The untidy procession came to a shambling halt, while Michael looked around him imperiously. The yard was cobbled, and everywhere were threads of the cloth that had made Oswald Stanmore one of the richest men in Cambridge. The lean-to sheds were filled with bales of wool and silk, and even though the merchant himself was at a business meeting in another part of the town, his apprentices were busy loading and unloading carts, making inventories and carrying out his orders.
Michael presented an impressive figure in his billowing black cloak and the dark Benedictine habit beneath it, and several of Stanmore’s apprentices faltered nervously when they saw him. The monk had always been large – tall, as well as burly – but contentment and self-satisfaction had added a further layer of fat around his middle. His thin, lank brown hair was cut neatly around his gleaming tonsure, and his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers. He and Bartholomew had been friends for some years, although Michael’s post as Senior Proctor and the duties it entailed occasionally put a serious strain on their relationship.
Bartholomew watched the monk and his retinue enter the yard, then went to meet them. It was cold for March, and Michael’s winter cloak was lined with fur to protect him from the bitter winds that shrieked across the Fens from the north and east. Despite the fact that it was Lent, and that the monk should have been fasting or at least abstaining from some foods, he looked a good deal better fed than most of his beadles, and his round face gleamed with health and vitality.
He spotted Bartholomew and Edith at the top of the short flight of steps that led to Oswald Stanmore’s office, and strode to meet them. Walcote followed him.
‘I heard there was a row between the Dominicans and the Carmelites,’ said the monk, waiting for Bartholomew to descend the steps. ‘My beadles acted immediately, and I thought we had prevented any serious trouble. Then I receive a message from you saying that someone has been killed.’
‘It is true,’ replied Edith, answering Michael’s question before Bartholomew could speak. Her eyes were red from crying over the death of the young friar she had not known, and her voice was unsteady. Bartholomew fervently wished he had taken the Carmelite to Michaelhouse, and had not involved his sister in the University’s troubles. ‘The Dominicans killed a Carmelite. He died right here, in Oswald’s office.’
‘How did he come to be there?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Merchants like Oswald have bands of apprentices, and bands of apprentices love nothing more than lone scholars to fight – be they Carmelites or anyone else.’
‘Matt brought him,’ replied Edith. ‘The apprentices did not approve, but they carried him upstairs, then stood watch to make sure no Dominicans broke through our gates. I suppose all the fuss has died down now, given that they seem to have gone back to work.’
‘I suppose,’ said Michael carefully, knowing it would take very little for trouble to ignite again. ‘How did you manage to prevent your apprentices from rushing into the street and joining in the affray?’
‘I forbade them to,’ said Edith, surprised by the question. ‘They did not like standing by while scholars threw stones that smashed our windows, but they did as they were told.’
‘Would that all merchants had as much control over their people,’ muttered Michael, impressed that Edith had been able to impose her will so effortlessly on a group of spirited young men. He had forgotten that dark-haired Edith, who always seemed so slight next to her younger brother, was a very determined woman. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Where is this poor unfortunate now?’
Bartholomew led him and Walcote to the office, while the beadles remained in the yard to be shown broken windows and scratched paintwork by the indignant apprentices. Edith had covered the body of the friar with a crisp white sheet, although a circular red stain had already appeared, a stark foretaste of what lay underneath. Gently, Bartholomew pulled the sheet away from the friar’s face, so that Michael could see it. Both men turned in surprise when they heard Walcote’s sharp intake of breath.
‘That is Faricius of Abington,’ said the Junior Proctor, gazing down at the body in horror.
‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘Have you arrested him for frequenting taverns or brawling or some such thing?’
‘Not Faricius,’ said Walcote, clearly shocked. ‘He was a peaceful and scholarly man. I met him at a lecture we both attended on nominalism. After that, we met from time to time to discuss various philosophical concepts. I liked and admired him.’
‘Do you have any idea why someone might wish him harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew cover the face of the dead scholar again.
Walcote’s voice was unsteady when he replied. ‘None at all. He was a good man, respected by the people who knew him. This is a vile town, if friars like Faricius are slain in broad daylight.’
‘I agree, Will,’ said Michael sympathetically, but rather condescendingly. ‘But it happens occasionally, and it is our duty – yours and mine – to bring the culprits to justice. Matt, what were you doing in the middle of a fight between friars that ended in bloody murder?’
‘I was visiting a patient, and heard the sounds of a brawl in the making on my way home. Then I saw a group of Dominicans standing around a bloodstained Carmelite lying in a doorway.’
Michael eyed his friend warily. ‘How many Dominicans?’
‘Half a dozen or so. The Carmelite was bleeding from a wound in his stomach, and I assumed he had been stabbed by them.’
‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Intervening was a foolish thing to do. One man against six is not good odds. What were you thinking of?’
‘There was no time to consider the odds,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘I only saw an injured man and thought I might be able to help him. I waved my childbirth forceps at the Dominicans and they dispersed readily enough.’
‘I should think so,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Those forceps are a formidable weapon if you know how to use them. I would think twice about taking them on, too.’
‘I considered taking Faricius to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I was not sure if he would survive the journey. I brought him here instead.’
‘So, did one of these six Black Friars definitely stab Faricius?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you see any of them holding knives or with bloodstained hands?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I was more concerned with taking Faricius somewhere I could tend him properly, and I did not notice much about the Dominicans. I would say that they did not look as though they were going to give him last rites, however.’
‘Would you recognise them again?’ asked Walcote hopefully. ‘It was daylight, which is unusual. Most of these riots take place at night, when the perpetrators stand a better chance of escaping under cover of darkness once they have had their fill of violence.’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They were not happy to see their prey snatched from under their noses and told me so. We exchanged quite a few unpleasant words before I left.’
Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘They threatened you, did they? I shall see they pay for that with a few nights in the proctors’ cells – whether they confess to murdering Faricius of Abington or not.’
‘I cannot believe that the Dominicans and the Carmelites are behaving like this,’ said Walcote, his eyes fixed on the still figure under the sheet. ‘I know we Austin canons are no angels, and that there are occasional fights between individuals, but we do not march as a body on rival Orders.’
‘Nor do we Benedictines,’ said Michael in a superior manner. ‘There are better ways of resolving differences than resorting to fists.’
‘I am surprised their priors did nothing to stop it,’ Walcote went on disapprovingly. ‘Could they not see what consequences their students’ actions might have – the damage that committing a murder might have on their community here in Cambridge?’
‘They will see what the consequences are when I get my hands on them,’
said Michael grimly.
Michael ordered four of his beadles to construct a stretcher of two planks of wood and some strips of cloth, and then instructed them to carry Faricius to St Botolph’s, the church nearest the Carmelite Friary. Walcote was dispatched to fetch Prior Lincolne, which was no easy task given that the Carmelites were not currently responding to yells and bangs on the door. Once he had alerted Lincolne to the fact that one of his number was dead, Walcote was to go to the Dominican property on Hadstock Way, to ensure all the rioting Black Friars had returned home and were not still prowling the streets intent on mischief.
‘This is a bad business, Matt,’ said Michael, holding open the door to St Botolph’s, so that the beadles could carry their grisly burden inside. Bartholomew noticed that Faricius was dripping blood, and that a trail of penny-sized droplets ran between the Stanmore property and the church. ‘We have had no serious trouble since last November, when Runham dismissed my choir and attempted to cheat the workmen he had employed to rebuild Michaelhouse. I was hoping the calm would continue.’
‘It has been calm because we have had a long winter,’ explained Beadle Meadowman, struggling to manhandle Faricius through the narrow door without tipping him off the stretcher. ‘It has been too chilly to go out fighting. Scholars and townsfolk alike would rather sit by their fires than be out causing mischief in the cold.’
Meadowman, a solid, dependable man in his forties, had been recruited by Michael as a University law officer following the dissolution of the hostel in which he had been a steward. He undertook the varied and frequently unpleasant duties of a beadle as stoically and unquestioningly as he had the orders of his previous master, a man whose intentions were far from scholarly. Meadowman was a good beadle, and Michael was well satisfied with him.
‘That is true,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The early snows and the frosts that followed killed a lot of people. It was especially hard on the older ones, like poor Dunstan the riverman. I did not think he would see another Easter, but he refuses to die.’
‘But our students are not elderly men who need blazing hearths to warm their ancient bones,’ said Michael. ‘I was really beginning to feel that the worst of our troubles were over, and that the town and the University had finally learned to tolerate each other’s presence – and that the religious Orders had learned to keep their quarrels for the debating halls.’
‘You sound like Walcote,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at him. ‘He always seems horrified when the students fight, even though, as Junior Proctor, he is used to it because he spends most of his life trying to stop them.’
Michael frowned worriedly. ‘Will Walcote is a good fellow, but he is too gentle to be a proctor. I was uncertain of the wisdom of the choice when he was appointed a year ago, but I thought he would learn in time.’
‘And he has not?’
Michael shook his head. ‘He tries, but he just does not have the right attitude. He is too willing to see the good in people. He should follow my lead, and assume everyone is corrupt, violent or innately wicked until proven otherwise.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘No wonder your cells are always full.’
‘Do not tell Father William any of this,’ said Michael seriously, referring to their colleague at Michaelhouse, who was determined to be a proctor himself. ‘He will petition the Chancellor to have Walcote removed so that he can apply for the post himself. Although I may complain about Walcote’s ineffectuality, William’s ruthlessness would be far worse.’
‘Do you think Walcote will resign when he realises he is not suited to the task?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael sighed. ‘I doubt it, Matt. He has not taken any notice of my heavy hints so far.’ He gave his friend a nudge with his elbow and nodded across the High Street to where two Benedictines walked side by side. ‘But if he did, one of those two would be my choice as his successor.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Because they are Benedictines, like you?’
Michael tutted impatiently. ‘Of course not. It is because they are exactly the kind of men we need to represent law and order in the University. Have you met them? Allow me to introduce you.’
Before Bartholomew could point out that it was hardly an appropriate occasion for socialising, with the body of Faricius barely inside the church and a murder to investigate, Michael had hailed his Benedictine colleagues. Bartholomew studied them as they walked towards him.
The taller of the two had light hair, a handsome face and large grey eyes. There was a small scar on his upper lip, and when he spoke he had a habit of frowning very slightly. The second had dark hair that fitted his head like a cap and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. They seemed pleasant and affable enough, although Bartholomew immediately detected in them the smug, confident attitude of men who believed their vocation set them above other people.
‘This is Brother Janius,’ said Michael, indicating the dark-haired monk, before turning to the fairer one. ‘And Brother Timothy here comes from Peterborough.’
‘We have met before,’ said Timothy, returning Bartholomew’s bow of greeting. ‘A few days ago, you came to Ely Hall, where the Cambridge Benedictines live, and tended Brother Adam.’
‘He has a weakness of the lungs,’ said Bartholomew, remembering Adam’s anxious colleagues clustering around the bedside as he tended the patient, making it difficult for him to work. He vaguely recalled that Timothy and Janius had been among them, and that Janius had insisted on a lot of very loud praying, so that Bartholomew could barely hear Adam’s answers to his questions. ‘How is he?’
‘He has been better since you recommended that lungwort and mullein infused in wine,’ replied Timothy, smiling.
Janius gave his colleague an admonishing glance. ‘He has been better since we began saying regular masses for him, Timothy. It is God who effected the change in Adam’s health, not human cures.’
‘Of course, Brother,’ said Timothy piously. ‘But it is my contention that God is working through Doctor Bartholomew to help Adam.’
Janius inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘God shows His hand in many ways, even by using an agent like a physician. But what has happened here?’ he asked, glancing down at the ominous trail of red that soiled the stones in St Botolph’s porch. ‘I hope no one was hurt when the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites earlier.’
‘Unfortunately, one of them was stabbed,’ replied Michael. ‘His name was Faricius.’
Timothy raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Faricius? But he was no fighting man.’
‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘How?’
‘Faricius was a good scholar,’ said Janius. ‘Brilliant, even. He was one of the few Carmelites who came here because of a love of learning, rather than merely to further his own career in the Church by making useful connections.’
‘We were near St Mary’s Church when the Carmelites nailed their proclamation to the door,’ said Timothy, still shocked by the outcome of the riot. ‘I saw the Dominicans were furious, and it was clear that a fight was imminent, but I did not anticipate it would end quite so violently.’
‘But do not blame only the Dominicans,’ said Janius reasonably. ‘I heard the Carmelites taunting them and daring them to attack. One side was every bit as responsible as the other.’
‘As always,’ agreed Timothy. ‘These silly quarrels are invariably the result of two wrongs.’ He leaned forward, rather furtively, and spoke to Michael in a soft voice. ‘Is there any more news about your negotiations with Oxford, Brother? Forgive me for mentioning this in such a public place, but you told me Doctor Bartholomew knows your business, anyway.’
‘He does,’ replied Michael. ‘But I am not expecting any progress on the Oxford matter until Ascension Day at the earliest – a good six weeks from now.’ He turned to Bartholomew and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘We are talking about my plans to surrender a couple of farms and a church to Merton College at Oxford University in exchange for a few snippets of information.’
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‘Right,’ said Bartholomew carefully. He knew Michael had been engaged in a series of delicate negotiations with an Oxford scholar for several months, and that the monk tended to tell different people different stories about his motives and objectives. The arrangements were supposed to be secret, but a Michaelhouse scholar named Ralph de Langelee had made them public the previous year in an attempt to discredit Michael and prevent him from becoming the College’s new Master. It had worked: Langelee had been elected instead.
‘What happens on Ascension Day?’ asked Janius curiously. He crossed himself and gave a serene smile. ‘Other than the spirit of our Lord rising to heaven, that is.’
‘Other than that, William Heytesbury is due to come to Cambridge to finalise our agreement,’ said Michael. ‘He is keen to secure the property for Merton, but he still does not trust me to deal with him honestly.’
‘And does he have cause for such distrust?’ asked Timothy bluntly.
Michael’s expression was innocence itself. ‘Why should he? I have two farms and a church that are nearer Oxford than Cambridge, and I propose to transfer them in exchange for a little information and a document or two. It is a generous offer. Those Oxford men are so used to dealing with each other, that they do not recognise a truthful man when they see one.’
Bartholomew, however, was sure Heytesbury had good cause to be suspicious of Michael’s ‘generous offer’. Whatever it entailed, the monk would make certain it was Cambridge that emerged with the better half of the bargain. He was surprised that Timothy, who seemed to know Michael well, should need to ask.
‘Here comes Prior Lincolne,’ said Timothy, looking down the street to where the leader of the Carmelite Order in Cambridge was hurrying towards them. ‘We will leave you to your sorry business, Brother. Come to see us soon: you are always welcome in Ely Hall.’
‘Thank you; I imagine I shall need a dose of sanity and calm after dealing with this murder,’ said Michael, as the Benedictines walked away. He rearranged his face into a sympathetic smile as the Carmelite Prior reached him. ‘Accept my sincere condolences for this dreadful incident, Father.’
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