Orwel was delighted by the news, although Tulyet was full of trepidation. He knew exactly what the newcomers would be like – vicious, hard-bitten warriors whose experiences on the battlefield would have left them with a deep and unbending hatred of all things French. The townsfolk would follow their example, and friction would follow for certain. He heartily wished the King had sent them to some other town.
At that moment, there was a commotion by the gate – Isnard was trying to force his way past the guards. As the felonious bargeman never entered the castle willingly, Tulyet knew there must be a very good reason as to why he was keen to do it now. He indicated that Isnard should be allowed inside.
‘I came out of the goodness of my heart,’ declared Isnard, all bristling indignation as he brushed himself down. ‘But if you do not want to hear my news, I shall go home.’
‘My apologies, Isnard,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Now, what did you want to tell me?’
‘That there has been a murder,’ reported Isnard gleefully. ‘Of a French scholar named Baldwin de Paris. He was a member of King’s Hall, a place that is well known for harbouring foreigners, traitors and spies.’
‘And so it begins,’ sighed Tulyet wearily.
CHAPTER 1
Cambridge, early May 1360
It was noon, and the bell had just rung to tell the scholars of Michaelhouse that it was time for their midday meal. The masters drew their discourses to a close, and the servants came to turn the hall from lecture room to refectory, carrying trestle tables from the stack near the hearth and setting benches next to them.
Most Fellows were only too happy to stop mid-sentence and rub their hands in gluttonous anticipation, but one always needed a nudge to make him finish. This was Doctor Matthew Bartholomew, who felt there was never enough time in the day to teach his budding physicians all they needed to know. He was regarded as something of a slave driver by his pupils, although he genuinely failed to understand why.
‘Enough, Matt!’ snapped Brother Michael, tapping his friend sharply on the shoulder when the first two more polite warnings went unheeded.
Michael was a portly Benedictine and a theologian of some repute. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, and had recently been elected Master of Michaelhouse – although what had actually happened was that he had announced he was taking over and none of the other Fellows had liked to argue.
Under Michael’s auspices, College meals had improved dramatically. Gone was the miserable fare of his predecessors, and in its place was good red meat, plenty of bread and imported treats like raisins. He considered food a divine blessing, and was not about to deprive himself or the scholars under his care of God’s gracious bounty.
As he dragged his mind away from teaching, Bartholomew was astonished that it was midday already. He had been explaining a particularly complicated passage in Galen’s De semine, and as semen held a special fascination for most of the young lads under his tutelage, they had not minded running over time for once.
‘Are you sure it is noon, Brother?’ he asked, startled. ‘I only started an hour ago.’
‘Four hours ago,’ corrected Michael. ‘I appreciate that you have much to cover before you leave us for a life of wedded bliss in ten weeks, but you should remember that even your lively lads have their limits. They look dazed to me.’
‘Transfixed,’ corrected Bartholomew, although it occurred to him that while De semine might have captured their prurient imaginations, he was less sure that his analysis of purgative medicines, which had taken up the earlier part of the morning, had held their attention quite so securely. Indeed, he was fairly sure a couple had dozed off.
‘Well, you can continue to dazzle them this afternoon,’ said Michael, drawing him to one side of the hall, out of the servants’ way. ‘But make the most of it, because tomorrow morning will be wasted.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Will it? Why?’
Michael scowled. ‘Because William is scheduled to preach on the nominalism–realism debate. You know this, Matt – we have been discussing ways to prevent it for weeks. But my predecessor agreed to let him do it, and William refuses to let me cancel.’
Father William was the College’s Franciscan friar. He was bigoted, stupid, fanatical and a disgrace to the University in more ways than his colleagues could count. Unfortunately, he had been a Fellow for so long that it was impossible to get rid of him, as the statutes did not list dogmatism and unintelligence among the crimes for which an offender could be sent packing.
‘You should have tried harder,’ grumbled Bartholomew, hating the thought of losing an entire morning to the ramblings of a man who knew even less about the subject than he did.
The dispute between nominalists and realists was deeply contentious, although Bartholomew failed to understand why it evinced such fierce passions. It was a metaphysical matter, revolving around the question of whether properties – called universals – exist in reality or just in the mind or speech. Even those who did not really understand it felt compelled to make a stand, with the result that a lot of rubbish was being spouted. William was a worse offender than most.
‘“Tried harder”?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘How, when William threatened to sue me for breach of contract if I stood in his way? Yet I shall be glad of a morning away from the lecture hall. I have a lot to do now that I am Master of Michaelhouse and Senior Proctor.’
‘You mean like hunting whoever murdered Paris the Plagiarist?’
Paris, an elderly French priest, had caused a major scandal the previous term, when he had stolen another scholar’s work and passed it off as his own. In academic circles, this was considered the most heinous of crimes, and had brought great shame to King’s Hall, where Paris had been a Fellow. Someone had stabbed him ten days before, but Michael was no nearer to finding the killer now than he had been when it had first happened.
‘I suspect the culprit acted in a drunken rage,’ the monk confided. ‘He was no doubt sorry afterwards, and aims to get away with his crime by keeping his head down. I shall not give up, of course, but the trail is stone cold.’
‘You have no leads at all?’
‘There are no clues and no witnesses. It was a random act of violence.’
‘Not random,’ said Bartholomew, who had been particularly repelled by what Paris had done. Academic integrity was important to him, and he thought Paris had committed an unpardonable offence. ‘I imagine he was killed for being a fraud, a liar and a cheat.’
‘His killer may be someone who feels like you,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I think he was struck down because he was French.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘You consider being French worse than stealing ideas?’
‘Most townsmen do. The Winchelsea massacre ignited much anti-French fervour, as you know. The last few days have seen the rise of a ridiculous but popular belief that anyone with even remote connections to France will applaud what happened in Sussex.’
Bartholomew grimaced, aware of how quickly decent people could turn into a mob with unpalatable opinions. ‘Of course, our own army is no better. I saw them run amok in Normandy once, and it was an ugly sight.’
‘Hush!’ warned Michael sharply. ‘Say nothing that might be considered pro-French, not even here among friends. Emotions run too high, and folk are eager to roust out anyone they deem to be a traitor.’
‘No one can accuse me of being unpatriotic,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Not when I shall squander an entire evening practising archery tonight – time that would have been much better spent teaching.’
‘It would,’ agreed Michael. ‘But shooting a few arrows will not save you from the prejudices of the ignorant.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that the monk was right. ‘Townsfolk glare at me when I go out, even ones I have known for years. I am glad Matilde and Edith are away.’
Matilde, the woman he was going to marry, had gone to fetch an elderly aunt to their wedding, and had taken his sister with her for company.
‘I wish I was with them,’ sighed Michael. ‘Of course, that would leave Chancellor de Wetherset unsupervised. I like the man, but he should let me decide what is best for the University, and it is a wretched nuisance when he tries to govern for himself.’
Bartholomew smothered a smile. Over the years, Michael had manipulated the post of Senior Proctor to the point where he, not the Chancellor, wielded the real power in the University. The last two incumbents had been his puppets, implementing the policies he devised and following his edicts. But the current holder, Richard de Wetherset, bucked under Michael’s heavy hand.
‘He ran the University well enough when he was Chancellor before,’ Bartholomew said, not surprised that de Wetherset had his own ideas about what the office entailed.
‘Yes, but times have changed since then, and I do not want him undoing all the good I have done. For example, he disapproves of me compromising when dealing with the town – he thinks we should best them every time, to show them who is in charge. He believes the only way forward is to fight until we are the undisputed rulers.’
‘And have sawdust in our flour, spit in our beer, and candles that smoke?’
‘Quite! Of course, none of it would be a problem if Suttone was still in post. Why did he not talk to me before resigning as Chancellor? I would have convinced him to stay, and then there would be no great rift opening between us and the town.’
‘Depose de Wetherset,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘You have dismissed awkward officials in the past, so I am sure you can do it again.’
‘It is tempting, but no,’ said Michael. ‘Not least because it would mean another election, and I am tired of fixing those. De Wetherset is not a bad man or a stupid one. We worked well together in the past, and I am sure we can do it again. He just needs a few weeks to adjust to my way of doing things.’
While the servants toted steaming pots and platters from the kitchens, Bartholomew looked around the place that had been his home for so many years – something he had taken to doing a lot since Matilde had agreed to be his wife. Scholars were not permitted to marry, so he would have to resign his Fellowship when he wed her at the end of term. He loved her, but even so, he was dreading the day when he would walk out of Michaelhouse for the last time.
The College comprised a quadrangle of buildings around a muddy courtyard, with the hall and the Fellows’ room – called the conclave – at one end, and two accommodation blocks jutting from them at right angles. The square was completed by a high wall abutting the lane, along which stood a gate, stables, sheds and storerooms. It had grounds that ran down to the river, and included an orchard, vegetable plots and a private pier.
Michaelhouse had never been wealthy, and bad luck and a series of unfortunate investments had resulted in it teetering on the verge of collapse more times than Bartholomew could remember. However, now Michael was Master, things had changed. New benefactors were eager to support a foundation with him at its helm, and his ‘election’ had attracted not just generous donations, but powerful supporters at Court, which combined to ensure the College a much more stable and prosperous future.
He had also appointed two new Fellows. The first was Bartholomew’s student John Aungel – young, energetic and eager to step into his master’s shoes. The second was Will Theophilis, a canon lawyer who had compiled a popular timetable of scripture readings entitled Calendarium cum tribus cyclis. Theophilis was ambitious, so Michael had also made him his Junior Proctor, which he promised would lead to even loftier posts in the future.
Michael had raised the College’s academic standing as well. He had written several sermons that were very well regarded in theological circles, while Bartholomew had finally published the massive treatise on fevers that he had been compiling for the past decade – a work that would spark considerable controversy if anyone ever read it. No one had attempted it yet, and the only comments he had received so far pertained to how much space it took up on a bookshelf.
But these were eclipsed by a stunning theosophical work produced by John Clippesby, a gentle Dominican who talked to animals and claimed they answered back. Michael had wasted no time in promoting it, and the College now basked in its reflected glory.
Clippesby’s thesis took the form of a conversation between two hens – one a nominalist, the other a realist. Although an eccentric way of presenting an argument, his logic was impeccable and the philosophy groundbreaking without being heretical. The whole University was gripped by the ‘Chicken Debate’, which was considered to be the most significant work to have emerged from Cambridge since the plague.
The two new Fellows filled the seats at the high table once occupied by Master Langelee and Chancellor Suttone. Master Langelee had gone to fight in France, where he was far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than he had ever been with a pen; Suttone had resigned the Chancellorship and disappeared to his native Lincolnshire. Bartholomew missed them both, and had liked the College more when they were there. Or was he just getting old and resistant to change?
‘Do you think Michael will excuse me tomorrow, Matt?’
The voice that broke into his thoughts belonged to Clippesby, who cradled a sleeping duck in his arms. The Dominican was slightly built with dark, spiky hair and a sweet, if somewhat other-worldly, smile.
‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew blankly.
‘Father William’s lecture,’ explained Clippesby. ‘He will attempt to explain why he thinks realism is better than nominalism, and I do not think I can bear it.’
One of William’s many unattractive traits was his passionate dislike of anyone from a rival Order. He particularly detested Dominicans, and was deeply jealous of Clippesby’s recent academic success. His determination to ridicule the Chicken Debate was why he had refused to let Michael cancel his lecture – he believed he could demolish Clippesby’s ideas, although he was wholly incapable of succeeding, and would likely be intellectually savaged in the process. Bartholomew was not surprised the kindly Clippesby was loath to watch.
‘I am sure Michael will understand if you slip away,’ he said. ‘I hope to miss it, too – with any luck, a patient will summon me.’
Clippesby wagged a cautionary finger. ‘Be careful what you wish for. It might come true.’
‘What might come true?’ asked Theophilis, coming to join them.
The new Junior Proctor had long black hair parted in the middle, and a soft voice that had a distinctly sinister timbre. Bartholomew had disliked him on sight, which was unusual, as he tended to find something to admire in the most deplorable of rogues. He considered Theophilis sly, smug and untrustworthy, although Michael often remarked how glad he was that the canon lawyer had agreed to be his deputy.
‘We were discussing wishes,’ explained Clippesby, laying an affectionate hand on the duck’s back. ‘Ada here expressed a desire for a large dish of grain, but when one appeared, greed made her ill. Now she is sleeping off her excesses.’
‘Goodness!’ murmured Theophilis, regarding the bird askance. ‘Perhaps she should have enrolled at King’s Hall instead – that is the College noted for overindulgence, not ours. Incidentally, have you thought about the questions I raised last night – the ones about Scotist realism and the problem of universals?’
He often asked the Dominican’s opinion on philosophical matters, although he demonstrated a polite interest in the answer only as long as Clippesby was within earshot; once the Dominican was away, he mocked his eccentric ways. This duplicity was another reason why Bartholomew had taken against him.
‘Things have a common nature indeed!’ he scoffed when Clippesby had gone. ‘What nonsense! He should be locked up, where he can do no harm.’
‘If you really think that,’ said Bartholomew icily, ‘why do you spend so much time with him?’
Theophilis shrugged. ‘It amuses me. Besides, there is no harm in making friends, even with lunatics. But speaking of friends, I have been invited to St Radegund’s Priory tomorrow, to hear a nun pontific
ate on sainthood. I have permission to bring a guest, so would you care to join me? It will allow you to escape William’s tirade.’
Bartholomew flailed around for an excuse to decline, as even listening to William was preferable to a jaunt with Theophilis. ‘I may have patients to attend,’ he hedged. ‘You will be better off asking someone else.’
‘Perhaps another time, then,’ said Theophilis, all amiability.
Bartholomew hoped not.
A short while later, the bell rang to announce that the food was ready to be served. The students aimed for the body of the hall, while Michael and his five Fellows stepped on to the dais – the raised platform near the hearth where the ‘high table’ stood. The Master’s chair occupied pride of place in the middle, with benches for Bartholomew, Clippesby and Aungel on his right, and William and Theophilis to his left.
Michael waited until everyone had reached his allotted place, then intoned a Grace. It was neither too short nor too long, and each word was beautifully enunciated, so that even William, whose grasp of Latin was questionable, could follow. As Michael spoke, Bartholomew reflected on the other Masters he had known during his tenure – dear old Kenyngham, who had been overly wordy; the smarmy Wilson cousins; and Langelee, whose Graces had been brief to the point of irreverence. Michael did everything better than any of them, and he wondered why he and his colleagues had not elected him sooner.
When the monk finished, everyone sat and the servants brought the food from behind the serving screen. There was bread – not white, but not rye bulked out with sawdust either – and a stew containing a good deal of meat and no vegetables, just as Michael liked it. As a sop to Bartholomew’s insistence on a balanced diet, there was also a small dish of peas.
Meals were meant to be eaten in silence, with no sound other than the Bible Scholar’s drone, but Michael considered this a foolish rule. Students spent much of the day listening to their teachers, so it was unreasonable to expect them to stay quiet during meals as well. A few were monks or friars, used to such discipline, but most were not, and needed to make some noise. Moreover, many were eager to discuss what they had learned that day, and Michael hated to stifle intelligent conversation.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 2
