Bartholomew had the satisfaction of seeing Wilson blanch when he mentioned the plague. Good, he thought, with uncharacteristic malice, now I know how to get under the skin of this arrogant man.
Wilson recovered his composure quickly. "I hope you are not so poor a doctor as to confuse plague with old age,' he said, putting his elbows on the table and placing together flabby hands shiny with grease from his dinner.
Bartholomew smiled. 'Let us hope not, for all our sakes,' he replied. 'And now, sirs, I bid you good-night,' and with a small bow took his leave of the new Master.
If Wilson really did doubt his skills, Bartholomew hoped he would spend some restless nights wondering whether he was as safe as he might be from the plague that was rumoured to be devastating the West Country.
He paused to ask Aelfrith if he would keep vigil over Augustus. The friar looked straight ahead of him while Bartholomew imparted his news, and then rose and left the hall without a word.
Bartholomew walked back past Brother Michael and heard the monk follow him out into the cool night air.
'Are you well, Brother?' Bartholomew asked, trying to sound casual.
'Now, yes. I do not know what happened to me in there. Something about the old man's face. I am sorry I left in a rush, but I thought I was going to be sick,'
Michael had looked sick in the room. Perhaps he had over-eaten at the feast. It would not be the first time the monk had made himself ill with his greed for food and wine. "I think some of the students will be sick in the morning, by the look of them now,' said Bartholomew, with a smile. "I am willing to wager that none of them attend your lecture at six tomorrow morning.'
'And neither will I,' replied Michael. 'Our fine new Master has given all Michaelhouse scholars and masters tomorrow off. Is this the way he intends to continue the academic tradition of Michaelhouse?'
'Michael!' laughed Bartholomew. 'You are too incautious by far. Watch what you say, for shadows may have sharp hearing.'
Brother Michael's fat face suddenly became serious.
'More than we think, Matt. Heed your own words!'
With that, he hurried over to the stairs that led up to his room, leaving Bartholomew standing in the courtyard alone.
Bartholomew rose with the first grey light of dawn the next morning to find that a small core of students were still enjoying Wilson's wine; he could hear them singing in the hall. Many had not been in their beds for more than two or three hours, Abigny among them. The philosopher lay sprawled on his back snoring loudly as Bartholomew went to find some breakfast.
As he walked across the courtyard, Bartholomew breathed in deeply. The air was cold and fresh, quite different from how it would be later when the hot sun would make the flies swarm over the putrid ditches that criss-crossed Cambridge.
He walked slowly along the cobbled footpath that ran around the courtyard, savouring the early morning, and admiring, as he often did, the fine building that was the centre of Michaelhouse. The north wing, in which Bartholomew lived, was the newest part, and was two storeys of dark yellow stone with slender arched windows. Regularly spaced along the front were three doorways leading to barrel-vaulted porches. Each porch contained doors leading to the two rooms on the lower floor, and a wooden staircase leading to two more rooms on the upper floor. The rooms were small, cramped, and in short supply, and Bartholomew felt himself fortunate that he shared his room with Abigny, and not three students, as did Father William.
The oldest part of Michaelhouse was the south wing, where the commoners, William, Swynford, and Aelfrith lived, and was, Bartholomew thought, the finest building.
It was also built around three staircases and contained twelve rooms of different sizes on two floors, but the original simple arched windows had been recently replaced by larger, wider ones that filled the scholars' rooms with light. Delicate traceries in stone had been carved at each window apex, each bearing the initials 'HS' in honour of Michaelhouse's founder, Hervey de Stanton, Edward Its Chancellor of the Exchequer. Unlike the north wing, the staircases in the south wing were built of stone, with brightly painted vaulted ceilings.
Joining the two wings was what had once been the house of a wealthy merchant, who had bequeathed it to the newly founded College. It was dominated by its handsome entrance, with the arms of Hervey de Stanton picked out in blue and gold above. The lower floor comprised a handsome reception room with a large spiral staircase leading to the hall on the upper storey, and the service rooms and kitchens, shielded from guests by a carved oak screen. The upper floor displayed a long line of arched windows that allowed light into the hall, and the little conclave, or combination room, at the far end. The hall was built of a pale, honey-coloured stone that changed with the light; at sunset it glowed a deep rose pink, while at noon it often appeared almost white.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew caught a flicker of light through the closed shutters on the upper floor of the south wing, and remembered Aelfrith and his vigil. He retraced his steps, thinking he would offer to relieve the friar for a while. He opened the door at the base of the stairs quietly, for he did not wish to awaken anyone who might have only recently retired to bed. Because the stairs were stone, Bartholomew found it easy to walk soundlessly. The stairway was dark and he kept one hand on the wall to feel his way upwards.
Reaching Augustus's little chamber, he opened the door, and stopped dead.
Aelfrith, his back to Bartholomew, was squatting in the middle of the floor, vigorously scratching at the floorboards by the light of a single candle. Augustus's body lay next to him in a tangle of bedclothes and strewn pieces of parchment. In the dim light, Bartholomew could see that, here and there, parts of the plaster covering the walls had been chipped away.
Bartholomew took a step backwards, but shock made his movements clumsy, and he bumped into the door. Aelfrith jumped to his feet, spinning round to face him. Bartholomew was only aware of his dark robes, and the light was too weak to allow him to make out any expression on the face, enveloped as it was in a deep hood.
'Aelfrith!' Bartholomew exclaimed in a horrified whisper. 'What are you doing?'
Aelfrith turned to point at something, and then, before Bartholomew had time to react, dived forward, slamming him backwards into the door. Bartholomew felt all the breath rush out of him, and scrabbled at the billowing robes ineffectually as Aelfrith grabbed a handful of his hair. Bartholomew, numb with disbelief, saw the silhouette of something sharp in Aelfrith's free hand. The sight of it jolted him out of his shock, and he twisted out of Aelfrith's grip so that the knife screeched harmlessly against the wall.
Bartholomew grasped the hand holding the knife, and, for a few seconds, the struggle was at a stalemate.
Then Aelfrith, perhaps made strong by panic, gave an almighty heave that sent Bartholomew sprawling backwards down the stairs. For a few moments, Bartholomew's world spun in all directions, until a sharp ache from a knee twisted in the fall brought everything back into focus. He was dimly aware of footsteps, although he had no idea from where they came. He picked himself up slowly, wincing at the pain in his leg. His fall had wedged him against the door, and so Aelfrith could not have left the building.
Cautiously, he hobbled up the stairs with as much silence as he could manage. The door to Augustus's room was still open, and the body still lay on the floor entangled in the blankets. Beyond, the door to the commoners' room was also ajar. Bartholomew swallowed, and began to inch forward. Aelfrith had to be in the commoners' room: there was no way out of this part of the building other than the door against which Bartholomew had fallen. He pushed the commoners' door so that it lay flat against the wall, and edged his way along it.
The commoners' room was lighter than Augustus's, because all the shutters had been thrown open to keep the room cool through the summer night. The commoners slept on pallets, simple mattresses of straw, that could be piled up on top of each other during the day to make more room. Bartholomew could see that all the commoners were there, a
nd all asleep. He could see enough of their faces or bodies to know that none of them was Aelfrith, and there were no alcoves or garderobes in which to hide. Aelfrith was not there.
He backed out, and went to Augustus's room. He was totally mystified. There was nowhere for Aelfrith to hide, and he could not have left the building without passing Bartholomew on the stairs. Bartholomew leaned against the wall. Now that the first danger appeared to be over, he was beginning to shake with the shock, and his knee ached viciously. Legs trembling, he sank down onto the bed.
His heart leapt into his mouth as Augustus gave a long, low groan. Bartholomew stared at the body in horror.
With a shaking hand, he reached out slowly, and grasped the bedcovers that had wrapped themselves around the corpse, easing them off the face.
He recoiled in confusion as the unmistakable bristly tonsure of Aelfrith emerged from under the tangle of blankets. For a few seconds, Bartholomew sat stupefied, just staring at the inert form on the floor. If this was Aelfrith, who was the man who had attacked him? And more to the point, where was Augustus? He crouched down beside the man on the floor. Gently, he eased him onto his side, noting the deep gash on the side of his head.
Aelfrith's eyes fluttered open, and Bartholomew helped him to a sitting position. For a few minutes, all Aelfrith did was to hold his head in his hands and moan. Bartholomew limped to the table, and soaked a napkin in water from the nightstand to press against the swelling. Eventually, Aelfrith squinted up at him.
'What happened?' he croaked.
Bartholomew stared at him, trying to make sense out of the happenings of the last few minutes. 'You tell me,' he said finally, easing himself back down onto the bed. 'Where is Augustus?'
Aelfrith turned his head sharply to look at the bed, wincing at the quickness of the movement. He gazed at the empty bed, and then peered underneath it. He looked back at Bartholomew, his eyes wide with shock.
'Where is Augustus?' he repeated.
Bartholomew watched as Aelfrith hauled himself to his feet and threw open the shutters. Both men looked around the small room in the better light. It was a mess.
Augustus's few possessions had been scattered, his spare clothes pulled from the shelf and hurled to the ground, and a small box on the table ransacked so that odd bits of parchment lay everywhere. Bartholomew recalled that his attacker had been doing something in the middle of the floor, and leaned forward to see that the floorboards had been prised up in places. The sharp knife that had almost been the end of Bartholomew had evidently been used to scratch loose plaster from the walls, for small piles of dust and rubble lay all around the room.
'Tell me what happened,' said Bartholomew.
Aelfrith shook his head, and sank down onto the bed next to him. "I do not know. I was kneeling, facing the crucifix next to the window, when I heard a sound.
I thought it might be Brother Paul; he has taken a turn for the worse recently, so I went to make sure he was sleeping. He was curled up under his blanket fast asleep, so I came back here. I knelt down again, and that is all I can remember. The next thing I knew was that you were helping me up from the floor, and that Augustus was gone.' He turned suddenly, and gripped Bartholomew's arm. 'Matthew, are you sure that Augustus was…' he faltered.
Bartholomew nodded, remembering the extensive examination he had made. Not only was Augustus dead, but rigor mortis had begun to set in, and no drugs or poisons, however sophisticated, could mimic that.
'But who would do this?' Aelfrith blurted out. 'What could anyone want to gain from poor old Augustus? And where is the man who attacked me?'
Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He thought about Augustus's previous claims and the burnt bed; about the unexpected death of Sir John; about Brother Michael's strange behaviour; and about the other Fellows' reactions — Wilson's lack of emotion when told that Augustus was dead, Swynford's dismissal of Augustus as a senile old man, and even Aelfrith's expressionless acceptance.
He began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach. All his suspicions of the night before came clamouring back to him. There were too many questions, and too many unexplained details. Suddenly, he had no doubts about the validity of Augustus's statements, and that, because of them, someone had wanted him out of the way. But who?
And why? And even more urgent, where was Augustus's body? Why would anyone want to remove the body of an old man? 'Matthew?' Bartholomew opened his eyes. Father Aelfrith's austere face was regarding him sombrely, his normally neat grey hair sticking up in all directions around his tonsure. 'Look in the commoners' room to see if Augustus was moved there, then look down the stairs…'
Bartholomew sighed. 'Whoever attacked you also attacked me. I was knocked down the stairs, and I know Augustus is not there. I looked in the commoners' room and know that he is not there either. We will check again together, but whoever attacked us also seems to have taken Augustus.'
'That does not necessarily follow, my son,' said Aelfrith. 'You have no proof for such a statement.'
Bartholomew pulled a face. Aelfrith, one of the University's foremost teachers of logic, was right, but both attacks and the removal of Augustus had occurred in or near Augustus's room, and if the same person was not responsible, then at least both events must have been connected to the same cause.
'We should fetch Master Wilson,' he said. 'He should come to decide what should be done.'
'Yes. We will,' said Aelfrith. 'But first I want to find Augustus. He cannot be far. We will look together, and undoubtedly find that he has been moved for some perfectly logical reason.'
Aelfrith rose, looking under the bed a second time as he did so. In the interests of being thorough, Bartholomew also glanced under the bed, but there was nothing there, not even the black fragments of wood he had examined the night before. He looked closer. The dust that had collected under the bed had gone. It looked as though someone had carefully swept underneath it. He looked at the floor under the small table, and found that that too had been swept.
'You will not find him under there, Matthew,' said Aelfrith, a trifle testily, and began to walk to the commoners' room. Bartholomew followed, looking at the gouge in the wall where he had deflected the knife blade away from himself.
Both men stood in the doorway looking at the nine sleeping commoners. All along the far side of the long room were tiny carrels, or small workspaces, positioned to make use of the lightfrom the windows. The carrels had high wooden sides so that, when seated, a scholar would not be able to see his neighbour; for most scholars in medieval Cambridge, privacy for studying was regarded as a far more valuable thing than privacy to sleep. All the carrels were empty, some with papers lying in them, one or two with a precious book from Michaelhouse's small library.
Bartholomew walked slowly round the room, checking each of the commoners. Five of them, including Paul, were old men, living out their lives on College hospitality as a reward for a lifetime of service. The man who had attacked Bartholomew had been strong, and of a height similar to his own. Bartholomew was above average height, and sturdily built. He was also fitter and stronger than the average scholar since a good part of his day involved walking to see patients, and he enjoyed taking exercise. The attacker could not have been any of the old men, which left four.
Of these, Roger Alyngton was Bartholomew's size, but had one arm that was withered and useless, and Bartholomew's attacker had two strong arms. So the number was down to three. Father Jerome was taller than Bartholomew by three inches or more, but was painfully thin and was constantly racked by a dry rattling cough. Bartholomew suspected a wasting disease, although Jerome refused all medicines, and would be far too weak to take on someone of Bartholomew's size. That left two. These were the Frenchman, Henri d'Evene and the brusque Yorkshireman, Jocelyn of Ripon. D'Evene was slight, and, although it was conceivable that he could have attacked Bartholomew, it was doubtful that he would have the strength to overcome him. Jocelyn was a recent visitor to Michaelhouse, and h
ad come at the invitation of Swynford. He was a large man with a ruddy face and a shiny bald head. Bartholomew had not seen him sober since he had arrived, and he had been admonished several times by Sir John for his belligerent attitude when College members gathered in the conclave for company in the evenings. He certainly would have the strength to overpower Bartholomew.
Bartholomew stood looking down at him. Even in sleep, Jocelyn scowled. Could he be the assailant?
Bartholomew bent close to him and caught the fumes of the previous evening's wine. His attacker had not had alcoholic fumes on his breath. Of course, this could be a ruse, and he could easily have downed a glass of wine as a cover for his actions. D'Evene lay on the pallet next to him curled up like a child.
Bartholomew straightened, and tiptoed out of the dormitory, wincing at his sore knee. He joined Aelfrith who was still standing in the doorway, looking grey-faced and prodding cautiously at the gash on his head.
'How long was it before you were attacked?'
Bartholomew asked of the friar.
Aelfrith thought carefully. "I am not sure. The feast became very noisy after I left. I expect the other Fellows left shortly after us for it would not be seemly to continue to carouse when one of our number lay dead. The students, though, would have enjoyed their freedom and the wine. None of the commoners had returned, however,' he said suddenly. 'It is not every day that the commoners are treated to such food and wine, and, like the students, they intended to wring every drop of enjoyment out of it that they could.'
'So you, Paul, and Augustus were the only ones in this part of the building?' asked Bartholomew. 'And all the others were in the hall?' "I do not know that they were in the hall,' replied the logician, 'but they were not here. The feast became noisy, as I said, and I found that it was distracting me from my prayers. I rose, perhaps shortly after midnight, to close the door to the room, and continued with my prayers. I may have nodded off for a while,' he admitted, 'but I would have woken if the commoners had returned.'
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