A Bone of Contention

by Susanna GREGORY

  'Lie still,' said Bartholomew gently. 'I think you must have fainted.'

  John smiled wanly, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew's face. 'The sight of blood makes me dizzy. It was bad enough seeing Master Radbeche's, but someone came at me in the dark, and then I saw some of my own.'

  'So, what happened?' asked Bartholomew, cradling the student's head so that he could sip some water. 'Did you see who attacked you?'

  John shook his head, his face suddenly fearful. 'But I think it was Father Andrew. I think he killed Master Radbeche!'

  'Startat the beginning,' said Bartholomew, not wan ting his jumble of facts to become more confused by John's wild speculations. 'Tell me exactly what happened.'

  'I went out at sunset with Father Andrew to buy bread, although Master Radbeche had gone away for the night, i and I was surprised that Father Andrew would leave the | others unsupervised. Anyway, Father Andrew met Father William from Michaelhouse, and they started to argue, so he told me to buy the bread on my own.'

  If Radbeche was supposed to be away, thought Bartholomew, what was he doing lying dead in the kitchen?^ John sipped some more water before resuming. 'It was] the first time I had been allowed out alone for so longl and so I determined to make the most of it. I met some П friends and it was dark by the time I returned. There was› a crowd of people outside the hostel, throwing stones and j insults up at the windows and two people were stealing I the door. I knew the others must have gone out, because | they would never have allowed the hostel to come under attack like that without retaliating had they been in. I hid in the shadows of the runnel opposite, and watched.'

  He paused again. 'After a while, Father Andrew, approached. He addressed the people confidently as though he had done so many times before. The leaders of the mob just led them away, like children. I was about to run into the hostel after Father Andrew, when I thought; about what he had done: he had given the rioters orders and they had obeyed without question. His voice was different. I am not sure 'He no longer sounded Scottish?' asked Bartholomew.

  'Yes!' exclaimed John. 'That was what was different!!

  His voice was his own, but he sounded like a someonej from here. I always thought his accent was not from Stirling.'

  'Then what?' asked Bartholomew gently, helping the student to sit up.

  John took a shuddering breath. 'After talking to the mob, Father Andrew went inside David's, but left again moments later. I came in and found… Master Radbeche. dead with… As I stood looking at him I felt a pain in my chest and I looked down and saw…' He shuddered and Bartholomew was afraid he might faint again. He eased the student back against the wall and gave him more water.

  After a few moments, John began to speak again. 'I fainted and when I came round Alistair Ruthven was with me. He had been with me all night — he could not get out because of the rioters, although I tried to persuade him to leave in case Father Andrew came back. He had escaped by hiding upstairs.'

  'But you did not see Father Andrew kill Radbeche,' said Bartholomew, 'or who attacked you.'

  'No, but Father Andrew went into the hostel and then came out again. It must have been him!'

  Bartholomew shook his head. 'That cannot be possible.

  You said Father Andrew came from elsewhere when he addressed the mob, and you had noticed that the hostel seemed abandoned. Radbeche must already have been dead when Father Andrew entered.'

  'Then why did he not cry for help when he found Master Radbeche dead?' asked John, regarding Bartholomew with his dark, solemn eyes.

  'I did not say that he is not involved, only that he probably did not kill Radbeche while you watched from outside,' said Bartholomew. He sat back and thought.

  Andrew had met Father William at sunset. William could well have confronted him about the fact that he knew Andrew was not whom he claimed to be, and so Andrew must have realised that he had to complete whatever business he was involved in quickly. Meanwhile, the Scottish stuotents had probably escaped the hostels as soon as Andrew had left them unchaperoned, taking! quick advantage of their sudden chance of freedom, and Radbeche had arrived back to find the hostel deserted.

  So, either Andrew had killed Radbeche, left and come back again to be seen by John, or another person had done the slaying.

  'Perhaps it was Norbert.' Bartholomew spoke aloud without intending to.

  'Norbert?' said John, looking at him in confusion. "You', think Norbert might have killed him?' 1 'Do you know Norbert?' asked Bartholomew in astonJ ishment.

  'Well, yes,' said John. 'Not well, of course, him being a! servant and newly arrived. But I know him. I cannot say I like him, though — he is surly and rude. And he smells.'

  'What does he look like?' asked Bartholomew, won! dering whether he would be able to recognise Norbert from a description twenty-five years after their last meeting.

  'He is always dirty,' said John, 'and he wears a piece? of cloth swathed around his head. We always say he looks like a Saracen, especially because his face is nearly always black with dirt. He usually wears lots of clothes, even in the heat, bundled round him in the way that beggars do in winter. Father Andrew brought him here about a weekj ago to work in the kitchens. He told us he was a mute and that we should leave him be.'

  'How old?' said Bartholomew, feeling excitement ris, ing.

  'Perhaps sixteen or seventeen,' came the disappointing? answer. 'It was hard to tell with all that dirt. Master Radbeche said if he were to stay, he had to wash, but Father Andrew begged for him to be left alone.'

  'I bet he did,' said Bartholomew, a sudden flash of inspiration coming to him. 'Tell me, John, did you ever see James Kenzie's lover, Dominica?'

  'No,' said John, his face clouding. 'But he talked about her: fair hair, blue-green eyes.'

  'And what were Norbert's eyes like?' asked Bartholomew.

  John looked at him with a slack mouth. 'Blue-green,' he said. 'Startling — the only nice thing about him. But surely you cannot believe…" He was silent for a moment, plucking at the edges of his bandage. 'There is probably something you should know.'

  'What?' asked Bartholomew warily, sensing he was about to be told something of which he would not approve.

  John shot him a guilty glance. 'I did not consider it important before, and anyway, Father Andrew ordered me not to tell.'

  'Tell what?' said Bartholomew, spirits sinking.

  'A couple of weeks ago, Father Andrew told me that if I were to borrow Jamie's ring, which he said was one of a pair of lovers' rings, he would pray over it that the relationship between Jamie and Dominica would finish.

  I liked Jamie, and agreed with Father Andrew that he would be better not seeing Dominica any more.'

  'And he said that praying over the ring would cause this relationship to end?' asked Bartholomew, surprised. 'How peculiar! It is almost as bad as consulting the stars!'

  John looked at him oddly before continuing. 'I borrowed Jamie's ring when he took it off to clean out some drains. Father Andrew kept it for several days and poor Jamie nearly went mad searching for it. When he eventually returned it, I lied and told Jamie I had found it between the floorboards because Father Andrew hadj made me promise not to tell him what we had donei He said it was for Jamie's own good that he should not know.'

  Bartholomew groaned. 'I wish you had told us this a week ago, John,' he said. 'It would have helped us more than you can possibly imagine.'

  John's face crumpled with remorse. 'I am sorry! I did-not see how it could be important, and I had promised Father Andrew that I would not tell. It is only now, when Father Andrew seems to have been pretending; to be something he is not, that I feel free to break my promise.'

  'When I last visited David's, Father Andrew said that he did not know Jamie had a lover, and that he certainly did not know it was Dominica.'

  'Then he was not telling you the truth. He knew all about Dominica, although I do not know who told him — it was not me.'

  'Why did you not tell me that Father Andrew was lying
at the time?'

  'I did not hear him make any such claim to you. I was! cleaning the yard on Monday and only heard the last? part of your conversation, while the first time you came* I was with my sick brother upstairs. Believe me, I would have exposed him as a liar had I heard him say he knew; nothing about Jamie's romance!'

  'Did you tell anyone else about this peculiar plan to? pray over the ring?' — f 'No. Father Andrew ordered me not to. I did not even,! tell Robert, my brother. He would not have approved! of my stealing from Jamie anyway, even if it was for hisl own good.'

  As Bartholomew helped him to sit, the colour drained from his face as he glimpsed the blood on the front of his shirt. Bartholomew had encountered people who were overly sensitive before, but none of them had been as feeble as poor John of Stirling. No wonder the lad had been insensible half the night! He made the Scot lie down again, his mind whirling with questions and fragmented pieces of information. What confused Bartholomew most was the relationship between Norbert and the disguised Dominica. It was too much of a coincidence that Bartholomew should have found copies of letters written years before, and Dominica just happened to be in the hostel where they had been concealed using the alias of Norbert. He racked his brain for answers, but every solution he could produce seemed flawed in some way.

  He thought about Radbeche, who was supposed to have been away, but had returned only to die. Was he involved in the riot somehow? And perhaps most importantly of all, where was Father Andrew now that his hostel was abandoned and his Principal murdered?

  It was not long before the Austin Canons from St John's Hospital came to help John away. Michael was waiting for Bartholomew outside and told him that Ruthven had been dispatched to inform the Chancellor that Radbeche had been murdered. Bartholomew was concerned.

  'Was it wise to let the lad go on his own? He was deeply shocked by what had happened.'

  'I released him into the care of one of Tulyet's sergeants,' said Michael. 'The one whose son you cured of an arrow wound last year. He will look after him, and I thought it best to get him as far away from David's as possible.'

  'So, what did he tell you?' asked Bartholomew, still doubtful as to the wisdom of Michael's decision.

  'Nothing much,' said Michael. 'As soon as Father Andrew took John off to buy bread, thus leaving the students without a nursemaid for the first time in days, they took advantage of it. All were out of the hostel before Father Andrew had scarce turned the corner, although Ruthven remained behind to study.'

  'Ruthven and Davy Grahame are the two who seem most interested in learning,' said Bartholomew. 'The others would rather be away cattle-rustling.'

  'You have been reading too much of the rantings of this English astrologer who casts national horoscopes,' said Michael admonishingly. 'Such a bigoted comment is unworthy of you. As I was saying, Father Andrew was barely out of Shoemaker Row when the David's lads were away, looking to enjoy themselves for a night on the town. Shortly afterwards, the riot broke out. Ruthven heard a mob gathering and objects were hurled at the windows. Terrified, he fled upstairs and hid under the pile of mattresses. He is not sure how long he remained there, but he only emerged when all was quiet. He found Radbeche dead and John mortally wounded. He sat with John until he.died, and was too frightened to move until we arrived.'

  'We should tell him John is not dead,' said Bartholomew.

  'He just fainted at the sight of his own blood. Many people are affected in that way, although John's aversion is unusually powerful.'

  'Did John tell you anything we did not already know?'

  Bartholomew summarised what John had said as they waited for Guy Heppel to arrive and take charge of Radbeche's body. Heppel was, as usual, white-faced and wheezing.

  'This is a dreadful business,' he gasped. 'Murders and mayhem. No wonder God sent the plague to punish us if the rest of England is like Cambridge!'

  'Are you ill?' asked Bartholomew, concerned by the man's pallor.

  'I feel quite dreadful,' replied Heppel, raising a hand to his head. 'I must have that consultation with you as soon as possible. I should not have gone to that Founder's Feast of yours without it, because I have not been myself ever since.'

  'Did you eat any fish giblets at Michaelhouse?' asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

  Heppel gripped his stomach and flashed him a guilty glance. 'I have always been rather partial to fish livers and you did not tell me why I should avoid them, specifically.

  You said Saturn was ascendant and that I should take more of the medicine you gave me, but that had nothing to do with fish livers.'

  'I told you to avoid them because I knew they were bad.'

  'Not because of Saturn?' asked Heppel. 'And not because Jupiter will be dominant later in the week?'

  'Jupiter will not be dominant this week,' said Bartholomew, thinking to comfort him. 'Mars will.'

  'Mars! ' breathed Heppel, sagging against a wall weakly.

  'Worse still! Once I see this corpse to the church, I shall return to my room and lie down before I take a serious sickness.'

  'See?' demanded Bartholomew of Michael as they set off back towards the High Street, leaving Heppel and two beadles to take Radbeche's corpse to nearby Holy Trinity Church. 'Astrology is nothing but hocus pocus! Heppel imagined himself to be far worse when he thought Mars was dominant. And the truth of the matter is that Mars will be nothing of the sort. I made it up thinking it would make him feel better.'

  'You should know better than to mess with Heppel's stars,' said Michael. 'And you don't lie! What has got into you? Have you been taking lessons from Gray?'

  'Heppel is an odd fellow,' said Bartholomew, glancing back to where the Junior Proctor had his mouth covered with his pomander as he supervised the removal of Radbeche's body. 'Sometimes I wonder whether he is all he seems.'

  'Who is in this town? We have old men pretending to be friars, rabble-rousers pretending to be scullions, and Principal's daughters pretending to be boys — not to mention the extremes to which prostitutes will go to slip into colleges.' He cast a sidelong glance at Bartholomew.

  'The only people I am sure about are you and me. And even you have been revealing a different aspect of your character over these last few days with your indecent obsessions with all these harlots. You have become like a Mohammedan with his harem.'

  Bartholomew sighed heavily. 'I have decided to have done with all that. One, or possibly two, members of my harem, as you put it, tried to kill me, while the other can only talk to me without causing a scandal if she dresses as an old lady.'

  'Yes, you have shown an appalling lack of judgement in your choices,' said Michael bluntly. 'But you should not despair. Perhaps I can arrange one or two ladies 'Here comes Heppel again,' said Bartholomew. 'Now what? I wonder what caused him to leave Radbeche.'

  'He has probably found out you have lied to him about Mars, and is coming to accuse you of heresy.'

  Heppel's pale face was glistening under its habitual sheen of sweat. 'Master Lydgate is dying,' he gasped. 'A soldier has just informed me that he is at Godwinsson and recommends that you go there immediately before it is too late.'

  'Oh, Lord, Matt!' groaned Michael, turning away from the Junior Proctor to hurry towards Godwinsson. 'It is all beginning to come together. Someone's master plan has been set in motion, and it is playing itself out.'

  'But we still do not know what this master plan is,'

  Bartholomew pointed out, keeping pace with the monk.

  'And, as has been true all along with this wretched affair, the more information we gather, the less clear matters become. How did Lydgate allow himself to be drawn into it after our discussion last night? It was obvious there was some kind of danger.'

  Michael raised his eyebrows. 'As we know, Master Lydgate is not overly endowed with powers of reasoning.

  Come on. We should not dally if the man is dying.'

  Bartholomew glanced behind him to where Heppel was almost bent double, trying to catch his breath, fanning himse
lf with his hand. All Bartholomew's doubts about him bubbled to the forefront of his mind yet again.

  'That man is far too unhealthy for proctorial duties,' he commented. 'I still cannot imagine what possessed the Chancellor to make such a choice.'

  'Since you ask, Matt, I made inquiries about Guy Heppel while I was at Peterhouse last night. He is one of the King's spies, planted here to see whether anything subversive is underway.'

  'Really?' asked Bartholomew, not surprised to learn that Heppel had another role, but astonished that it was one of such importance.

  'After everyone else had gone to bed, I seized the opportunity to glance at one or two documents in the Peterhouse muniments chest — the Chancellor often stores some of his sensitive papers there in order to keep them from certain members of his staff.'

  'Such as you?' asked Bartholomew.

  'Of course; not such as me!' said Michael, offended. 'I am one of his most trusted advisers.'

  'Then why did he not tell you about Heppel?'

  'I imagine he knew I would find out anyway,' said Michael airily. 'Perhaps he thought it might provide me with an intellectual challenge.'

  Bartholomew gave him a sidelong glance, wondering whether he would ever understand the peculiarities of the University administration.

  Michael continued. 'It was all there in black and white.

  Heppel is here as an agent of the King and his mission is to detect why the town is so uneasy this year.'

  'I would have credited the King with more common sense than to plant a spy who stands out like a diseased limb,' said Bartholomew. 'Heppel wears his cowardice like a banner — hardly a trait to make him a suitable Junior Proctor.'

  'It is not your place to question the King, Matthew,' said Michael firmly. 'Again, I tell you, watch your words or you will be accused of treason as well as heresy. Ah!

  Here we are.'

  Godwinsson's once-fine building had been reduced to little more than a shell. Its strong timbers were blackened and charred and fire had blown the expensive glass out of the windows. It littered the street below, causing considerable risk to those who walked barefoot. One of Tulyet's sergeants waited for them and directed them to the solar.