The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24)

by Susanna Gregory

  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 elect
ed 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.