A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘It will be no good us questioning Bigod,’ said Michael, taking a careful sip of his wine. ‘He will refuse to answer you, Dick, on the grounds that he does not come under the jurisdiction of secular law. And he certainly will not speak to me after Heppel’s escapade with the cell keys. I suppose you could try Lydgate again – tell him you have witnesses prepared to swear he was not at Maud’s as he claims, and see what he says.’

  Tulyet sighed. ‘I could. But I am not inclined to do so. I have more than enough to do without wasting my time on lying scholars. I need to concentrate on preventing another of these disturbances.’

  ‘That should certainly be your first priority,’ agreed Michael. ‘And mine, too. Good luck to Cecily for fleeing that ignoramus of a husband. They are both better off without each other. But I am more concerned with Kenzie’s killer at the moment. It is not pleasant to think of him free and laughing at us while the town is ripped to pieces about our ears by feeble-witted people filled with self-righteous rage.’

  Tulyet picked up his goblet but put it down again with a shudder before he drank. He stood, peering out at the night through the open window shutters. ‘I must be away,’ he said. ‘It is vital the patrols are seen tonight if we are to prevent more mischief. It has been most interesting chatting to you both. As I said earlier, the University and the town should talk more often. I am certain my crime rates would drop if we did.’

  ‘Do you have any information at all about the woman who was raped?’ asked Bartholomew as he walked with the Sheriff across the yard to the gate.

  Tulyet shrugged. ‘Very little. She was called Joanna, and she was a prostitute. Perhaps she was out plying her trade and got more than she bargained for.’

  ‘That is an outrageous thing to say!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘Because she is a prostitute does not give someone the right to rape her!’

  Tulyet eyed Bartholomew in the darkness. ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘You have championed the town prostitutes on other occasions. Well, I am in sympathy with your point, Matt, but I need to concentrate on preventing further riots. I cannot spare the men to look into this Joanna’s death. One of my archers says he saw Joanna in the company of some French scholars after the riot erupted. Tell Brother Michael it is a University matter and persuade him to investigate.’

  He took the reins of his horse from the waiting porter and watched Bartholomew unbar the gate so that he could leave. As he led his horse out of the yard, he caught Bartholomew’s arm. ‘But if you do look into this death be tactful, Matt. It would be unfortunate if incautious inquiries sparked off another riot.’

  Making certain that the gate was firmly closed and barred, Bartholomew strolled back across the courtyard to intercept Michael, who was heading towards the kitchens for something to eat before he, too, went to patrol the streets with his beadles. Bartholomew told the monk about Joanna but met with little enthusiasm.

  ‘Dick Tulyet is right, Matt. There were many grievous crimes committed last night – nine dead and countless injured – which is why we cannot allow it to happen again. It is a terrible thing that happened to this whore, but it is done, and there is nothing we can do about it now.’

  ‘We can avenge her death,’ Bartholomew replied, disgusted that Michael should take such a view. ‘We can find out who misused her and punish them for it.’

  ‘But we have no idea who it may have been,’ said Michael with a patent lack of interest.

  ‘Tulyet said she was last seen with French scholars. French scholars tried to make away with Eleanor Tyler last night. Perhaps they had already committed one such crime.’

  ‘Well, if so, then they are punished already,’ said Michael dismissively, ‘for you told me yourself that one already lies dead in the Castle, stabbed by Mistress Tyler. And you are being unfair. There are a lot of French scholars in the University; there is no reason to assume the Godwinsson trio are to blame.’

  Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and considered. ‘There are not that many French students here. You could supply me with a list, since the University keeps records of such things. Then I could make some inquiries.’

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘First, it might be dangerous. Second, you are not a proctor and have no authority to investigate such matters. And third, even enquiring might strike the spark that will ignite another riot. No, Matt. I will not let you do it.’

  ‘Then I will make inquiries without your help,’ said Bartholomew coldly, turning on his heel and stalking back towards his room.

  Michael hurried after him and grabbed his arm. ‘What is the matter with you?’ he asked, perplexed. ‘I know you dislike violence, so why are you so intent on subverting the attempts of the Sheriff and the University to prevent more of it?’

  Bartholomew looked at Michael and then up at the dark sky. ‘The dead woman had hair just like Philippa,’ he said.

  Michael shook Bartholomew’s arm gently. ‘That is no reason at all,’ he chided. He blew out his cheeks in a gesture of resignation. ‘You are stubborn. Look, I will help you, but not tonight. I will get the list tomorrow and we can look into this together. I do not want you doing this alone.’

  Bartholomew hesitated, then gave Michael a quick smile and walked briskly across the rest of the yard to his room. Michael was right: it was far too late to begin inquiries into Joanna’s death that night and, anyway, he was weary from his labours with the injured all that day.

  He had surprised himself by revealing to Michael the overwhelming reason why he felt compelled to avenge Joanna and supposed he must be more tired than he guessed. Bearing in mind his ill-conceived invitation to Matilde as well, he decided to retire to bed before he made any more embarrassing statements. Thinking of Matilde reminded him of Philippa and he was disconcerted to find that the image of her face was blurred in his mind. Was her hair really the same colour as Joanna’s? On second thoughts, he was not so sure that it was. He reached his room, automatically extinguishing the candle to save the wax. He undressed in the darkness and was asleep almost before he lay on the bed.

  Michael watched his friend cross the yard and then resumed his journey to the kitchen. He knew from experience that he would be unable to prevent Bartholomew doing what he intended, and that it would be safer for both of them if Michael helped rather than hindered him. He gave a huge sigh as he stole bacon-fat and oatcakes for his evening repast and hoped Bartholomew was not going to champion all fallen women with fair hair like Philippa.

  In an attempt to keep the scholars occupied and off the streets, term started with a vengeance the following day.

  All University members were obliged to attend mass in a church; lectures started at six o’clock, after breakfast. The main meal of the day was at ten, followed by more teaching until early afternoon. Since the plague, Michaelhouse food, which had never been good, had plummeted to new and hitherto unimaginable depths. Breakfast was a single oatcake and a slice of cold, greasy mutton accompanied by cloudy ale that made Bartholomew feel queasy; the main meal was stewed fish giblets – a favourite of Father William – served with hard bread. Michael complained bitterly and dispatched one of his students to buy him some pies from the Market Square.

  When teaching was over for the day Bartholomew and Michael were able to meet. A light meal was available in the hall but when Bartholomew heard it was fish-giblet stew again – probably because it had not been particularly popular the first time round – he went instead to the kitchens, Michael in tow.

  ‘And what is wrong with my fish-giblet stew?’ demanded Agatha the laundress aggressively, blocking the door with her formidable frame, arms akimbo. ‘If it is good enough for that saintly Father William, then it should be good enough for you two layabouts.’

  ‘Father William is not saintly! ‘ said Michael with conviction. ‘If he were, he would not eat the diabolical fish-giblet stew with such unnatural relish!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Agatha, looking from Michael to Bartholomew with open host
ility. ‘There is no unnatural relish in my fish-giblet stew, I can tell you! I only use the finest ingredients. Now, off with you! I am busy.’

  Agatha determined, and in a foul temper, was not a thing to be regarded lightly, and Bartholomew was fully resigned to returning to his room hungry. Michael, however, was less easily repulsed, particularly where food was concerned.

  ‘Everything you cook is delicious, Madam,’ he said, attempting to ease his own considerable bulk past hers.

  She was having none of that and stood firm. Michael continued suavely, standing close enough so that he would be able to shoot past her the moment a gap appeared. ‘And the fish-giblet stew is no exception. But a man can have too much of a good thing, and, in the interests of my immortal soul, I crave something a little less fine, something simple.’

  Agatha eyed him suspiciously. ‘Such as what?’

  ‘A scrap of bread, a rind of cheese, a wizened apple or two, perhaps a dribble of watered ale.’

  ‘All right, then,’ said Agatha reluctantly after a moment’s serious consideration. ‘But I am busy with the preparations for the Founder’s Feast next week, so you will have to help yourselves.’

  ‘Gladly, Madam,’ said Michael silkily, slipping past her and heading for the pantry. Agatha glared at Bartholomew before allowing him to pass, and he wondered what he could have done to upset her. Usually, she turned a blind eye to his occasional forays to the kitchens when he missed meals in hall. He wondered whether the Tyler women had told her that he believed she had dispensed amorous favours to the rough men in the King’s Head to earn free ale.

  While she gave her attention to a mound of dead white chickens that were piled on the kitchen table, he took a modest portion of ale from the barrel in the corner. Michael clattered in the pantry, humming cheerfully. Just when the monk had taken sufficiently long to make Agatha start towards the source of the singing with her masculine chin set for battle, Michael emerged, displaying two apples and a piece of bluish-green bread.

  Agatha inspected them minutely.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said eventually. ‘But that is all you are getting, so clear off and keep out of my way.’

  She gave Bartholomew a hefty shove that made him stagger and slop the ale on the floor. He had darted out of the back door before she noticed the mess, lest she was tempted to empty the rest of the jug over his head. Michael followed more sedately, heading for the fallen apple tree in the orchard. He plumped himself down, turning his pasty face to the sun and smiling in pleasure. His contentment faded when he saw the ale Bartholomew had brought.

  ‘There is wine by the barrel in the kitchens!’ he cried in dismay. ‘All for the Feast. Could you not have smuggled us some of that?’

  ‘With Agatha watching?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. ‘Suicide is a deadly sin, Brother!’

  ‘She has always liked you far better than the rest of us,’ said Michael, reproachfully. ‘You have only to hint and she will willingly give you whatever you want. If I were in such a powerful position, Matt, I would not squander it as you do. I would ensure you and I dined like kings.’

  ‘She did not give the impression that she liked me just now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She was positively hostile.’

  ‘So I noticed,’ said Michael, peering into the ale jug in disgust. ‘What have you done to annoy her? Whatever it is, you are a braver man than me. I would not risk the wrath of Agatha! ‘

  He stood, shaking his large body like some bizarre oriental dancer. Bartholomew was not in the least bit surprised when a large piece of cheese, a new loaf of bread, a sizeable chunk of ham, and some kind of pie dropped from his voluminous habit into the grass at his feet. The monk tossed the two apples and the moudly crust away in disdain.

  ‘Never eat anything green when there is meat to be had,’ he advised sagely. ‘Green food is a danger to the stomach.’

  ‘And which medical text did this little pearl of wisdom corne from?’ asked Bartholomew, ripping a piece of bread from the loaf. It was nowhere near as fine as that he had eaten in Mistress Tyler’s garden, but, even though it was hard and grey and made with cheap flour, it was an improvement on what he usually ate.

  ‘You put too much store in the written word,’ said Michael complacently. ‘You should rely more on your instincts and experience.’

  Bartholomew thought about Matilde’s jibe the night before, and how she had laughed at his lack of experience with women. For the first time that day he considered the predicament he had landed himself in with his invitations.

  ‘What is on your mind?’ asked Michael, eyeing him speculatively as he broke the cheese in two, handing Bartholomew the smaller part. ‘Something has happened to worry you. Is it this Joanna business?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Partly.’

  ‘I always admire a man who knows his own mind,’ said Michael dryly. ‘You are not having second thoughts about taking that Tyler woman to the Founder’s Feast, are you?’

  Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘How did you know that?’ He corrected himself. ’Is there anyone in the town who does not know?’

  Michael gave the matter serious thought, cramming a slice of ham into his mouth as he did so. ‘Father William, I should imagine, or he would have mentioned the matter to you with his customary disapproval. He would ban all women from the Feast, if he could.’

  ‘What is wrong with women in the College for a few hours?’ demanded Bartholomew, standing and pacing in agitation. ‘They might give it a little life and make us see the world in a different perspective.’

  ‘That is exactly what William is afraid of,’ said Michael, chuckling. ‘I am all for it, myself, and I would have them in for a lot more than a few hours. Sit down, Matt. This ham is delicious and you will not appreciate it striding up and down like a hungry heron.’

  Bartholomew flopped on to the tree trunk, taking the sliver of ham Michael offered him. With his other hand, the monk crammed as much bread into his mouth as would fit and then a little more. Within a few moments, he was gagging for breath, forcing Bartholomew to pound him hard on the back.

  ‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ admonished Bartholomew mechanically.

  He had long since given up hoping that his advice would be followed. ‘It is not a race and I promise to take none of your share.’

  ‘You are not still pining after that Philippa, are you?’ asked Michael when he had recovered his breath. ‘Pining will do you no good at all, Matt. You need to go out and find yourself another one, if you decline to take the cowl. I suppose Eleanor Tyler is acceptable, although you could do a good deal better.’

  ‘I also invited Matilde to the Feast,’ Bartholomew blurted out. He stood again and resumed his pacing.

  Michael’s jaw dropped, and Bartholomew would have laughed to see the monk so disconcerted had he not been so unsettled himself.

  ‘Matt!’ was all Michael could find to say.

  Bartholomew picked up one of Michael’s discarded apples and hurled it at the wall. It splattered into pieces and some of it hit the monk.

  ‘Steady on,’ he objected. ‘Does this uncharacteristic violence towards fruit mean that you are pleased or displeased by your appalling indiscretion?’

  ‘Both,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Pleased because I think her a fine woman, and displeased because I am afraid of what the other Fellows might say to offend her.’

  ‘They offend her?’ gasped Michael. ‘She is a prostitute, Matt! A whore! A courtesan! A harlot! A…’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I understood you the first time. But the invitation has been issued, so I can hardly renege.’

  ‘Is this worth your Fellowship?’ asked Michael. ‘Your career?’

  ‘On the one hand you tell me to go out and get a woman and on the other you tell me the ones I choose are inappropriate.’

  ‘I recommended a discreet friendship with a respectable lady, not a flagrant dalliance with a prostitute in the College! And to top that, you even have a
spare waiting on the side in the form of Eleanor Tyler.’

  ‘Two spares, actually,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have invited Hedwise Tyler to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels.’

  This time he did laugh at the expression on Michael’s face. Eventually Michael smiled too.

  ‘It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it? You never do things by halves. Perhaps I can have a word with the steward about the seating plan to see if a little confusion can be arranged. The last thing you want is a whore on either side of you. They might fight.’

  ‘Eleanor Tyler is not a whore,’ objected Bartholomew.

  Michael sighed. ‘No, she is not, although she is horribly indiscreet. Half the town knows that you have invited her to the Feast. Lord knows what she will say when she learns the identity of your second guest.’

  It was something Bartholomew had not considered before. Michael was right – any respectable woman would baulk at the notion that she formed one of a pair with a prostitute.

  Michael finished his repast, and led the way back through the kitchens towards the courtyard, still chuckling under his breath at Bartholomew’s predicament.

  ‘Out of my way, you two,’ said Agatha sharply. ‘I cannot have you under my feet all the time. I have a feast to organise, you know.’

  ‘Yes, we do know,’ said Michael. ‘We have been invited.’

  ‘And some of you have invited all manner of hussies,’ said Agatha, fixing Bartholomew with an angry glare. ‘Eleanor Tyler indeed! How could you stoop so low? I had expected better of you!’

  So that was it, Bartholomew thought. Agatha disapproved of Eleanor Tyler. He exchanged a furtive glance with Michael and wondered what the robust laundress would find to say when she discovered whom he had asked as his second guest. Still fixing him with a steely glower, Agatha continued.

  ‘That young woman is bragging to half the town about how she wrung an invitation from you to our Feast. She has all the discretion of a rutting stag!’

  From Agatha, this was a damning indictment indeed.