‘Tell us the recipe, or we shall force it from you,’ ordered the leader, adding in a voice that was distinctly menacing, ‘And you will not enjoy that, I promise.’
He nodded to his companions, who stepped forward eagerly. Bartholomew did not wait to find out what they had in mind. He lashed out with the forceps, and caught the leader a blow that made him reel away with a howl of agony. The other two dropped into defensive stances, and Bartholomew could tell from the way they moved that he was in the presence of professionals.
He struck out again, but the biggest ducked and the third man took advantage of his momentary imbalance to knock the forceps from his hand. Then one arm was twisted savagely behind his back, and he was forced to his knees. A blade flashed in the gloom.
‘I will teach you to challenge us,’ snarled the leader. ‘You will regret your lack of cooperation.’
As the weapon began to descend there was a sudden thump and the fellow reeled away with a muted cry, a dagger lodged in his thigh. Then there was a second thud, and the tallest howled and began to dance around on one foot.
‘Run!’ the leader screeched. ‘Quick! He must have beadles watching out for him.’
They fled, two hobbling painfully. Bartholomew waited, but no beadles appeared. The leader was wrong – Michael’s men would have come to accept his thanks if they had been responsible for the rout. So who had saved him? He called out in an unsteady voice, but there was no reply.
After a few moments, he retrieved his forceps and took several steps down St Michael’s Lane, expecting at any moment to feel a searing pain as a knife landed. But none did, and it was with considerable relief that he pounded on the College gates and shouted for the porter to let him in.
He aimed directly for the kitchens, feeling an overpowering need for a drop of medicinal wine, and was just pouring his second cup when a sound behind him made him jump.
‘I am starving,’ said Michael plaintively, although his substantial girth suggested that was unlikely. ‘That thin pottage we had for supper did nothing to quell my hunger, and I shall expire if I do not have something else before morning. You are very pale. What is wrong?’
‘I have just been waylaid by three men eager to know the formula for wildfire,’ explained Bartholomew, taking another large gulp of claret.
Michael regarded him sharply. ‘I thought you said your fellow physicians were drunk when they stumbled across that particular mixture, and no one can remember exactly what went in it. Of course, you were sober. Do you recall what they did?’
Bartholomew looked away. ‘Not precisely.’
‘But you know enough to be able to make some more?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But please do not tell anyone else.’
Michael watched him finish the wine and pour some more. ‘You do not usually guzzle claret with such gay abandon at this time of night, so I surmise these three men did rather more than “waylay” you. Tell me what happened, Matt.’
In a voice that was still unsteady, Bartholomew obliged. ‘I have no idea who they were,’ he finished. ‘They had disguised themselves with hooded cloaks, and it was dark. They may have been strangers, but they may equally well have been men we know – scholars or townsfolk. Of course, they will be exposed if they walk around town tomorrow, because two of them will be limping.’
‘You fought three villains and emerged victorious?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Lord, Matt! Ever since Poitiers, you have become something of a lion. Perhaps you should abandon medicine and take up the sword instead. Of course, you will have to learn to ride properly first.’
‘Someone drove them off by throwing knives.’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for levity. ‘I could not see who, but he saved my life. Those men meant business …’
‘Then we had better find them,’ said Michael. ‘We do not want you “waylaid” again.’
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew slept poorly that night, unsettled by his encounter with the three men. He was also plagued by stomach pains, and supposed he must have swallowed tainted water when he had fallen in Newe Inn’s pool. He certainly recalled gulping a good deal of it, and pond water was dangerous at the best of times; when corpses had been soaking in it, he imagined it was deadly.
Afraid his restlessness would disturb the students who shared his room, he rose and left, stepping carefully over the slumbering forms. Although more spacious than most hostels, Michaelhouse was cramped at night, when mattresses were unrolled and laid on the Fellows’ floors for their pupils. The current crush was because the Master had recently enrolled more scholars than they had places for, in order to claim their tuition fees. Some were due to graduate that summer, which was at least partly why Bartholomew was determined that his lads should pass – the College could not house them for another year, should they need to try again.
He stepped into the yard, and breathed in deeply of the pre-dawn air. There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, indicating that dawn was not far off, but it was still dark, and he could only just make out the buildings that had comprised his home for the last fifteen years.
The core of Michaelhouse was an airy, spacious hall, with kitchens, larders and pantries below. At right angles to it were two accommodation wings, and Bartholomew lived in the older, more decrepit, northern one. The square was completed by a thick wall, against which leaned the stables and the porters’ lodge. A heavy gate led to St Michael’s Lane, making the College as secure a foundation as any in the town.
One hand on his rebellious stomach, Bartholomew walked across the yard, thinking he would pass the hour or so before dawn with some quiet reading. The College ‘library’ comprised a corner of the hall that had been provided with shelves and two lockable chests. The books were either chained to the wall or stored in the boxes, depending on their value and popularity.
Although it did not possess many tomes, Michaelhouse had a Librarian. The post had actually been created to prevent its current holder from qualifying as a physician and venturing out among an unsuspecting public: Robert Deynman had been accepted as a student because his father was rich, not for any academic talent, and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been persuaded to abandon medicine for librarianship. As the position was funded by his proud family, the College was even spared the need to pay him – a blessing when money was so tight.
Bartholomew climbed the spiral staircase, then stopped in surprise when he saw a lamp burning. Deynman was there, and although it was not unusual for Fellows to study at night – it was often the only time they had to themselves – the Librarian was not in the habit of depriving himself of sleep to perform his duties.
‘Rob?’ Bartholomew called softly. ‘Why are you here? Are you unwell?’
Deynman jumped. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
‘I could not sleep.’ Bartholomew frowned when he saw Deynman’s red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. ‘What is the matter? Is your father ill? Or your brother?’
‘They are well,’ sniffed Deynman. ‘It is something else that is destroying my happiness.’
Bartholomew sat next to him, supposing he was about to be regaled with some tale of unrequited love. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said kindly. ‘Tell me what—’
‘You can do nothing,’ said Deynman bitterly. ‘You were one of the villains who voted for it.’
‘The Common Library?’ Bartholomew was bemused, but then understood what was bothering the lad. ‘You are afraid it will render your post obsolete! Well, you need not worry. Master Langelee told me only yesterday that there was no one he trusted more with our books.’
Deynman was unconvinced. ‘But if the likes of you have their way, we shall have no books.’ He ran a loving finger across the one that lay in front of him; its leather cover had been buffed to within an inch of its life, and shone rather artificially. ‘They will all be in this Common Library, where undergraduates will be able to get at them.’
‘But that is a good thing,
’ said Bartholomew, struggling not to smile at the disapproval Deynman had managed to inject into the word ‘undergraduates’. ‘They are here to learn, and access to the works they are required to study is—’
‘But they do not need to handle them!’ cried Deynman, distraught. ‘They can listen to a master reading. Or, if they must see the words themselves, they can hire an exemplar. They do not need to see the original texts. To touch them.’ He shuddered at such a terrible notion.
‘But books are meant to be read,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And—’
‘They are meant to be cherished, not mauled by grubby students. You should have voted properly at the Convocation – you were Michaelhouse’s only dissenter. And you should be careful, because I heard what happened to Northwood, Vale and the Londons.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Deynman pursed his lips. ‘Vale voted against the wishes of his Gonville colleagues; the London brothers voted against their friends at Batayl; and Northwood voted against his Carmelites. All supported that evil Common Library. And now they have been murdered for their perfidy.’
Bartholomew supposed that all four had backed the grace to found the Common Library, but that had been six weeks ago, and he was inclined to believe it was coincidence.
‘We do not know for certain that they have been murdered,’ he said, although without much conviction. ‘I have not examined them yet.’
‘Well, when you do, you will find that they are dead by the hand of someone who deplores traitors,’ said Deynman firmly. Then his expression changed from angry to concerned. ‘Are you unwell, sir? You are very pale, and you keep gripping your stomach. Perhaps I had better fetch you some milksops from the kitchens. Do not look alarmed. I shall not poison them.’
‘I did not think you would,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the notion. ‘And I do not need anything to—’
But Deynman had gone, leaving Bartholomew wondering whether he should have voted against the Common Library after all. It would have meant going against his principles, but he compromised those all the time – when he failed to tell people that his more successful medical techniques had been learned from his Arab teacher; when he opted not to share innovative theories with his fellow physicians because he did not want to be accused of heterodoxy; and when he concealed his reliance on certain ‘heretical’ texts. And opposing the library would certainly have made for a more peaceful life.
He was not feeling much better when dawn came and the bell rang to tell Michaelhouse’s scholars that it was time to attend their morning devotions. He trudged wearily into the yard.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Father William, a grimy Franciscan whose habit was generally considered to be the filthiest garment in Christendom. He also possessed some deeply repellent beliefs, and although Bartholomew had grown used to his ways and had learned to ignore them, the newer Fellows found him difficult to take. ‘You look terrible.’
‘You do,’ agreed Thelnetham, one of the more recent arrivals. ‘Very wan.’
He was a Gilbertine canon and a celebrated scholar of law. He was also brazenly effeminate, and was known for livening up the plain habit of his Order with flamboyant accessories. That morning, there was a purple bow tied around his waist in place of a simple rope cingulum. He and William could not have been more different, and had become bitter and implacable enemies the moment they had set eyes on each other.
‘Shall I fetch you some wine, Matt?’ offered Ayera, a tall, intelligent geometrician who liked horses, dogs and outdoor pursuits. Other than a deep and – to Bartholomew’s mind, at least – irrational aversion to anatomy, he was easy and congenial company, and the physician liked his ready wit, wry humour and dedication to his students.
‘Will your indisposition prevent you from teaching today?’ asked Suttone, the College’s only Carmelite, when Bartholomew shook his head to the offer of strong drink so early in the day. He was a plump man in a creamy white habit. ‘If so, I decline to mind your class in your absence. The last time I obliged you, they rioted.’
‘Only because you told them the plague would return within the year,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘They tend to believe what senior scholars say, and were worried. When I came back, I was hard pressed to prevent them from leaving Cambridge to warn their loved ones immediately.’
‘But it will return within the year,’ declared Suttone. ‘I know I have been saying that for a decade, but this time I am right. I feel it in my bones.’
‘Then let us hope your bones are wrong,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I remember spending the entire time being extremely frightened.’
‘You were right to be,’ declared William loftily. ‘It was God’s judgement on the wicked. I shall survive if it returns, naturally, because I am saintly. However, the same cannot be said for the rest of you miserable sinners.’
He shot a disparaging glance at Thelnetham’s purple bow, then treated every other Fellow to a similarly haughty glare. Except Bartholomew. He had publicly accused the physician of being a warlock the previous summer, and had later been sorry. Guilt and a determination to make amends meant the physician could do no wrong. It would not last, but Bartholomew was finding it pleasant while it did.
‘I am sorry about the men who died yesterday,’ said Clippesby, the last of Michaelhouse’s seven Fellows currently in residence; the eighth was spending the summer at Waltham Abbey. Clippesby was a Dominican, whose penchant for talking to animals, and claiming they talked back, led most people to assume he was mad. That morning, he was cuddling what looked suspiciously like a rat. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers were kind and good.’
‘They were not,’ argued Thelnetham immediately. ‘They were scoundrels.’
‘You disliked Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘But he was a talented scholar.’
‘Being a talented scholar did not make him a decent person,’ retorted Thelnetham. ‘Moreover, I heard he was not always honest when dealing with tradesmen. And he was obliged to treat with lots, because his duties included buying supplies for the Carmelites’ scriptorium.’
‘Did you hear that from Weasenham?’ asked Bartholomew. His feelings towards Thelnetham were ambivalent: the mincing canon had a sharp tongue that he often used to wound, yet he was also intelligent and insightful.
‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham rather stiffly. ‘Not all his tales are fiction, and he furnishes me with some extremely interesting information. Such as that a certain Dominican spent hours last week conversing with bats, and a certain Franciscan was given a book for our College that has not yet been passed to Deynman.’
‘The bats have been very vocal of late,’ said Clippesby, smiling serenely. He rarely took umbrage at his colleagues’ gibes. ‘It must be the weather.’
‘What book?’ demanded William at the same time, although his furtive expression suggested he knew exactly what Thelnetham was talking about.
‘Did Weasenham regale you with any tales about Northwood, Vale and the London brothers?’ asked Michael, always interested in rumours about those whose deaths he was obliged to explore.
‘No,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘However, I am sure I do not need to remind you that all four voted for the Common Library. Damned villains! Of course, Vale only did it because Gonville does not have many medical books. Like Bartholomew, he was motivated by selfishness, despite the fact that approving such a venture might damage Michaelhouse.’
‘Now wait a moment,’ said William dangerously. ‘Matthew has already explained why he voted contrary to the rest of us: he followed his conscience.’
‘Then his conscience is wrong,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘But that is to be expected from a heretic.’
Bristling angrily, William began to defend Bartholomew, but was cut short by the arrival of Ralph de Langelee, the College’s Master. Langelee was a large, barrel-chested man, who did not look like a scholar, even in his academic robes, and whose previous career had involved acting as a henchman f
or the Archbishop of York. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, and Thelnetham was firmly of the opinion that he should return where he came from, although the other Fellows were satisfied with his careful, even-handed rule.
Langelee indicated that Cynric was to ring the bell again, then led his scholars up St Michael’s Lane towards the Collegiate church. Ayera hurried to walk next to him, muttering something that made him laugh, almost certainly an amusingly worded account of their colleagues’ latest squabble. Langelee and Ayera were friends, partly because – like Bartholomew – neither had taken major religious orders and both retained a healthy interest in women; and partly because they hailed from York and had known each other there.
‘I wish we had not elected Thelnetham as a Fellow,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear, as they took their place in the procession. Michaelhouse’s scholars were not supposed to talk as they went to church, but it was a rule the Fellows generally ignored.
‘Because he has an acid tongue?’ asked Bartholomew, rather offended that the Gilbertine should think he had supported the Common Library for selfish reasons, when he had actually been motivated by altruistic sympathy with his poorer colleagues.
‘Yes. Our conclave used to be a pleasant place, with no bickering or nastiness. But he has taken against William – and against you when he forgets that you mix an excellent tonic for biliousness – and the rest of us are caught in the middle.’
‘Michaelhouse is not the haven of peace it was,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He jumped when a gate was slammed in nearby Ovyng Hostel, causing a crack like one of the Prince of Wales’s ribauldequins. Michael patted his shoulder sympathetically.
‘Do not worry, Matt. I will start looking for the three men who attacked you as soon as church is over. It will not be easy with no Junior Proctor, but I shall do my best.’
‘I doubt you will find them, not when I cannot furnish you with even the most basic of descriptions, and you have too much else to occupy your time. Forget them, Brother. I cannot see them trying again, not now they know I can– not give them what they want.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 8
