‘Easy, Doctor. It is only us.’
The voice was familiar, but Bartholomew could not place it. He shot to his feet, and began to back away. His heart was pounding hard enough to hurt, and his stomach was churning. Where was Dame Pelagia when he needed her?
‘It is Torvin,’ came the voice again. ‘The riverman.’
Bartholomew peered at him. Torvin was one of his patients, a member of the silent, insular community who lived in the ramshackle hovels that lined this part of the river. They eked a meagre existence from fishing and scraps scavenged from the Market Square, and their womenfolk weaved baskets and mats from rushes, which were exchanged for bread.
‘I am here, too,’ came another voice, this one instantly recognisable. It was Isnard the bargeman, swinging along on his crutches – Bartholomew had amputated his leg after an accident some years before. ‘But you should not be. This is no place for a scholar after dark.’
‘Nowhere is, tonight,’ muttered Bartholomew. He looked around for his assailants, but all he could see were riverfolk, distinctive in their ill-assorted rags and reed hats. ‘Who were those men?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Isnard. ‘However, this is the rivermen’s domain, and they do not take kindly to strangers coming at night. They drove the trespassers off with a few well-placed arrows.’
‘We just frightened them,’ Torvin clarified hastily. ‘We are not killers, despite what is being brayed about us in the town.’
‘I know.’ Bartholomew smiled briefly at the silent throng. ‘But I suspect the rogues you just drove off are; I think they are the men who murdered Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman. Sheriff Tulyet has been trying to find them.’
‘Unfortunately, he will not succeed,’ said Torvin. ‘They are too clever for him.’
‘I thought you said they were strangers.’ Bartholomew’s voice was unsteady now the danger was over, and so were his legs. ‘So how do you know they are too clever?’
‘Because I have eyes,’ replied Torvin softly. ‘And I have watched them several times now. They move like water rats – silent, fast and deadly. The Sheriff is no match for them.’
‘Are they smugglers?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Maybe,’ said Isnard. ‘They certainly like to loiter around the town’s quieter waterways. Moreover, they are well-armed and ruthless, and you are right – it probably was them who killed Adam, the night-watchman and …’ He trailed off, and shot the rivermen an awkward glance.
‘And my nephew,’ finished Torvin. ‘But the Sheriff thinks he was a beggar.’
‘Do not tell Tulyet, though,’ said Isnard to Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘They cannot afford a priest or a grave-digger, but the Sheriff can, and he will see things decently done. The lad will gain more from being thought a vagrant, than from being named as one of them.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will have to report what happened. Tulyet needs to know that armed men are haunting his town.’
‘I will tell him, too,’ said Isnard. ‘First thing tomorrow. Thank you for betting five marks on our integrity, by the way. Holm is always saying vile things about me and the riverfolk, and we were touched by your faith.’
Wryly, Bartholomew supposed that if the five-mark wager had induced them to come to his rescue, then it was money very well spent.
The next day was cloudy, but still warm, and the breeze was from the south. It carried the scent of ripening crops, and Bartholomew inhaled deeply as he stood in Michaelhouse’s yard, waiting to walk to church. He stifled a sigh when William and Thelnetham began sniping over who was to preach that day. Suttone joined in, but the debate came to an abrupt end when Clippesby’s rat made an appearance. It shot towards Thelnetham, who shrieked girlishly, and pandemonium erupted, with the Gilbertine cowering, William guffawing and Suttone yelling at Clippesby to catch it.
‘Our Dominican is not as lunatic as he would have us believe,’ said Ayera, as he watched. ‘He released that thing deliberately, to quell the spat. And it worked, after a fashion.’
Langelee arrived, scowling when he saw his Fellows in such noisy disarray. Crossly, he whipped open the gate, and strode towards St Michael’s, leaving them to scramble to catch up with him. Ayera ran to his side, and a reluctant smile stole over the Master’s face when he heard what Clippesby had done. Bartholomew was next, with Michael slouching beside him; William, Suttone and Clippesby were on their heels; and Thelnetham was last, because it had taken him longer to regain his composure. He was still furious, although Bartholomew suspected it would be William, not Clippesby, who would bear the brunt of his ire.
‘What time did you come home last night?’ Bartholomew asked Michael, noting that the monk looked decidedly fragile.
‘I cannot recall, and I should not have stayed so late, because Holm is hardly congenial company. But I kept hoping that Dunning would let something slip about the men who died in the garden of the house he donated to the University.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Dunning is a suspect now?’
Michael put a hand to his head. ‘I cannot recall why I thought so now, although it made sense at the time. But it was a waste of effort – I learned nothing to help us. Other than that Dunning has a theory to explain why Coslaye was almost killed by Acton’s Questio Disputata.’
‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, when the monk paused.
‘That some scholar decided its binding was inferior, so elected to hurl it as far away from him as possible.’ Michael smiled. ‘I only wish it were true, because a bibliophile with those sorts of standards would be easy to identify.’
‘You still have not given up on that case? Everyone else has forgotten about it.’
‘Coslaye has not, and neither have his Batayl colleagues. Besides, as I have explained before, we cannot have scholars resorting to violence when ballots do not go the way they hope.’
‘I suppose not. What will you do today?’
‘Loiter in Cholles Lane and waylay passers-by to see whether anyone noticed anything odd on Tuesday night or early Wednesday. I shall question the Carmelites and the Batayl men again, too.’
‘Do you want me to help?’
‘I can manage, thank you. Terrorise your students into cramming more knowledge into their already overloaded minds today, and we shall resume our enquiries together tomorrow.’
Bartholomew took him at his word, and after church he staged a series of mock-disputations designed to hone his pupils’ debating skills. He drove them hard, but felt it was worthwhile, despite the fact that they reeled from the hall at the end of the morning complaining that their heads were spinning. He left them to their grumbles, and went to tell Tulyet what had happened the previous night.
Although Cambridge was mostly flat, it did have a hill, and it was on top of this that the Normans had raised a castle some three hundred years earlier. It had originally comprised a wooden structure atop a motte, but a lot of money had been spent on it since, and it was now a sizeable fortress. There was a spacious bailey, enclosed by curtain walls and ditches; at each corner was a sturdy drum tower, while the south-eastern wall boasted the huge, cylindrical Great Tower, the strongest and most formidable part of the complex.
Access to the bailey was gained by crossing a rickety drawbridge and ducking under a portcullis that was rumoured to be hanging by a thread. It was not that Tulyet was careless about maintenance, but that he preferred to divert funds to more urgent causes than the upkeep of a castle with no serious enemies. Beyond them was the Gatehouse, an impressive structure bristling with arrow slits and machicolations. Bartholomew was waved through it with smiles and cheerful greetings from the guards, most of whom he had treated for the occasional bout of fever or minor injury sustained during training.
The Sheriff was in his office in the Great Tower. Clerks, not warriors, surrounded him, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves, almost invisible behind the piles of documents that awaited his attention. He beamed when he saw Bartholomew, and
rose to his feet with obvious relief.
‘You cannot leave!’ objected one of the clerks, as Tulyet made for the door. Bartholomew was surprised to note it was Willelmus from the Carmelite Priory – the man who liked to draw chickens. ‘We have not finished the tax returns for—’
‘They can wait,’ said Tulyet crisply. ‘We have been labouring all morning, and I need a rest.’
‘I thought you were a White Friar,’ said Bartholomew to the scribe.
‘He is,’ replied Tulyet, as Willelmus squinted, trying to identify the physician from his voice. ‘And he would much rather be painting hens. But my own clerks are overwhelmed by the additional work the taxes represent, so Prior Etone lent him to me.’
Willelmus did look as though he would rather be in his scriptorium, especially when the man he was supposed to be helping abandoned his duties to pass the time of day with friends, leaving him to twiddle his thumbs. He sighed his exasperation as the Sheriff escaped, standing in such a way that one hand rested pointedly on a pile of documents. Clearly, there was still a lot to do.
‘He is so keen to get back to his real work that he is something of a slave-driver,’ confided Tulyet, clattering down the spiral staircase. ‘I am eager to finish, too, because the King hates his money to be delivered late. But I have my limits.’
When they reached the bailey, Tulyet stretched until his shoulders cracked. Then he turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes, breathing the fresh air with obvious relief. He had always hated sitting indoors, being a naturally energetic, active man.
‘If you are working on these levies, who is investigating Adam’s death?’ asked Bartholomew.
Tulyet opened his eyes. ‘I am, with every free moment I have. But the taxes are almost ready now. We have great crates of coins locked in the Great Tower, waiting to be taken to London.’
‘Perhaps you should post extra guards on the Gatehouse,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I imagine every robber in the county will be interested in “great crates of coins”.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘It would have to be a very bold thief who attempted to raid a royal castle. But what can I do for you today? Are you here to tell me what happened last night? Isnard said you would come.’
Bartholomew described the events of the previous evening in as much detail as he could, yet although Tulyet listened attentively, the physician was acutely aware that he had little of substance to relate. He could not describe the men, other than to say that they had worn armour, and he was unable to guess what they had been doing. His only real contribution was that the riverfolk considered them strangers, so they were probably not townsmen or scholars.
‘I sent one of my soldiers to inspect that strip of riverbank, but there was nothing to see,’ said Tulyet when he had finished. ‘Isnard had garnered a few more details from the riverfolk – for which I am grateful, because they would never have confided in me – but it all adds up to very little.’
‘I think they are the men who killed Adam,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One of them ordered his crony to cut my throat.’
‘You are almost certainly right. Moreover, I suspect they have claimed more than three victims. Several other folk have gone missing of late, and I cannot help but wonder whether they have had their throats cut, too, and their bodies hidden or tossed in the river. It is a bad state of affairs, and I would be hunting these villains now, were it not for these damned revenues.’
‘Can you not delegate those to someone else?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that catching killers was a lot more important than money, although he suspected the King would disagree.
‘I wish I could, but I have no wish to lose my post because a minion is careless with his arithmetic. The King takes his taxes seriously – it is expensive to keep the Prince of Wales campaigning in France. Did I tell you that we are ordered to provide a ribauldequin this year, too, as part of our payment? Still, it could have been worse – York had to make five hundred hauberks.’
Bartholomew, gazed at him, disgusted that the taxes his College was forced to pay – which always necessitated draconian economies and sacrifice – were being spent on such a wicked contraption. He was not stupid enough to say so to one of His Majesty’s most loyal officers, though, and floundered around for an innocuous response. ‘Are ribauldequins difficult to manufacture?’
‘Very. They require precision casting of high-quality metal. It is finished now, thank God. It took a while, because I had never seen one, and I had to find out what they entail.’
‘The King’s clerks did not provide specifications?’
‘They did, but we needed more detail. I would have asked you to help – you saw them in action at Poitiers – but I had a feeling you would refuse, like Northwood did.’
‘Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why would you ask him?’
‘Because he was also at Poitiers, as chaplain to one of the Prince’s generals. But he said that while he would be happy to destroy a ribauldequin, he would never assist in the making of one.’
‘I did not know he was at the battle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He never mentioned it.’
‘He claimed it was the nastiest experience he had ever had, and disliked talking about it. He confided in me only because we were friends.’
‘Holm was at Poitiers, too.’ Bartholomew felt like adding that the surgeon had sided with the French, but was not entirely sure how Tulyet would react, and although he disliked Holm, he did not want to be responsible for his arrest.
‘I doubt he did any fighting,’ said Tulyet disparagingly. ‘The man looks lean and fit, but there is no real strength in him. Women fall at his feet – and even my wife claims he has the body of a Greek god – but he is a feeble specimen in my view.’
‘It is a pity we spend money on fighting the French,’ said Bartholomew. He fully agreed with Tulyet, but was afraid that once he began to list the surgeon’s faults, he might not be able to stop. ‘There are much better causes.’
Tulyet nodded ruefully. ‘Like dredging the King’s Ditch, which is so full of silt that anyone can paddle across it after a dry spell, and it provides no kind of defence for the town at all.’
‘Or feeding the town’s poor,’ added Bartholomew.
Tulyet was not listening. ‘I had hoped the French would sue for peace after Poitiers. Their country is in a terrible state: their army is in disarray, their peasants are on the verge of rebellion; and their King is our prisoner but they cannot afford the ransom. Neither can a number of their nobles, including the Archbishop of Sens, the Count of Eu and the Sire de Rougé.’
‘It was in a terrible state before the battle,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the devastation wrought by the Prince of Wales’s troops. ‘Crops and villages burnt, livestock slaughtered. I do not blame the peasants for declining to pay these ransoms. Why should they, when these nobles taxed them in order to raise troops for defence, but then failed to protect them?’
‘That is a recklessly seditious remark, Matt,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Although Northwood said much the same. Incidentally, have you heard the rumour that his death is connected to Sawtre’s – that all five dead scholars were struck down because they went against the wishes of their College, hostel or convent by supporting the University’s new library?’
‘Yes, but there is no evidence to say it is true.’
‘There is also a tale that says God is the culprit,’ Tulyet went on, ‘although I do not believe it myself. However, it is a notion that is gaining credence in many quarters.’
‘I have heard that the Devil might be responsible, too.’ Bartholomew smiled. ‘There cannot be many instances where God and Satan are credited with the same deed. But how did you build your ribauldequin if you have never seen one and people refused to advise you? No, do not tell me! Riborowe! He has an unhealthy fascination with the infernal things.’
‘Yes, he does, thankfully, or I would have been floundering. Langelee and Chancellor Tynkell were helpful, too, and so was Walkelate.’
‘Walkelate?’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But he is an architect.’
‘Precisely. And architects build things. He was able to take the others’ sketches and convert them into working plans. Would you like to see the finished article? It is quite impressive.’
‘No, thank you!’ Bartholomew shuddered. ‘If I never set eyes on one of those vile creations again, it will be too soon.’
Bartholomew was called to Batayl Hostel before he could return to Michaelhouse, but was not sorry that the summons meant he would miss the midday meal. His innards were still tender, despite Julitta’s tonic, and nothing at College was likely to tempt him – the recent tax demand meant that Michaelhouse was in an especially lean phase, so Langelee had ordered the cooks to make meals as unappetising as possible in the hope that his scholars would eat less, and thus save him money.
Batayl was a small, shabby building, comprising a single room in which Coslaye, Browne and their eight students ate, slept, taught and relaxed. There was a tiny yard at the back that contained a reeking latrine, and any cooking was either done at the hearth, or taken to the communal ovens in the Market Square.
‘Sorry, Matt,’ said Michael, who was waiting outside for him. ‘I came to ask my questions, but when I saw the state of its residents … well, suffice to say that I sent for you, and will leave my investigation until they are feeling better.’
When Bartholomew entered Batayl, he was immediately assailed by the reek of cheap candles, burnt fat and unwashed feet, an odour he had come to associate with the poorer kind of hostel. He was taken aback to see that one wall had been given a garish mural, sure it had not been there the last time he had visited.
‘It is the Battle of Poitiers,’ explained Coslaye, hands on his stomach as he lay on a pallet. Several lads were curled in groaning misery around him, while the rest were outside, vying for a place in the latrines. ‘Most of the action took place near a wood, which you can see at the bottom. The English warriors are the ones with haloes, and the French have horns, tails and forked tongues.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 16
