Bartholomew stared at him in confusion. ‘In the what?’
John regarded him askance, as if astonished that he should have to explain. ‘It is the text everyone is squabbling over. Surely you have heard about it?’
The physician had not heard about a book that was being squabbled over, but was not inclined to ask questions about it when there were wounded men who needed his attention. He pushed all thoughts from his mind except medicine and began the grisly business of stitching cuts, setting bones and pasting poultices over bruises. Most physicians declined to perform such lowly tasks, but Cambridge’s only surgeon was an unsavoury character with a notoriously poor success rate, and Bartholomew disliked entrusting him with anyone’s well-being.
As he worked he became aware that the ringleaders of the feud had declined to leave the field of battle. They were bickering with each other, their voices growing increasingly acrimonious. John tried to order them home, but they were disinclined to listen to him, and the Senior Proctor – Brother Michael – was chasing after some of Peterhouse’s more feisty students, hoping to prevent them from embarking on another brawl.
‘They started it,’ a Peterhouse scholar named Wittleseye was declaring. He was an overweight cleric who liked to brag about the fact that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s nephew. ‘We came to buy bread, and they began baiting us.’
‘They did,’ asserted his colleague, another plump priest who claimed kinship with the archbishop. Neuton had hidden behind a cart the moment fists had started to fly, and he took a sip from the wineskin that was never far from his reach, to steady his nerves. ‘Then Hugh drew his sword for no reason and started hacking at people.’
‘He drew because Peterhouse called him a bastard,’ explained Beadle March, one of the army of men hired by the proctors to keep the peace. He had a pink face, small eyes and an upturned nose, features that were redolent of a pig. Although he had more brains than the average beadle, he was vindictive and petty, and there was a general belief amongst the students, albeit without evidence, that he had enjoyed a criminal past.
‘Well, Hugh is a bastard,’ said Neuton, taking another swig of wine. ‘The Bardolf clan share a father, but they all have different mothers. And we only mentioned his illegitimacy because he insulted us.’
‘He called them thieves,’ supplied March.
Bartholomew looked up sharply; the trouble was likely to reignite if the beadle insisted on repeating the barbs that had started it in the first place.
William Bardolf, the one member of the Bardolf tribe who was not illegitimate, shrugged indolently. He was vice-warden of King’s Hall, a large, black-haired man with a beard. ‘That is not an insult; it is the truth. You make no secret of the fact that you want to steal our lawful property.’
‘The Black Book of Brân is not yours,’ shouted Wittleseye. ‘It is mine. I paid for it seven years ago, and it promptly went missing. You are the thieves.’
William’s expression darkened. ‘We have stolen nothing. The book came to us by the hand of God. Besides, you did not pay for it – Drayton was murdered before you could give him anything.’
Neuton glowered. ‘And who was responsible for that? King’s Hall! You killed Drayton and stole the text. Now you claim to have come by it miraculously. Well, your story is ludicrous!’
‘Not as ludicrous as yours,’ snapped William. ‘Wittleseye went behind your back seven years ago, trying to buy the book for himself. Now you pretend you were all united? It is laughable!’
‘Who told you what I did seven years ago?’ demanded Wittleseye, looking decidedly shifty.
March began to whistle airily, looking anywhere except at the Peterhouse men. Fortunately for him, the scholars were more interested in each other than in gossiping beadles.
One of William’s siblings, who looked just like him except for being twice his size, stepped forward. ‘Peterhouse murdered Drayton, not us,’ snarled Roger Bardolf. ‘Wittleseye did not want to part with his money, and murder ensured he got to keep his silver and the book.’
‘Then why is it not in my possession now?’ demanded Wittleseye, eyeing him disdainfully. ‘If I acquired it by sinister means seven years ago, then how does King’s Hall come to have it?’
‘Divine intervention,’ replied William when Roger hesitated uncertainly. ‘God took it from the hands of thieves and gave it to men who will treat it with respect.’
‘I do not care who stole what,’ said John, speaking quietly to calm them all. ‘Just go home. Brother Michael will hear your grievances as soon as he has seen to the dead. He—’
‘There would not be any dead were it not for these . . . these devil’s spawn,’ yelled Wittleseye, incensed. ‘But what can you expect from men whose mothers are French witches?’
Roger stepped forward menacingly, but his brother stopped him with a warning glance. Roger clenched his fists, clearly itching to use them, while Wittleseye hastily ducked behind his colleagues.
‘The proctors will fine anyone who swings a punch,’ said March, nevertheless grinning his delight at the prospect of more violence.
Bartholomew stood quickly, acutely aware that threats were more likely to aggravate than ease the situation. He gestured to John that he should send the beadle away before his interjections made matters worse, but the Junior Proctor did not see him.
‘You speak without knowing the facts, Wittleseye,’ said William. His voice was mild, but there was menace in it. ‘Our grandmother is a French witch, but our mothers are all barons’ daughters.’
‘And we would rather be bastards than kin to an archbishop,’ added Roger, wrinkling his nose in exaggerated disgust.
‘I am not keen on archbishops either,’ said March conversationally. ‘They are invariably devious. Well, they have to be, if they are going to rise very high in the Church. Everyone knows that.’
‘No wonder the Bardolf clan steals books,’ said Neuton to Wittleseye, loud enough to be heard by half of Cambridge. ‘Their French blood means they cannot help themselves. They are all villains.’
‘You took leave of absence from your studies last year,’ said William, smiling malevolently at the two priests. ‘Remind me where you went.’
‘They went to France,’ supplied March helpfully. ‘To see the Pope in Avignon, and they came back telling everyone how lovely it was, and how charming were the people. Of course, we are at war with the French, so these sentiments are hardly patriotic . . .’
‘Stop it!’ cried John, trying hard to be forceful. ‘Everyone will go home immediately, or I will—’
‘Our brother Hugh is dead,’ said Roger in a dangerous growl. ‘I am not going anywhere until his murder is avenged.’
‘It has been avenged,’ said John. He swallowed hard, and his eyes flicked towards Bartholomew. He was an uncomfortable prevaricator and felt guilty about what he had done, no matter how justified. ‘Hugh is dead, but so are five Peterhouse men.’
‘But unlike them, Hugh deserved to die,’ said Wittleseye spitefully. ‘He was an abomination with his over-ready sword, and the world is a better place without him.’
‘I will tear your heads off,’ shouted Roger, shaking off his brothers’ warning hands and striding towards the Peterhouse priests. ‘And then I will play camp-ball with them.’
‘You need only one head to play camp-ball,’ said March, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Any more would be confusing.’
‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew, intervening when he saw Roger’s dagger emerge from its sheath. John was apparently unequal to preventing a second brawl, and the physician did not want more wounds to stitch. He interposed himself between the two factions. ‘Take your injured friends and go home before anyone else dies.’
For a moment he thought they were going to ignore him too, but the Peterhouse clerics were unnerved by the appearance of Roger’s dagger. Wittleseye flashed an obscene gesture at his enemies – a vulgar sign that Bartholomew had never seen a priest make before – and stalked away, pul
ling Neuton with him. After a moment, lingering just long enough to look as though they were dispersing of their own volition, the Bardolf clan sauntered off in the opposite direction.
‘Thank you,’ said John, relieved. ‘I thought they were going to fight again, and the Bardolfs would have slaughtered the priests. It was the Peterhouse students who did the fighting before – Wittleseye and Neuton did not risk their own skins.’
‘They urged them on, though,’ said March. ‘I do not like those cowardly clerics.’
‘You should confine him to desk-duties,’ advised Bartholomew, watching March strut away to join his fellow beadles. ‘He is too poisonous to be allowed out.’
Bartholomew returned to the wounded, but there were a number of them and it was afternoon by the time he had finished. He was on his way home, disgusted by the whole affair, when he met March. The beadle informed him that the dead had been taken to Holy Trinity and, as Corpse Examiner, Bartholomew was required to inspect them and give an official cause of death. The proctors did not want bodies to act as rallying points for further bloodshed, and the quicker they were in the ground, the better. Bartholomew was in no mood for viewing more victims of violence, but went to do his duty.
Brother Michael was waiting for him. Besides being Senior Proctor, Michael was a Benedictine monk and taught theology at Michaelhouse. He was also the physician’s closest friend. His face was grim, and it was clear he was both unsettled by and angry about the trouble afflicting his town.
Beadle March pointed to where the bodies lay in a row, his porcine features alight with ghoulish malice. ‘Do you need help? I am excellent at identifying killers from wounds.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that March intended to settle a few scores by naming men he did not like as the culprits. ‘John will be here in a moment. He will help me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ replied March disagreeably. ‘I will just stand here and watch, then.’
‘He is not a performing ape,’ said Michael curtly. ‘And you have your own work to do.’
Just then, John approached with parchment and pen, ready to marry the name of each victim with the official cause of death. March slouched away, but it was clear he resented being omitted from the proceedings and did not go far. Bartholomew began his examination. There were seven bodies, including Hugh’s. All were young, and Bartholomew did not find it easy to kneel next to them and inspect their wounds. John was oddly quiet, and when Bartholomew glanced up to make sure he was paying attention, he saw the Junior Proctor’s cheeks were wet with tears.
‘It is so senseless!’ he blurted when Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I know bloodshed was predicted in the Black Book of Brân, but I was not expecting this . . .’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew kindly. He had no idea what John was talking about, but he understood his distress. ‘Go outside for some fresh air. I can finish on my own.’
John did not need to be told again. He left as fast as his legs would carry him, calling out to Michael as he went that he would organize the beadles for the next patrol. March watched him go with an amused grin, but the expression faded when Michael glared at him. The beadle muttered something about joining his colleagues and made himself scarce.
‘If I were not so short-handed, I would dismiss March,’ said the monk, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. ‘But I need every man I can get at the moment – at least until King’s Hall and Peterhouse come to their senses. What can you tell me about these foolish young men?’
‘I saw Hugh kill three, including the boy from his own college.’ Bartholomew pointed them out. ‘And the rest have sword cuts that make me suspect they were his victims too.’
Michael regarded him balefully. ‘I watched you grab a blade and challenge him. What were you thinking? I was sure he was going to kill you – and then who would have inspected corpses for me? Thank God John was able to come to your rescue. Did you hear how it all started? A rumour that Michaelhouse plans to side with Peterhouse and against King’s Hall. It is untrue, of course.’
‘Do you think the gossip was a deliberate attempt to cause trouble?’
Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I wish I knew. I came as soon as I heard the two factions were yelling accusations at each other, but Hugh attacked Peterhouse before I could stop him.’
‘Hugh started this fight?’
Michael nodded. ‘Although I saw someone standing beside him, murmuring in his ear. I suspect one of his clan was determined to have a spat and used him as a means to start one. Hugh’s temper was notoriously volatile.’
‘Did you see who it was? He bears some responsibility for what happened – for Hugh’s death, as well as these others.’
‘It was raining, and he wore a hood that conveniently masked his face. However, I shall find him. No one disturbs the peace in my town and evades justice.’
‘In the verbal squabble that followed the riot, when you were chasing those lads from Peterhouse, the ringleaders accused each other of stealing some tome – the Black Book of Brân. What is that about?’
Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you jesting with me? The question of who owns the thing has been the talk of the town for the last two weeks. Surely you have heard of it? It lies at the heart of the Peterhouse–King’s Hall dispute.’
‘I have been busy. There are student disputations to organize and I have patients to see.’
‘Where have you been doing all this? The moon?’ Michael waved away the physician’s objections and began to explain. ‘The Black Book of Brân is said to be eight hundred years old and was written by a monk who either went mad or vanished – the explanatory notes are difficult to decipher, apparently. It comprises poetry that predicts the future.’
Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘No one with a modicum of sense believes in that sort of nonsense.’
‘And therein lies the problem: the scholars of King’s Hall and Peterhouse do not have a modicum of sense. They are convinced that the book is a powerful tool for predicting future calamities, and each group maintains it is the rightful owner.’
‘What sort of future calamities?’
‘Well, the verse that has them all clamouring about the book’s uncanny accuracy mentions strife visiting colleges. Of course, there is an air of horrible inevitability about the whole business – that trouble was predicted, so someone has ensured that trouble we shall have.’
‘Which college has the stronger claim to the text?’
Michael frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘Neither, as far as I am concerned. It came here seven years ago, brought by an unsavoury character called William de Drayton, who said he had rescued it from a burning priory. I doubt he came by it honestly, and there was a suspicion that he had set the inferno himself. Despite this, two colleges expressed an interest in buying the book: Peterhouse and King’s Hall.’
The tale rang a bell in Bartholomew’s memory. ‘I remember Drayton. He was stabbed not long after the plague. We investigated, but we never found his killer.’
Michael nodded. ‘What we were not told then, but seems common knowledge now, is that he probably died because someone wanted the book he had been carrying in his bag.’
That did not fit with what Bartholomew remembered. ‘The book was one of Aristotle’s, although I cannot recall which. We wondered what kind of killer would have left such a valuable tome behind, and it led us to conclude that the culprit was probably not a scholar.’
Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Well, I am told now that Drayton’s bag was supposed to contain the Black Book of Brân. He was taking it to Peterhouse, where Wittleseye was ready with seventeen marks. Wittleseye waited in vain for the delivery that night – or so he says.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘But I was under the impression, from the quarrel in the Market Square, that King’s Hall has the book. Does that mean someone from King’s Hall murdered Drayton?’
‘Peterhouse certainly thinks so. But King’s Hall says the sale was never made – that D
rayton died before Peterhouse could pay for it.’
‘So where has it been these last seven years?’
‘That is what I would like to know, but no one seems able to enlighten me. According to King’s Hall, it simply appeared in their chapel one morning. I am not one to believe such fanciful notions, but no one has stepped forward to offer a more plausible explanation.’
‘Why did no one mention this when Drayton died?’ asked Bartholomew, a little angrily. ‘We might have found his killer, had we known he was peddling crooked goods. We spent days trying to uncover a motive for his murder but were forced to admit defeat in the end.’
Michael nodded, then sighed unhappily. ‘I do not want more bloodshed. Will you come with me to King’s Hall and Peterhouse, to ask questions about this damned book? If we can solve Drayton’s murder and learn where the tome has been these last seven years, then perhaps these two colleges will stop sparring with each other.’
The streets were unusually empty as Bartholomew and Michael walked to King’s Hall. Townsmen and scholars alike were unsettled by the uneasy atmosphere that pervaded the place, and rumours about the bloodiness of the most recent brawl warned sensible folk to stay indoors. Churches were locked, shops were shuttered and colleges and hostels posted extra guards on their doors. The pair had not gone far when they heard the sounds of a violent scuffle. It was coming from St Michael’s churchyard, and a sharp yelp of pain prompted them to go and investigate. When they arrived, the Junior Proctor was lying on the ground, clutching his middle. He pointed with an unsteady finger when Bartholomew and Michael approached.
‘He ran that way,’ he gasped urgently, trying to struggle to his feet. ‘Quickly!’
‘Who?’ demanded Michael, hurrying forward to help him.
‘The man who attacked me,’ shouted John, agitated by the length of time it was taking them to understand. ‘Go after him before he escapes. He has a dagger, so be wary.’
The Lost Prophecies Page 20
