Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘The wolf!’ Clippesby yelled. ‘It is the wolf!’

  CHAPTER 1

  Cambridge, Pentecost 1355

  Dawn was not far off. The half-dark of an early-June night was already fading to the silver greys of morning, and the Fen-edge town was beginning to wake. Low voices could be heard along some of the streets as scholars and friars left their hostels to attend prime, and an eager cockerel crowed its warning of impending day. Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine and Fellow of Michaelhouse, knew he had lingered too long in Matilde’s house and that he needed to be careful if he did not want to be seen. He opened her door and looked cautiously in both directions, before slipping out and closing it softly behind him. Then he strode briskly, aiming to put as much distance between him and his friend as possible. He knew exactly what people would say if they saw him leaving the home of an unmarried woman – some would say a courtesan – at such an unseemly time.

  He slowed when he emerged from the jumble of narrow alleys known as the Jewry and turned into the High Street. The elegant premises of the University’s stationer stood opposite, and Bartholomew detected a flicker of movement behind a window. He grimaced. If John Weasenham or his wife Alyce had spotted him, he was unlikely to keep his business private for long. Both were unrepentant gossips, and the reputation of more than one scholar – innocent and otherwise – had been irrevocably tarnished by their malicious tongues.

  Once away from Weasenham’s shop, he began to relax. The High Street was one of the town’s main thoroughfares, and Bartholomew was a busy physician with plenty of patients. Anyone who saw him now would assume he had been visiting one, and would never imagine that he had spent the night with the leader of and spokeswoman for the town’s unofficial guild of prostitutes. The University forbade contact between scholars and women, partly because it followed monastic rules and its Colleges and halls were the exclusive domain of men, but also because prevention was better than cure: the Chancellor knew what would happen if his scholars seduced town wives, daughters and sisters, so declaring the entire female population off limits was a sensible way to suppress trouble before it began. However, rules could be broken, and even the prospect of heavy fines and imprisonment did not deter some scholars from chancing their hands.

  It was not far to Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew lived and worked, and the journey took no time at all when the streets were quiet. When he reached St Michael’s Lane, he continued past his College’s front gates and aimed for a little-used door farther along the alley. He had left it ajar the previous evening, intending to slip inside without being obliged to explain to the night porter where he had been. He was startled and not very amused to find it locked. Puzzled, he gave it a good rattle in the hope that it was only stuck, but he could see through the gaps in its wooden panels that a stout bar had been placed across the other side.

  He retraced his steps, wondering which of the students – or Fellows, for that matter – had crept out of the college the night before and secured the door when he had returned. Or had someone simply noticed it unbarred during a nocturnal stroll in the gardens and done the responsible thing? It was a nuisance: Bartholomew had been using it for ten days now, and did not want to go to the trouble of devising another way to steal inside the College undetected. He walked past the main gates a second time, and headed for nearby St Michael’s Church. All Michaelhouse men were obliged to attend daily religious offices, and no one would question a scholar who began his devotions early – particularly at Pentecost, which was a major festival. He wrestled with the temperamental latch on the porch door, then entered.

  Although summer was in the air, it was cold inside St Michael’s. Its stone walls and floors oozed a damp chill that carried echoes of winter, and Bartholomew shivered. He walked to the chancel and dropped to his knees, knowing he would not have long to wait before his colleagues appeared. Smothering a yawn, he wondered how much longer he could survive such sleepless nights, when his days were full of teaching and patients. He had fallen asleep at breakfast the previous morning, a mishap that had not gone unnoticed by the Master. He was not entirely sure Ralph de Langelee had believed him when he claimed he had been with a sick patient all night.

  The sudden clank of the latch was loud in the otherwise silent church, and Bartholomew felt himself jerk awake. He scrubbed hard at his eyes and took a deep breath as he stood, hoping he would not drop off during the service. The soft slap of leather soles on flagstones heralded the arrival of his fellow scholars; they were led by Master Langelee, followed closely by the Fellows. The students were behind them, while the commoners – men too old or infirm to teach, or visitors from other academic institutions – brought up the rear. They arranged themselves into rows, and Bartholomew took his usual place between Brother Michael and Father William.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded William in a low hiss. William was a Franciscan who taught theology, a large, dirty man who had fanatical opinions about virtually everything. ‘You left shortly after dusk and have been gone ever since.’

  His voice was indignant, as if Bartholomew’s absence was a personal affront, and the physician wondered whether it was he who had barred the door. William was narrow minded and intolerant when it came to University rules, despite the fact that he did not always heed them scrupulously himself.

  ‘Fever,’ he replied shortly. William had no right to question him: that was the Master’s prerogative – and Langelee was mercifully accommodating when it came to the activities of a physician with a long list of needy customers. He encouraged Bartholomew to treat the town’s poor, in the hope that this might induce some of them to spare Michaelhouse during the town’s frequent and often highly destructive riots.

  ‘What kind of fever?’ asked William uneasily.

  ‘A serious one,’ replied Bartholomew pointedly, wishing the Franciscan would begin his prayers. He did not want to elaborate on his story – and he certainly could not tell the truth.

  ‘Fatal?’ asked William, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. His voice went from accusing to alarmed. ‘Is it the Death? There are rumours that it is coming a second time. Not enough folk mended their wicked ways, and God is still angry with them.’

  Bartholomew smiled despite his irritation, amused by the way that William did not consider himself one of those with ‘wicked ways’. ‘It is not the plague.’

  ‘Then who has this fever? Anyone I know?’

  ‘A labourer – one of the men hired to clean the town for the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Visitation next week.’ This was true: he had indeed been summoned to tend one of the hollow-eyed peasants who worked all day for the price of a meal. He had physicked the fellow before visiting Matilde.

  ‘I do not mingle with such folk,’ said William loftily – and wholly untruthfully, since meeting the poor was unavoidable in a small town like Cambridge, and William was not a callous man, despite his pretensions of grandeur. ‘They are beneath the dignity of the Keeper of the University Chest and Cambridge’s best theologian.’ Smugly proud of himself, he turned his attention to his devotions.

  ‘That is not how I would describe him,’ muttered Brother Michael, who had been listening. ‘Well, he is the Keeper of the University Chest, but he is no more a theologian than is Matilde.’

  Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, and could tell from the sly gleam in the monk’s eyes that more was known about his nocturnal forays than he would have liked. The obese Benedictine held the post of the University’s Senior Proctor, and was responsible for maintaining law and order among the scholars and a good deal more besides. He had a legion of beadles who patrolled the streets, hunting out students who broke the University’s strict rules – and any academic caught in a tavern or fraternising with women could expect a hefty fine. Bartholomew supposed that one of the beadles had spotted him visiting Matilde, and had reported the transgression to Michael.

  Bartholomew was not only Michael’s closest friend, but also his Corpse Examiner, which meant he
was paid a fee to investigate any sudden or unexpected deaths among members of the University or on University property. These occurred with distressing frequency, because life in Cambridge – as in any town across the country – was fraught with danger. People were killed in brawls; they had accidents with carts, horses and unstable buildings; they died from diseases, injuries and vagaries of the weather; and sometimes they took their own lives. Bartholomew and Michael explored them all, which meant that although any beadle would think twice about arresting Bartholomew for visiting a woman, he would certainly not hesitate to tell the Senior Proctor about the event.

  ‘You should be careful, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘Cambridge is a small town and very little happens that someone does not notice – even when you are being cautious.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes prayerfully to indicate the conversation was over.

  Michael was not so easily silenced. ‘I needed you earlier, and you were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered the orchard door unbarred – for the tenth night in a row.’

  Bartholomew opened his eyes and regarded the fat monk accusingly. ‘Did you close it?’

  Michael pursed his lips, offended. ‘Knowing you planned to use it later? Of course not! What sort of friend do you think I am?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew. He rubbed his eyes again, and wished he felt more alert; Michael was the last man to lock him out, no matter what rules he was breaking. He changed the subject. ‘Why did you need me? Were you ill?’

  ‘There was a murder.’

  ‘How do you know it was murder?’

  ‘I am told there is a dagger embedded in the corpse’s back,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And even a lowly proctor knows a man cannot do that to himself.’

  Despite the fact that there was a body awaiting Michael’s inspection, and that he and his Corpse Examiner had been summoned before dawn – almost two hours earlier – the monk refused to attend his duties until he had had his breakfast. Personally, Bartholomew felt the fat monk could do with missing the occasional repast, and encouraged him to forgo the egg-mess, pickled herrings and rich meat pottage provided as part of the Pentecost celebrations, but his advice fell on stony ground. Michael intended to make the most of all the meals on offer that day, and no cadaver was going to lie in his way. When he had first been appointed proctor, Michael had chased recalcitrant students all over the town with considerable vigour, but he had since trained his beadles to do that sort of thing, and the only exercise now required was the short walk between College and his office in St Mary the Great. Over the past year, Bartholomew had noticed that the monk now waddled rather than walked, and that even a short burst of activity left him red-faced and breathless.

  Langelee led his scholars back to Michaelhouse, where a bell rang to announce that breakfast was ready. Since it was Sunday, and the religious observations were always longer and later in starting, the scholars were peckish, so there was a concerted dash for the stairs that led to the handsome hall on the upper floor. The chamber’s window shutters had been thrown open, filling the room with light, and a gentle breeze wafted through the glassless openings, bringing with it the scent of summer. Benches and trestle tables had been set up, and loaves of bread, hacked into lumps, awaited the scholars’ consumption.

  Michael charged to the high table, where the Fellows ate, and shuffled in agitated impatience while Langelee waited for the others to take their places, so he could say grace. Some masters used grace as an opportunity to hold forth to a helplessly captive audience, but Langelee was a practical man with plenty to do – little of which included studying – and his prayers were invariably short and to the point. He spoke one or two insincere words in a loud, confident voice, and was sitting down with his knife in his hand before most scholars even realised he had started. In view of the special occasion, he decreed that conversation was permitted that day, and dismissed the Bible Scholar, who usually read aloud during meals.

  As soon as he had finished speaking, servants began to bring the food, which was served in ‘messes’ – large ones to be shared by four in the body of the hall, and smaller ones for two at the high table. Bartholomew was grateful he was not obliged to share with Michael, knowing it would be an unequal contest and that he would almost certainly go hungry. The monk reached for the largest piece of bread, then leaned back so that pottage, heavily laced with diced meat, could be ladled into the dish in front of him, demanding more when the servant stopped before it was fully loaded.

  ‘I see one of us does not miss Clippesby,’ said a morose Carmelite friar called Suttone, as he watched Michael’s gluttony with rank disapproval. ‘He is your mess-mate, and the fact that he is ill means you do not have to give him half.’ He glanced at Langelee, who shared his own dishes, and added pointedly, ‘Clippesby is considerate, and always divides the best parts evenly.’

  Langelee responded by eating more quickly, and Bartholomew thought Suttone would be better fed if he did not waste time on futile recriminations: Langelee rarely spoke until he had finished feeding, and Suttone needed to do the same if he wanted an equal division of spoils. Bartholomew’s own mess-mate was William, who also ate more than his own allocation, but at least he usually asked whether the physician minded.

  Michael was unashamedly gleeful that he could enjoy his food without competition. ‘I dislike teaching his music classes, but I do not miss him at meals.’ He released a sudden exclamation of horror and recoiled from his dish as though it had bitten him. ‘There is cabbage in this!’

  ‘Only a little,’ said Bartholomew. It was such a minute shred that he could barely see it. ‘It will not kill you.’

  ‘It might,’ countered Michael vehemently. ‘I do not eat food that is popular with caterpillars. I am always afraid that one of them might still be on it.’

  ‘Then it will be meat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And you have no objection to that.’

  ‘But caterpillars are green, and nothing green shall pass my lips,’ said Michael firmly, picking out the offending sliver and flinging it away with considerable force. It landed on William, who did not notice. Then the monk took an enormous horn spoon from his pouch, and began shovelling pottage into his mouth as if it might be the last food he would ever enjoy.

  ‘Slowly, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware that they went through this particular routine almost every day. ‘It is not a race – especially now Clippesby is not here.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Michael, glancing at Langelee. The Master was a rapid eater, and it was not unknown for him to gobble his own food, then leap to his feet, say the final grace and dismiss the servants before some scholars had even been served.

  ‘When can we expect Clippesby back?’ asked William. He rubbed his dirty hands on the front of his filthy habit, before breaking a piece of bread and passing half to Bartholomew. ‘Personally, I think he should stay where he is for ever. The man is not only a lunatic, but a Dominican.’ As a Franciscan, William detested Dominicans generally, and Clippesby in particular.

  ‘Having Clippesby incarcerated at Stourbridge hospital is highly inconvenient,’ said Suttone critically. ‘Not only does it mean we are missing a master – and his classes still need to be taught – but it does not look good to have our Fellows declared insane.’

  Everyone except William glared at Bartholomew, who spread his hands helplessly. His colleagues were not the only ones who had been landed with additional duties; Bartholomew himself had been given the responsibility of looking after Clippesby’s astronomers, and fitting them into his already crowded schedule was far from easy. ‘I am sorry but, as his physician, I am under an obligation to do what is best for him. He is ill, and he needs to be somewhere he can recover.’

  ‘We are better off without him,’ declared William airily. He alone of the Michaelhouse Fellows had escaped the burden of extra teaching, because his fanatical hatred of Black Friars was certain to cause offence to Clippesby’s Dominican students. ‘And we should
throw away the key to his cell. The man is mad, and he is where he belongs.’

  ‘I suppose we are lucky Brother Paul agreed to take him in,’ said Langelee, finishing his meal and wiping his lips on the back of his hand. Michael ate faster, seeing the final grace was not far off and there was still plenty to be devoured. ‘Most hospitals refuse to accept madmen, because they can be disruptive, and we can hardly treat him here.’

  ‘No,’ agreed William. ‘The man truly believes he can commune with the beasts, you know.’

  ‘He communes with them a good deal better than he does with his students,’ said Michael, cheeks bulging. ‘His musicians have not read half the texts they should have learned this term, while Matt says his astronomers are sadly deficient in even the most basic methods of calculation.’

  ‘That is irrelevant,’ said Langelee, not a man to be fussy about the academic standards of others when his own were so sadly lacking. ‘I just want him back. It is not just the teaching – he is also wine steward and manages our loan chests. I have enough to do, without adding his work to my burden. When can we expect him home, Bartholomew?’

  ‘When he is well again.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that Clippesby might never recover.

  ‘He is not the only one enjoying a life of leisure while the rest of us toil,’ said Suttone, sanctimoniously disapproving. ‘Two King’s Hall masters left Cambridge in the last few days, too – right in the middle of term, and when us teachers are at our most busy.’

  ‘Richard de Hamecotes and Robert de Wolf,’ said Michael immediately, to show that the Senior Proctor knew all about unofficial leaves of absence. ‘Hamecotes left a note to say he was going away on King’s Hall business, but Wolf simply vanished. They will both face heavy fines when they reappear.’