‘I imagine a good deal of haggling took place over the fee, though,’ added Bartholomew. ‘They certainly spent a lot of time in taverns, trying to take advantage of each other by indulging in drinking games. But Richard has been a changed man this week. He even visited some of my patients with me, and claims he may yet become a physician.’
‘He helped me take food to the lepers, too,’ said Matilde. ‘And I hear that the Franciscans are making a good deal of money by selling the cure that lifted the curse from him.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Richard is a young man who is rarely ill, and the combination of too much ale with Heytesbury and the burning feathers that Cynric left for him made him sick. He was frightened, and there is the essence of the Franciscans’ cure.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Matilde incredulously. ‘Are you telling us that it did not actually work?’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How can burning feathers change a person’s character? They made him ill, and convinced him to turn over a new leaf – that and the knowledge that he killed a monk and does not want to be damned for it.’
‘So, he may revert to his former charming self?’ asked Matilde, disappointed.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he was a nice enough lad before he left home. Perhaps living with Edith will keep him pleasant.’
‘The Franciscans are making a lot of money by selling gum mastic, too,’ said Michael. ‘When the news spread that Lincolne’s impressive topknot was held in place so perfectly by a glue made from a new import from the Mediterranean–’
‘It only stayed in place when he was not killing people,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It tended to come off in the hands of his victims – Walcote, Faricius and almost me.’
‘– a good many people asked the Franciscans if they had any,’ finished Michael. ‘It is fine stuff – virtually invisible and fat-based so it does not rinse off in water.’
‘It leaves yellow stains, however,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lincolne’s scalp was deeply impregnated with it, and so were Heytesbury’s fingers. He uses gum mastic resin as a breath-freshener to disguise the fact that he likes wine. It is quite a useful plant.’
‘So, it was Lincolne who killed Faricius and Walcote,’ mused Matilde. ‘He was a cool customer, ordering you to investigate his student’s stabbing among the Dominicans and then watching you excavate Kyrkeby from the secret tunnel.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘So was Timothy, although he at least had the grace to go white when we found Kyrkeby, and he did not like being in the conventual church at Barnwell, where the body of another of his victims lay. I recall feeling sorry for him, because I assumed that it was simply the sight of corpses he did not like.’
‘He probably just did not like to see the corpses of the men he had murdered,’ said Michael. ‘But Lincolne was good. It never occurred to me that he knew about the tunnel and Kyrkeby’s body in it.’
‘He had been a student at the Carmelite Friary,’ Bartholomew explained to Matilde. ‘Therefore, he was aware of the tunnel, although it is a Carmelite tradition to keep the secret from the masters. I suppose people simply forgot that Lincolne had been a student here as time passed.’
‘He saw Faricius slip out through it while the Dominicans were storming the Carmelite Friary,’ continued Michael. ‘He followed him, watched him collect the essay, then confronted him in Milne Street. Feeling betrayed by his best student, Lincolne stabbed Faricius in a fit of rabid fury.’
‘Lincolne was lucky the Dominicans did not catch him in Milne Street,’ said Matilde. ‘It was his proclamation that started the riot in the first place.’
‘That was why he abandoned Faricius’s body before he had the chance to grab the essay,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He heard the Dominicans coming and was forced to flee.’
‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby had also been dogging Faricius,’ Michael went on. ‘Time was passing, and he needed the essay on which to base his lecture. He must have been desperate, to dash over to the dying Faricius and cut the strings to his scrip while his own students were closing in.’
‘He was desperate,’ confirmed Bartholomew. ‘The lecture was in a week, and his own work was mediocre. He needed the essay urgently, if he were not to disgrace himself and his Order at the most auspicious event in the University’s calendar.’
‘And by the Monday – two days later – Ringstead observed a marked improvement in the lecture’s quality,’ said Michael. ‘But meanwhile, Lincolne became obsessed with hunting down the essay and destroying it.’
‘He knew he was not in a position to look for it himself,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so he turned to Timothy and Janius, who were already working with him in the plot to overthrow Michael and Walcote and thus save the University from what they considered to be evil influences. The Benedictines eagerly obliged Lincolne, but did so because they intended to publish it themselves, not because they wanted to destroy it.’
‘It would have brought them fame and fortune,’ said Matilde. ‘But why would the fanatical Lincolne join forces with monks like Timothy and Janius? They seem odd bedfellows.’
‘They were not so different,’ said Michael. ‘They all used religion as a means to force their own views on people who begged to differ. And they were all afraid that my arrangement with Heytesbury would harm Cambridge. It just shows that they were poor judges of character, and that they did not know me at all.’
‘And poor Walcote, who we all chastised for being so meek and mild, showed considerable strength in the end,’ said Matilde. ‘He died because he refused to tell that wicked trio where he had hidden Faricius’s essay.’
Michael nodded. ‘He knew if he told them they would probably kill Paul, and he did not want that on his conscience. He died to protect Paul and to keep Faricius’s essay from men like Timothy and Janius, who would seek to profit from it, and from Lincolne, who would have burned it.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Matilde.
‘Where Faricius wanted it to be,’ said Michael. ‘In the care of Father Paul.’
‘They must have killed Walcote very quickly,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still dwelling on the grisly details of the Junior Proctor’s death. ‘Lynne heard the commotion with Kyrkeby shortly after sunset, and both Kyrkeby and Walcote were dead before compline, because that is when Sergeant Orwelle found Walcote’s body and it was already cold.’
‘Why did Walcote not tell you about the tunnel?’ asked Matilde of Michael. ‘It seems the sort of detail proctors should share.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Michael. ‘But Walcote was a man of his word, and he had promised the Carmelite student-friars he would say nothing if they blocked the tunnel within a week. Also, you must remember that he was not present when the question about Faricius’s escape from the friary came up: he was making sure the Dominicans had all gone home at that point. He never knew that we were pondering the question of how Faricius could have left the friary without using the main gate, or I imagine he would have told us.’
‘You and he did not seem to work well together,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘You may have liked each other, but you did not trust him – or he you.’
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘I thought him too weak, and he did not understand me at all. We did not talk as much as we should. I realised this was a mistake, and I determined such a lack of communication should not sully my working relationship with his successor. I told Timothy everything – which was also a mistake, as it happened.’
‘My role in this was rather worthless,’ said Matilde ruefully. ‘I thought I was helping you solve two murders, but despite the fact that I had a thoroughly enjoyable time at St Radegund’s Convent and I learned a good deal that might benefit the sisters, my spying was a waste of time as far as you are concerned.’
‘Not true,’ said Michael. ‘Matt was sure the nuns had a role in those deaths. And he was right in a way: Walcote’s meetings at St Radegund’s caused a good deal of trouble.’
‘Matt and I were mistaken about
Tysilia, though,’ admitted Matilde. ‘We thought she was a highly intelligent manipulator, who masterminded the meetings and the murders. We could not have been more wrong. She is exactly what she appears to be: a pretty woman with a completely empty head. She thinks she will have a better life if she escapes from the convent, and regularly gives the men she meets small baubles in return for a promise of help.’
‘But she only keeps her lovers for a week, and so is obliged to buy off rather a large number of them,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘She offered Richard trinkets to help her – which certainly accounts for how he paid for some of his new clothes.’
‘She gave him my locket,’ said Matilde, taking it from around her neck and gazing down at it. ‘She really is foolish: she has not realised that she needs to keep her lovers for longer than a few days if she ever wants to capitalise on the favours she has purchased.’
‘Richard was bitter about the nuns of St Radegund’s when we discussed them in the Cardinal’s Cap,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I suspect that was because his week was up, and Tysilia had already abandoned him for her next victim.’
Michael frowned thoughtfully. ‘On the morning of his lecture, Heytesbury said that Cambridge “no longer held any attractions” for him. I wonder if he was Richard’s replacement for a while.’
Matilde nodded keenly, pleased to be able to provide at least some useful information. ‘He was. But she confided in me that men who drink a lot do not make good lovers. Poor Heytesbury was dismissed well before his week was up.’
‘Well, Tysilia need not worry about escaping from St Radegund’s any more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She no longer lives there. Bishop de Lisle has removed her to the leper hospital.’
‘Has he?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Does she have the disease, then?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But it is clear her mind is impaired, and she is pregnant for a third time in a very short period. Leper hospitals not only house lepers; they are a haven for those with other incurable diseases, too, including weaknesses of the mind. It is also cheaper than St Radegund’s, and the Bishop is apparently short of funds at the moment.’
‘Insanity?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘She does not seem to be any more lunatic than most of the people who freely walk around Cambridge’s streets – including certain Michaelhouse scholars.’
‘I suppose we should feel sorry for her,’ said Matilde. ‘But she treated poor Brother Andrew shamefully, and it led to his suicide in the King’s Ditch. It is hard to feel compassion for someone who is so completely dedicated to her own selfish desires.’
‘I feel compassion for Faricius, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poor man only wanted to express what he really believed, but academic bigotry silenced him. And I feel compassion for the Michaelhouse lad who was killed just for greeting Brother Timothy in a cheerful manner. And for Simon Lynne, murdered because he was walking down the street in the misguided belief that all his troubles were over.’
‘Simon Lynne is a good example of why liars are a danger to themselves,’ said Michael. ‘He told us untruths, and we later disbelieved him when he claimed he had an identical brother and that his aunt was Mabel Martyn. He was being honest, but we already had him marked as a liar. I might have been able to protect him if he had been open with me from the start.’
Matilde looked up at Michael. ‘Over the last two weeks, you have lost two Junior Proctors. What will you do? I cannot imagine that you have many willing volunteers lining up to take their places.’
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although there is one man who has offered me his services. I am seriously tempted to accept them, because at least I know that he will never organise clandestine meetings behind my back, or plot to have me murdered.’
‘Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified. ‘You would appoint that old bigot to a position that will allow him to persecute anyone who fails to comply with his own narrow set of beliefs? And what about the realism – nominalism debate? It will never die down with William accusing all the nominalists of heresy.’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘The fire has already gone out of that particular issue. When Heytesbury left, only one Carmelite turned up to hurl a clod of mud at his back, and a passing gaggle of Dominicans did no more than laugh at the mess it made. I even saw Dominicans and Carmelites standing side by side to watch the mystery plays in the Market Square yesterday. They are at peace again – for now.’
‘And what brought about this abrupt change?’ asked Matilde suspiciously. ‘Only a week ago, they were prepared to tear each others’ heads off in St Mary’s Church.’
‘Lent is over,’ said Michael. ‘The sun is shining and the spring flowers are out. People are happier. And there are no more of those silly meetings of Walcote’s; they hardly poured oil on troubled waters. Lincolne’s death has helped, too. The Dominicans believe that one of Lincolne’s own students made an end of him, and consider justice to have been done for both Kyrkeby and Faricius. I cannot imagine how they arrived at such a conclusion, personally.’
Bartholomew said nothing.
‘And once I appoint William as my Junior Proctor, I shall be able to relax again,’ continued Michael, leaning back and holding out his cup to Matilde to be refilled. ‘I am expecting a large consignment of cheese in a few days, and I want to be able to appreciate it without rushing off to see to students with broken heads and bloody knuckles. William can do that.’
‘Cheese?’ asked Bartholomew cautiously. ‘This would have nothing to do with Heytesbury’s deed, would it? Richard claimed you wanted it signed so that you could dine on fine cheese and butter. Do not tell me he was right!’
‘Of course that was not why I wanted it signed,’ said Michael. Then his large face broke into a grin of happy anticipation. ‘But it is certainly one of its advantages.’
Historical Note
THROUGHOUT MEDIEVAL TIMES, CAMBRIDGE WAS FRAUGHT with disputes of one kind or another. Some occurred when the townsfolk took exception to the influence and sway held by the University in a town that was really very small by modern standards; others happened when specific factions within the University took against each other. A number of these are recorded in historical documents, including a very serious contention in 1374, when the Dominicans and Carmelites were on opposite sides of a theological debate. One John Horneby was the spokesman for the Carmelites. Riots and civil disorder followed, and even the Pope was drawn into the argument.
The religious Orders comprised a large percentage of the student body in the University, although it did not mean that their students were saintly men dedicated to a life of learning or devoted to the service of others. Many were sent to Cambridge to acquire a basic education before taking positions in the King’s courts or high-ranking posts in the Church – indeed, some Orders were obliged to send a specific percentage of their friars to one or other of the universities. It is certain that some of the alliances formed in the friaries formed the basis of an ‘old boys’ club’, where favours were given to former acquaintances.
The Franciscans, in particular, were often accused of preying on the younger students and encouraging them to join their Order. Some of their converts were as young as fourteen, although most were in their late teens. It is not unreasonable to suppose that controlling large bodies of active young men was extremely difficult, and that this alone led to at least some of the trouble with the other Orders and the town’s apprentices.
Cambridge in the fourteenth century was a small but busy town, with relatively good road and water communications. By the mid-1350s, it had eight Colleges – King’s Hall, Michaelhouse, Peterhouse, Gonville Hall, Trinity Hall, Bene’t College, the Hall of Valence Marie and Clare – along with a number of hostels and several friaries. Entry to the town was controlled by two gates (Barnwell and Trumpington) and two sets of bridges (Great Bridge and Small Bridges).
The Great Bridge had a turbulent history. There had been a crossing of the River Cam at this point since pre
historic times, and a newer, stronger bridge had been erected after William the Conqueror had raised his motte and bailey castle in 1068. By 1279 the bridge was in a poor state of repair, and a tax was levied on the townsfolk to pay for a new one. When the money was raised, the Sheriff simply declined to build a new structure, and instead made superficial repairs to the old one. Evidence indicates that any remaining funds found their way into his own pocket. Complaints about the state of the bridge continued until well into the fifteenth century, and it was common practice for soldiers from the Castle to remove parts of it so that would-be travellers were obliged to use the soldiers’ ferries.
The University, founded in the early years of the thirteenth century, grew in importance and influence throughout the Middle Ages. Among its most notable public occasions were its debates, and many were held in St Mary’s Church, which was the only building large enough to house everyone who wanted to attend. They occurred at regular intervals throughout the year, and it was considered a great honour to be invited to speak at one.
Contemporary accounts indicate that some subjects were more popular for these occasions than others. The possibility of life on other planets did not seem to interest medieval scholars much, and little is recorded of their speculations on the matter. When life on other worlds was considered, it was usually in the form of parallel universes – that is that there are universes identical to our own that exist simultaneously. The possibility of encountering little green men was apparently not something that inspired much serious discussion.
It is not possible to say whether the debate that raged in the fourteenth century between the realists and the nominalists ever led to violence. It was, however, a highly contentious issue, and dominated almost every aspect of teaching, from theology and natural philosophy to rhetoric and grammar. It was an old argument, originating with Aristotle and Plato, but it was revived in the 1300s by the Franciscan scholar, William of Occam. Occam was a student of the Oxford master Duns Scotus (the derogative word ‘dunce’ is derived from his name), who was a leading proponent of realism. Occam disagreed with his teacher, and spent a good part of his life in Europe being criticised by various popes. He died somewhere around 1349, possibly from the plague.
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