‘I smell smoked pork,’ said Michael as they approached.
‘We always dine well on Mondays,’ said Paxtone, a little smugly, aware that Michaelhouse fare was mediocre on a good day and downright execrable on a bad one.
Michael watched a student trot across the courtyard and begin to pull on a bell rope. Tinny clangs echoed around the College. ‘Is it not a little late for breakfast?’ he asked, rubbing his stomach in a way that declared to even the most obtuse of observers that he was peckish.
‘The bell is for our mid-morning collation – it tides the more ravenous over until noon.’ Paxtone smiled engagingly. ‘We are going to see my clyster pipes. Would you like to come?’
‘I am ravenous,’ declared Michael, opting for brazen, now that subtle had failed. ‘And not for the sight of clyster pipes, either. I am sure there is room at your high table for a slender man like me.’
Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael was the last man who could be called slender, and the physician was worried that his overly ample girth meant he could no longer move at speed. It was not just friendly concern, either: he was aware that if he chased wrongdoers on Michael’s behalf, then he would be fighting them alone until the fat monk managed to waddle to his aid.
‘There is always room for friends,’ said Paxtone. ‘Would you like to eat before or after you see the clyster pipes.’
‘Before,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could respond. The physician grimaced, knowing he would be unlikely to see Paxtone’s enema equipment that day, because once Michael had been fed, they would have to visit Dickon.
The King’s Hall refectory was a sumptuous affair, with wall hangings giving the large room a cosy but affluent feel. Since monarchs and nobles often graced it with their presence, the Warden and his Fellows were in constant readiness to receive them, with the result that they lived like kings and barons themselves most of the time. Their hall was furnished with splendid oak tables and benches, a far cry from the rough elm, which splintered easily and was a menace to fingers and clothes, that Bartholomew was used to in Michaelhouse. There was no need to scatter the floor with rushes, for the polished wood was a beauty to behold. Bowls of fresh herbs and lavender stood along the windowsills, while servants burned pine cones in the hearth; the scent of them along with the smell of bread and smoked meat was almost intoxicating.
Paxtone led his guests to a raised dais near the hearth, and gestured that they were to sit on either side of him. Several men were already there, and nodded amiably to the newcomers. Bartholomew noticed that they did not seem surprised or discomfited by their unexpected guests; at Michaelhouse it would have meant a shortage of food.
Bartholomew found himself sitting next to a man called John de Norton, who was something of a scandal, for he had been admitted to a College despite the fact that he could barely read and knew virtually no Latin. He could, however, pay handsomely for the privilege of a University education, and made no secret of the fact that he intended to use his sojourn in Cambridge to further his career at Court. He spent a good deal of time cultivating friendships with men he thought would later become similarly successful, ready for the time when they would be in a position to trade favours.
Michael’s neighbour was a man named Geoffrey Dodenho, infamous for his unbridled bragging. Short, squat Dodenho was no more scholarly than Norton, although he considered himself a veritable genius and seldom hesitated to regale folk with his various theories, most of which were either untenable or poached from more able minds.
‘I gave an excellent lecture last week,’ he announced to the table at large. Several of his colleagues struggled to stifle sighs of irritation. ‘It was on the notion that the world was created by the self-diffusion of a point of light into a spherical form. It is complex, of course, but I have the kind of mind that can assay these matters.’
‘You concur with Grosseteste, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that Dodenho should lay claim to this particular theory. He was aware of smirks around the table, although it did not occur to him that his comment to Dodenho was the cause of them. ‘He first explained the Creation in terms of a diffusion of light into a specific form.’
‘Grosseteste did not pre-empt me,’ said Dodenho indignantly. Michael sniggered, while Paxtone looked uncomfortable, and Norton’s blank expression showed he had no idea what they were talking about – that Grosseteste might be a kind of cabbage for all he knew. ‘He proposed something entirely different. Where is Powys? I am hungry, and we cannot eat until he says grace.’
The Warden was walking slowly towards the dais. He was in earnest conversation with a young, fresh-faced man who sported half a faint moustache and whose boyishly wispy beard sprouted from odd and inconvenient places, bristles springing from under his chin rather than on it. Bartholomew supposed that, like many adolescents, he was so pleased to have grown any facial hair at all that he was loath to shave a single strand. The vague aura of femininity was enhanced by his long-lashed eyes and well-manicured fingernails.
‘Grosseteste talked about his particular notion in De luce,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to Dodenho. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Dodenho to take up the challenge in time-honoured academic fashion, but when he saw a reasoned answer was not to be forthcoming, he added, ‘We have a copy at Michaelhouse, if you would like to read it.’
‘I do not need to read it,’ cried Dodenho, offended. ‘The man’s logic will be inferior to mine in every way, and if it is the same, then he has copied from me.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has been dead for a hundred years.’
‘Well, he still cannot be compared to me,’ declared Dodenho uncompromisingly. ‘I am a scholar of great renown, and will be remembered longer than a mere century. My writings are—’
‘Good morning, Warden,’ interrupted Paxtone, as Powys and his companion approached. ‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew have agreed to join us for our humble refection this morning.’
This was not how Bartholomew thought the invitation had been inveigled, but was grateful to Paxtone for his gracious manners.
‘They are welcome. The good brother is looking particularly undernourished this morning, so we shall have to see what we can do to put some colour into his cheeks.’ Bartholomew gazed at Powys, trying to assess whether he was making a joke, while Michael inclined his head with quiet dignity. Then Powys indicated the young scholar at his side. ‘Have you met John Wormynghalle? He has been with us since the beginning of term, and we are glad to have him. He is an excellent philosopher and is also helping with the music curriculum.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone warmly. ‘Wormynghalle has already proved himself to be a valuable asset.’ He glanced at Dodenho and Norton, as though he would not have said the same about them.
‘Wormynghalle?’ asked Bartholomew. The name was familiar, but his sluggish mind refused to tell him why. Then it snapped into place. ‘There is another Wormynghalle in Cambridge at the moment.’
Wormynghalle nodded with a smile that revealed even but sadly stained teeth. ‘A tanner. I sought him out when I first heard about him, but we own no common ancestor, despite our shared name. He is from Oxford, while I hail from Buckinghamshire.’
‘You are fortunate,’ said Norton in distaste. ‘It would be dreadful for a decent man to learn he has relatives in the tannery business. Tanneries reek and so, invariably, do tanners.’
‘This one does not,’ replied Wormynghalle pleasantly. ‘But he said he is a burgess, so I imagine he no longer soils his own hands with skins. However, although I studied briefly in Oxford, I never came across him or his kin. He must be a relatively new member of the city’s government.’
‘I do not know him, either,’ said Dodenho, not liking a conversation that did not have him as its focus. ‘I spent last term at Merton College, but I never encountered any Wormynghalles. They must be inferior businessmen, or they would have been introduced to me.’
‘I may have run into h
im, now I think about it,’ said Norton, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘I stayed at Oxford Castle once, and I vaguely recall a common trader named Wormyngton or Wormeley or some such thing. But I was more interested in the hounds than in meeting local dignitaries.’
‘Why does that not surprise me?’ said Dodenho caustically. He turned to Michael and murmured, ‘Norton should never have been admitted to King’s Hall, given that he has not even attended a grammar school, but the King wanted him to “study” here – and no one refuses the King. Still, it does little for my reputation to belong to a College that appoints Fellows who can barely read.’
‘I doubt it makes much difference to a man like you,’ Michael whispered back, leaving Dodenho to ponder exactly what he meant.
‘My first love is philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle, his eyes shining at the mere mention of the subject. ‘But in my spare time I study music. When I was at Oxford I had the pleasure of visiting Balliol, where there are manuscripts ascribed to the theorist William Gray.’
‘I know all about Gray,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘I have been obliged to read him of late, in order to pass his wisdom to Clippesby’s students. His notions about plainsong and metrics are complex.’
‘But they are also logical when you think about them,’ said Wormynghalle. He flushed furiously when he realised he might have insulted Michael’s intelligence, and hastened to make amends. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to invite your lads to the lecture I intend to give on Gray next week?’
‘You most certainly may,’ said Michael, transparently relieved to share some of his responsibilities. ‘I shall attend, too, and perhaps then I will understand what the wretched fellow was getting at with his discant styles and reference pitches. But meanwhile . . .’ He rubbed his hands and gazed at the servants who were waiting to serve the meal.
‘Wormynghalle is doing well with our College choir,’ said Dodenho, before Powys could open his mouth to say grace. Michael grimaced. ‘Of course, he is not achieving as much as I did, when I was choral master, but that would be too much to ask.’
‘He has made vast improvements,’ said Powys, smiling encouragingly at Wormynghalle. ‘I know a good teacher when I see one. I spotted him when I was in Oxford, and I am afraid I resorted to poaching: I offered him a Fellowship. I am glad I did, especially now Hamecotes and Wolf are away.’
‘Richard de Hamecotes is my room-mate,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘We rent a large chamber, and I rattle around like a pea in a barrel without him. I hope he comes back soon.’
‘Speaking of peas,’ began Michael. ‘I—’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Dodenho. ‘Hamecotes is clean and tidy, but I share with Wolf, and he is a slut – clothes strewn across the floor, ink spots on the desks, parchment in untidy piles . . .’
‘A man with debts,’ said Norton disapprovingly. ‘You can never trust them not to run away without making good on what they owe.’
‘Wolf will pay,’ said Wormynghalle charitably. ‘His family were tardy in forwarding an inheritance, so he has doubtless gone to collect it in person. He lives in Suffolk, no great distance. I am sure he will return laden with gold soon, and prove his doubters wrong.’
‘You should have taught him to sing,’ said Dodenho, a little spitefully. ‘Then he could have earned pennies by warbling in the Market Square.’
‘I will sing, if it means the food is served,’ offered Michael pointedly.
‘Wormynghalle might know his music, but he knows nothing of horses,’ said Norton. He grinned approvingly at the young man. ‘Still, he is a crack shot with a bow.’
‘My brother taught me,’ said Wormynghalle, to explain what was an odd skill for an academic. ‘He said a scholar, travelling between far-flung universities, should know how to protect himself.’
‘This learning game is all very well,’ Norton went on, whetting an inappropriately large knife on a stone he had removed from the pouch at his side: the blade was already sharper than most of Bartholomew’s surgical implements. ‘But it means nothing if you do not also know how to hunt and ride. If a man cannot mount a horse and canter off to shoot himself a decent supper, then all the books in the world will not prevent him from starving.’
‘“Learning game”?’ echoed Powys. ‘Is that any way for a Fellow to describe academia?’ He turned to Wormynghalle, and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman regarded the youth as his best scholar, and one who would be equally affronted by Norton’s description of their profession.
‘You have a long way to go with our tenors,’ said Dodenho. The golden newcomer was stealing attention usually afforded to him, and he did not like it. ‘They are too shrill in their upper reaches.’
‘They are supposed to be shrill up there,’ said Michael. ‘Now, the meat is getting cold, and—’
‘I am a tenor, and I am not shrill,’ interrupted Dodenho. ‘But enough of my singing. We were discussing my theories about light being the origin of the universe.’
‘Your theory sounds heretical to me, Dodenho,’ said Powys. He grinned wickedly. ‘Father William of Michaelhouse has a deep interest in heresy, and considers himself an expert on the subject. Perhaps you should take your ideas to him, and have them assessed.’
‘God forbid!’ declared Dodenho. ‘The man is a lunatic. Of course, Michaelhouse is famous for that sort of thing.’
‘Famous for what sort of thing?’ demanded Michael coldly.
‘For lunatics,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Everyone knows it. You have Father William, who is so rabidly against anything he considers anathema that he is wholly beyond reason. And then there is Clippesby, and we all know about him.’
‘What do we all know about him?’ asked Michael quietly.
‘I am very hungry,’ stated Paxtone, rising quickly to his feet when he saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face. ‘Perhaps you could say grace, Warden.’
Powys obliged, waiting until all the scholars were standing with their heads bowed before saying the familiar Latin with a heavy Welsh inflexion that meant not all of it was readily comprehensible. Bartholomew struggled to follow him, while Norton nodded knowledgeably and muttered ‘amen’ in inappropriate places.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, when Powys finished and they took their seats again. ‘I am not sure your idea of eating here was a good one, Matt. It is a bizarre experience, to say the least.’
‘I hear a man was killed at Merton Hall on Saturday night,’ said Norton, as servants brought baskets of boiled eggs and dried fruit. Pats of butter were placed at regular intervals along the table, along with substantial slabs of an oily yellow cheese; the smoked pork was sliced and placed on platters, one to be shared by two Fellows.
‘News travels fast,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and says Chesterfelde was murdered with a knife.’
Norton nodded eagerly. ‘I heard a dagger had been planted so hard in his back, that it pinned him to the floor.’
‘Please!’ said Paxtone sharply. ‘Not at the table!’
‘You are a physician,’ said Norton, startled. ‘Surely you are used to a bit of blood and gore?’
‘Not while I am dining,’ replied Paxtone firmly. ‘We can talk about the Archbishop’s Visitation instead. He is going to sleep in King’s Hall, you know. Wormynghalle has been persuaded to give up his room, since it is huge and Hamecotes has taken himself off to Oxford.’
‘I hope Hamecotes brings back some books on philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle wistfully. ‘The last time he went, he concentrated on theology and law.’
‘He has been on book-buying missions before?’ asked Michael, reaching for the meat.
‘Twice,’ said Powys. ‘He is rather good at it, actually, because he has contacts in some of the richer Colleges – Balliol, Exeter and Queen’s.’
‘I only hope he remembers the discussion we had about spurs,’ said Norton, giving the impression that he thought a journey solely for books was a waste of t
ime. ‘There is a smith in Oxford who makes excellent spurs. I wish he had told me his plans to travel in advance, rather than slinking off in the middle of the night. Then I could have reminded him.’
‘What happened to this corpse in Merton Hall?’ asked Dodenho, overriding Paxtone’s distaste for the subject and determined to have some gossip.
‘He died from a wound in his wrist,’ replied Michael obligingly. ‘The blood vessels had been severed, and you know how quickly a man can die from such wounds, if the bleeding is not stanched.’
‘Then the rumours that he was stabbed are wrong?’ asked Norton. ‘That will teach me to listen to scholars. They are a worthless rabble for garnering accurate information.’ He gnawed on a piece of cheese, and seemed oblivious of his colleagues’ astonished – and offended – expressions.
‘Chesterfelde was stabbed in the back,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But the fatal injury was to his arm. It was odd, because he died elsewhere, and his body must have been dumped among his companions as they slept.’
‘Chesterfelde,’ mused Norton, pondering the victim’s name. He turned to Dodenho. ‘You know a Chesterfelde, do you not? I recall you entertaining him in your room last term. You got drunk together, and he was sick on the communal stairs.’
‘It was probably a different Chesterfelde,’ said Dodenho shiftily.
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Bailiff Boltone told me the murdered Chesterfelde had visited Cambridge on several previous occasions.’
‘Names mean nothing,’ said Wormynghalle lightly, seeing Dodenho’s face grow dark with resentment. ‘Look at me, with the same name as a tanner. There may be more than one Chesterfelde from Oxford who regularly travels to Cambridge.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 10
