‘But Bateman was not a successful diplomatist,’ said Bartholomew. He stood up and started walking again. ‘Perhaps the King wanted rid of him, without the inconvenience of saying why.’
‘Well, if he did, my grandmother did not oblige him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She does not murder well-regarded prelates.’
The tone of his voice suggested she might well dispatch a couple of unpopular ones, though, and Bartholomew supposed the haughty and irascible Bishop of Ely had better watch himself if Dame Pelagia was back in the country.
‘Here is Gonville,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to end the discussion before it ranged too far into uncharted waters. ‘We should not discuss the murder of their founder when they might overhear us.’
‘Especially if you accuse my grandmother of doing it,’ said Michael huffily.
‘Are you not concerned for her?’ asked Bartholomew, knocking at Gonville’s gate. He did so tentatively, and his soft tap was unlikely to be heard by any but the most sharp-eared of gatekeepers. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer seem to blame her for their exile, and I am worried about the fact that she has chosen to stay with Matilde. If they attack Dame Pelagia, then Matilde may be hurt.’
‘She only intends to impose herself on Matilde for one night,’ said Michael. ‘She has other arrangements for the rest of her stay here.’
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew. He regarded the monk uneasily. ‘Not at Michaelhouse?’
Michael snorted his laughter. ‘Of course not! How could she stay in a College that only admits men? I know her disguises are legendary, and she could pass herself off as a travelling academic, if she was so inclined. But she is almost eighty years old, and she yearns for a little comfort in her old age. She will stay with Mayor Morice.’
Bartholomew was unable to prevent himself from gaping. ‘With Morice? But why?’
‘Because he has the best house in Cambridge, why else? His corruption has made him a rich man, and he can offer a high level of accommodation that is unavailable elsewhere. Deschalers would have been her first choice – he was wealthier still – but she can hardly claim his hospitality now he is dead.’
‘Does Morice know who she is?’
‘He knows she has the ear of the King, and that is enough for him to welcome her. Morice has many enemies – folk he has cheated and deceived over the years – so his house is sturdily built and protected like a fortress. It is a very safe place for her to be.’
Bartholomew did not know what to think. Perhaps news of Morice’s brazen dishonesty had reached royal ears, and Dame Pelagia had another, more sinister, reason for demanding the Mayor’s hospitality. It also occurred to him that it had been Morice’s letter to the King’s Bench that had tipped the appeal in Mortimer and Thorpe’s favour, and had gone a long way towards getting them their royal pardons. He wondered whether Morice would survive the visit, or whether he would die in some mysterious accident before his enigmatic guest finally took her leave of the town.
Michael hammered on the sturdy oaken gate, seeing no one was going to reply to the physician’s polite raps. They exchanged an unhappy glance while they waited, neither looking forward to the task of prising personal secrets from Bottisham’s friends.
Gonville Hall comprised two stone mansions linked by a central gatehouse. The upper floor of the smaller house held the College library, which Bartholomew coveted – Michaelhouse’s ‘library’ comprised a couple of shelves in the conclave and hall. Gonville’s books were housed in a handsome room that boasted polished wooden floors and a hearth where there was nearly always a fire. The chamber was usually peaceful, since teaching was conducted in the hall below, and Bartholomew imagined it would be an excellent place to study, away from distractions.
Adjacent to the library were the foundations for the new chapel. Bartholomew could see them through gaps in the wood of the gate. It was to be a substantial structure, and he wondered how it would be funded now that Bishop Bateman was dead.
Michael pounded on the gate yet again, claiming no College had the right to keep the Senior Proctor waiting. There was a grille set in the door, and Bartholomew saw it open very slowly, as if the person peering out did not want the visitors to know they were being examined. It did not escape Michael’s attention, however.
‘Let me in,’ he ordered, thrusting his large face close to the opening. ‘I have come to talk to you about Bottisham.’
‘Brother Michael,’ said the watcher with relief, and there were loud clicks as a key was turned in a lock. ‘I am sorry. But one cannot be too careful these days – what with pardoned exiles strutting around freely.’
‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Michael, easing himself through the gate. Bartholomew followed, and watched while the scholar secured it again. ‘I heard what happened to you.’
The scholar on gate duty that day was John of Ufford. Bartholomew recalled Redmeadow telling him that Mortimer and Thorpe had picked a fight with Ufford, and folk had been surprised when he was trounced. Ufford was the son of an earl, and therefore trained in the arts of swordplay, battle tactics and horsemanship. The fact that the two exiles had beaten him said a good deal for the skills they had learned in France. Ufford had a cut on his nose, and was limping. The sore on his mouth had all but healed, though, and Bartholomew supposed he had taken his advice about its care when they had met before the Disputatio de quodlibet.
‘I was not even doing anything,’ said Ufford indignantly. ‘I was outside St Mary the Great, thanking the Hand for not letting me contract leprosy, when they started to pick on me. I drew my dagger, thinking the sight of it would see them off, but they pulled out their own and I was defeated.’ He shook his head, as if he could not imagine how such a thing had happened.
‘Then you must have been dismayed when you learned Thorpe had inveigled himself a home in your own College,’ said Michael.
Ufford grimaced. ‘I was not dismayed – I was furious! But, fortunately for all concerned, Thorpe is rarely here. I think he just wanted to prove to his father that he could secure his own place in the University. It is common knowledge that Valence Marie refused to accept him.’
‘Where is your Master?’ asked Michael, looking around at a College that appeared to be deserted. ‘We need to ask him questions about Bottisham, and I was told all the Fellows would be here today.’
‘Master Colton is – was – with Bishop Bateman at Avignon,’ replied Ufford. ‘He has been the Bishop’s chief clerk for some years now. Their relationship is rather like the one you enjoy with the Bishop of Ely, Brother – except that Colton does not spy for Bateman, and you probably do not want to be your bishop’s replacement.’
Michael stared at him, amusement glinting in the depths of the green eyes that were so uncannily like his grandmother’s. ‘You speak very plainly, Ufford! However, I assure you that I do not spy for the Bishop of Ely, nor would I refuse his see, should it ever be offered to me. But I had forgotten Colton is away. How do you manage without him?’
‘We are used to his absences, and the College is run very ably by Acting Master Pulham.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘It must have been a bitter blow for you to learn of Bateman’s death.’
‘Very bitter,’ agreed Ufford. ‘He was a good man, and generous to us. But you are in luck, Brother. Here are my colleagues now, back from their devotions at St Mary the Great.’
Bartholomew watched Ufford open the gate a second time, to allow the scholars of Gonville Hall inside. They were a neat, sober group, older than those at most other Colleges and hostels, because they had been selected by Bishop Bateman himself – and Bateman had a preference for established scholars over young students. His reasons were understandable: older men were less inclined to join in the frequent brawls that marred the town, and so were less likely to bring his institution into disrepute.
Bartholomew recognised all the Fellows at the head of the procession, and a few of the students behind. Leading the way was Acting Master Pulham with his Cistercia
n habit and colossal ears, while Rougham the physician was close on his heels. Next came a gentle friar called Henry of Thompson, who hailed from a famous college of priests in south Norfolk. Finally, there was a nobleman named Henry Despenser, who was said to be destined for great things in the Church.
‘Brother Michael,’ said Pulham genially. ‘I am sorry we were not available to see you yesterday. Come to our library for a cup of warmed ale. And while we are there, you might care to inspect a tome or two. We sold Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum to the Chancellor yesterday, and you might be interested in other items we have for sale.’ He sounded hopeful.
‘You are selling your books?’ asked Bartholomew, who would rather have starved than part with one of his own. He thought about the large and extravagant meals for which Gonville was famous, and wondered why they did not economise on food instead. ‘Why?’
‘Just the few we do not use,’ replied Pulham. ‘To raise funds for our chapel.’
‘We will soon have the books from Bateman’s private library,’ said Rougham boastfully. ‘He is certain to have remembered us in his will. So, we are ridding ourselves of rubbish we would never consider using anyway – like the Bacon, and the Trotula scroll I sold to that whore.’ He glanced at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye, so the physician was sure his words were intentionally insulting on two fronts: Bartholomew’s fondness for unorthodox medicine and for Matilde.
He rose to the bait, ignoring Michael’s warning elbow in the ribs. Some discourtesies were simply too grave to be ignored. ‘No gentleman slanders a lady’s good name,’ he said coldly. ‘Your slur reflects more poorly on you than it does on her.’
Rougham glowered. ‘Are you questioning my breeding, sir?’ he demanded archly.
‘If your breeding is reflected in your manners, then I am,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is—’
‘Warm ale, did you say?’ interrupted Michael, in an attempt to prevent a quarrel. He wanted the Gonville Fellows’ co-operation in the matter of Bottisham’s death. ‘In the library?’
‘This way,’ said Pulham hastily, indicating the direction with his hand. But Rougham was not to be silenced.
‘Trotula is foreign rubbish,’ he said, following the Acting Master across the yard, although he had the sense to let the matter lie regarding Matilde. ‘I only ever use Latin or Greek texts in my classes.’
‘They are foreign,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Ancient Greece was very different to the Greece of today,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘And Trotula was from Salerno.’ The tone of his voice made it sound akin to Sodom or Gomorrah. ‘Her medical knowledge was confined to adultery and poisoning. Just like the Arabs, in fact.’
Bartholomew gazed at him, somewhat startled. Rougham knew Bartholomew’s own teacher had been an Arab – many of the ‘unorthodox’ treatments he had learned from Ibn Ibrahim had actually been known in the eastern world for centuries – and so his comments were clearly intended to be offensive. The expression on Rougham’s face was challenging, but Bartholomew quickly suppressed the raft of tart responses that flooded into his mind, and decided to ignore the man. He assumed Rougham was just in a bad mood, and his inflammatory statements were not worth arguing over – especially if to do so would interfere with the investigation into Bottisham’s death.
They entered the library, and sat on the benches that had been placed around the walls. A fire was burning in the hearth, and the room smelled of peat smoke, polished wood and ancient parchment. It was an agreeable aroma, and one that reminded Bartholomew of his Oxford days, when he had studied long hours in the library at Merton. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself back there, unplagued by worries like purchasing medicines for impoverished patients, bitter rival physicians, and the violent deaths of colleagues. It was peaceful; the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of a page turning.
Pulham fussed over jugs and goblets, then presented his guests with cups so full he was obliged to carry each in both hands, gnawing at his lower lip as he concentrated on not spilling any.
‘As you have probably surmised, we are here to talk about Bottisham,’ said Michael, when he had drained his goblet dry to prevent accidents. He did not approve of liquids near books. ‘We are deeply sorry about what happened to him. He was a kindly man, and he will be missed.’
‘Kindly?’ asked Rougham icily. ‘How do you know what he was like?’
Bartholomew wished the man would go away, since he was not prepared to be polite. ‘He gave me a gold noble to buy medicine for Godric of Ovyng Hostel a few weeks ago. Godric was bitten by a dog and the wound festered, but Ovyng did not have the money for salves. Bottisham has been helping Isnard and Mistress Lenne, too.’
Rougham stared at him angrily. ‘I did not know any of this. Why was I not called to attend this Godric? And why did Bottisham dispense funds to help men from other hostels, when we have a chapel to build?’
Bartholomew saw he should have remained quiet about Bottisham’s quiet generosity. Most men would have been impressed to learn that someone they knew had acted in an anonymously charitable manner, but Rougham seemed intent on being antagonistic that morning. Bartholomew decided it would be better for everyone if he did not dignify the man’s curt questions with a reply.
‘Bottisham was a good man,’ said Pulham. He smiled at Rougham in an attempt to placate him. ‘Perhaps he left us something in his will. Then we can rid ourselves of young Thorpe.’
‘You should not have accepted Thorpe as a student,’ said Michael. The monk had changed the subject, reluctant to begin an interrogation in which he would demand to know whether Bottisham had been involved in something sinister that had led to his odd death in the King’s Mill. ‘His presence in your College will only end in tears.’
‘He was persistent,’ explained Pulham. ‘He was determined to become a scholar, so I thought we may as well take his fees, since we are currently short of funds. He offered to sew us an altar cloth and chasuble if we took him. Besides, he does not want to live here, just to study occasionally.’
‘You will find yourselves the losers,’ warned Michael.
‘I certainly did,’ muttered Ufford, touching the cut on his nose.
‘Did you make an official complaint about this attack on you?’ asked Michael. ‘To the Sheriff or one of my beadles?’
Ufford pulled a disagreeable face. ‘There was no point. I am a lawyer, and I know any King’s Pardon is absolute. Complaints about Thorpe or Edward will just be seen as sour grapes. They are untouchable. Look what else they did to me.’
He pulled up his tabard to reveal a knee that was bruised and swollen. Bartholomew winced, knowing such an injury would make walking painful.
‘They stamped on it, when I was down,’ said Ufford, the indignation in his voice making it clear what he thought of their ungentlemanly conduct.
‘You did not tell me why they picked on you,’ said Michael. ‘Did you say something to antagonise them? They are spoiling for a fight, so it would not be difficult to do.’
‘I was praying to the Hand,’ said Ufford resentfully. ‘They had no right to resort to violence. I gave them no cause to do so – ask anyone. Several Michaelhouse students saw what happened. They will tell you I was an innocent victim of a gratuitous attack.’
Michael was disapproving. ‘I know the Hand is revered in some quarters, but I did not imagine the scholars of Gonville Hall to be among its foolish admirers.’
‘We are not,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘Most of us know it came from Peterkin Starre the simpleton.’
‘The Hand is imbued with healing powers,’ argued Rougham, fixing his colleague with an angry glare. ‘I often send my patients there when all else fails. Some have been cured instantly. Look at Ufford. He was on the verge of leprosy, but has been reprieved by the Hand’s intervention.’
‘Why should Thorpe and Mortimer object to your prayers to the Hand?’ asked Bartholomew of Ufford. He was proud of himself for not
telling Rougham that his diagnosis was absurd.
‘Thorpe was telling people that the Hand should not be locked away in the University Church,’ replied Ufford. ‘He said it should be somewhere more public. Foolishly, I ventured the opinion that it was all right where it was, and that it should not be moved. St Mary the Great is a fine, strong church, and Father William is an honest guardian, who never refuses anyone access to it – scholar or townsman.’
‘Thorpe fought you over the location of a false relic?’ asked Michael incredulously.
‘No, Brother,’ replied Ufford gravely. ‘He fought me over the Hand of Valence Marie. It is not a false relic, and in time it will make Cambridge a site of great pilgrimage.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ muttered Michael.
‘If the Hand is so powerful, then why is your nose cut and your leg swollen?’ asked Bartholomew archly, although the question was really aimed at Rougham. ‘Surely, you should be cured?’
‘I have not been to visit it since the attack,’ explained Ufford simply. ‘Rougham calculated my horoscope and he says it is not safe for me to leave the College for another two days.’
Rougham looked smug. Bartholomew thought Ufford would have benefited more from a poultice of powdered knapweed root and warm beeswax, but he held his tongue.
‘The Hand did not intercede for Deschalers,’ said Pulham to Rougham. ‘Even I could see that he had the taint of death about him. He told me you recommended a private audience with the relic, but afterwards, he became more ill than ever.’
‘He had a canker in the bowels,’ said Rougham. ‘I did suggest a visit to the Hand, but his sins must have been too great, for his prayers went unanswered. I knew he was not long for this world, although it is unfortunate he was deprived of his last few weeks by a nail.’
‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Was he depressed about his condition, do you think?’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 19
