The largest and most impressive room should have been the Chancellor’s, but Michael had appropriated that years before, leaving the University’s titular head with a rather poky chamber near the back door. De Wetherset had tried to reclaim it while Michael was in Suffolk, but the beadles were devoted to their Senior Proctor and refused to allow it. Thus Michael’s domain remained his own.
Bartholomew glanced through its door as he and Michael hurried past. It was sumptuously decorated, with wool rugs and fine furniture. It had two desks, both set to catch the light from the beautifully glazed windows. The ornate, oaken one was Michael’s, piled high with documents bearing the seals of nobles or high-ranking churchmen. The other was Junior Proctor Theophilis’s, neat to the point of obsessional.
By contrast, de Wetherset’s room was dark, plain and smelled of damp. It was also cramped, as the Vice-Chancellor and Commissary worked there, too – Michael had declined to oust his clerks and secretaries to make room for the newly created officials, claiming that de Wetherset should have considered such practicalities before appointing anyone.
‘Ah, here you are,’ said de Wetherset, as Michael strutted in without knocking. Bartholomew hovered on the threshold, uncertain whether to follow suit, but the Chancellor beckoned him inside. ‘Good.’
He was a solid man of late-to-middle years, whose physical strength was turning to fat. He had iron-grey hair, small eyes, and wore Tyled Hostel’s uniform of a dark green academic tabard, which fitted him like a glove. Although he seemed honourable, there was something about him that had always made Bartholomew wary. Perhaps it was the aura of power that emanated from him, or his sharp, sometimes unkind tongue. Regardless, he was not someone the physician would ever consider a friend.
He had been Chancellor for years before the stress of the post had forced him to resign. To recover, he had gone on a pilgrimage to Walsingham, and had returned bursting with vitality. He claimed his good health was a miracle, although Bartholomew suspected he had just benefited from fresh air, regular meals and plenty of exercise. He had bought a pilgrim badge when he had reached the shrine, which he always wore pinned proudly on his hat.
As usual, the men he had appointed were with him. Tall, haughty, elegant Vice-Chancellor Heltisle was immaculately clad in a gold-trimmed gipon with his uniform tabard – in Bene’t College’s royal blue – over the top. His shoes were crafted from soft leather, and he wore a floppy hat that most townsfolk would automatically assume was French. He had always been wealthy, but additional funds had come his way after he had invented a metal pen. These had quickly become status symbols, with scholars scrambling to buy them, even though they were indecently expensive. Matilde had given one to Bartholomew, although he had found it more trouble than it was worth and never used it.
Commissary Aynton was a stooped, gangling man with a benign smile and dreamy eyes, so that Bartholomew sometimes wondered if he was fully aware of what was going on around him. His clothes were expensive, but he wore them badly, so he always looked vaguely disreputable. Bartholomew liked him because he often made discreet donations of medicine for the poor, something Heltisle would never do.
‘I am glad to see you, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset, one hand clasped to his paunch. ‘Do you have that remedy for a griping in the guts? I thought I was cured of my delicate innards – this is the first trouble I have suffered since Walsingham.’
‘Do not trust him to give you relief, de Wetherset,’ said Heltisle nastily. ‘You should have sent for Rougham. He is a much better physician, and does not waste time washing his hands with such irritating regularity.’
‘Oh, come, Heltisle,’ chided Aynton with a pleasant smile. ‘Matthew has a rare skill with griping guts, as you know perfectly well. Or were you the only member of your College who did not swallow his remedy after the feast that made everyone vomit?’
Heltisle’s red face provided the answer to that question, but he was not a man to recant, so he went on another offensive to mask his discomfiture. ‘If you are going to physick him, Bartholomew, hurry up. We are busy, and cannot wait for you all day.’
Bartholomew was tempted to leave there and then, but de Wetherset was looking decidedly unwell, and the physician was not in the habit of abandoning those who needed him. He indicated that de Wetherset was to lie on a bench – the Chancellor probably had indigestion, but it would be remiss not to examine him before prescribing a tonic.
‘These nuns, Brother,’ said Aynton, watching Bartholomew palpate the Chancellor’s ample abdomen. ‘Are you sure it was a good idea to bring them here? I have heard alarming stories about what St Radegund’s was like in the past.’
‘You mean when it was a delightful place to visit?’ asked Heltisle with a leer that made Bartholomew dislike him even more. ‘As opposed to now, when it is full of women who only want to pray? Of course, you had no right to arrange a conloquium here, Brother. It should have been de Wetherset’s decision.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘No, it should not. First, St Radegund’s does not come under the University’s jurisdiction. Second, de Wetherset was not Chancellor when the Bishop made his request. And third, the Bishop approached me because the delegates are from my own Order.’
Heltisle sniffed. ‘Well, do not blame me if our students take advantage of the fact that thousands of nubile young ladies lie within their grasp.’
Michael laughed. ‘There are only two hundred, and few are nubile.’
‘Nor are they within anyone’s grasp,’ put in Bartholomew, not liking the notion of someone like Heltisle marching out there in the hope that he would receive the kind of welcome he had evidently enjoyed when standards had been different.
Heltisle rounded on him. ‘And you would know, of course. You have no right to be a scholar while you have a woman waiting to wed you.’
‘He breaks no statute – not in the University and not in Michaelhouse,’ retorted Michael sharply. ‘And do not accuse him of enjoying illicit relations, because Matilde is away.’ He turned away before Heltisle could argue and addressed de Wetherset, who was sitting up to sip the tonic Bartholomew had poured. ‘Why did you send for me, Chancellor?’
‘To discuss the call to arms,’ explained de Wetherset, some colour returning to his plump cheeks. ‘The town has two knights to monitor its training, but we have no one – our scholars just arrive at the butts, loose a few arrows and go home. We need someone who can teach them how to improve.’
‘Cynric,’ said Aynton, smiling at Bartholomew. ‘He is a very good archer, and I am sure you will not mind lending him out. Beadle Meadowman will help.’
‘Not Meadowman,’ said Michael immediately, loath to lose his favourite henchman when he was needed to prevent brawls.
‘Nonsense,’ stated Heltisle. ‘He and Cynric will oversee matters, and your Junior Proctor can record the name of everyone who attends. Then we can identify those who think they are too important to sully their hands with weapons, and inform them that they are not.’
Michael concealed his irritation at such presumptuousness with a show of indifference. ‘Very well. Of course, I shall expect you three to be the first in line, setting a good example.’
‘Then you will be disappointed,’ declared Heltisle, ‘because we have hired proxies – men from the Spital, who are mad and therefore not expected to answer the call themselves.’
‘My proxy is not a lunatic,’ said Aynton hastily. ‘He is a scholar from King’s Hall – a Fleming, who is exempt on the grounds of being foreign. I dared not hire a madman, lest he forgets whose side he is on and attacks his friends. I do not want that on my conscience!’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I hate to break this to you, but the option of hiring proxies is only available to certain priests. You are not—’
‘It is available to anyone who makes a suitable donation to the King’s war chest,’ countered Heltisle smugly. ‘Several of my Bene’t colleagues will follow my example, although I imagine no one at Michaelhouse can aff
ord it.’
Michael’s smile was tight. ‘We could, but none of us will, because it reeks of cowardice and elitism. I advise you to reconsider, lest you win the contempt of your fellow scholars.’
‘Not to mention the resentment of townsfolk,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘They will not take kindly to the fact that the wealthy can buy their way out of their military obligations.’
‘Who cares what they think?’ shrugged Heltisle. ‘Our fiscal arrangements with the King are none of their business. Besides, it is inappropriate for high-ranking members of the University to engage in such lowly activities. We have our dignity to consider. It is—’
He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared silently at the door – so silently that Bartholomew was sure he had been listening. The book-bearer gave no indication as to whether he was pleased or alarmed by the plans being made for his future, and his expression was carefully neutral as he addressed Michael.
‘You must come at once, Brother. There is a situation at the Gilbertine Priory.’
‘What kind of situation?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘And please direct your remarks to the Chancellor. He is in charge here, not the Senior Proctor.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Cynric flatly, and turned back to Michael. ‘Apparently, it is ablaze, and as you have lodged some of your nuns there, I thought you should know.’
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew, Michael and the triumvirate hurried into the high street to gaze at the plume of greasy black smoke that wafted into the air to the south.
‘That is not the Gilbertine Priory,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It is further away.’
‘Some farmer, clearing land, probably,’ said Heltisle dismissively.
‘It is the Spital!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘I have nuns lodged there, too – a score of ladies from Lyminster Priory.’
‘One convent sent twenty delegates?’ asked de Wetherset in surprise. ‘That is a lot.’
‘The largest by a considerable margin,’ acknowledged Michael, his face pale. ‘And one of them is Magistra Katherine de Lisle.’
‘De Lisle?’ mused de Wetherset. ‘Is she any relation to our Bishop Thomas de Lisle?’
‘His older sister,’ replied Michael tautly. ‘She is scheduled to speak at the conloquium today, so hopefully she will have left the Spital already, but—’
‘Then go and make sure,’ gulped de Wetherset. ‘The Bishop will never forgive us if his sister is incinerated at an event organised by an officer of the University.’
Knowing this was true, Michael began to hurry along the high street. Bartholomew fell in at his side, because everything was tinder-dry after the long spell of warm weather, and he wanted to be sure the blaze represented no danger to the town – only fools were unconcerned about fire when most buildings were made of timber and thatch. Cynric followed, and so did the triumvirate.
‘We cannot have you telling the Bishop that we skulked here while the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner rescued his beloved sister,’ called Heltisle. ‘We know the kind of sly politics you two practise.’
A few years before, Bartholomew had objected to the number of bodies he was required to inspect out of the goodness of his heart, so Michael had established the post of Corpse Examiner. The duties entailed determining an official cause of death for any scholar who passed away, or anyone who died on University property. Bartholomew was paid threepence for each body he assessed, all of which was spent on medicine for the poor. However, he wished Michael had chosen a less sinister-sounding title for the work he did.
‘Speaking of sly politics, Heltisle,’ said the monk coolly, ‘I understand you struck a deal with Clippesby over the sale of his treatise.’
Heltisle smirked. ‘And there is a contract to prove it – signed with one of my own metal pens, in fact – so do not try to renege. And if you claim he is mentally unfit to make such arrangements, then he should not be in the University. You cannot have it both ways.’
‘I cannot wait to see his face when he realises he has been bested by Clippesby,’ murmured Michael, walking more quickly to put some distance between them. ‘I must find a way to depose him, as he is a dreadful man. Even so, I would sooner have him than Aynton – at least Heltisle does not try to disguise his vileness with cloying amiability.’
‘Perhaps I can shoot him while I show scholars how to use a bow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘An arrow in the posterior will teach him a little humility.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, afraid he might actually do it. ‘He would claim you acted on our orders, and we do not want Michaelhouse sued.’
The plume of smoke seemed no closer when they reached the Trumpington Gate, where the sentries were gazing at the smudge of black that stained the sky.
‘It is the Spital,’ said a soldier to his cronies, ‘which is no bad thing. The place is haunted, and I shall not be sorry to see it go up in flames.’
‘He is right,’ Cynric told Bartholomew and Michael, as they hurried through the gate. He considered himself an expert on the supernatural, and was always willing to share his views with the less well informed. ‘It stands on the site of a pagan temple, see, where human sacrifices were made.’
‘It does not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, although he should have known better than to argue with Cynric. The book-bearer’s opinions, once formed, were permanent, and there was no changing his mind.
‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ declared Cynric darkly. ‘Building that Spital woke a lot of evil sprites. Indeed, it may even be them who set the place afire.’
‘Then let us hope Heltisle has the right of it,’ said Michael, ‘and it is just a farmer burning brush in order to plant some crops.’
‘Regardless,’ said Bartholomew, fearing it was not, ‘we should hurry.’
Five high-ranking scholars and Cynric, trotting three abreast along the main road south, was enough to attract attention, and folk abandoned what they were doing to trail after them, sure an interesting spectacle was in the offing. They included both scholars and townsfolk, who immediately began to jostle each other. Isnard the bargeman and his cronies were among the worst offenders, and Bartholomew was concerned – with only one leg, Isnard was vulnerable in a scuffle, although he never allowed it to prevent him from joining in.
‘I feel like the Piper of Hamelin,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Followed by rats.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And four louts from King’s Hall, who have chosen to don clothes that are brazenly French. They have done it purely to antagonise the likes of Isnard.’
‘It is working,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the bargeman had fixed the haughty quartet with angry eyes. ‘I had better send him and his friends home before there is a spat – the King’s Hall men have swords.’
For which we have His Majesty to thank, he thought sourly. Scholars were forbidden to bear arms in the town, but this stricture had been suspended by royal decree until the French threat was over. King’s Hall, which had always been warlike, was delighted to arm its scholars to the teeth.
Bartholomew knew Isnard and his cronies well, as all were either his patients or members of the Michaelhouse Choir. They had never been particularly patriotic, but the raid on Winchelsea had ignited a nationalistic fervour that verged on the fanatical. It would be forgotten when some other issue caught their attention, but until then, they were affronted by anything they deemed to be even remotely foreign. They met in disreputable taverns, where they nurtured their grievances over large flagons of ale.
‘No,’ snapped Bartholomew, seeing Isnard prepare to lob a handful of horse manure at the scholars. ‘If you make a mess on their fine clothes, they will fight you.’
‘Then they should wear English ones,’ retorted Isnard sullenly. ‘Right, lads?’
There was a growl of agreement, the loudest from a soldier named Pierre Sauvage. It was an unusual name for a man who had never ventured more than three miles outside Cambridge, but his mother had once rented her spare room to an itinerant acrobat from Lyon
s. Sauvage was so touchy about the possibility of having foreign blood that he was rabidly xenophobic. He told anyone who would listen that he had signed on at the castle purely because he wanted Tulyet to teach him how to kill Frenchmen.
‘Too right,’ he declared. ‘They have no right to strut around looking like the dolphin.’
‘He means the Dauphin,’ said Isnard, evidently of the opinion that the physician was unable to deduce this for himself. ‘Who we hate because it was his army what invaded Winchelsea and did all those terrible things. Is that not so, Sauvage?’
Unfortunately, his indignant remarks were overheard by the scholars from King’s Hall, who immediately swaggered over. Bartholomew shot an agonised glance at the smoke – he did not have time to prevent quarrels when he should be making sure the blaze represented no threat to the town.
‘Sauvage, Sauvage,’ mused one. ‘I think we might have a Frenchman here, boys. Shall we slit him open and see what is inside?’
‘Go home,’ ordered Bartholomew, cutting across the outraged response Sauvage began to make. ‘All of you. There will be nothing to see at the Spital.’
‘No?’ demanded the scholar archly. ‘Then why are you going there?’
Bartholomew thought fast. ‘Because the inmates have contagious diseases for me to treat.’
‘Lord!’ gulped Isnard. ‘I never thought of that. Come on, Sauvage. The Griffin broached a new barrel of ale today, and it would be a pity to let it go sour.’
He swung away on his crutches, and most of his cronies followed. The scholars stood fast, though, so Bartholomew began to describe some of the more alarming ailments he expected to be rife in the Spital, and was relieved when the King’s Hall men edged away and began to saunter back the way they had come.
‘Follow them,’ he told Cynric. ‘Make sure they go home – preferably without goading any more townsfolk into a spat along the way.’
By the time Bartholomew caught up with Michael, the monk and the triumvirate had passed the Gilbertine Priory with its handsome gatehouse and towering walls. Beyond it, the road was in a terrible state. There had been heavy rains the previous month, and carts had churned it into ruts. These had dried like petrified waves when the weather turned warm, so anyone hurrying risked a twisted ankle or worse. Bartholomew and his companions were obliged to slow to a snail’s pace, leaving Michael fretting about the nuns.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 5
