An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I know of no Carmelite essay, though,’ said Ringstead. ‘We use William Heytesbury’s books for our lectures, not essays by unknown authors.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Michael, preparing to leave. He exchanged a glance with Bartholomew, who knew he wanted to quiz Morden about his nocturnal meetings at St Radegund’s Convent but was reluctant to broach the subject and risk alerting Morden that he was investigating them. Bartholomew racked his brain for ways to introduce the topic, but Michael gave a small shake of his head, afraid that Morden would simply deny the accusation and promptly warn his associates that the Senior Proctor had wind of their dealings.

  ‘Do not forget to collect Master Kenyngham on your way out,’ said Morden, scrambling down from his chair to prevent Michael from opening the door. He was too late, and it crashed against the wall, so hard that he winced. ‘And take Clippesby with you, too.’

  ‘I am leaving now anyway,’ said Clippesby, following Michael. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned for my safety in these times of unrest, Father Prior, but you have no need to worry.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Morden, clearly not at all interested in Clippesby’s well-being.

  ‘I often walk alone,’ Clippesby went on. ‘You and I are much alike in that respect.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Morden uneasily. ‘I do not wander the town unaccompanied. I always take a servant with me.’

  ‘Not always,’ corrected Clippesby, sounding surprised by the assertion. ‘Sometimes you go alone. For example, I have seen you several times on the Barnwell Causeway at night.’

  Michael closed his eyes in exasperation. He had decided that to interrogate Morden about the meetings might prove detrimental to the case, and the last thing he wanted was for the insane Clippesby to be conducting the interview.

  But Clippesby was oblivious to the foul looks shot his way by both the Prior and Michael, although their disapproval was for very different reasons. ‘You walked to St Radegund’s Convent, where you met your friends,’ he said.

  ‘And which particular animal told you this?’ asked Ringstead unpleasantly. ‘An owl? Or do creatures who spy on men in the night tend towards slugs and bats and other unclean beasts?’

  ‘No animal told me,’ said Clippesby, offended. ‘I saw him myself. He met Prior Ralph from Barnwell and old Adam from Ely Hall, and they went into St Radegund’s Convent together.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael mildly, realising that it would look suspicious not to persist with the query now that Clippesby had raised the issue. ‘And what were you doing there, Prior Morden?’

  ‘If you must know, I had business with Walcote, your Junior Proctor.’

  ‘And what business would that be?’ pressed Michael.

  ‘I cannot tell you,’ said Morden, folding his small arms and looking away, signifying that he had said all he was going to on the matter.

  Michael had other ideas. ‘You can tell me. Or the Carmelites might discover what passed in the Dominican Friary involving certain face paints.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Morden in horror. He glowered at Clippesby, seeing in the Michaelhouse man the reason for his awkward situation. ‘But this is blackmail!’

  ‘My Junior Proctor was murdered, Prior Morden,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I will do whatever it takes to catch the person who did it, and if that includes telling the Carmelites that the Dominicans like to paint their faces, then so be it.’

  Morden closed his eyes in resignation. ‘Very well. But you will not like what I have to say.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Michael. ‘But you will tell me anyway.’

  Morden sighed. ‘I met three or four times with your Junior Proctor. Prior Ralph and some of his colleagues were there and once – in December – so was Brother Adam from Ely Hall.’

  ‘Did Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse ever go?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘No Gilbertines were invited. And no Franciscans or Carmelites, either. Doubtless Walcote only wanted civilised company.’

  ‘And what did you talk about?’ asked Michael.

  ‘We discussed the validity of nominalism, among other things. We all believe it to be the superior philosophical theory.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I know many Benedictines and Austin canons concur with you on that. But why did you go to St Radegund’s in the middle of the night to discuss it? What was wrong with a lecture hall in the day?’

  ‘We discussed other matters, too,’ said Morden. He licked his lips, and glanced at the others. Ringstead, it seemed, was as curious as the others to learn what his Prior did at a place like St Radegund’s Convent at the witching hour.

  ‘Like what?’ pressed Michael.

  ‘Murder,’ said Morden in a low voice. ‘We discussed murder.’

  ‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ said Michael. ‘Whose murder?’

  ‘Yours, Brother,’ replied Morden.

  ‘I confess Morden’s claim unsettled me at first,’ said Michael, taking his place at the high table in Michaelhouse’s hall for dinner that night. ‘But on reflection, I think there is no need to worry.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘And how did you reach that conclusion, Brother?’

  ‘According to Morden, Walcote learned about the plan to kill me in December, but I am still here. Whoever it is must have given up the idea.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Bartholomew, worried. ‘Walcote is dead, and we cannot be sure that he was not murdered because he was close to exposing this plot.’

  ‘It is also possible that he was murdered for the contents of his purse,’ said Michael practically. ‘I walked to Barnwell Priory this afternoon, and Nicholas identified the purse Orwelle found. He told me there was a small imperfection in its drawstrings, and when I looked I saw that he was right.’

  ‘But Walcote carried that cheap purse because he collected penny fines,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Why rob him?’

  ‘For people with nothing, any purse is worth stealing.’

  Bartholomew wavered, knowing that Michael was right on that score. But he still believed that hanging suggested a degree of premeditation, and imagined that most robbers would prefer the speed and silence of a blade.

  ‘Did you see Matilde when you went to St Radegund’s this afternoon?’ asked Michael, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Has she learned anything more about these secret meetings at which my murder was discussed?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But I told her what Morden had claimed, and she warned you to be careful. That is good advice, Brother.’

  Michael waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he thought their fears groundless. ‘Is she still convinced that there is more to Tysilia than the body of a goddess with no brains?’

  ‘Apparently, she spent the whole morning trying to teach Tysilia how to hoe. It is not difficult: a child could do it. Tysilia could not, however, and repeatedly raked out seedlings instead of weeds. When Eve Wasteneys saw that Tysilia was incapable of hoeing, she was sent to work in the kitchens instead.’

  ‘So?’ asked Michael.

  ‘So, the weather was cold and wet. Matilde believed Tysilia was only pretending to be inept, so that she would not have to be outside. It worked: Tysilia spent the rest of the morning in a warm kitchen, while everyone else was out in the rain. Matilde considered this evidence of Tysilia’s cunning.’

  ‘It could equally be evidence that Tysilia has an inability to learn,’ said Michael. ‘However, the Bishop is a clever man, and it is difficult to imagine him siring a child who is quite so dense.’

  ‘Thomas de Lisle sired Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You told me she is his niece.’

  ‘Did I say sired?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Damn! I must be more careful in future. De Lisle certainly does not want her to know the identity of her father, and it is not good for bishops to have illegitimate children in tow.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘B
ut if Matilde and I are right about Tysilia, then she may very well know something about this plot to kill you. Perhaps she was the one who devised it in the first place.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Michael. ‘Why would she do something like that? I am her father’s best agent, and she has no reason to wish me harm.’

  ‘If she is as clever as Matilde believes, then perhaps the plot is her way of striking at Bishop de Lisle. Or perhaps she wants to take your place, and become as indispensable to him as you are.’

  ‘This is pure fantasy, Matt. You and Matilde seem to find it difficult to believe that some people – even women – are very stupid. You are quite wrong about Tysilia.’ He sniffed the air suddenly, and groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, Matt! Dinner is more of that stinking fish-giblet stew again! Not only is it freezing cold in this godforsaken place, but we are forced to eat stewed fish entrails and yesterday’s bread.’

  ‘Delicious,’ boomed Father William, rubbing his hands together as he came to sit next to them. ‘Lent is my favourite time of year. Sinful practices like over-indulgence and fornication are forbidden, there are none of those reeking flowers in the church to distract you from your prayers, and there are no frills and such nonsense adorning your altars. And yet we are still treated to tasty delicacies like fish-giblet stew.’

  ‘And we think Clippesby is insane!’ muttered Michael, eyeing the dirty friar doubtfully. ‘Anyone who thinks boiled fish intestines in watery broth is the ultimate dining experience should be locked away.’

  ‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded the Franciscan, looking around him as if he imagined the Master would suddenly appear out of the rushes that were scattered across the floor. ‘We cannot start the meal until he has said grace.’

  ‘He is not a great lover of fish, and so probably feels no great compunction to hurry here,’ said the Carmelite Suttone, scratching his short white hair with his large-knuckled fingers. ‘He is talking to Clippesby, anyway.’

  ‘Clippesby,’ said William in disapproval. ‘I caught him pulling the tail feathers from the porter’s cockerel this afternoon. He said Cynric told him that burning them in a dish with a mixture of mint leaves and garlic has the power to remove curses. And he claimed that Cynric had this information from Prior Pechem.’

  ‘The head of the Franciscans?’ asked Michael gleefully. ‘That sounds like heresy to me, William. Removing curses with feathers and garlic indeed!’

  ‘Cynric misheard,’ stated William immediately. ‘Assuming that Clippesby even had half the story right, that is.’

  ‘Clippesby puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Sometimes he seems quite normal, and yet other times he indulges in these peculiarities of behaviour. I do not understand him at all.’

  ‘That is because he is insane,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘The whole point about insane people is that their actions are incomprehensible by those of us who are normal.’

  ‘But on occasions, what he says makes perfect sense, and his opinions are worth listening to.’

  ‘Only if you are insane yourself,’ said William firmly. He glanced at the door at the end of the hall, then at the painted screen near the spiral staircase that led to the kitchens. Behind it, the servants were waiting with the food in huge steaming cauldrons. ‘I wish Langelee would hurry up. The soup is getting cold.’

  ‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘The longer that abomination is kept from our tables, the better. And if we sit here long enough, it will be time for breakfast. Lukewarm oatmeal is not my favourite, either, but I would sooner eat that than rancid fish guts floating in greasy water.’

  Bartholomew saw Suttone wince at the description. One or two students, sitting at the tables placed at right angles to the one where the fellows ate, also heard, and Bartholomew could see them reconsidering their options for dining that night. Since Langelee had been made Master, it had become much more difficult for the students to slip out of the College for a night in the town, but they were encouraged to lay in their own supplies of food, called ‘smalls’. This had the advantage of saving Michaelhouse a certain amount of money and it prevented the students from wanting to eat in taverns.

  ‘Have you caught your murderer, Michael?’ asked William conversationally, picking at a lump of old food that adhered to the front of his habit. When it was off, yet another dark spot joined the multicoloured speckling on the Franciscan’s chest. ‘My offer of help is still open, you know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael politely. ‘It is good to know who one’s friends are these days.’

  He raised his voice so that it would carry to Kenyngham, who was already muttering his own, much longer, version of grace, and who was oblivious of any meaningful comments or looks from the monk who sat to his right.

  ‘I said, it is good to know who one’s friends are these days,’ said Michael, more loudly still. This time, even Kenyngham was among those who looked at him in surprise, startled by the sudden volume in the monk’s voice.

  ‘Are you addressing me, Brother?’ asked Kenyngham, smiling in his absent-minded way. ‘Are you in need of a friend? Join me after the meal, and we will pray together.’

  ‘I certainly am in need of friends,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘And I do not count those who attend secret meetings at midnight, where plots to kill me are discussed.’

  Kenyngham regarded him sympathetically. ‘Who has done that? You should inform him that he will be bound for hell if he continues, and that to take the life of another is a deadly sin.’

  Michael gaped in disbelief. ‘You are a cool fellow, Father. I understand that you attended several such meetings. This plot was discussed at St Radegund’s Convent, when men such as Morden, Pechem and Lincolne – and you, of course – were present.’

  ‘Not Pechem,’ said William immediately. ‘We Franciscans do not do things like that.’

  ‘And not me, either,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Really, Brother! Do you imagine that I would allow such a discussion to take place? You know how I abhor violence. I can assure you that the meetings I attended made no mention of any such topic.’

  ‘Morden says Walcote had uncovered a plot to kill me, and that was on the agenda at these gatherings,’ said Michael angrily.

  ‘I attended no meeting with Morden,’ said Kenyngham. ‘The only people present, other than Walcote and me, were Pechem and Lincolne. And we certainly did not discuss murder.’

  Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘Then tell me what you did talk about.’

  ‘I have already explained to you that I cannot. Please do not ask me to break my promise again. Come with me to the church after dinner, and we will pray together for God to give you patience.’

  ‘I am going nowhere with you,’ said Michael, giving the old friar a hostile glare. ‘You are not to be trusted.’

  At that moment, Langelee entered the hall, and everyone stood in silence with his hands clasped in front of him waiting for the Master to begin the grace. Clippesby was with Langelee, and Bartholomew noticed that the mad Dominican’s face was flushed and his eyes were bright, which were symptoms the physician associated with episodes of especially odd behaviour. His heart sank, knowing that it would not be long before Langelee would be forced to confine Clippesby to his room until the mood had passed.

  Langelee reached the Master’s chair, said a short prayer in his strong, steady voice, and had already seated himself before most of his scholars had completed their responses. He reached for the wine jug and filled his goblet. He then took a deep draught, as though the bitter, acidic drink was something to which he had been looking forward all day. The low hum of conversation restarted in the hall as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in grateful appreciation.

  ‘Master!’ whispered William in a hoarse voice, loud enough to carry to the far end of the hall. ‘The Bible Scholar!’

  ‘What?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a halfhearted nod to the student who received a free education in exchange for reading from the Bible at each meal. The practice was i
ntended to give the scholars cause for contemplation while they were eating, and to dispense with the need for frivolous conversation. It was something of which the austere Father William very much approved, but which the rest of the Fellows preferred to do without, especially in the evenings when they were tired.

  The student stood on the dais next to the high table, and began to read from the Book of Isaiah in a droning, bored voice. His phrasing was automatic, and Bartholomew suspected that his thoughts were as far away as those of most of his listeners. Michael turned his attention to the pale grey broth that was slopped into the bowl in front of him. He took a piece of bread, and dipped it in the mixture without much enthusiasm, chewing it as though it were wood chippings.

  Bartholomew did not blame him. He did not like fishy soup either, especially since his knowledge of anatomy allowed him to identify particular organs and their functions. The fact that the entrails had not been fresh when they were purchased, and tasted strong and slightly gamy, did not induce many scholars to finish what they had been given. Bartholomew took one mouthful and decided he would rather go without, wondering absently whether the seed cake his sister had given him was still in his room, or whether Michael had already found it.

  ‘God’s teeth! This is a vile concoction!’ exclaimed Langelee, pushing away his bowl in disgust. He stood abruptly, and rattled off a closing grace, even though some of the students had still not been served. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen. I hope your supper does not give you nightmares.’

  ‘Well!’ said William, as Langelee exited from the hall, leaving the Bible Scholar in open-mouthed confusion. ‘There is a man who does not appreciate a good meal.’

  ‘Then you can have mine, too,’ said Michael, standing and emptying the grey liquid from his bowl into William’s. Some of the resulting spillage shot across the table towards the friar’s filthy sleeve. Bartholomew was fascinated to see that the deeply impregnated grease in the garment was easily able to repel the soup, and that it simply ran off like water from a duck’s back. ‘I would sooner starve than eat this.’