A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  The friar took a deep breath and began chanting a second time.

  The meaning was clear. As one, the crowd edged back and then began to run, leaving the body of Saul Potter behind. After a few minutes, Bartholomew took a group of scholars and scoured the orchard for lingerers. But there were none: the mob, to its last man, had fled. He left Father Aidan to secure the back gate and walked back through the orchard with William.

  ‘Is it over?’ asked William, the strong voice that had boomed over the mob hoarse with tiredness.

  ‘It is at Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I can still see the glow from the fires in the rest of the town. And Michael is still out there with his frightened beadles.’

  William slapped a hand on Bartholomew’s back. ‘Do not fear for Michael,’ he said. ‘He is clever and resourceful but also sensible. He will not attempt more than he knows he can achieve.’

  They walked in silence, watching torches bobbing here and there among the trees, as the students still searched for hidden rioters. The immediate danger over, Bartholomew felt his legs become wobbly, and he rested his hand on the friar’s shoulder after stumbling in the wet grass for the second time.

  ‘I recognised the man Cynric killed,’ said William, taking a fistful of Bartholomew’s tabard to steady him. ‘He is a servant from Godwinsson.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. His mind began to drift. He tried to imagine what Norbert might look like now, so that he might find him. He caught the end of William’s sentence, and turned to face him in shock.

  ‘I am sorry, Father. Could you repeat that?’

  William clicked his tongue irritably, never patient with wandering minds. ‘I was telling you, Matthew, that the University seems to be inundated with people who are not all they seem. That Godwinsson scullion was clearly no ordinary servant – it takes skill and experience to manipulate a crowd as he did and anyone with such abilities would hardly be satisfied with a position as scullion. And then I told you about my encounter with Father Andrew of David’s. I told you I believe he is no Franciscan. I went to a mass of his last week and he did not know one end of his missal from the other. His Latin was disgraceful. I checked up on him with my Father Prior and learned that the only Father Andrew from Stirling in our Order died two months ago.’

  Bartholomew recalled that William had been with the Inquisition for a time, an occupation that must have suited his tenacious mind. If William’s suspicions had been aroused, he would not rest until they had been sufficiently allayed.

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, exhaustion making his thoughts sluggish.

  William sighed in exasperation. ‘I will put it simply, Matthew, since your mind seems to lack its normal incisive skills. Father Andrew, friar and master of theology at David’s Hostel, is an impostor.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Few Michaelhouse scholars felt like sleeping as the last of the mob disappeared up St Michael’s Lane. Bartholomew worked hard to buttress the main gates further and ordered the stones and sticks that the scholars had hurled from the walls to be collected to use again if necessary. Once he was satisfied that as many precautions as possible had been taken against further attack, the scholars relaxed, sitting or standing in small groups to talk in low voices.

  Saul Potter’s body was brought from the orchard and laid out in the conclave, where Kenyngham insisted a vigil should be kept over it.

  ‘At least he did not die unshriven,’ said Alcote maliciously. ‘Father William yelled an absolution from the window in the servants’ quarters before he was killed.’

  Kenyngham crossed himself, his eyes fixed on the body and the arrow that still protruded from its chest. ‘I asked that there be no violence,’ he admonished, tearing his gaze from the corpse to Bartholomew. ‘And now a man lies dead.’

  ‘And you, Master Kenyngham, might have been lying here instead of this lout had Cynric not acted promptly,’ said Agatha hotly. ‘You owe your life to Cynric, Father William and Matthew.’

  ‘But surely it could have been managed without bloodshed?’ insisted Kenyngham. ‘Now we have this man’s death on our hands.’

  ‘Nonsense, Master,’ said William irritably. ‘He brought about his own demise by his rabble-rousing. That mob intended serious mischief and Matthew’s organisation of our defences and Cynric’s marksmanship saved all our lives – to say nothing of the survival of the College.’

  Aidan agreed. ‘The College would have been in flames by now and all of us slaughtered, had the rioters gained access,’ he lisped, his pale blue eyes flicking restlessly between his colleagues’ faces.

  ‘But to shoot an unarmed man in our orchard…’ began Alcote, enjoying the dissension between the Fellows and seeking to prolong it until he could turn it to his own advantage.

  ‘He was not unarmed!’ said William loudly. ‘He had a sword and a large dagger that should, by rights, be slitting your scrawny throat at this very moment. After all, you are the only one among us to own anything worth stealing. You would have been their first victim.’

  ‘Hear, hear. And good riddance, too,’ put in Agatha, eyeing Alcote with dislike.

  Alcote swallowed nervously, disconcerted by the frontal attack from a combination of the forceful personalities of William and Agatha. ‘But…’

  ‘No buts,’ said William firmly. ‘And the man was probably a heretic anyway. At least the last thing he heard were the sacred words uttered by me. Perhaps I was his salvation.’

  He glared round at the others, daring them to contradict him and then strode away to organise the students to patrol the College grounds until morning. Alcote slunk back to his room and, through the open window shutters, Bartholomew saw him unlock a chest to begin checking that none of his valuables had gone missing during the affray. Aidan knelt next to Saul Potter’s body and began the vigil, while Bartholomew prepared to follow Kenyngham through the hall and down the spiral stairs to the yard. Agatha stopped him.

  She poked him in the chest with a thick forefinger. ‘Do not allow the Master and that loathsome Alcote to bother you, Matthew, for I am telling you what you did was right,’ she said grandly. ‘You, Father William and Cynric saved the College tonight. Now, I have business to attend – the kitchens do not run themselves, you know.’

  She marched away, large hips swaying importantly as scholars scattered in her path. Bartholomew smiled.

  Agatha was of the firm belief that she was one of God’s chosen because she had not been struck by the plague, and had used that belief to add credence to all manner of wild claims ever since. He supposed he should be grateful that Agatha thought his actions defensible, no Michaelhouse scholar enjoyed being in opposition to the formidable laundress, unless he did not mind clothes damaged in the wash and the worst of the food.

  Outside in the yard Kenyngham took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars. ‘Tonight saw some foul deeds, Matthew,’ he said. ‘No matter how Father William and Agatha might seek to justify them, a member of Michaelhouse murdered a townsman. How do you think the citizens of Cambridge will react to that? I, and Master Babington before me, have worked hard to establish good relations between Michaelhouse and the town, and now all is lost.’

  ‘All might have been lost anyway had the rioters gained access to the College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I agree that the death of a man in such circumstances is a terrible thing, but better Saul Potter than some of our students, or even one of the rioters. They are probably as much victims of Saul Potter’s rabble-rousing as we might have been.’

  Kenyngham remained unconvinced. ‘This will have repercussions for months to come,’ he sighed. ‘How can I allow you to continue your good work in the town now? You might be slain in retaliation. Any of us might.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew, stretching limbs that ached from tension and tiredness. ‘The riot tonight was no random act of violence but a carefully planned event with Saul Potter at its centre. I do not think the townspeople will mourn – or seek to avenge –
him once his role in all this becomes clear.’

  Kenyngham eyed him doubtfully. ‘I hope you are right, Matthew,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I must now ensure that none of our students slips away to take their revenge for the attack. And you should determine that Cynric has suffered no harm from all this.’

  Bartholomew walked briskly to the servants’ quarters to where Cynric slept peacefully. The physician smiled when he saw the book-bearer still held his bow; he imagined that Cynric might expect considerable acclaim as a hero by the students who had witnessed his shot, regardless of Kenyngham’s misgivings. Bartholomew sat for the rest of the night listening to the Welshman’s easy breathing as he slept, thinking over the events of the past two weeks.

  Dawn came, and Bartholomew slipped out of Cynric’s room to assess the damage to the gates. With Walter, he ran his hands over the splintered wood, impressed at the quality of workmanship that had withstood the assaults of the battering ram. He walked to the wharves and saw that the mob had demolished the first of the rickety structures that served as homes to the river folk in their hunt for a sturdy post. He knew that the old lady that lived there was away, and was relieved that the rioters had limited their violence to the destruction of a house and not turned it towards the people who lived nearby.

  Dunstan and Aethelbald were already up and greeted him with enthusiastic descriptions of the events of the night before. Bartholomew was so grateful to see that they had been left unmolested, he did not even notice Dunstan stooping to fill his drinking cup from the river shallows.

  He fetched warmed ale and oat mash for Cynric, then began to pace the yard as he waited for Michael to return.

  When the scholars, led by Kenyngham, went to a mass of thanksgiving for their deliverance the night before, Bartholomew asked to be excused.

  After an hour, the scholars began to trickle back from St Michael’s Church and made their way to the hall for breakfast. Bartholomew followed, but had no appetite, and looked up expectantly for Michael each time the door opened. Traditionally, meals were taken in silence at Michaelhouse, or eaten while the Bible scholar read tracts from religious and philosophical texts. But Master Kenyngham was lenient and often allowed intellectual debate at mealtimes, although the language was restricted to Latin. That morning, however, Bartholomew heard English, French, and even Flemish but no Latin, and the subject chosen was far from academic. Kenyngham chose to ignore it, although the Franciscans complained bitterly about the breach in discipline.

  Bartholomew picked at the watery oatmeal without enthusiasm, and relinquished his portion of sour, cloudy ale to Father Aidan, who was eyeing it with undisguised interest. Bartholomew had a sudden longing for some of Mistress Tyler’s fine white bread and wondered where she was and whether her daughters were safe.

  The bell rang for lectures to begin, and Bartholomew tried to concentrate on his teaching. Bulbeck offered to read aloud from Isaac Judaeus’s Liber urinarum for the rest of the morning, and with a grateful smile, Bartholomew escaped his duties. The master mason came to report on the progress on Wilson’s tomb, and Bartholomew listened patiently but without full attention to the mason’s litany of complaints about the stone: it was too hard; it contained crystals that made cutting difficult; and black was a wearisome colour with which to work and really should only be carved in high summer when the light was good.

  Bartholomew asked whether the marble slab should be abandoned and a cheaper, but more easily workable, material purchased instead. The mason gazed at him indignantly and claimed loftily that no stone had ever bested a craftsman of his calibre. Perplexed, Bartholomew watched him strut across the yard and then tried to apply himself to his treatise on fevers. So far, he had written five words and crossed each one out, unable to concentrate without knowing the whereabouts of his portly friend.

  He had just decided to go in search of Michael himself, when the monk stepped through the wicket gate, commenting cheerily on the damage to the door and humming his way across the yard.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Bartholomew, looking him over to assess any possible damages. ‘Are you harmed? What of the riot? Why are you so late? I have been worried!’

  ‘Aha! ‘ said Michael triumphantly, pulling his arm away. ‘Now you know how I feel when you disappear without telling anyone where you are going. Well, like our friend Guy Heppel, I am not a man for foolhardy bravery. I took one look at those mobs last night and took refuge with my beadles in the first University building I came across. If there were scholars insane enough to be abroad last night, then it would have taken more than me and my men to persuade them back to safety. I spent the night at Peterhouse, safe in a fine feather bed with a bottle of excellent wine to help me sleep. The Master was most hospitable and insisted I stay for breakfast.’

  He rubbed at his ample girth with a grin. Bartholomew groaned, feeling exhausted. While he had fretted all night, worrying that Michael might be in the thick of violent fighting, the Benedictine had secured himself some of the most comfortable lodgings in Cambridge.

  ‘Do you have news of what happened?’ he asked, thinking that a Peterhouse breakfast must be fine indeed if it could last until so late in the morning. He was sure it had not been watery oatmeal and sour beer.

  ‘I saw the Chancellor on my way here. He and Heppel spent the night cowering in St Mary’s Church,’ Michael said with a chuckle. ‘Courage is not a quality with which us University men are richly endowed, it seems. There was damage, but mostly not major. Only two University buildings came under serious attack: Michaelhouse and Godwinsson, and only Godwinsson sustained any real harm. The students fled to Maud’s, so there were no casualties. David’s Hostel were out and most of those fiery Scots are currently languishing in Tulyet’s prison cells they were rash enough to attempt a skirmish with his soldiers. Master Radbeche was away and Father Andrew was unable to keep them in when the excitement started, although two of them – John of Stirling and Ruthven are still at large.’

  He paused in his narrative to assure Father William, who was passing them on his way to terce, that he had survived the night intact.

  ‘Several smaller hostels were set alight,’ he continued when William had gone, ‘but the fires were doused before they did any real harm. The rioters gained access to about five of them, but you know how poor most of these places are. The would-be looters looked around thinking to find riches galore and were lucky to leave with a couple of pewter plates. If hostels own anything of value at all, it is likely to be a book and the mob had no use for any of those.’

  ‘Is the rioting over, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. A rumour spread that Michaelhouse had shot one of the leaders and it fizzled out like a wet candle.’

  ‘I have been thinking most of the night about the evidence we have gathered so far,’ said Bartholomew, tugging at Michael’s sleeve to make him walk towards the orchard. ‘It is beginning to make sense but there is still much I do not understand.’

  ‘Well, I have given it no thought at all,’ said Michael airily, grabbing a handful of oatcakes from a platter in the kitchen as they walked through it. As Agatha turned and saw him, he gave her a leering wink that made her screech with laughter. On their way out, Michael looked at the neat lines of containers filled with water, sand and stones, and spare trestle tables stacked against one wall to be pushed against the back door if necessary.

  ‘If you have been thinking as hard as you say, let us hope these precautions will no longer be necessary,’ he said. He became sombre. ‘We must put an end to this business, Matt.’

  Bartholomew led the way to the fallen tree in the orchard and, as Michael sat on the trunk eating his oatcakes, Bartholomew paced in front of him telling him what he had reasoned.

  ‘We need to consider two things,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘First, we need to establish the significance of these blue-green rings. And second, we must discover the identity of Norbert.’

  ‘What do you mean, discover his identity?’ asked M
ichael through a mouthful of crumbs. He brushed some off his habit, where they had been sprayed as he spoke.

  ‘He has assumed another identity,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Father William told me he became suspicious of Father Andrew’s credentials after he had attended one of his masses. He investigated him as only an ex-member of the Inquisition knows how, and discovered that the only Father Andrew from Stirling in Franciscan records died two months ago. William believes Andrew is an impostor.’

  ‘That gentle old man?’ choked Michael. ‘Never! Well, perhaps he might not be Father Andrew from Stirling but I find it hard to believe he is your Norbert.’

  ‘There are, however, four things that suggest Andrew is not all he seems,’ Bartholomew continued, ignoring Michael’s reaction. He scrubbed at his face tiredly and I tried to put his thoughts into a logical order. ‘First, he said he comes from Stirling. Now, his students, Robert and John, are also from Stirling, claiming to be the sons of a local landlord. I do not want to go into details, but they are nothing of the kind. The towns and villages in Scotland are small and people know each other. I find it hard to believe that Andrew, if he really is from Stirling, would not know that John and Robert’s family are not who they claim.’

  ‘Perhaps he does, but is maintaining silence for the sake of these lads,’ said Michael. ‘It would be in keeping with his character.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, disconcerted that the first of his carefully reasoned arguments had been so easily confounded. He tried again. ‘Second, when I last visited, Andrew had been writing in his room. His hands and face were covered in ink, like a child who first learns to write. No real scholar would ever make such a mess.’

  ‘And so, because he does not know how to control his quill, you think he is not a scholar. That is weak, Matt,’ warned Michael.

  Bartholomew pressed on. ‘Third, while all the students have alibis for Kenzie’s death and Werbergh’s, we did not think to ask the masters. Either Radbeche or Andrew are with the students almost every moment of the day, but where are Radbeche and Andrew when they are not acting nursemaid? We did not think to ask that.’