‘However, we must emerge victorious,’ Langelee went on, ignoring him. ‘So do anything you can to score a point, even if it is unethical. As I always tell my teammates at camp-ball games, it is not the taking part that is important – it is winning.’
As soon as breakfast was over, Bartholomew and Michael hurried to Verius’s house, to ask Ylaria where her husband might be hiding. Michael griped all the way, disgusted that his best singer should become unavailable the day before he was due to give his debut performance.
‘And do not suggest Isnard or one of the others,’ he grumbled, although Bartholomew knew better than to give advice where the choir was concerned. ‘They are hardly solo material.’
Ylaria invited them in, and both scholars were astonished to see Verius huddled by the fire – they had assumed he would vanish into the marshes with the others. Bartholomew felt a stab of shame when the ditcher glanced up to reveal two black eyes and a cut nose.
‘I heard you were a skilled fighter, Doctor,’ Verius said grudgingly. ‘But I never believed it, as you always seem so gentle. I was shocked when you used that stone on me. It was a low trick.’
‘So was trying to impale him with a sword,’ retorted Michael sternly. ‘You are lucky he was not similarly armed, or you would not be sitting here now, laughing about the situation.’
‘I am not laughing, believe me,’ muttered Verius ruefully.
Michael wiped the bench with a rag before gracing it with his ample posterior. ‘You have two choices: to tell me all you know of Fulbut and his business, or to hang.’
‘Fulbut?’ Ylaria turned angrily on her husband. ‘I thought I told you to send him packing when he came sniffing around the other day. I suppose you defied me and did his bidding anyway. You are a fool, Noll Verius! He has dragged you into dark business, just as I said he would.’
‘Very dark,’ agreed Michael. ‘Fulbut murdered my Junior Proctor, and for all I know, you helped him. So, what will it be, Verius? A full confession, or the noose?’
‘Confession,’ said Verius quickly. ‘Fulbut asked me to break into King’s Hall, while he visited the Carmelite Priory. I did it because I needed the money – not that I got much out of it. I filched a pewter jug, but it only fetched a penny at the market.’
‘Why attack King’s Hall and the Carmelites?’
‘Because they had not been raided before, and Fulbut said it meant they were not overly fussy about their security.’ Verius looked disgusted. ‘It might have been true of the friars, but he was wrong about King’s Hall. I was damn nearly caught!’
‘You were damn nearly caught in Winwick, too,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that here was another crime carried out by an inept culprit who had failed to win much in the way of spoils. ‘You only managed to snag a cracked dish before Provost Illesy heard you and drove you off.’
Verius made a curious sideways shuffle, which was not quite quick enough to block the item in question from view. Michael shoved him aside and picked it up.
‘You risked the noose for this?’ he asked, shaking his head in incomprehension as he turned it over in his hands.
‘I do not like that College,’ said Verius sullenly. ‘So I went there to teach it a lesson for taking all the Guild of Saints’ money – funds that should be used for the poor. I hoped to get something better, obviously, but I did not see anything else worth having.’
‘What about all the other burglaries?’ asked Michael, and began to list them.
‘Not me or Fulbut,’ declared Verius. ‘I swear! Besides, he was in the marshes until recently, hiding out after shooting Felbrigge.’
‘Felbrigge,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, let us discuss him. I know Fulbut shot him, but on whose orders? Potmoor’s?’
‘No. Work from Potmoor has dried up since his resurrection.’ Verius shrugged. ‘I cannot prove it, but I thought Fulbut was hired by someone from the Guild of Saints. There are lots of nasty people in it these days – Hugo, the Winwick men, Meryfeld, the Frevill clan, Mistress Mortimer, the Tulyet cousins from the Hadstock Way, the Mayor, Julitta Holm—’
‘You mean Surgeon Holm,’ interrupted Bartholomew coolly.
‘I mean Julitta Holm. That surgeon is greedy and selfish, but she is worse.’
‘It is true,’ said Ylaria, nodding. ‘She used to give the Frail Sisters money, but she stopped when they declined to mend their ways. And it was her who told Holm to come here when you sewed up Noll’s thumb – she wanted to make sure he let nothing slip when he was drunk, see.’
‘Why would she do that?’ asked Bartholomew icily, knowing they were trying to divert attention from themselves by attacking the lady he loved.
‘Because she hired Fulbut,’ declared Verius, although the sly cant of his eyes said he was lying. ‘She must have heard Ylaria tell you that I cut myself and was getting drunk to deaden the pain. She thought I might blurt out my suspicions, so she and Holm came to stop me.’
‘And Noll did blurt,’ said Ylaria triumphantly. ‘He mentioned Fulbut, who he called the money soldier. Surgeon Holm ordered me to block his mouth, and when you forbade it, Julitta was very quick to say that Noll’s remarks were nonsense. See? It all makes sense!’
‘Enough fantasy,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Tell us about Fulbut.’
‘In the past, I helped him collect money,’ obliged Verius. ‘Money owed to Potmoor, usually. Sometimes we had to be a bit … forceful, but the pay was good. I did not want to work for a felon, obviously, but only a fool says no to Potmoor. I had no choice, Brother.’
‘Neither did Olivia Knyt, I imagine,’ said Ylaria, aiming again to distract them from her husband’s misdeeds. ‘And now she is carrying his child.’
‘She is pregnant?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘How do you know? Did she tell you?’
‘She did not have to,’ replied Ylaria loftily. ‘I am a woman.’
Bartholomew pulled Michael to one side. ‘Actually, Ylaria may be right. Olivia bought bryony root, and we know that she and Potmoor are close…’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ snapped Michael impatiently.
‘Bryony does not ease colic, which is what Olivia told Eyer she wanted it for. However, it can be used to end unwanted pregnancies, although not always effectively.’
Michael turned back to Verius. ‘What else can you tell me about Fulbut? And think very carefully, because the paltry information you have provided so far is not enough to save you.’
‘But that is all there is!’ cried Verius, dismayed. ‘He was close-mouthed about his business, which is why Potmoor hired him.’ He flailed about for someone else to incriminate. ‘I know! Richard Stanmore. He is as nasty a fellow as I have ever … Oh, Christ!’ He put his hands over his face. ‘I forgot! He is the Doctor’s nephew!’
‘But that does not make him decent,’ put in Ylaria quickly. Bartholomew was sorry when he heard the desperation in her voice, unable to imagine the terror she must feel at the prospect of losing the man she loved to the scaffold. ‘He inherited none of his mother’s goodness, but all his sire’s avarice and cunning.’
‘Yes!’ Verius nodded eagerly. ‘Oswald Stanmore might have been nice to his family, but he was ruthless and deadly in business. He founded the Guild of Saints to make up for the bad things he did to others. And Richard is exactly the same, but with less charm.’
‘Is there no one you will not malign in the scramble to exonerate yourself?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘I want facts, not unfounded accusations.’
Verius frowned as he racked his brains for something else. ‘I can tell you that Fulbut was ordered to disappear after he shot Felbrigge. It was a clean kill and no one saw him, but it was part of the agreement that he should leave and never return, lest he be caught and forced to talk.’
‘But he did return, and someone stabbed him,’ said Michael. ‘So who was at his house last night?’
‘His soldier friends, but they will have melted into the Fens by now, so do not waste your time looking for t
hem. That surly porter Jekelyn from Winwick Hall was there, too.’ Abruptly, Verius stopped speaking and stared at Michael. ‘I have just remembered something, Brother. Something true this time! Jekelyn was wearing a green cloak with black edging.’
‘Like the one on the man you followed after the St Clement’s fire?’ asked Bartholomew.
Verius nodded eagerly. ‘I cannot say for certain that Jekelyn set the fire, but the cloak was the same. It is either his, or he borrowed it.’
‘And you just happen to remember this now?’ asked Michael sceptically.
‘I really have,’ said Verius fervently. Then he looked sly. ‘My wits are awry from the blow the Doctor gave me. It is his fault that I forgot this important detail. Will this be enough to save me, Brother? I do not want to hang.’
‘We shall see,’ said Michael, and sailed out of the house.
‘Here is the connection we have been looking for,’ said the monk, once he and Bartholomew were hurrying back down Bridge Street. ‘If Jekelyn killed Fulbut, then the chances are that a Winwick scholar ordered him to do it.’
‘Can we trust Verius’s testimony?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I did not see anyone in a green cloak last night.’
‘It did not occur to me to look, to be honest. I only had eyes for the villain who murdered my deputy. But yes, I think we can believe Verius about this. And it means that someone from Winwick hired Fulbut to shoot Felbrigge, then sent Jekelyn to kill him when he reneged on the pact to leave Cambridge.’
Bartholomew remained uncertain. ‘Verius was so desperate to exonerate himself that he would have said anything. So would Ylaria.’
‘Not everything they bleated was fiction – Oswald was ruthless and did indulge in dubious business practices. And I am afraid there may even be truth to their claims about Julitta. Several people have told me that she gives less money to worthy causes than she once did.’
‘Holm,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Her property is legally his now, and she is not at liberty to dispose of it as she likes. It is his fault that she can no longer be open-handed. Yet she remains loyal, and will never hear a bad word about him.’
‘I am inclined to share their views about Richard, too,’ Michael went on. ‘I have not wanted to worry you, but he has been at nearly every spat my beadles have had to quell of late. He does not fight himself, but stands in the shadows and goads them on.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘I do not believe it.’
‘Well, there he is,’ said Michael, nodding across the street. ‘And to prove my point, he is in company with a lot of matriculands. And the reprehensible Goodwyn, who I imagine has wasted no time in blackening your name with him.’
‘I doubt Goodwyn’s opinion will make much difference to the way Richard sees me,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘We are not as close as we once were.’
Michael shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘It is difficult to believe he is Edith’s son. She is so honest and kind, while he is…’ He waved a hand to express words he did not like to speak. ‘Indeed, he makes me glad I do not have children. I should be mortified if they turned out like him.’
Many of the young men who formed the noisy, whooping pack had been in the King’s Head the previous night, and it was clear that they had not gone home as ordered, but had continued to carouse. The odour of ale was detectable from some distance, and most were unsteady on their feet. One lurched away suddenly and was sick against a wall. His cronies cheered.
Richard looked worse than most: his long hair was lank and greasy, his fine clothes were stained, and there were bags under his bloodshot eyes.
‘The Devil must be proud to see so many of his minions enrolling in your University,’ came a snide voice. It was Heyford. ‘I shall preach a sermon about it this afternoon.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘There is trouble enough already.’
‘Trouble that is none of the town’s making,’ retorted Heyford. ‘It is the University’s fault for inviting all these Satan-spawn to join it.’
‘They were not invited,’ objected Michael. ‘They just came.’
Heyford sniffed. ‘Regardless, I must warn people about tomorrow. There will be violence, bloodshed and chaos, and decent folk should stay indoors. Personally, I think you should delay the beginning of term ceremony until you have more control over your scholars.’
‘The dates are determined by statute,’ said Michael irritably. ‘We cannot change them to suit ourselves. But are you feeling better? You claimed you were poisoned yesterday.’
‘I was poisoned,’ declared Heyford. ‘By someone who hopes to still my tongue. But God protects me from evildoers, as you saw for yourself, Bartholomew, when He sent you to carry me from my burning church. Look at those villainous matriculands now! One has turned his bile on the Franciscans. I shall certainly include that in my sermon.’
He scurried away, and the two scholars turned to see Goodwyn taunting three novices. The Grey Friars recruited their members very young, and these were mere boys, frightened and uncomfortable in their new habits.
‘Enough,’ Michael ordered. The friars scurried away in relief. ‘You should know better.’
‘And so should you,’ sneered Goodwyn. ‘I am ousted from Michaelhouse, so you have no authority over me now. It was only a bit of fun anyway. Can no one take a joke?’
‘There is nothing amusing about bullying,’ said Michael.
‘No,’ agreed Goodwyn acidly. ‘Yet you do it with your levying of fines for whatever takes your fancy, while Bartholomew is a despot who terrifies his students.’
He made an obscene gesture, which caused his cronies to cheer. While Michael reasserted control with some scathing remarks that wiped the grins from their faces, Richard sidled towards Bartholomew.
‘I am sorry about last night,’ he whispered. ‘It was the ale speaking. Can we be friends again?’
‘We will always be friends,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the apology had sounded more sincere. ‘But you are breaking your mother’s heart with your riotous behaviour. Either stay and keep out of mischief, or leave so she cannot see how you spend your life.’
Something unpleasant flared in Richard’s eyes, although he inclined his head amiably enough. ‘You are right. I shall give your advice serious consideration.’
He sounded so disingenuous that a terrible thought insinuated itself into Bartholomew’s mind: perhaps Richard was involved in the mischief that was unfolding. He had changed so much that his family no longer recognised him, so who knew what he was capable of now?
‘Have you ever met a mercenary named Fulbut?’ he asked, dreading the answer.
Richard blinked. ‘Credit me with some taste! A mercen-ary indeed!’
‘Then what about Jekelyn, the porter from Winwick Hall?’
Richard indicated his companions. ‘These are the sons of knights, merchants and diplomats, and some have even been presented at Court. They are not porters, mercenaries or any other low-born scum. They are respectable.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘So I see.’
Richard scowled. ‘How can you criticise them when your patients include some of the worst rogues in the town? And do not preach virtue at me either, not when you are brazenly wooing Julitta Holm – a married woman.’
‘I hardly think—’
‘At least I offered to marry the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter,’ Richard forged on. ‘But you make Julitta a whore. It would be easy to get an annulment, given that I doubt her union with Holm has been consummated, but you prefer to sully her good name by visiting while he is out.’
Bartholomew was taken aback by his nephew’s assault. ‘I have not—’
Richard cut across him again. ‘Does she care for you, or is she just using you to punish her husband for taking Hugo as his lover? Personally, I hope she is acting to avenge herself on Holm, because I do not want her as an aunt.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Bartholomew coolly.
‘Because she inherited her father’s business acumen and his powerful persona. Such parents leave their mark, and shape us into what we become.’
And with that enigmatic remark, Richard turned on his heel and marched after his friends.
Bartholomew’s thoughts were in turmoil as he and Michael resumed their walk to Winwick, and he barely heard the monk’s diatribe on unruly matriculands. It had never occurred to him that Julitta could apply for an annulment. Would she do it? He thought she might – her marriage was a sham, after all. He was suddenly filled with hope for the future – until he remembered something else Richard had said, at which point he burned with shame. His love for her was damaging her reputation, given that half the town seemed to know about their trysts. It was hardly gallant, and Richard was right to condemn him for it.
He was sufficiently unsettled that when Michael was diverted from their mission by University business at St Mary the Great, he went to Milne Street to see Edith. It was partly to ensure that Richard’s night of debauchery had not upset her, but mostly because he was in need of a sympathetic ear. Unfortunately for him, she had uncovered another instance of Oswald’s dubious dealings, one that had deprived St John’s Hospital of a significant amount of money, and she was too distraught to think about anything else.
‘At first, I thought he had made a mistake,’ she whispered, ashen-faced. ‘But subsequent documents show that he knew exactly what he was doing. Perhaps I should have listened to Richard and burned everything, as then I would not have learned these horrible secrets. Have you made any progress with identifying his killer?’
‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, hating to see the disappointment in her eyes. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then be careful. The deeper I delve, the more I realise that he dealt with some very unsavoury individuals. Potmoor was the worst, but he also worked with that loathsome Frevill clan, the Bishop, Mistress Mortimer, members of King’s Hall and Winwick, Mayor Heslarton…’
The list went on for some time, and Bartholomew listened with growing dismay. Some were convicted felons, most were of dubious probity, and the rest were powerful men who would resent being questioned. And while he had known that Oswald’s business practices were sometimes unethical, he had not appreciated quite how many were downright criminal.
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 32
