag to protect his hands.

‘It fell in a cowpat,’ he explained gloatingly. ‘Are you not going to take it and see what it says?’

‘I will tell you, Brother,’ said Aynton, shooting the Vice-Chancellor an admonishing look for his childishness. ‘It is about a field in Girton. The Bishop owns it, but he wants to transfer the title to St Andrew’s Church.’

It was Michael’s turn to grin. ‘You are right, Heltisle – the Bishop would rather the Chancellor sorted it out. Unfortunately, the deeds pertaining to that piece of land are so complex that they will take weeks to unravel. I recommend he delegates the matter to a deputy. You, for example.’

He bowed and sailed out. As Bartholomew turned to follow, he heard de Wetherset remark that perhaps he had better do as the Senior Proctor suggested, as a Chancellor could not afford to waste time on trivialities. He did not catch Heltisle’s reply, but he did hear Aynton rebuke him for foul language.

* * *

Out on the street, Michael’s temper broke, and he railed furiously about Heltisle’s effrontery. Bartholomew let him rant, knowing he would feel better for it. The tirade might have gone on longer, but they bumped into Theophilis, who had been in the Gilbertine Priory, giving a lecture on his Calendarium. Michael was far too enraged for normal conversation, so Bartholomew took the opportunity to ask the Junior Proctor about the proxy he had snapped up when Aynton had decided against using one.

‘Bruges the Fleming.’ Theophilis spoke so silkily that Bartholomew’s skin crawled. ‘I hired him for you, Brother. The University will need strong leaders if lots of us are called to fight, and you are the only man I trust to watch our interests while I am away.’

‘You are kind, Theophilis,’ said Michael. ‘But as a monk in major holy orders, I am exempt from the call to arms. I do not need a proxy.’

‘I know that,’ said Theophilis impatiently. ‘But you will need a good man at your side, so Bruges will stand in for whoever you select to help you. Perhaps you will pick me, but perhaps you will decide on another – the choice will be yours to make.’

‘You see, Matt?’ said Michael, when the Junior Proctor had gone. ‘His intentions are honourable. He was thinking of the University, not himself.’

Bartholomew did not believe it for an instant, but knew there was no point in arguing. He and Michael went to the house next to Tyled’s dormitory, where they learned that the owners – a tailor and his wife – were ‘far too busy to gaze out of windows all day like lazy scholars’.

When they emerged, Tulyet was waiting to report that none of his spies had heard the slightest whisper of groups of Frenchmen in the area – and they had all been alert for such rumours, given what had happened to Winchelsea.

‘Perhaps the Gilbertines will have noticed something useful,’ said Michael, although his shoulders slumped; their lack of success was beginning to dishearten him.

They had not taken many steps towards the priory before they met Sir Leger and Sir Norbert, marching along with an enormous train of townsfolk at their heels, most from the nearby King’s Head tavern. The two knights wore military surcoats, and their hands rested on the hilts of their broadswords. All their followers carried some kind of weapon – cudgels, pikes or knives.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Tulyet, aghast. ‘You cannot allow such a great horde to stamp about armed to the teeth! It is needlessly provocative.’

‘Needlessly provocative?’ echoed Leger with calculated insolence. ‘We are preparing to repel a French invasion, as per the King’s orders.’

‘All true and loyal Englishmen will applaud our efforts,’ put in the swarthy, hulking Norbert, ‘which means that anyone who does not is a traitor. Besides, if there is any trouble, it will not be us who started it, but that University you love so much.’

‘Quite,’ said Leger smugly. ‘Because all we and our recruits are doing is walking along a public highway, minding our own business.’

‘Do not test me,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘I know what you are trying to do and I will not have it. Either you behave in a manner commensurate with your rank, or I shall send you back to the King in disgrace. Do I make myself clear?’

Norbert looked as though he would argue, but the more intelligent Leger knew they had overstepped the mark. He nodded sullenly, jabbing his friend in the back to prevent him from saying something that would allow Tulyet to carry out his threat.

‘Where were you going?’ Bartholomew asked in the tense silence that followed.

‘The butts,’ replied Leger stiffly. ‘For archery practice.’

‘The butts are ours on Wednesdays,’ said Michael. ‘You cannot have them today.’

When the King had first issued his call to arms, a field near the Barnwell Gate had been hastily converted into a shooting range – ‘the butts’. As it was the only suitable land available, both the town and the University had wanted it, so Tulyet and Michael had agreed on a timetable: the town had it on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, while scholars had it on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. There had been no infringements so far, but everyone knew it was only a question of time before one side defaulted, at which point there would be a fracas.

‘Take them to the castle instead,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘It is time they learned something of hand-to-hand combat. I shall join you there later, to assess the progress you have made. I hope I will not be disappointed.’

There was a murmur of dismay in the ranks, as infantry training was far less popular than archery. Norbert opened his mouth to refuse, but Leger inclined his head.

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘We shall teach everyone how to use a blade. I have always found throat-slitting and stabbing to be very useful skills. Men! Forward march!’

‘There will be a battle before the week is out,’ predicted Tulyet, watching them tramp away. ‘They itch to spill your blood, and the University itches to spill ours. But I had better go and make sure they do as they are told. While I do, ask the Gilbertines if they saw our murderous arsonist slinking past, and we shall go to the Spital as soon as I get back.’

The Gilbertine Priory was a beautiful place, and Bartholomew knew it well, as he was often summoned to tend poorly canons. They had a more liberal attitude towards women than the other Orders, and had not minded at all when Michael had asked them to house a few nuns during the conloquium. They had offered them the use of their guesthouse, a building that stood apart from the main precinct, although still within its protective walls.

Its Prior was a quiet, decent man named John, who had one of the widest mouths Bartholomew had ever seen on a person. He appeared to have at least twice as many teeth as anyone else, and when he smiled, Bartholomew was always put in mind of a crocodile.

‘We were having a meeting in our chapel, so the first we knew about the blaze was when our porter came to tell us that you were racing out to the Spital,’ John said apologetically. ‘But perhaps your nuns saw something – our guesthouse overlooks the road.’

He left them to make their own way there. As they went, Michael told Bartholomew that he had housed ten nuns there – nine from Swaffham Bulbeck and one from Ickleton Priory.

‘Both foundations are wealthy,’ he explained, ‘and I thought they might become Michaelhouse benefactors if I put them somewhere nice. It was a serious mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Because last year, Abbess Isabel of Swaffham Bulbeck visited Ickleton on behalf of the Bishop. She was so shocked by what she found that its Prioress – Alice – was deposed. And which nun should be sent to represent Ickleton at our conloquium? Alice!’

‘That must be uncomfortable for both parties,’ mused Bartholomew.

‘It is more than uncomfortable,’ averred Michael. ‘It has resulted in open warfare! I offered to find one faction alternative accommodation, but neither will move, on the grounds that it will then appear as if the other is the victor.’

Bartholomew was intrigued. ‘What did Abbess Isabel find at Ickleton, exactly?’

‘Just the usual – corruption, indolence, licentiousness.’

‘Those are usual in your Order, are they?’

Michael scowled. ‘I meant those are the most common offences committed by the rare head of house who strays from the straight and narrow. Alice allowed her friends to live in the priory free of charge, and gave them alms that should have gone to the poor. She also let her nuns miss their holy offices, and too many men were regular visitors.’

‘Then it is no surprise that the Bishop deposed her. But are you sure that Abbess Isabel did not exaggerate? I have met her, and she is very easily shocked.’

‘She is,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Probably because she is generally considered to be a saint in the making.’

Bartholomew was surprised to hear it. ‘Is she?’

‘She was to have married an earl, but when she expressed a desire to serve God instead, he chopped off her hands. That night, he was struck dead and her hands regrew.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Surely, you do not believe that?’

‘The Pope did, and granted her special dispensation to wear a white habit instead of a black one, as an expression of her purity. But how did you meet her?’

‘She is the one who found Paris the Plagiarist’s body. She was so upset that she fainted, so I carried her into a tavern to recover – where she saw the landlady’s low-cut bodice and swooned all over again. I wondered at the time why her habit was a different colour. I wanted to ask, but she did not seem like a lady for casual conversation.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Saints are not, generally speaking.’

Abbess Isabel was a slender, sallow woman whose bright white habit made her appear ghostly. She emerged from the Gilbertines’ stable on a donkey, and Michael whispered that she was scheduled to speak on humility at the conloquium that day.

‘Hence her arrival on a simple beast of burden,’ he explained. ‘A practical demonstration of self-effacement. Of course, the fact that she feels compelled to show us how humble she is does smack of pride …’

Suddenly, the Abbess raised her pale eyes heavenwards in a rapt expression. Her black-robed retinue immediately grabbed the donkey’s bridle and formed a protective ring around her, to ensure that her communication with God was not interrupted.

‘We could be here a while,’ murmured Michael. ‘She goes into trances.’

‘Or perhaps it is a ruse to avoid her,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where another nun was coming from the opposite direction. ‘The deposed Alice, I presume?’

Alice was short and thin, and her beady black eyes held an expression of such fierce hatred that Bartholomew was sure she should never have been allowed to take holy orders. The malevolent glower intensified when she saw Isabel being pious. Then she began to scratch so frantically at her scalp that he suspected some bothersome skin complaint – perhaps one that rendered the sufferer unusually bad-tempered.

‘I was astonished when I learned that she was Ickleton’s sole delegate,’ whispered Michael. ‘I assumed she was still in disgrace.’

‘Perhaps her replacement wanted rid of her for a while,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Having a former superior under your command cannot be easy.’

‘Especially one like Alice, who is bitter and quarrelsome. Of course, Swaffham Bulbeck is not the only convent Alice has taken against. She has also declared war on Lyminster, because the Bishop’s sister lives there. Putting them in the Spital was another mistake on my part, as they invariably meet when they ride to St Radegund’s each morning. There have been scenes.’

Alice marched towards Michael, bristling with anger. ‘I have a complaint to make, Brother. That worldly Magistra Katherine spoke at the conloquium today, and she was so boring that I had to leave.’

‘You call Katherine worldly?’ blurted Michael. ‘After you were dismissed for–’

‘I made one or two small errors of judgement,’ interrupted Alice sharply. ‘And was then condemned by people who are far worse sinners than I could ever hope to be.’

‘Hope to be?’ echoed Bartholomew, amused.

Alice ignored him. ‘Katherine is like her brother – a hypocrite. How dare he dismiss me when he fled the country to escape charges of murder, theft, kidnapping and extortion!’

She had a point: the Bishop had indeed been accused of those crimes, and rather than stay and face the consequences, he had run to Avignon, to claim sanctuary with the Pope. Everyone knew he was guilty, so Bartholomew understood why Alice objected to being judged by him. Michael opened his mouth to defend the man whose shoes he hoped to fill one day, but Alice was already turning her vitriol on someone else she did not like.

‘And that Abbess Isabel is no saint,’ she hissed. ‘She is selfish and deceitful.’

Isabel was not about to hang around being holy while Alice denigrated her to the Bishop’s favourite monk. She barked an order that saw her nuns drop the donkey’s bridle and step aside. Then she rode forward to have her say.

‘You are a disgrace, Alice,’ she declared, her pale eyes cold and hard. ‘It is wrong to make light of your own crimes by pointing out the errors of others. There is no excuse for what you did.’

‘And you never make mistakes, of course,’ jeered Alice. ‘You are perfect in every way. How wonderful it must be to be you.’

‘She is perfect,’ declared one of Isabel’s nuns angrily. ‘Just ask the Pope. We are honoured to serve her, so keep your nasty remarks to yourself.’

‘Yesterday’s fire,’ interposed Michael quickly. ‘The arsonist almost certainly used the road outside to reach the Spital. Did any of you notice anything suspicious?’

‘No,’ replied Isabel shortly. ‘If we had, we would have told you already.’

‘I was not here,’ said Alice haughtily. ‘I was at the conloquium.’

‘But I prayed for the Girard family all night,’ Isabel went on, as if her enemy had not spoken, ‘which was not easy with Alice lurking behind me – I could feel her eyes burning into the back of my head. She will be bound for Hell unless she learns to replace malice with love.’

Alice bristled. ‘I was praying for the Girards, but you were praying for yourself – that your so-called piety will win you a place among the saints.’

‘While you are here, Brother,’ said another of the nuns frostily, ‘perhaps you will tell Sister Alice to keep her maggot-infested marchpanes to herself. She will deny sending them to the Abbess, but we all know the truth.’

‘Liar!’ snarled Alice. ‘I have better things to do than buy you lot presents.’

‘What time did you arrive at the conloquium, Alice?’ asked Michael, speaking quickly a second time to nip the burgeoning spat in the bud.

‘Not until the afternoon,’ admitted Alice. ‘Before that, I was in a town church, practising my own presentation, which is later this week.’

‘So you cannot prove where you were at the salient time?’ asked Isabel, raising her white eyebrows pointedly.

Alice bristled. ‘I sincerely hope you are not accusing me of setting this fire. Why would I do such a thing?’

‘To harm the ladies from Lyminster,’ replied another of Isabel’s retinue promptly. ‘You hate them almost as much as you hate us, and your enmity knows no bounds.’

‘And you, Isabel?’ asked Michael before Alice could defend herself. ‘Where were you?’

‘Praying,’ replied the Abbess serenely. ‘In St Botolph’s Church. All my sisters were with me, so none of us can help you identify your arsonist. Now I have a question for you, Brother: have you caught Paris the Plagiarist’s killer yet? I cannot forget the sight of his dead white face, and it disturbs me to think that his murderer might pass us in the street.’

‘He might,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And our best – perhaps our only – chance of catching him now is if you remember anything new.’

‘Then I shall tell God to jog my memory,’ said Isabel, and smiled. ‘So you will soon have the culprit under lock and key, because He always accedes to my demands.’

‘That shows you are no saint,’ spat Alice at once. ‘No one makes demands of God.’

Isabel’s entourage took exception to this remark. A furious quarrel ensued, and this time, not even Michael could quell it.

Bartholomew backed away, pulling the monk with him. ‘You are brave to have anything to do with this conloquium, Brother,’ he murmured, ‘if these delegates are anything to go by.’

‘Fortunately, they are not,’ said Michael with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Shall we see if Dick is ready for the Spital?’

Tulyet had trailed his knights and their followers to the castle, and was confident that they were all condemned to an unpleasant afternoon wrestling each other in the dusty bailey. He hurried back to the Trumpington road, where he found Bartholomew and Michael still busy with the nuns. While he waited for them to finish, he discussed the town’s unsettled atmosphere with Prior John, who was worried that it might spread to infect his peaceful convent.

‘It would not normally worry me,’ confided John, ‘but Michael’s nuns are a querulous horde, who never stop squabbling. I would never have agreed to take them had I known what they were like. All I can say is thank God I am a Gilbertine, not a Benedictine!’

Tulyet laughed. Then Michael and Bartholomew appeared, so he bade John farewell and set off towards the Spital with them. They had covered about half the distance when they met big Prioress Joan riding a spirited stallion. He and Michael admired her skill as she directed it over the treacherous, rock-hard ruts, although Bartholomew’s attention was fixed on the horse – it had an evil look in its eye and he did not want to end up on the wrong end of its teeth.

‘Here is a handsome beast,’ said Michael, approvingly. ‘The horse, I mean, not you, Abbess. Does he belong to your convent?’

‘Do you ask as the Bishop’s spy or as a man who appreciates decent horseflesh?’ said Joan, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Because if it is the former, then of course Dusty belongs to the convent. You know as well as I do that Benedictines are forbidden expensive possessions.’

‘Horses do not count,’ averred Michael, although Bartholomew was sure St Benedict would have begged to differ. ‘You call him Dusty? An unworthy name for such a fine creature.’

‘A grand one would raise alarms when we submit our accounts,’ explained Joan with a conspiratorial grin. ‘But no one questions hay for a nag called Dusty. Would you like to take him for a canter later? I do not usually lend him out, but I sense you could manage him.’

‘Are you sure he could bear the weight?’ asked Bartholomew, looking from the monk’s substantial girth to the horse’s slender legs.

‘Ignore him, Brother,’ said Joan, giving Bartholomew a haughty glare. ‘People accuse me of being too large for a woman, but they do not know what they are talking about. The truth is that I am normal, while everyone else is excessively petite.’

‘And I have unusually heavy bones, although few are intelligent enough to see it,’ said Michael, pleased to meet someone who thought like him. He eyed Bartholomew coolly. ‘Even my closest friend calls me plump, and has the effrontery to criticise my diet.’

‘Then that is just plain rude,’ said Joan, offended on his behalf. ‘A man’s victuals are his own affair, just as a woman’s size is hers.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Michael. ‘Shall we ride out together and discuss this vexing matter in more detail? I shall borrow something from King’s Hall – they have the best stables.’

Joan revealed her long teeth in a delighted smile. ‘After the conloquium, when I am not obliged to listen to my sisters whine about the difficulties involved in running a convent. In my opinion, if you have a problem, you solve it. You do not sit about and grumble like men.’

‘Problems like your priory’s chapel,’ mused Michael. ‘Part of it collapsed, so you rebuilt it with your own hands. Magistra Katherine told me.’

Joan blushed modestly. ‘She exaggerates – I had lots of help. Besides, I would much rather tile a roof than do the accounts. I thank God daily for His wisdom in sending Katherine to me, as she is an excellent administrator. I could not have asked for a better deputy.’

‘We are on our way to the Spital, to find out what happened to the Girard family,’ said Tulyet. ‘You were there when the fire started, so what can you tell us about it?’

‘Nothing, I am afraid. I was in the stables grooming Dusty at the time. Katherine was due to give a lecture in St Radegund’s, but when I saw the shed alight, I sent a message asking for it to be postponed, as it seemed inappropriate to jaunt off while our hosts struggled to avert a crisis. I spent most of the time calming the horses.’

‘Did you notice any visitors to the Spital yesterday?’ Tulyet asked. ‘I know Tangmer discourages them, but it is possible that someone sneaked in uninvited.’

‘Just Sister Alice, who will insist on paying court to us, even though we find her company tiresome. Moreover, I always want to scratch when she is around, because she claws constantly at herself. When she is with us, my nuns and I must look like dogs with fleas.’

‘So you saw nothing to help?’ Michael was beginning to be frustrated by the lack of reliable witnesses.

Joan grimaced. ‘I am sorry, Brother. All my attention was on the horses. Try asking my nuns – I have left them in the Spital to pray for the dead. I am the only Lyminster delegate who will attend the conloquium today, but only because I am scheduled to talk about plumbing. If it were any other day, I would join my sisters on their knees.’

They were nearly at the Spital when they were hailed by Cynric. The book-bearer carried a sword, and had one long Welsh hunting knife in his belt and another strapped to his thigh. He had also donned a boiled leather jerkin and a metal helmet.

‘These are what I wore at Poitiers,’ he reminded Bartholomew, who was eyeing them disapprovingly. ‘When you and me won that great victory.’

Four years before, he and Bartholomew had been in France, when bad timing had put them at the place where the Prince of Wales was about to challenge a much larger army. They had acquitted themselves adequately, but Cynric’s account had grown with each telling, and had reached the point where he and the physician had defeated the enemy with no help from anyone else. Bartholomew still had nightmares about the carnage, although Cynric professed to have enjoyed every moment and claimed he was proud to have been there.

‘Please take them off,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘They make you look as though you are spoiling for a fight.’

‘I have to wear them – Master Heltisle put me in charge of training scholars at the butts,’ argued Cynric. ‘And if I do not look the part, no one will do what I say. But never mind that – me and Margery have something to tell you.’

They had not noticed the woman at the side of the road. Margery Starre was a lady of indeterminate years, who made no bones about the fact that she was a witch. Normally, this would have seen her burned at the stake, but she offered a valuable service with her cures and charms, many of which worked, so the authorities turned a blind eye. Bartholomew was wary of her, as she believed that the Devil – with whom she claimed to be on friendly terms – had helped him to become a successful physician. He dreaded to imagine what would happen if she shared this conviction with his colleagues. Heltisle, for one, would certainly use it to harm him.

‘One of those Black Nuns came to me with a peculiar request,’ she began without preamble. ‘And I thought you should know about it.’

‘Not that,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Tell them about the Spital ghost – about it being the spirit of some hapless soul sacrificed by pagans.’

‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ said Margery obligingly. ‘A white spectre, which wobbled along the top of the wall, then disappeared into thin air.’

‘Clippesby saw it, too,’ put in Cynric. ‘I overheard him telling the hens about it this morning.’

‘It did not speak,’ Margery went on, ‘but I could tell it was a soul in torment.’

‘Could you?’ said Bartholomew curiously, although he knew he should not encourage her. ‘How?’

‘By its demeanour. And because it left trails of water on the wall – tears. The Spital should never have been built there, as it is the site of an ancient temple.’

‘How can you tell?’ demanded Bartholomew, sure she could not. The land on which the Spital was built was no different from its surroundings, and there was nothing to suggest it was special – no ditches, mounds, springs or unaccountable stones.

‘Because Satan told me,’ replied Margery grandly. ‘He dropped in yesterday morning, and said he plans to take up residence there. I imagine it was him who started that fire – not deliberately, of course, but because his fiery hoofs touched dry wood.’

‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew sombrely. ‘The Devil was involved in starting the blaze, because only a very evil being could want people roasted alive.’

Margery sniffed. ‘Satan is not evil – just misunderstood. He–’

‘You mentioned a nun,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to such liberal views about the Prince of Darkness. He was a monk, after all. ‘She came to you with “a peculiar request”.’

‘It was Alice, the short, spiteful one who was deposed from Ickleton,’ replied Margery. ‘She asked me to make her some candles that reek of manure.’

Michael frowned his bemusement. ‘Why would she want something like that?’

‘To send to folk she does not like. The recipients will light them in all innocence, then spend days trying to dislodge the stink from their clothes.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘And Alice told you all this willingly?’

Margery nodded. ‘She was reluctant at first, but hate burns hot inside her, and once she started, she could not stop. One of her targets is that elegant, arrogant nun, who thinks she is better than everyone else because her brother is the Bishop …’

‘Magistra Katherine,’ supplied Bartholomew.

‘Yes, so if she dies in suspicious circumstances, you will know who to question first. Another enemy is Prioress Joan, who called her a spiteful little harpy. And a third is Abbess Isabel, whose report to the Bishop saw her disgraced.’

‘Did Alice buy spells that would kill or hurt them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He did not believe in the efficacy of such things, but if Alice was attempting to purchase some, then her intended victims should be warned to be on their guard.

‘I do not deal in those,’ replied Margery loftily, although his relief evaporated when she added, ‘other than for very special customers.’

‘I assume you refused to make these smelly candles, too,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Of course not! She paid me a fortune to invent them, and I like a challenge. If I succeed, I can sell them to others who want to annoy their foes. You may have one – free of charge – for that nasty old Heltisle if you like.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘It is tempting, but I do not think Matilde would approve.’

‘She would! She cannot abide him either. Mind you, that villain Theophilis is worse. He sniffs around poor Master Clippesby like a dog on heat, and I do not like it.’

‘We should go,’ said Tulyet, tired of listening to her. ‘Time is passing.’

He set a cracking pace, and no one spoke again until they reached the Spital. When they arrived, he glanced up at the towering walls.

‘God’s blood!’ he blurted. ‘What is that?’

Bartholomew and Michael looked to where he pointed, and saw something pale rise from the ground and ascend the wall. There was an approximate head and body, with two trailing wisps that might have been legs. It floated upwards, then disappeared over the top.

‘It is someone playing a trick,’ determined Michael. ‘Go and look in the undergrowth, Matt. You are better at these things than me.’

Bartholomew took a stick and thrashed around in the weeds at the foot of the wall, but there was nothing to see – no tell-tale footsteps or hidden pieces of twine.

‘If it is a prank, then it is a very clever one,’ he told Michael eventually. ‘I have no idea how it was managed. Perhaps it really was a ghost.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There is no such thing as ghosts. Well, other than the Holy Ghost, of course, but that is different.’