'So, what shall we do first?' said Bartholomew, walking with relief out of the cold church and into the hot sunshine outside. He brushed feathers from his gown and stretched stiffly.
'Back to College,' said Michael. 'You stink of that dead man, and it would not be tactful to question his family until you have changed. And anyway, I am hungry and you have students waiting for you.'
At Michaelhouse, Bartholomew washed and changed, giving his dirty clothes to the disapproving laundress.
"I cannot imagine what you have been up to these last few days,' Agatha grumbled. 'Filthy clothes, ripped shirts. You should know better at your age, Matthew.'
Bartholomew grinned at her as she pushed him out of the door. She watched him cross the yard towards the hall and allowed herself a rare smile. Agatha was fond of the physician, who had cured her of a painful foot that had been the bane of her life for years. She looked down at the dirty clothes and her smile faded: she hoped he was not doing anything dangerous.
She saw Gray and Deynman strolling across the yard and yelled at them in stentorian tones. 'Your master is waiting for you! He is a busy man and cannot be waiting around all day for you to wander into his lectures when you please!'
Gray and Deynman broke into a run and made for the conclave, where Bartholomew had already begun his lecture. He glanced at them, but said nothing as they hurriedly found seats and tried to bring their breathing under control. Bartholomew noted with satisfaction that the whole class was attentive, and when he sprung questions on them, they at least did not seem startled.
Some even gave him the correct answers.
The time passed quickly, and soon the bell was ringing to announce lectures were over for the day.
Bartholomew was surprised that the students listened to his final comments and did not immediately try to leave for the meal in the hall as they usually did. He stopped his pacing across the fireplace to address them.
'Tomorrow we must look again at diseases of the mouth. You may consider toothache to be an unimportant affliction, but it can make the patient's life a living hell. A toothache might be indicative of abscesses in the jaws, which can occasionally prove fatal to some people, by poisoning the blood. If I am late, I want you to consider dosages of different compounds that you might give to children who have painful swellings of the face, and what the possible causes of such swellings might be.'
He gave them an absent smile, his mind already busy making up such a list, and left. His students heaved a corporate sigh of relief.
'Another day survived!' said Gray, blowing out his cheeks and looking at the others.
'He is only trying to help us learn,' said Bulbeck defensively. 'He wants us to pass our disputations, and he wants us to become good physicians.'
Brother Boniface spat. 'He is teaching us contrary to the will of God. Why does he not teach us how to bleed patients? Why does he insist that we must always have a diagnosis? Some things are not meant to be known by man.'
'He does not believe that bleeding is beneficial,' said Gray. 'He told me that charlatans bleed patients when they do not know what else to do.'
Boniface snorted in derision. 'His teaching is heretical, and I do not like it. Give me a bottle of leeches and I could cure anything!'
Bulbeck laughed. 'Then tell Doctor Bartholomew that leeching is a cure for toothache in his lecture tomorrow,' he said.
Because Bartholomew had to see a patient, Michael went alone to hunt down the family of Marius Froissart. He asked the clerks in the church, but none of them knew where Froissart had lived. Somewhat irritably, he began to walk up Cambridge's only hill to the Castle to ask the Sheriff. The Sheriff had been called when Froissart had claimed sanctuary. Froissart could not, of course, be taken from the sanctuary of the church, but he had been questioned.
By the time Michael arrived, puffing and swearing at his enforced exercise, he was hot and crabby. He marched up to the Castle gate-house and pounded on the door. A lantern-jawed sergeant asked him his business, and Michael demanded an audience with the Sheriff. He was led across the bailey towards the round keep that stood on the motte. It was a grey, forbidding structure, and Michael felt hemmed in by the towering curtain walls and crenellated towers.
In the bailey a few soldiers practised sword-play in a half-hearted manner, while a larger group were gathered in the shade of the gate-house to play dice. Before the plague, the bailey had always seemed full of soldiers, but there were distinctly fewer now. Michael followed the-sergeant up wide spiral stairs to the second floor. As he took a seat in an antechamber, raised voices drifted from the Sheriffs office.
'But when?' roared a voice that Michael recognised as Stanmore's. The sergeant glanced uneasily at Michael but said nothing. There was a mumble from within as the Sheriff answered.
'But that is simply unacceptable!' responded Stanmore.
Michael stood and ambled closer to the door in an attempt to overhear the Sheriff s part of the conversation, but was almost knocked off his feet as the door was flung open and Stanmore stormed out. He saw Michael but was too furious to speak as he left. Before the sergeant could stop him, Michael strolled nonchalantly through the door Stanmore had left open.
The Sheriff stood behind a table, breathing heavily and clenching his fists. He glared at Michael, who smiled back benevolently.
'Master Tulyet,' said Michael, sitting down. 'How is your father, the Mayor?'
'My father is no longer Mayor,' growled Tulyet. He was a small man with wispy fair hair and a beard that was so blond it was all but invisible.
'Then how are you? How is your investigation of the whore murders?' asked Michael, knowing instinctively he would touch a raw nerve.
'That is the King's business and none of yours,' Tulyet snapped. Michael saw the Sheriffs hands tremble when he picked up his cup to drink, and when he put it back down again, there were clammy fingerprints smeared on the pewter.
'Have you traced that other murderer yet? What was his name? Froissart,' probed Michael, leaning back in the creaking chair.
Tulyet glared at him. 'He escaped sanctuary,' he said through gritted teeth. "I warned the guards that he might try, but they said they did not see him. I suppose they would not when they were asleep.'
'Who was it that he had killed?' asked Michael. 'A woman? And now a woman-killer stalks the night streets of Cambridge?'
'Marius Froissart is not the killer of the whores!' said Tulyet, exasperated. 'You believe that Froissart is the killer and that I lost him. Well, he is not the killer!
Froissart did not even have the sense to confess to the murder of his wife, even though a witness saw him commit the crime! He could not have the intelligence to outwit me over the whore murders.'
'Oh? Who saw him commit the crime?' asked Michael with interest.
'His neighbour, a MistressJanetta,' Tulyet said bitterly, 'although I am uncertain that her testimony is worth a great deal.'
Michael rose to leave. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You have been most helpful.'
Tulyet gaped at him. "I have?' he said. 'You have not told me what you want.'
Michael beamed and clapped him on the shoulder.
'Keep up the good work,' he said, his comment designed to antagonise, and he swept out of the room and into the Castle bailey. He sauntered over to the soldiers playing dice.
'Gambling is a device of the Devil, my children,' he said cheerfully. 'Were you playing dice when you should have been watching St Mary's Church?'
The soldiers exchanged furtive glances. 'No,' one lied easily. 'Froissart did not leave. The only person to go in or out was the friar.'
'What friar?' asked Michael, feeling his interest quicken.
'The friar that visited Froissart in the church,' said the soldier with exaggerated patience.
'What time was this?' Michael asked.
The soldier squinted up at him. 'About an hour after the church was locked. It was dark by then, and we did not see him until he was almost on top of us.' He turned b
ack to his game and threw his dice.
'Did you know him?'
The soldier shook his head, handing over a few pennies to one of his comrades, who laughed triumphantly. 'He said his name was Father Lucius, and when he shouted his name, Froissart opened the door and let him in.'
'What did he look like?'
The soldier shrugged. 'Like a friar! Mean-looking with a big nose, and a dirty grey robe with the cowl pulled up over his head.'
Michael nodded. If he were wearing a grey robe, he must have been a Franciscan. 'Did you see him leave?'
'Yes. After about an hour. He warned us about gambling, and left' The soldier took the dice from his neighbour and threw them again. There was a series of catcalls as he lost a second time.
Michael sketched a quick benediction over them and strolled away. He had enjoyed making Tulyet give him the information he wanted by needling him into indiscretion.
Michael had discovered not only where Froissart lived, but the identity of the neighbour who had witnessed his crime. From Tulyet's men, Michael had also discovered the identity of Froissart's murderer: the mysterious friar.
He hummed a song from the taverns that he should not have known, and walked back down the hill a lot more happily than he had walked up it.
He saw Bartholomew talking to two Austin Canons outside the Hospital of St John the Evangelist as he turned from Bridge Street into the High Street. In fine humour he strolled across and greeted them.
Bartholomew looked at him suspiciously and quickly concluded his conversation with the Canons.
'What have you been up to?' Bartholomew asked suspiciously. 'You are not usually so cheery after climbing Castle Hill/ Michael toldhim, while Bartholomew listened thoughtfully.
"I know Richard Tulyet. He is not a bad man and, until recently, has been a good Sheriff. I hope you did not offend him. We might need his goodwill at some point'
Michael hastily changed the subject to the Franciscan friar. 'How many do you know that are mean-looking and have big noses?' he said.
'Just about all of them,' said Bartholomew drily. 'We have at least five in Michaelhouse who match that description.'
Michael laughed. 'Shall we go and visit your Janetta, and Froissart's family?' he asked.
'We shall not!' said Bartholomew feelingly. 'It will be dark soon, and I have no desire to be there after curfew. De Wetherset's men can bring them to us tomorrow. I have had enough for today, and we have a very early start tomorrow when we exhume Nicholas.'
They began to walk back to Michaelhouse, stopping on the way for Michael to buy a large apple pie from a baker hastening to sell the last of his produce before trading ceased for the day. The sun was beginning to set, and weary tradesmen and apprentices were trailing in from the Fair.
'So Froissart knew his murderer,' said Michael, his mouth full.
'Possibly,' said Bartholomew. 'It is not absolutely certain that the Franciscan killed him. If Froissart allowed the Franciscan into the church, he may have let others in too while the soldiers were busy with their dice. And would one mean-looking friar have the strength to carry Froissart up to the tower and nail him to the bell frame?' "I wonder whether Froissart fled up your path between the bushes from the scene of his crime to the church?' mused Michael. "I wonder why Janetta of Lincoln went to such pains to hide it? Knowing what we do, I suspect that the only reason she intervened when the mob attacked you was because she is intelligent enough to know that two murders — yours and Froissart's wife — within a few days of each other might bring the unwanted attention of Tulyet's officers into her small domain. The death of Froissart's wife may have saved you, Matt'
Bartholomew sighed. "I want to read some Hippocrates tonight before the light fades completely. You could go to the Franciscan Friary and see if anyone there attended Froissart on the night of his death. The Franciscan's visit might be entirely innocent, and we should at least try to find out'
Michael rubbed his hands. 'It is turning chilly,' he said, 'and not a red cloud to be seen. It will be raining when you dig up poor Nicholas tomorrow morning, Matt. You mark my words.'
6
The porter was asleep in his small office when Bartholomew unbarred the wicket gate and stepped out into the lane long before dawn the following day. The night before, Kenyngham had enquired about the investigation concerning the body in the University chest, and Michael had given him a brief outline of what had happened, dutifully omitting any reference to Froissart and Nicholas's book. Kenyngham mentioned that the Chancellor had asked that they be relieved of teaching until further notice, a request of which he did not approve. It was relatively easy to find teachers of theology to take Michael's place, but there was no one who could teach medicine.
Kenyngham instructed them to complete the business as soon as possible and to return to their obligations at the College.
"I am uncomfortable with the College becoming involved in this,' he had said. 'The relationship between town and University is unstable, and I do not want Michaelhouse to become a scapegoat. It is bad enough having to share St Michael's Church with Physwick Hostel — the Chancellor and both Proctors have connections there, and none but Jonstan are popular men.'
Bartholomew agreed. 'Perhaps relations may improve once the killer of these women is caught.'
'Ah, yes,' said Kenyngham. 'The man Tulyet allowed to escape.' Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance.
'That is not helping with University-town relations either.
There is a rumour that he is being sheltered by one of the Colleges because the university does not approve of students visiting prostitutes.'
'That is an unreasonable assumption,' said Bartholomew.
'Women will always sell themselves so long as there is a demand.'
'I am not questioning the logic of the rumour, but of the damage it might do to us,' said Kenyngham, more impatiently than Bartholomew had heard him speak before. He must be concerned indeed, Bartholomew realised, for there was little that usually disturbed the gentle Gilbertine's equanimity.
Kenyngham continued. 'Michaelhouse is already the target for evil happenings. That business with the back gate worries me. We were lucky you and Cynric were to hand to save us all from being burned in our beds.
Do you have any ideas as to why an attack should be aimed at us?'
Bartholomew and Michael shook their heads. 'It could only have been meant as some kind of warning,' said Michael. 'Perhaps it was not aimed at Michaelhouse at all, but at someone who uses the lane.'
'Really?' asked Kenyngham doubtfully. 'Like one of the merchants going to the wharves by the river?'
'It is possible,' said Michael. 'Such pyrotechnics need wood, and our gate is the only wood available.'
Kenyngham sighed. 'Well, I do not like it. I have asked that the Proctors set a beadle at the back gate until all this is resolved, and have stipulated that no one is allowed out of College after curfew for any reason except you two. The Bishop would not approve of me confining his best spy,' he said to Michael, 'and your work among the poor, Matthew, is very beneficial in maintaining good relations between us and the townspeople. So just remember that when you dispense some of your outlandish treatments. You might consider being more orthodox until this business is resolved.'
Bartholomew looked at him in bemusement, uncertain whether to be angry or amused that his work among the sick was being used as a political tool to placate the townspeople.
He mulled over Kenyngham's words as he waited for Michael and Cynric to join him, and glanced up at the low clouds that drenched the town with heavy rain. Michael's prediction had been right. Bartholomew pulled up the hood of his cloak and paced restlessly. The more he thought about what they were about to do, the more he felt it was terribly wrong. He was not averse to performing the exhumation in itself- he had seen far worse sights in his life — but he was afraid of the diseases the corpse might unleash. While he did not believe that supernatural powers opened the graves of the dead to bring the plag
ue, he was reluctant to dismiss the rumour out of hand. When the consequences of an action might be as potentially devastating as a return of the plague, any risk, however small, was simply too great. He almost yelled out as a shadow glided up to him from behind.
'Easy, lad,' said Cynric, his teeth glinting white in a brief smile in the gloom.
'Do you have the lamp and rope?' Bartholomew asked, to hide his nervousness.
'And spades,' said Cynric. 'Stay here while I rouse that fat monk. He is probably still asleep.'
Bartholomew cursed softly as the first trickle of cold water coursed down the back of his neck. He closed his eyes against a sharp gust of wind that blew stinging rain into his face. What better conditions for an exhumation? he thought morosely. He remembered the murderer of the town prostitutes, the friar, and Froissart, and looked around uneasily. He hoped the night was sufficiently foul for murderers to want to be in their beds.
He almost cried out a second time as a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.
'Master Jonstan!' said Michael cheerfully, approaching and addressing the Junior Proctor who had given Bartholomew the fright. 'Were you told we have business tonight?'
Jonstan nodded. 'I have the licence here, signed by the Chancellor and the Bishop,' he said, waving a folded piece of vellum at them.
'Wonderful!' muttered Bartholomew irritably to Michael, his heart still thudding from the shock the Junior Proctor had given him. 'We may be about to risk the lives of hundreds of people by exhuming corpses, but all is well as long as we do so legally.'
'Believe me, Matt, I am as reluctant to do this as you are,' Michael replied. 'But the Chancellor has issued an order, and the Bishop's signature is confirmation that we have no alternative but to comply. Moaning about it will do no good at all.'
He took the bucket and a length of rope from Cynric, and set off up the lane towards St Mary's Church. Jonstan slipped away to instruct his beadles to stay at the College until he returned, while Bartholomew picked up a spade and trailed morosely after Michael, wishing the rain would stop. The single trickle of cold water down his back seemed to have developed into a deluge, and he was already shivering uncontrollably.
An Unholy Alliance Page 12
