A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  Seeing she had made her point, the laundress bustled Bartholomew out of the kitchens and began bellowing orders at the cowering scullions.

  ‘What is wrong with Eleanor Tyler?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael, a little resentfully. ‘She is attractive, intelligent, witty…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘It is perfectly clear that you are smitten with the woman. But beware! Do not imagine that you will be allowed to render free services to poor patients if you marry either of the Tyler women. You will only be able to take wealthy clients who will pay you well enough to keep them in the lap of luxury.’

  ‘Oh, really, Brother! I have invited them to a feast, not proposed marriage! Being crushed into a church, and then a hall, with dozens of other people can scarcely be considered romantic, can it!’

  Michael pursed his lips primly and did not deign to reply.

  While they had been in the orchard, Michael had sent Cynric to the Chancellor’s office with a request for a list of all the French students in residence. The book-bearer was waiting with it in Bartholomew’s room.

  ‘You were right, Matt,’ said Michael, scanning the list. ‘There are only fourteen French scholars currently registered at the University. Of these, three are in Maud’s, and have alibis in Gray and Deynman; three are in Godwinsson, although we know that one of them is now dead; two are in Michaelhouse – the only students missing from here were Gray and Deynman, so that lets them off the hook; one is in Peterhouse…’

  ‘I know him,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He cannot walk without the aid of crutches and his health is fragile. He cannot be involved.’

  ‘There is one at Clare Hall,’ continued Michael, ‘but he is a Benedictine, who is at least seventy and would certainly not be out on the streets in the dark, let alone abduct and rape a young woman. Then there are two at St Stephen’s, and two at Valence Marie.’

  ‘So, the only possible suspects are the two at Valence Marie, the two at St Stephen’s and the two surviving students at Godwinsson,’ said Bartholomew.

  Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if there are connections in any of this,’ he said. ‘We have Godwinsson and David’s scholars quarrelling in the street, after which one of them is killed near Valence Marie; the same student of David’s is having an affair with the Principal of Godwinsson’s daughter, his identity unknown to her parents; French scholars from Godwinsson try to attack Eleanor Tyler, and one of them is killed in the process; and the Principal of Godwinsson wrongfully claims that he has been at Maud’s all night. Meanwhile, his wife really did visit Maud’s after the riot began; a skeleton is found at Valence Marie; and the dead prostitute is last seen with French scholars, which must have been those from Valence Marie, Godwinsson or St Stephen’s.’

  Bartholomew considered. ‘There is nothing to suggest this skeleton can be linked with any of the other events.’

  ‘Except that we have agreed that it is a strange coincidence that Kenzie should die so near where the skeleton had been found the day before, and in an identical manner.’

  ‘We agreed no such thing!’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘I said there was insufficient evidence to show that they died in the same way, although it is possible that they did.’

  Michael flapped a flabby hand dismissively, before standing and stretching his large arms. ‘I would like to make two visits this afternoon. I want to ask the Scottish lads at David’s more about Kenzie, and then I want to have another word with those unpleasant Godwinsson friars. While we are there, we can drop a few questions about their part in the riot, and about the French louts that tried to kill you. If our inquiries proceed well, I might even ask a few questions of Lydgate himself – if he really was up to no good while the riot was in full swing. I doubt he has the brains to cover his tracks sufficiently to fool someone of my high intellectual calibre.’

  ‘And on the way, we can stop off at St Stephen’s and Valence Marie and see about these Frenchman, thus making the best possible use of the brilliant skills at detection you have just claimed,’ said Bartholomew with a smile, ignoring Michael’s irritable sigh.

  The nearest hostel was St Stephen’s, where the Principal told them, with some ire, that he had received a letter from France informing him that the two students he had been expecting would not be coming because of a death in the family. His anger seemed to result chiefly from the fact that bad weather had delayed the letter by more than a week, and he would have problems in finding students to fill their places now that most scholars were already settled in lodgings. There was no reason to doubt the authenticity of the letter, so Bartholomew’s list of suspects was narrowed to those French students registered at Godwinsson Hostel and those at the Hall of Valence Marie.

  The next visit was to David’s, where the young Scots told Bartholomew and Michael that Kenzie had been becoming increasingly agitated about his affair because Lydgate was so intent on preventing it. Kenzie and Dominica had been forced to invent more and more ingenious plans to see each other, and they had begun to run out of ideas – much as Eleanor and Hedwise Tyler had suggested the night of the riot.

  When Michael asked for more information about the missing ring, the students were unable to add anything, other than that they all believed Dominica had given it to Kenzie. It had been silver, they said, with a small blue-green stone. Ruthven, clearly embarrassed, revealed reluctantly that Kenzie had often waxed lyrical about Dominica’s blue-green eyes, while playing with the ring on his finger.

  As they made their way from David’s to Godwinsson, Michael turned to Bartholomew.

  ‘The last time we visited Godwinsson, Lydgate threatened you,’ he said. ‘I think you should wait outside.’

  He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections.

  ‘Lydgate does not like you, and nothing will be gained from antagonising him with your presence in his own home. Wait outside: listen at the window if you would, but stay out of sight. I will ask about the Frenchmen for you.’

  Despite his misgivings, Bartholomew knew Michael was right, and as the fat monk knocked loudly on Godwinsson’s front door, he slipped down a filthy alleyway by the side of the house and into the yard at the back. He glanced up and saw that, as last time, the window shutters in the solar where Lydgate had received them were flung open. The glazed windows also stood ajar to allow a breeze to circulate inside.

  A sound from what he presumed to be the kitchen startled him, and he realised he was being foolish in prowling so openly around Godwinsson’s back yard. There was a decrepit lean-to shed against the back of the house, a tatty structure that would not survive another winter.

  Its door was loose on decaying leather hinges and the roof sagged precariously. Heart pounding, Bartholomew slipped inside just as someone emerged from a rear door to pour slops into a brimming cesspool in a far corner of the yard.

  The shed was stiflingly hot, and full of pieces of discarded wood and rope. Bartholomew picked his way across it until he was on the side nearest the solar. The warped wood created wide gaps in the walls that allowed him to see out, and, as long as Michael and Lydgate did not whisper, Bartholomew thought he should be able to hear much of what was happening in the solar without being seen.

  He heard Huw, the Godwinsson steward, show Michael into the room as before and saw the monk lean out of the window to look into the yard as he waited for Lydgate.

  Bartholomew was about to signal to him when the kitchen scullion came out with another bowl of slops. Alarmed, Bartholomew jerked backwards, realising too late that sudden motion was more likely to give away his hiding place than his raised arm, half-hidden in shadows.

  ‘You will find nothing of interest there, Brother,’ came Lydgate’s voice, clear as a bell, moments later.

  Bartholomew saw Michael’s head withdraw and the scullion glance up at the window, distracted momentarily from his task. ‘Unless you like cesspools.’

  ‘Which brings me to your hostel, Master Lydgate,’ came Michael’s unruffled
reply. ‘I would like to see two of your students: the two French lads.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lydgate. ‘They have not been brawling with the Scots.’

  The scullion in the yard gave his bowl a final scrape and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Michael. ‘Reliable witnesses saw them brawling with one member of the University and four defenceless women.’

  Despite his tension, Bartholomew smiled at Michael’s description: defenceless was certainly not a word that could truthfully be applied to the resourceful, independent Tyler women.

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’ snapped Lydgate. ‘The night was dark and it was difficult to be certain who was who in the darkness with all those fires burning.’

  ‘So you were out, too,’ said Michael. It was a statement and not a question. Bartholomew could almost see Lydgate spluttering with indignation at having been so deftly fooled into admitting as much.

  ‘My whereabouts are none of your concern!’ Lydgate managed to grate finally. ‘But for your information, I have people who can say where I was, whose word is beyond doubt.’

  ‘But not in Godwinsson, Master Lydgate? To protect your family and students?’ Michael continued smoothly.

  ‘I was out!’ Lydgate almost shouted.

  ‘As were your students without you here to control them, it seems.’

  Bartholomew heard the creak of floorboards and guessed that Lydgate was pacing to try to control his temper. ‘All Godwinsson students were here. The other masters will testify to that.’

  ‘I am sure they will,’ said Michael, his tone ambiguous. ‘Now, I would like to speak with these French students.’

  As he spoke, the kitchen door opened again, and two students were ushered out by Huw the steward and the scullion. Speaking in low voices, and taking care to stay close to the walls where they would not be observed from the solar window, the students made for the alleyway that led to the road. Bartholomew pressed back into the shadows as they passed, although they were so intent on leaving that they did not so much as glance at the open shed door. Bartholomew was not surprised to hear them speaking French.

  He watched them disappear up the alley before opening the door to follow. As the sunlight flooded into the gloomy lean-to, something glinted on the ground.

  Bending quickly to retrieve it, Bartholomew found a small, silver ring. Although there was no blue-green stone, there were clasps to show where such a gem might once have been. The ring was dirty, and its irregular shape indicated that it had been crushed, perhaps by someone stamping on it. He looked around quickly to see if he could see the stone, but there was no sign of it on the hard, trampled earth that formed the floor.

  Slipping the ring into his pocket, Bartholomew left the shed and made his way quickly up the alley. As he emerged, he glimpsed the two students disappearing round the corner into the High Street. He ran after them, oblivious to the startled face of Huw the steward, who had come to the front of the hostel to watch their escape. Huw’s surprise changed to artifice, and he rubbed at his whiskers, eyes glittering.

  Bartholomew followed the two Frenchmen along the High Street towards the Market Square. It was more drab than usual: the colourful canopies that usually shielded the traders’ wares from sun or rain had been burned during the riot. Here and there, skeletal frameworks had been hastily erected to replace those that had been lost, a few of them crudely covered with rough canvas, but for the most part, the traders were reduced to piling their goods on the ground. Ash and cinders had been trampled into the beaten earth, and, to one side of the Square, a great mound of partially incinerated wood still loomed up where it had been piled the day before, waiting for someone to remove it and dump it all in the river.

  It was nearing the end of the day, and, with the curfew fast approaching, the tradesmen’s battle to sell the last of their wares was becoming frantic. Stories about how Cambridge had erupted in a welter of flame and violence had spread through the surrounding countryside, and many rural folk had elected not to risk coming to the town to buy supplies. Trade was poor so that potential customers were not permitted to escape easily; hands grabbed and pulled at Bartholomew as he tried to pass. Suddenly he could not see his quarry. Impatiently shrugging off a persistent baker, he dived down one narrow line of stalls, emerging at the opposite end of the Square. There was no sign of the French students.

  Bartholomew sagged in defeat, sweat stinging his eyes from the late-afternoon heat.

  Suddenly, he spotted them again, surfacing from a parallel line of stalls eating apples. They walked at a nonchalant pace towards Hadstock Way. Bartholomew followed them a little further, although he now knew exactly where they were going. Without knocking, and with an ease born of a long familiarity, the two students casually strolled into Maud’s Hostel.

  There was nothing more Bartholomew could do without Michael’s authority as Proctor, so he retraced his steps back to Godwinsson. He stopped to buy something to drink from a water-seller, but the larvae of some marsh insects wriggling about in the buckets gave him second thoughts. He remembered the foul wine he had shared with Michael and Tulyet, and went into the booth of a wine-merchant to buy a replacement. He purchased the first one that caught his eye, opened it, and took a large mouthful in the street.

  ‘Not the best way to enjoy good wine,’ came Michael’s voice at his shoulder. ‘But then again, judging from the wine you keep, what would you know of such things? Where have you been?’

  He took the bottle from Bartholomew and took a hearty swig himself, nodding appreciatively at its coolness, if not its flavour.

  Bartholomew told him what had happened, while Michael listened with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Lydgate told me that the French students were at church,’ he said. ‘I thought it was a likely story. I learned little, I am afraid. Brothers Edred and Werbergh are taking part in a theological debate at the School of Pythagorus, and so were not available to talk to me. Since Lydgate knows I can check that excuse easily, he is probably telling the truth about that, at least. I will have to come back and speak to them later.’

  Valence Marie was nearby, so they went there next, although Michael was reluctant. There was no porter on the door, no one answered their knocking, and they were forced to go inside to find someone to answer their questions. But the College appeared to be deserted.

  Putting his head round the door to the hall, the thought crossed Bartholomew’s mind that, had he been a thief, he could have made off with all the College silver, which lay carelessly abandoned on the high table.

  He shouted, but there was no reply. They left the hall and went to the Ditch at the side of Valence Marie where the skeleton had been found, but there was no one there either. Bartholomew flapped irritably at the haze of flies that buzzed around his head, disturbed from where they had been feasting on the foul-smelling muck that lined both sides of the near-empty canal. At the very bottom of the Ditch was a murky trickle that would turn into a raging torrent when the next heavy rains came. With a sigh of resignation, Bartholomew saw some unidentifiable piece of offal move gently downstream. Despite the cost and inconvenience of the dredging operations, people were still disposing of their waste in the waterways. They had learned nothing from the last time the Ditch had been blocked with rubbish and then flooded, causing some to lose their homes.

  ‘We will have to return tomorrow,’ said Michael, breaking into a trot in a vain attempt to escape the haze of flies that flicked around his head. ‘The place is abandoned.’

  The King’s Ditch ran under the High Street and emerged the other side. Bartholomew always felt that, despite the distinct elevation in the road, the High Street did not have a bridge as much as the King’s Ditch had a tunnel: its fetid, black waters slid through a small, dark hole, and oozed out into a pool on the other side. He crossed to the opposite side of the High Street, and stood on tiptoe to look over the wall that screened the western arm of the Ditch from the road. Here was a different story: the bank was
alive with activity, but it was all conducted in total silence.

  A dozen or so students stood in a line looking down into the Ditch, the monotony of their black tabards broken by the occasional grey or white of a friar’s habit.

  A gaggle of scruffy children had also gathered to watch the proceedings; even their customary cheekiness had been subdued by the distinct aura of gravity that pervaded the scene.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Bartholomew whispered to Michael.

  They edged closer, and saw Will and Henry, the Valence Marie servants, poking about in the vile trickle of water, watched intently by Thorpe, who stood with his Fellows clustered about him. Thorpe looked up and saw Bartholomew and Michael.

  ‘Ah!’ he announced, his voice almost sacrilegious in the self-imposed silence of the scholars. ‘Here are the Senior Proctor and the physician. I am impressed with your speed, gentlemen. It has only been moments since I dispatched a messenger to the Chancellor’s office to ask you to come.’

  ‘Oh Lord, Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew under his breath. ‘Thorpe has found himself some more bones!’

  Reluctantly, he moved towards Thorpe and his findings.

  The only sounds were Michael’s noisy breathing behind him and the muffled rumble of carts from the High Street.

  As he walked, the students moved aside so he could pass, their faces taut with anticipation.

  He met Thorpe’s eyes for a moment, then looked down into the Ditch to where Will and Henry crouched in the muddy water. A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind noted that the piece of offal he had observed shortly before had made its way downstream, and was now bobbing past Will’s legs. It served to dissolve the feeling that he was attending some kind of religious ceremony, attended by acolytes who generated an aura of hushed veneration.

  He wondered how Thorpe had managed to effect such an atmosphere, disliking the way he felt he was being manipulated into complying with it. He saw that the mood of the onlookers was such that, even if they had discovered a donkey in the black, fly-infested mud, they would revere it like the relics of some venerable saint.