A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  A Bone of Contention

  ( Хроники Мэттью Бартоломью - 3 )

  Susanna GREGORY

  In 1325, the terrible legacy of the Black Death still hangs over Cambridge. Fears of a future outbreak drive people to seek protection in the power of holy relics, while the University is once more the scene for violent clashes between students and townsfolk. Matthew Bartholomew, Michaelhouse teacher and public physician, has a professional interest in order returning to the streets – his enormous practice of paupers means he does not have time to deal with a lot of injuries resulting from riots and mayhem.

  With rumours spreading about the discovery of a skeleton reputed to belong to a local martyr, a skeleton that even the physician confirms as human, a young student’s brutal murder plunges the town into chaos, and Bartholomew must ask himself if the two corpses – and the rioting – are linked to something deeper than local enmities.

  When suspicion falls on a respected University Principal and his scholars, Bartholomew’s investigation becomes the source of conflict within the academic community. And there are personal rivalries and painful memories of his own to be exhumed before a chilling conspiracy can emerge, a nightmare of murder and revenge so terrifying that the whole town could be tainted with complicity.

  Susanna Gregory

  A BONE OF CONTENTION

  1997

  PROLOGUE

  Cambridge, 1327

  Breath coming in painful gasps, D’Ambrey ran even harder. His lungs felt as though they would explode, and his legs burned with the agony of running. He reached an oak tree, and clutched at its thick trunk as he fought to catch his breath. A yell, not too far away, indicated that the soldiers had found his trail, and were chasing him once again. Weariness gave way to panic, and he forced himself to move on.

  But how long could he continue to run before he dropped? And where could he go? He pushed such questions from his mind, and plunged on into the growing shadows of dusk. His cloak caught on a branch, and, for a few terrifying seconds, he could not untangle it. But the cloak tore, and he continued his mindless running.

  He burst out from the line of trees and came on to the High Street, skidding to a halt. At sunset the road was busy with people returning home after a day of trading in the Market Square. People stopped as they saw him. His green cloak with the gold crusader’s cross emblazoned on the back was distinctive, and everyone knew him.

  He elbowed his way through them towards the town gate, but saw soldiers there. He could not go back the way he had come, so the only option was to make his way along the raised banks of the King’s Ditch. The King’s Ditch was part fortification and part sewer. It swung in a great arc around the eastern side of the town, a foul, slow-moving strip of water, crammed with the town’s waste and a thick, sucking mud washed from the Fens. There had been heavy rains with the onset of autumn, and the Ditch was a swirling torrent of brown water that lapped dangerously close to its levied banks.

  D’Ambrey scrambled up the bank, mud clinging to his hands and knees and spoiling his fine cloak. He saw the soldiers break through the trees on to the road, pushing through the people towards him, and turned to race away from them along the top of the bank. But it was slippery, and moving quickly was difficult. The soldiers spotted him, and were coming across the strip of grass below, beginning to overtake him.

  It was hopeless. He stopped running, and stood still.

  His cloak billowed around him in the evening breeze, blowing his copper-coloured hair around his face. The soldiers, grinning now that their quarry was run to a halt, began to climb up the bank towards him. Knowing he was going to die, he drew his short dagger in a final, desperate attempt to protect himself.

  He heard a singing noise, and something hit him hard in the throat. He dropped the dagger and raised his hands to his neck. He felt no pain, but could not breathe. His fingers grasped at the arrow shaft that was lodged at the base of his throat. The world began to darken, and he felt himself begin to fall backwards. The last thing he knew was the cold waters of the Ditch closing over him as he died.

  CHAPTER 1

  September 1352

  ‘What, again?’ asked Matthew Bartholomew incredulously, watching Brother Michael for some sign of a practical joke.

  Michael rubbed his fat, white hands together with a cheery grin. ‘I am afraid so, Doctor. The Chancellor requests that you come to examine the bones that were found in the King’s Ditch by the Hall of Valence Marie this morning. He wants you to make an official statement that they do not belong to Simon d’Ambrey.’

  Bartholomew sighed heavily, picked up his medical bag from the table and followed Michael into the bright September sunshine. It was mid-morning and term was due to start in three days. Students were pouring into the small town of Cambridge, trying to secure lodgings that were not too expensive or shabby, and conducting noisy reunions in the streets. Although Bartholomew did not yet have classes to teach, there was much to be done by way of preparation, and he did not relish being dragged from his cool room at Michaelhouse, into the sweltering heat, on some wild-goose chase for the third time that week.

  As he and Brother Michael emerged from the College, Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in disgust at the powerful aroma wafted on the breeze from the direction of the river. Cambridge was near the Fens, and lay on flat, low lard that was criss-crossed by a myriad of waterways. To the people who lived there these were convenient places to dispose of rubbish, and many of the smaller ditches were continually blocked because of it.

  The summer had been long, hot and dry, and the waterways had been reduced to trickles. People had made no attempt to find other places to rid themselves of their rubbish, and huge blockages had occurred, growing worse as summer had progressed. The first autumn rains had seen the choked waterways bursting their banks, flooding houses and farms with filthy, evil-smelling water.

  The situation could not continue, and, for once, the town and the University had joined forces, and a major ditch-clearing operation was underway. The University was responsible for dredging the part of the King’s Ditch that ran alongside the recently founded Hall of Valence Marie.

  Michael headed for the shady side of the road, and began to walk slowly towards Valence Marie. The High Street was busy that Saturday, with traders hurrying to and from the Market Square with their wares. A ponderous brewery cart was stuck in one of the deep ruts that was gouged into the bone-dry street, and chaos ensued when other carts tried to squeeze past it. A juggler sat in the stocks outside St Mary’s Church, and entertained a crowd of children with tricks involving three wizened apples and a hard, green turnip. His display came to an abrupt end when a one-eyed, yellow dog made off with the turnip between its drooling jaws.

  ‘Have you seen these bones that have been dredged up?’ Bartholomew asked, striding next to the Benedictine monk.

  Michael nodded, plucking at Bartholomew’s tabard to make him slow down. Bartholomew glanced at him.

  Already there were small beads of perspiration on the large monk’s pallid face, and he pulled uncomfortably at his heavy habit.

  ‘Yes. I am no physician, Matt, but I am certain they are not human.’

  Bartholomew slowed his pace to match Michael’s ambling shuffle. ‘So why bother me?’ he asked, a little testily. ‘I am trying to finish a treatise on fevers before the beginning of term, and there is a constant stream of students wanting me to teach them.’

  Michael patted his arm consolingly. ‘We are all busy, Matt – myself included with these new duties as Senior Proctor. But you know how the townspeople are. The Chancellor insisted that you come and pronounce that these wretched bones are from an animal to quell any rumours that th
ey belong to Simon d’Ambrey.’

  ‘Those rumours are already abroad, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, impatiently. ‘If the townspeople are to be believed, d’Ambrey’s bones have been uncovered in at least six different locations.’ He laughed suddenly, his ill-temper at being disturbed evaporating as he considered the ludicrous nature of their mission. ‘As a physician, I can tell you that d’Ambrey had about twenty legs, variously shaped like those of sheep and cows; four heads, one of which sprouted horns; and a ribcage that would put Goliath to shame!’

  Michael laughed with him. ‘Well, his leg-count is likely to go up again today,’ he said. ‘You may even find he had a tail!’

  They walked in companionable silence until Michael stopped to buy a pastry from a baker who balanced a tray of wares on his head. Bartholomew was dissuaded by the sight of the dead flies that formed a dark crust around the edge of the tray, trapped in the little rivers of syrup that had leaked from the cakes.

  Voices raised in anger and indignation attracted their attention away from the baker to a group of young men standing outside St Bene’t’s Church. The youths wore brightly coloured clothes under their dark students’ tabards, and in the midst of them were two black-garbed friars who were being pushed and jostled.

  ‘Stop that!’

  Before Bartholomew could advise caution, or at least the summoning of the University beadles – the law- keepers who were under the orders of Brother Michael as Proctor – the monk had surged forward, and seized one of the young men by the scruff of his neck. Michael gave him a shake, as a terrier would a rat.

  Immediately, there was a collective scraping sound as daggers were drawn and waved menacingly. Passersby stopped to watch, and, with a groan, Bartholomew went to the aid of his friend, rummaging surreptitiously in his medicine bag for the sharp surgical knife he always kept there. Two scholars had already been killed in street brawls over the last month, and it would take very little to spark off a similar incident. Bartholomew, although he abhorred violence, had no intention of being summarily dispatched by unruly students over some silly dispute, the cause of which was probably already forgotten.

  His fingers closed over the knife, and he drew it out, careful to keep it concealed in the long sleeve of his scholar’s gown.

  ‘Put those away!’ Michael ordered imperiously, looking in disdain at the students’ arsenal of naked steel. He gestured at the growing crowd. ‘It would be most unwise to attack the University’s Senior Proctor within sight of half the town. What hostel are you from?’

  The young men, realising that while student friars might be an easy target for their boisterous teasing, a proctor was not, shuffled their feet uneasily, favouring each other with covert glances. Michael gave the man he held another shake, and Bartholomew heard him mutter that they were from David’s Hostel.

  ‘And what were you doing?’ Michael demanded, still gripping the young man’s collar.

  The student glowered venomously at the two friars and said nothing. One of his friends, a burly youth with skin that bore recent scars from adolescent spots, spoke up.

  ‘They called us cattle thieves!’ he said, blood rising to his face at the mere thought of that injustice.

  Bartholomew suppressed a smile, hearing the thick accent which told that its owner was a Scot. He glanced at the friars, standing together, and looking smug at their timely rescue.

  ‘Cattle thieves?’ queried Michael, nonplussed. ‘Why? Have you been stealing cows?’

  The burly student bristled, incensed further by an unpleasant snigger from one of the friars. Michael silenced the friar with a glare, but although his laughter stopped, Michael’s admonition did little to quell the superior arrogance that oozed from the man.

  ‘It is a term the English use to describe the Scots,’ muttered the student that Michael held. ‘It is intended to be offensive and spoken to provoke.’

  Bartholomew watched the friars. The arrogant one stared back at him through hooded lids, although his companion blushed and began to contemplate his sandalled feet so he would not have to meet Bartholomew’s eyes.

  Michael sighed, and released the Scot. ‘Give your names to my colleague,’ he said peremptorily, waving a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. He scowled at the friars. ‘You two, come with me.’

  Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at Michael’s retreating back. Being Fellows of the same college did not give Michael the right to commandeer him into service as some kind of deputy proctor. He had no wish to interfere in the petty quarrels that broke out daily among University members between northerners and southerners; friars and secular scholars; Welsh, Scots, Irish and English; and innumerable other combinations.

  The Scots gathered around him, subdued but clearly resentful. Bartholomew gestured for them to put away their daggers, although he kept his own to hand, still concealed in his sleeve. He waited until all signs of glittering steel had gone, and raised his eyebrows at the burly student to give his name.

  ‘Stuart Grahame,’ said the student in a low voice. He gestured to a smaller youth next to him. ‘This is my cousin, Davy Grahame.’

  ‘My name is Malcolm Fyvie,’ said the student Michael had grabbed, a dark-haired man with a scar running in a thin, white line down one cheek. ‘And these two are Alistair Ruthven and James Kenzie. We are all from David’s Hostel. That is on Shoemaker Row, one of the poorer sections of the town. You would not want Scotsmen in Cambridge’s more affluent areas, would you?’

  Ruthven shot Fyvie an agonised glance, and hastened to make amends for his friend’s rudeness.

  ‘He means no offence,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on the resentful Fyvie. ‘David’s is a very comfortable house compared to many. We are very pleased to be there.’

  He looked hard at Fyvie, compelling him not to speak again. Bartholomew regarded the students more closely.

  Their clothes and tabards were made of cheap cloth, and had been darned and patched. Ruthven knew that antagonising the Proctor and his colleagues would only serve to increase the fine they would doubtless have to pay for their rowdy behaviour that afternoon. They were probably already being charged a greatly inflated price for their lodgings, and did not look as though they would be able to afford to have the fine doubled for being offensive to the University’s law-keepers. Ruthven’s desire to be conciliatory was clearly pragmatic, as well as an attempt to present himself and his fellows as scholars grateful for the opportunity to study.

  ‘Is David’s a new hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, choosing to ignore Fyvie’s outburst. There were many hostels in Cambridge, and, because the renting of a house suitable for use as a hall of residence was largely dependent on the goodwill of a landlord, they tended to come and go with bewildering rapidity. New ones sprung up like mushrooms as townspeople saw an opportunity to make money out of the University – a bitterly resented presence in the small Fen-edge town. Many of the hostels did not survive for more than a term – some buildings were reclaimed by landlords who found they were unable to control their tenants, while others were so decrepit that they, quite literally, tumbled down around their occupants’ ears.

  ‘It was founded last year,’ said Ruthven helpfully, seizing on the opening in the conversation to try to curry favour. ‘There are ten students, all from Scotland. The five of us came last September to study, and we hope to stay another year.’

  ‘Then you should avoid street brawls, or you will not stay another week,’ said Bartholomew tartly.

  ‘We will,’ said young Davy Grahame with feeling. His cousin gave him a shove one way and James Kenzie the other, and Bartholomew immediately saw which of the five were in Cambridge to study and which were hoping to enjoy the other attractions the town had to offer: brawling, for instance.

  ‘Have you arranged masters and lectures?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Ruthven and Davy Grahame nodded vigorously, while the others looked away.

  ‘Is there anything you wish me to tell the Proctor?’ Bartholomew asked, knowing who would answ
er.

  Ruthven nodded, his freckled face serious, ‘Please tell him that it was not us who started the brawl. It was those friars. They think that their habits will protect them from any insults they care to hurl.’

  ‘But it takes two parties to create a brawl,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘If you had not responded, there would have been no incident.’

  Ruthven opened his mouth to answer, but none came.

  ‘We don’t have to listen to such insults from those half-men!’ said Kenzie with quiet intensity.

  ‘You do if you want to remain in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Look, if you have complaints about other students, take them to your hostel principal; if he cannot help, see the proctors; if they cannot assist you, there are the Chancellor and the Bishop. But if you fight in the streets, no matter who started it, you will be sent home.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Kenzie loudly. The others regarded him uncomfortably. He glanced round at them before continuing in more moderate tones. ‘It would not be fair. We did not start it – they did.’

  ‘People in this town do not like the Scots,’ agreed Fyvie vigorously. ‘Is it our fault that they choose to fight us?’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘The Scots are not singled out for any special ill-treatment. That honour probably falls to the French at the moment, with the Irish not far behind. Go back to David’s and study. After all, that is the reason you are here.’

  Before Fyvie could respond, Ruthven gave Bartholomew a hasty bow, and bundled his friends away towards Shoemaker Row. Bartholomew watched them walk back along the High Street, hearing Ruthven’s calming tones over Kenzie’s protestations of innocence, and Fyvie’s angry voice. Ruthven would have his work cut out to keep those fiery lads out of trouble, Bartholomew reflected.

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and felt trickles of sweat course down his back. The sun was fierce, and he felt as though he were being cooked under his dark scholar’s gown.