Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘But what are you doing here ?’ pressed Michael, suspecting that Clippesby had somehow slipped past the porters, and that the Master of Michaelhouse did not know he was at large.

  ‘I heard there was trouble between my Order and the Carmelites, so I thought I should come to see what was happening,’ replied Clippesby. ‘But I was just leaving, actually. For some reason, Prior Morden said he did not want me here, and suggested that I should go home.’

  ‘I bet he did,’ muttered Michael, who had been trying for some time, without success, to foist the unstable Dominican back on his own friary and out of Michaelhouse. Morden was no fool, however, and had no more wish to have a madman imposed on him than Michaelhouse had been.

  ‘All the Dominicans are inside,’ Clippesby went on. ‘Prior Morden says that it is too dangerous for anyone to be out, although he said I would be safe, because I am a Michaelhouse man and do not live in the friary.’

  Bartholomew felt a surge of anger against Morden. The Prior knew perfectly well that marauding Carmelites would not ask a man wearing the habit of a Dominican whether he lived at the friary or whether he was a member of a College. It would be irrelevant anyway: the Carmelites’ antagonism was not aimed at the friary in particular, it was aimed at the Dominicans in general. Clippesby would have provided an ideal target for the little group of sullen Carmelites Bartholomew and Michael had just followed home.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for Clippesby to be alone. ‘We will walk to Michaelhouse with you after we have spoken to Morden.’

  ‘I will be all right,’ said Clippesby, beginning to move away from them. ‘Saint Balthere appeared to me this morning and instructed me to pray for him in St Michael’s Church. He would not have done that if any harm was due to befall me, would he?’

  ‘Saint who?’ asked Michael warily.

  ‘That does not necessarily follow,’ said Bartholomew, worried that the Dominican’s unstable condition might be taking a turn for the worse. ‘Wait here until we have spoken to Morden.’

  But Clippesby was already wandering away down the road, and Bartholomew had glimpsed the distant look in his eyes that always appeared when the voices inside his head began to claim his attention. In the physician’s opinion, the conversations seemed to be heavily one-sided, with Clippesby doing most of the talking. How the saints managed to make him shut up long enough to pass any kind of message to him was entirely beyond Bartholomew’s understanding.

  ‘He will come to no harm,’ said Walcote reassuringly, seeing Bartholomew’s concern. ‘Everyone knows he is touched, and so will leave him alone. If the truth be known, I think he frightens people. They do not understand the things he says and does, and they are afraid of him.’

  ‘They have good reason to be,’ announced Michael. ‘I am afraid of him myself.’

  Still glancing uneasily behind him at Clippesby, who sauntered along Hadstock Way as if he had not a care in the world, Bartholomew followed Michael and Walcote across the Dominicans’ courtyard to the Prior’s lodging. They were hurriedly intercepted by a man with heavy brow-ridge, like an ape, who introduced himself as Thomas Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary. He instructed them to wait until Prior Morden had been informed that he had visitors – something that invariably annoyed Michael, who liked to burst in on people unawares to see if he could catch them doing something he could use to his advantage.

  After a chilly wait in the courtyard, where a sharp wind blew dead leaves from the previous autumn around in desolate little eddies, Ringstead came to tell them the great man was ready. Michael elbowed him aside and made his way to the Prior’s comfortable office on the first floor, pushing open the door so hard that it flew back and crashed against the wall. The tiny man who sat writing at a table near the window almost jumped out of his skin.

  ‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ he complained in a high-pitched voice, almost like a child’s. ‘You do it every time you visit, and I keep telling you that the hinges are delicate.’

  Ringstead inspected the wall behind the door, and clucked softly at the plaster flakes that lay on the floor. Judging from the small cracks that radiated from a circular indentation at the level of the latch, either Michael had visited Prior Morden with some frequency, or the fat monk was not the only one who liked to enter the solar with a bang.

  ‘Very sorry,’ said Michael, not sounding in the least contrite as he strode across the room and placed himself in front of a blazing fire, depriving everyone else of the heat by blocking it with his bulk.

  Prior Morden sighed irritably and put down his pen. If Lincolne of the Carmelites was a giant, then Morden of the Dominicans was an elf. His head did not reach Bartholomew’s shoulder, and the physician noticed that when the Prior sat in the chair his feet did not touch the floor. He was dressed in an immaculate habit of fine black wool, and a delicate silver cross hung around his neck.

  ‘I expected you yesterday,’ said Morden, picking up a sheaf of parchments and shuffling them fussily. ‘I heard what happened with that Carmelite, and I suspected you would come to try to blame his death on us Dominicans.’

  ‘I am here to discover who killed Faricius of Abington, not to blame the innocent,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Do you have any idea what happened yesterday?’

  ‘What happened is that the Carmelites challenged my student-friars to a fight, but then ran away like cowards to skulk within their walls when we responded,’ stated the little man uncompromisingly.

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘The gathering of Dominicans in Milne Street, who threw stones – not only at the Carmelite Friary but at the houses of the merchants who live nearby – was the Carmelites’ responsibility, was it?’

  ‘Essentially,’ said Morden, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Prior Lincolne wrote a proclamation saying that anyone who followed the theory of nominalism should be burned in the Market Square for heresy, and then had the audacity to pin it up at St Mary’s Church. But it is the realists who should be burned for heresy!’

  Michael cast a weary glance at Walcote and Bartholomew, and then turned to Morden. ‘Has the whole University gone mad? I can accept that one or two misguided individuals feel that the known universe revolves around the realism–nominalism debate, but I am astonished that so many apparently sane people deem this issue so important.’

  ‘Lincolne’s act was a deliberate insult to us,’ Morden went on. ‘You see, our Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, is due to give the University Lecture in St Mary’s Church on Easter Sunday, and his chosen subject is nominalism. Lincolne’s proclamation was calculated to offend us specifically.’

  ‘Kyrkeby?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘He is lecturing?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ demanded Morden aggressively. ‘Do you think him incapable of speaking at the University’s most prestigious annual academic event?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He is a patient of mine, and for the last several months his heart has been beating irregularly. I recommended he should avoid anything that would make him nervous or tense.’

  ‘It was a great honour when a Dominican was invited to speak at such an auspicious occasion,’ said Morden indignantly. ‘Of course he did not refuse the Chancellor’s invitation.’

  ‘He mentioned none of this to me,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘No wonder he has visited me three times this week. It is apprehension that is making him ill.’

  ‘I imagine he did not tell you because he knew you would advise against it,’ said Walcote practically. ‘Foolish man, to put pride above his health.’

  ‘He has been working very hard on what he plans to say,’ said Morden. ‘For weeks, he has thought of little else.’

  ‘Then I imagine it will be an entertaining occasion,’ said Michael, bored with a conversation that had nothing to do with Faricius’s murder. ‘But I did not come here to talk about—’

  ‘I only hope it will not be entertaining in a way that will prove detrimental to the friary,’
interrupted Morden, pursing his lips worriedly. ‘He read me parts of his lecture last week, and I confess I have heard stronger and more erudite arguments.’

  ‘He has changed it since then, Father Prior,’ said Ringstead reassuringly. ‘I was very impressed with what he read me last night. Do not worry. Our Precentor will do us justice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Morden anxiously.

  Ringstead nodded. ‘The lecture is now a very mature and astute piece of thinking. Even the Carmelites will be stunned into silence with the eloquence and perceptiveness of his logic.’

  ‘That assumes they are able to appreciate it – and I have seen no evidence that they can,’ muttered Michael. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘But whatever philosophical views are held on this subject, Prior Morden, it is no excuse for riotous behaviour – for Dominicans or Carmelites.’

  ‘You do not understand the importance of this issue,’ said Morden vehemently. ‘Your Benedictine colleagues at Ely Hall do, though – they have ranged themselves on the side of nominalism. Brothers Timothy and Janius are shining examples.’

  Michael gave a fervent sigh. ‘I know that some scholars have strong views on the matter, but I do not think most of us care one way or the other.’

  ‘That is not true,’ objected Morden hotly. ‘I care very much.’

  ‘And so does Lincolne,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘But do you care because you are a committed nominalist, or because you have a natural inclination to oppose anything upheld by the Carmelites? Everyone knows the two Orders have always despised each other.’

  ‘Lincolne is a loathsome man,’ declared Morden, indicating that the long-standing enmity between the two Orders was doubtless the real cause of the Dominicans’ sudden interest in philosophy. ‘But nominalism is a much more rational theory than realism. However, you are wrong to think that no one cares. Many people feel very strongly about this issue.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice to Michael and Walcote. ‘This debate has provided the Orders with an excuse to re-address ancient grievances. You will find that most clerics have taken this debate very much to heart, and you will also find that they are doggedly aligning themselves on whichever side of the discussion their Order has deemed correct. There seems to be no room for individual thought on this matter.’

  ‘Like sheep,’ muttered Michael in disgust.

  ‘Not entirely,’ offered Walcote timidly. ‘Many highly intelligent men have taken up this argument – and it is not purely the domain of louts spoiling for a street battle.’

  ‘That is not how it appears,’ said Michael. ‘But this is not a new debate – it originated with Aristotle and Plato. Why should the two sides suddenly resort to violence over it?’

  ‘That riot yesterday was not our fault,’ stated Morden, breaking into the muttered conversation. ‘What started it was the proclamation Lincolne wrote. It is his action that precipitated the incident in Milne Street.’

  ‘I see,’ pounced Michael. ‘An “incident in Milne Street” is how you would describe the murder of a Carmelite, is it?’

  ‘Dominicans are not the only ones who dislike the Carmelites,’ retorted Morden. ‘The Austin canons loathe them just as much – not to mention the Benedictines.’ He gave Michael’s own dark robe a meaningful glance and then looked at Walcote’s Austin habit.

  ‘It was not Benedictines or Austins that my colleague saw closing in on Faricius with malice in their eyes,’ said Michael sharply. ‘It was Dominicans. Even he can tell the difference.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Morden nastily. ‘The Benedictines can barely rouse themselves from the dining table.’

  Michael ignored the jibe. ‘Matt saw six Dominicans advancing on Faricius intending mischief. I would like a word with them, if you please. And you need not concern yourself about their likely reluctance to give themselves up: he can identify them.’

  Morden treated Bartholomew, and then Michael, to unpleasant looks. ‘I am sure they meant Faricius no harm. Have you considered the possibility that they were trying to help him? Did you actually see them stab him?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But they are the ones who should be answering these questions, not me. Will you send for them or would you rather I picked them out?’

  Morden’s glower deepened. ‘Everyone is in the refectory at the moment, eating breakfast as they listen in reverent silence to the readings of the Bible Scholar. Come.’

  ‘Breakfast?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘But it is almost noon!’

  ‘The lateness of the meal would not have anything to do with that misguided group of Carmelites who were lingering outside your walls, would it?’ asked Walcote with raised eyebrows. ‘Were you preparing to do battle with them?’

  ‘What Carmelites?’ asked Morden with an air of assumed innocence that was patently false. ‘Were there Carmelites outside our walls this morning? I did not notice.’

  ‘It is just as well we moved them on,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, not fooled for an instant by Morden. ‘The last thing we want is a revenge killing. But let us go to see these students, eating their breakfast in the middle of the day.’

  Bartholomew, Michael and Walcote followed Prior Morden down the stairs and across the yard to the largest of the buildings in the Dominican Friary. The door to the refectory was closed, but even so, Bartholomew could hear that the sounds emanating from within had nothing to do with the Bible Scholar. Morden gave an irritable frown before throwing open the door and stepping inside. Bartholomew ducked instinctively as a piece of bread whistled past his ear, although Michael was slower and received a boiled leek in the chest.

  Morden gaped in horror for a few moments, before striding to the nearest table, snatching up a pewter cup and banging it against the wall. The din gradually faded to silence, and the student-friars, who had been standing to hurl their edible missiles, quickly took their places on the benches that ran the length of the room. Some had the grace to appear shamefaced as their Prior ran admonishing eyes over their ranks, but many made no secret of their amusement at having been caught.

  ‘Where is Kyrkeby?’ Morden demanded. ‘He is supposed to be overseeing your meals today.’

  ‘He is not here,’ replied one of the student-friars, a smooth-faced, arrogant youth who Bartholomew immediately recognised as one of the mob that had been near Faricius.

  Morden sighed. ‘I can see that, Bulmer. But where is he?’

  ‘We do not know,’ answered another student. A green smear on the front of his habit and crumbs in his hair indicated that he had been in the thick of the mischief. ‘Probably working on his lecture. He does little else these days.’

  Bulmer walked to the door and then turned, pointing across the courtyard to a room on the far side. The distinctive bristle-head of Kyrkeby could be seen in the window, bent over a book. ‘Yes, there he is. Working on his lecture, as usual.’

  Morden glowered at the assembled students. ‘I would have hoped that you would not require a nursemaid, and that you could be trusted to behave yourselves in a manner suited to men who have chosen to become friars. But I can see my faith in you was misplaced.’

  ‘It certainly was,’ mumbled Michael to Bartholomew, gazing around him in disdain. ‘I have never seen such a deplorable spectacle among men of the cloth.’

  Although a food fight was not something usually associated with friaries, the physician was aware that most of the religious community in Cambridge comprised young men – some only fifteen or sixteen – who had been sent to acquire an education of sorts before they were dispatched to parishes all across the country. Young men in large groups, even clerics, would inevitably display some degree of high spirits, and the scene in the refectory had been exactly that. Still, he thought, hardening his heart, six of the faces that were turned towards their Prior had been responsible for more than a bit of horseplay involving a few vegetables.

  ‘The proctors want to speak to those of you who were present when the Carmelite was k
illed yesterday,’ announced Morden in his childish voice. ‘I have been telling them that you are law-abiding men, but now I wonder whether I was wrong.’

  ‘You are not wrong, Father,’ said Bulmer. ‘I was there, although I swear before God that we did not harm him.’

  He met Michael’s eyes steadily, and Bartholomew could not decide whether the young man’s confidence was convincing bluster or genuine truthfulness.

  ‘Thank you, Bulmer,’ said Morden. ‘And who was with you?’

  Five others stood. Bartholomew recognised them all.

  ‘What Bulmer says is true,’ said a pink-faced boy with tightly curled fair hair. ‘We admit we went to the Carmelite Friary after Horneby and Simon Lynne taunted us about the fact that Lincolne had written that proclamation and pinned it on the church door for all to see, but all the White Friars had fled inside their walls long before we could reach them.’

  ‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘He had not fled inside.’

  Bulmer and his cronies exchanged a nervous glance. ‘We were on our way home, when we saw a Carmelite lying in a doorway, so we went to see what he was doing. We saw he had blood on the front of his habit.’

  ‘Because you had stabbed him,’ said Michael flatly.

  ‘No!’ objected Bulmer. ‘He was already bleeding when we found him. We were edging closer, to see what had happened, when your colleague arrived and took him away. I am surprised you say he is dead – I did not know he was so seriously wounded.’

  ‘Someone had driven a knife into his stomach,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died from loss of blood about an hour later.’

  ‘Well, it was nothing to do with us,’ said Bulmer firmly. ‘I admit that the sight of a white habit lying in front of us was a tempting target, but you drove us off with those horrible birthing forceps before we could even touch him.’

  ‘If we had known he was badly hurt, we would have summoned help,’ claimed the fair-haired student. ‘But we only saw a White Friar lying in the doorway with blood on him. For all we knew, the blood might not even have been his.’