Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Good,’ smirked Uyten. ‘They are—’

  ‘And you will return to Winwick.’ Bartholomew whipped around to glower at him. Several of the matriculands began to object, but he overrode them. ‘Out, all of you! Now!’

  He stood scowling, first at one faction and then the other, acutely aware that if one individual chose to defy him, there would be a fight, and he was likely to be the first casualty. Then Uyten gave a cool nod and walked away, his cronies at his heels. Richard prepared to follow, but Bartholomew stepped into his path and pointed wordlessly at the back door. With luck, the matriculands would be gone by the time his nephew and the apprentices had navigated their way across a dark and unfamiliar yard.

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Isnard, regarding him askance. ‘I had no idea you were such a lion, Doctor. Those tales about your valour at the Battle of Poitiers must be true after all.’

  ‘Yes, he is wasted as a physician,’ agreed Cynric proudly. ‘He should be sheriff.’

  Bartholomew stalked into the yard, where Edith’s lads were milling about, trying to locate the gate in the gloom. He grabbed Richard’s arm, and shoved him against a wall.

  ‘You made Edith cry today,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Mind your own business. And if you ever speak to me in public like that again, I will…’ Richard pulled away furiously. ‘Just stay away from me.’

  Bartholomew stared at him, wrath slowly turning to sadness. ‘What has happened to you, Richard? What changed you from my nephew into someone I no longer recognise?’

  ‘I realised that life is for living. It is a lesson my father should have heeded, because then he might still be alive. He tried too hard to be virtuous. He should have let Zachary Steward run his business, and enjoyed a well deserved retirement. Instead, he drove himself into an early grave, just so he could feed a lot of ungrateful beggars and widows.’

  Bartholomew almost laughed at the notion that his brother-in-law’s dedication to commerce had been motivated by altruism, while the claim that he was ‘too virtuous’ was patently absurd, as Edith was learning from sorting through his documents.

  ‘He was too good for Cambridge,’ Richard went on. ‘And too good for her as well. She never really appreciated his worth, and now she delves into his affairs looking for evidence of—’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘She loved him deeply.’

  ‘Then she has an odd way of showing it. She should be grieving for him, not probing his finances, looking for inconsistences. She told me today that she plans to ask you for help. However, I can tell you now that if you do, you will be sorry. You will leave my father in peace, or else!’

  ‘What did he say to you?’ asked Cynric, as he and Bartholomew resumed their journey to Fulbut’s house. Dusk had turned to night, so it was difficult to see where they were going in a part of the town that had few houses and fewer lights.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew curtly, unwilling to admit that he had been threatened. Perhaps Richard was drunk, and would apologise the next time they met. Unfortunately, he had the sickening suspicion that their relationship had just crossed a line that would change it for ever, and the thought depressed him profoundly.

  ‘You should have clouted him,’ said Cynric. ‘And then told him not to squander his inheritance on drink and foolish friends. Did you see Goodwyn lurking in the shadows, by the way? Him and the other new lads who want to study medicine with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘They were with Richard?’

  ‘With Uyten. They made themselves scarce when you walked in, but I am sure they would have joined in any skirmish.’

  Bartholomew’s thoughts were bleak as he followed Cynric down an alley that reeked of urine, and in which the distinctive rustle of rats among rubbish could be heard. It was not long before the book-bearer slowed, indicating with a low hiss that the physician should tread with care. However, it quickly became apparent that stealth was unnecessary, because Fulbut was holding a party, and drunken yells, the laughter of coarse women, and the sound of someone trying to play a bone whistle cut through the silence of the night. Michael and Meadowman emerged from the gloom, two more beadles at their heels.

  ‘I have learned that Fulbut has only been home for a few days,’ Meadowman explained in a whisper. ‘But this soirée is to let him carouse with old friends before he leaves again. Three barrels of ale have been delivered, along with the best part of a roasted pig. He has invited at least a dozen friends, as well as a goodly number of Frail Sisters … I mean prostitutes.’

  ‘Twelve is too many – we are only six,’ said Cynric. ‘Can you send for reinforcements, Brother?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘We shall have skirmishes for certain if we pull any more peacekeepers from their patrols. I am afraid we must manage with what we have.’

  ‘Then we shall have to wait until the party is over,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Nothing will be gained from challenging Fulbut while he is surrounded by friends.’

  ‘We can take them,’ said Meadowman confidently. ‘You and Cynric fought the French at Poitiers, and are worth ten of the villains in there. We will win with ease.’

  ‘No, we will not,’ countered Bartholomew, frowning at Cynric, whose tales of the battle had grown with the telling, so that they had now reached the point where the rest of the English army might as well have stayed at home. In reality, Bartholomew had comported himself adequately, but had been far more useful afterwards, when his ministrations had saved a number of lives.

  ‘Matt is right,’ sighed Michael. ‘And we cannot leave and come back again, lest Fulbut slips away in the interim. We shall have to lurk out here, which is a wretched waste of time. Go and listen at the window, Cynric. Perhaps the villain will brag about who paid him to shoot my Junior Proctor.’

  Cynric went to oblige, but Bartholomew and Michael soon grew tired of crouching motionless in the scrubby bushes that passed as the mercenary’s garden, and crept forward to eavesdrop themselves. Unfortunately, Fulbut was more interested in chatting to the women than recounting his misdeeds, and they learned nothing at all. Time passed, and they grew colder and stiffer, their misery intensifying when it began to rain.

  ‘I could be preparing lectures,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Or checking my experiments on the food that was sent to you and Hemmysby. Or even sleeping.’

  ‘Sleeping?’ whispered Cynric. ‘But this is fun! Where is your sense of adventure, boy?’

  Bartholomew was about to inform him that skulking in the wet outside people’s houses was not his idea of good entertainment when the shutter above his head was thrown open. He and Cynric managed to duck out of sight, but Michael’s startled face was clearly illuminated by the light that spilled out. Luckily, the revellers were too drunk to notice.

  ‘That is better,’ came a voice Bartholomew recognised: Noll Verius. ‘It is hot in here.’

  ‘Not him!’ groaned Michael. ‘Who will sing the solo on Tuesday if he is arrested for hobnobbing with assassins?’

  Cynric elbowed him in alarm, warning him to be silent, although the chances of being heard over the raucous yells and hoots within were remote. Bartholomew stood, careful to keep in the shadows, and peered inside. Verius was by the hearth, opposite Fulbut, who transpired to be a wiry, unkempt person with bad teeth. Their companions were rough, soldierly types who wore their hoods up, even indoors. Bartholomew could see one or two faces, but none he recognised.

  ‘My physician tells me that I may lose the feeling in my thumb,’ Verius was saying. He scowled. ‘King’s Hall had no right to put glass in its windows. It is unfair to those who want to climb through them.’

  ‘So that is how he was injured,’ muttered Bartholomew, dropping back down to talk to his companions. ‘Not in a ditch, as he told his wife. Warden Shropham said the culprit had cut himself when he broke in, and I should have guessed the significance of Verius’s wound.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ agreed Cynric
. ‘Because it means that Verius is the rogue who has been robbing the town. Potmoor is innocent.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘There have been so many crimes that I suspect there is more than one burglar at work. Moreover, King’s Hall lost a pewter jug, whereas we lost the Stanton Hutch. Those are hardly in the same class.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘The other Colleges and many townsfolk have been relieved of coins, jewellery and silver plate. King’s Hall probably was targeted by a different thief.’ He thought about the day he had sewed the ditcher’s hand back together. ‘In his stupor, Verius babbled about the “money soldier”. He must have meant Fulbut the mercenary.’

  ‘He said that?’ hissed Meadowman irritably. ‘You might have mentioned it! Do you have any idea how many hours I have spent tracking this man?’

  ‘What else did Verius say?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘However, Holm was there. It is obvious why, of course.’

  ‘It is?’ asked Michael warily.

  ‘I wondered at the time why he came, when there was no question of him being paid, and he rarely performs surgery anyway. He had heard that Verius was drunk and wanted to be on hand to ensure that nothing was blurted to incriminate him – and if that failed, be ready to say it was meaningless babble. I have said from the start that Holm is a dangerous man, and this is proof of it.’

  ‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘And—’

  He stopped speaking when there was a chorus of disappointed cries from the house. The second barrel had been broached, but it and the third were sour, unpalatable even to hardened imbibers. Without alcohol, the party soon fizzled out. The prostitutes took their leave and, deprived of their company, the men prepared to follow. Fulbut began to pack a bag, while the others heaved bundles of belongings over their shoulders and made their farewells to Verius.

  ‘They will go to the Fens,’ predicted Cynric. ‘Where Fulbut will disappear again. We shall have to tackle him with his friends after all.’

  A cudgel appeared in Meadowman’s hand. ‘Well, then. Are we ready?’

  ‘No!’ whispered Bartholomew fiercely. ‘They still outnumber us two to one.’

  ‘Most will disappear at the first sign of trouble,’ declared Meadowman. ‘I know their kind. They will drink Fulbut’s ale and enjoy his whores, but they will not fight for him. Besides, they are too drunk to be a serious threat. Now, Cynric and I will make sure he does not slip out the back, while you four storm the front.’

  ‘They are not drunk,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Not on one barrel of ale. And they look like warriors to me. They are unlikely to run from a skirmish.’

  ‘But we cannot let Fulbut escape,’ said Michael desperately. ‘We need answers. We have no choice but to nab him now.’

  ‘This is madness,’ objected Bartholomew, but Meadowman and Cynric had already disappeared, and Michael raised his hand for silence. And then everything happened very fast.

  A bloodcurdling yell from the back of the house told them that Cynric and Meadowman had attacked, and there was an immediate clash of arms. The front door flew open with such force that Michael was sent flying, and Verius emerged holding a sword. It was dark, and Bartholomew knew the ditcher would not see that it was his choirmaster he was about to impale. Bartholomew darted forward with his childbirth forceps – a heavy piece of equipment that had served as a weapon far more often than a medical instrument – but Verius swept them from his hands with ease.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Think of your wife. What will she do if you hang for murder?’

  But bloodlust burned in Verius’s eyes, and he did not hear. He swung his weapon with such force that the blade whistled as it cut through the air. Bartholomew jerked back, then charged at the ditcher before he could regain his balance. Verius swayed for a moment before crashing to the ground, dragging the physician with him. Bartholomew’s medical bag burst open, sending pots, packets and bandages scattering in all directions.

  He heard Cynric’s wild Welsh battle cry, along with the ring of steel against steel, sounds that told him Meadowman’s prediction was wrong – Fulbut’s friends had stayed to fight. Then all his attention was taken by Verius, who was trying to stab him. In an instinctive move that shocked the physician in him, Bartholomew grabbed Verius’s injured thumb and twisted. While the ditcher bellowed in pain, Bartholomew scrambled away, feet and hands skidding on the contents of his bag. The twine on Marjory Starre’s charm entangled itself around his fingers.

  Verius grabbed Bartholomew’s leg, and hauled him backwards. The physician ducked the first punch, and to prevent the ham-sized fist from swinging again, he lashed out with the talisman. There was an unpleasant thwack as it hit Verius’s nose, and the ditcher crumpled to the ground. Appalled by the sound it had made, Bartholomew knelt next to him and felt for a pulse.

  ‘Verius is dead,’ came a shrill shriek from behind. ‘And they are defiling his corpse!’

  Bartholomew started to say that he was doing nothing of the kind, but the shout had caused panic. Men began to race away, a mad stampede that knocked him head over heels. By the time his wits had stopped reeling, the night was still and silent. He sat up slowly, and was scrabbling for a weapon when someone loomed over him.

  ‘It is only me, boy,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You?’

  ‘No, although Meadowman has a slashed arm. You can sew him up in a moment. But first you had better see to Fulbut.’

  Dazed, Bartholomew climbed to his feet, noting that Verius’s ‘corpse’ had run off with its cronies. He sincerely hoped he would not be credited with a second resurrection. He followed Cynric into the house, which reeked of spilt ale and the pig that still roasted over the fire.

  Meadowman was clutching his wrist, but nodded to say that Bartholomew should tend Fulbut first. The mercenary was near the hearth, a tankard in one hand and a piece of meat in the other – he had been so confident his cronies would win the fracas that he had not bothered to join in himself, and had passed the time eating and drinking. So why was he breathing shallowly, with blood frothing through his lips?

  ‘Save him, Matt,’ ordered Michael urgently. ‘He cannot die yet.’

  ‘Give him some of that salt almanac,’ suggested Meadowman.

  Bartholomew examined Fulbut quickly. ‘A blade has penetrated his lung,’ he explained to Michael. ‘It is filling with blood, and there is nothing I can do for him.’

  ‘Then ask whether he wants Extreme Unction,’ said Michael heavily.

  Monks were not priests, but Michael had been granted special dispensation to give last rites during the plague, when men qualified to perform such services had been in desperately short supply, and he had continued the practice since. While he busied himself with chrism and stole, Bartholomew eased the mercenary into a more comfortable position.

  ‘Bastard,’ muttered Fulbut between gritted teeth. He spoke with the musical inflection of a man from near the Scottish border. ‘I should not … have trusted him.’

  ‘Trusted whom?’ asked Michael, leaning close to hear. It was not easy: Fulbut had very little breath, and his voice was no more than a rustle.

  ‘The man who … hired me. He told me … to stay away after Felbrigge … But this is … my home now … I miss it … so I came … back.’

  ‘Who gave you these orders?’ demanded Michael, seeing the mercenary was fading fast. He put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, then glanced at Bartholomew in despair.

  ‘He is rambling! He just told me that the culprit had a big year. Fulbut, listen to me. You must say who hired you.’

  ‘Not everyone here … a friend,’ whispered Fulbut. ‘One … stabbed me.’

  ‘Whom did you invite?’ pressed Michael urgently. ‘Tell me their names. I will catch the killer and ensure he pays for what he has done to you. I promise.’

  But Fulbut was dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  By the ti
me Fulbut had been taken to St Mary the Less, Meadowman had been sewn up, and the rest of the beadles briefed to keep watch for the mercenary’s escaped friends, it was very late. Bartholomew trudged wearily back to Michaelhouse, and fell into an uneasy doze in his storeroom, where the bubbles and hisses from the experiment brewing on the shelf above his head insinuated themselves disconcertingly into his dreams.

  He woke early, aware that it was Monday, and that unless they produced twenty marks at noon, William’s intemperate pen might see the College destroyed. Again, he wondered what he would do if he lost his post. Would he be able to track down Matilde? But what about Julitta – could he really abandon her to the villainous Holm? Perhaps he should take her with him instead; they would be happy together, of that he was certain.

  He lit a candle and went to check his experiments, but the wavering flame was unsuitable for assessing potentially toxic substances so he decided to wait until daybreak. He walked to the lavatorium, still pondering his future. He loved Matilde with an almost desperate passion, but Julitta would probably prove to be the better friend, and would never hurt him as Matilde had done.

  ‘Are you thinking about our mysteries?’ came Michael’s voice from behind, making him start. The monk had come to wash, retreating prudishly behind a wicker screen with a bucket of water. ‘You were in another world. I wished you good day twice without being acknowledged.’

  ‘Yes,’ lied Bartholomew, glad his friend could not see the flush of heat in his face. ‘What will you do now that Fulbut cannot tell you who paid him to murder your Junior Proctor?’

  ‘Verius might know. I shall visit his house as soon as Mass is over, and ask his wife where he is hiding. I hope he does not disappear as completely as Fulbut did, or we may never have answers.’

  ‘The culprit is Holm. When I sewed up Verius’s thumb, Julitta said that he and Holm were friends, but Holm would never demean himself with such an association. Ergo, he foisted himself on us for another reason – namely that he knew Verius and Fulbut were cronies, and was afraid that Fulbut had confided secrets which Verius might blurt out in his drunken stupor.’