Father William had also heard about the murder of one of his Franciscan brethren in Ovyng Hostel, and was busy holding forth about the Devil’s legion – referring to the Dominicans – who stalked the holy streets of Cambridge. Given that Tulyet had said there were no witnesses to the murder – and certainly nothing to suggest that the Franciscan’s killer was a Dominican – Bartholomew considered William’s comments ill-advised and dangerous. He noticed that Clippesby, the new Dominican Fellow whose sanity seemed questionable, was listening, and did not seem at all amused to be classified as an agent of the Devil by the ranting Franciscan.
William had an impressive voice, and his words thundered around the room, making it almost impossible for the others to teach. Master Kenyngham asked him to moderate his tones twice, but the volume gradually crept up again as the friar worked himself into a frenzy of moral outrage. Father Paul listened to his fellow Franciscan’s speech with growing horror.
Michael was also late for his teaching, although his small band of dedicated Benedictines and Cluniacs – who had already committed themselves to life in the cloister – were not the kind of men to cause a riot in the hall if left unsupervised, as Bartholomew’s secular students might. They sat in a corner near the window, reading from a tract written by St Augustine, discussing its layered meanings in low, refined voices.
Michael stopped to mutter in Bartholomew’s ear as he passed. ‘A friar from Ovyng has been murdered. Someone stuck a knife in his back, and his body was found in the garden this morning. Unfortunately, there are no witnesses. The killer might have been another student, I suppose – bitter jealousies are always rife in the hostels.’
‘And the Colleges,’ added Bartholomew, thinking about the troubles Wymundham had intimated were rampant at Bene’t, not to mention the spectre of the forthcoming election for Michaelhouse’s new Master.
‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But, I confess, I hold little hope that I will discover who killed Brother Patrick – unless someone confesses to the crime. I could question the Dominicans, I suppose, but that would only give them an excuse to march against the Franciscans, and then who knows what mischief might occur?’
‘Are you going to ignore it, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A man has been murdered, Brother. You cannot just pretend it did not happen.’
‘I will not pretend it did not happen,’ snapped Michael crossly. ‘But I do not see how I can proceed on the scanty evidence I have. Brother Patrick had only been at Ovyng since the beginning of term, and no one knew him well. I imagine he allowed himself to become embroiled in a fight with some apprentices and ended up stabbed.’
‘You should try asking questions in the taverns,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You know the apprentices would brag if they had killed a scholar.’
Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘I would never presume to tell you to jab a knife into a boil to drain away the evil humours, so you might at least do me the courtesy of assuming that I know perfectly well how to investigate a murder. I have been Proctor for three years now.’
‘My apologies, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course you know what you are doing.’
‘I have beadles in taverns all over the town even as we speak,’ continued Michael testily. ‘I could have done without a murder today, though. I wanted to concentrate on my bid for the Mastership and I have not had a moment all day to work on my plan.’
‘Brother Patrick should have been more considerate,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘He should have waited until after Saturday to get himself murdered.’
Michael glowered at him, but then relented. ‘I am sorry, Matt. Of course I am doing all I can to track down this killer, and of course it has prior claim to my attention – that is what is making me angry. If I were a less conscientious man, I would abandon the investigation to my beadles and set about having myself elected. But I am not, and I spent the morning looking for a killer, instead of having words in friendly ears.’
‘Matthew!’ bellowed William irritably. ‘Do not stand there chatting with Michael while your students run wild, man! I cannot hear myself think with all their racket.’
The hall erupted into a chaos of catcalls and cheers, as the students expressed their view of William’s comment. Their masters, who without exception found the friar’s loud diatribes disruptive, grinned at each other, and made no attempt to silence the din. William stood with his big red hands dangling at his sides and looked around him in genuine bewilderment.
Michael wiped away tears of laughter with his sleeve, his bad temper forgotten. ‘That man is priceless, Matt! I would not be without him for the world. It has been a long time since I have had anything to laugh about.’
Bartholomew, thinking about the murdered friar at Ovyng, the killing of Raysoun from Bene’t College, the suicide of Justus, and the impending battle with William, Runham and Langelee for the Mastership of Michaelhouse, imagined it might be a while before an opportunity arose for Michael to laugh again.
The following day was equally busy. Teaching finished early on Saturdays, but Bartholomew had no time to enjoy a free afternoon with his colleagues in the conclave – nor did he have any desire to do so, with those Fellows who intended to make a play for the Mastership being uncharacteristically affable. Even Runham, who usually made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Bartholomew’s work with the poor, was politely interested in it, and went so far as to present him with a basket of eggs to aid the recovery of the riverman with sweating sickness. Runham had never shown such generosity or compassion before and his transparent motives did not make Bartholomew any more inclined to vote for him.
Bartholomew spent most of the afternoon pulling the teeth of a man with an inflamed jaw, and then was called to the Castle, where one of Sheriff Tulyet’s soldiers had suffered a deep cut during sword practice. It was almost dusk by the time he had finished, but Cynric was waiting with yet another summons from a patient when he returned. He set off in the fading light, nodding to people he knew as he went, and shivering as the chill wind cut through his clothes. The air held the promise of rain, and it was not long before it was falling in misty sheets.
The patient was called Rosa Layne, and she was dying because there were too few trained midwives in Cambridge to deal with the number of pregnancies. Some unscrupulous women took advantage of this and claimed qualifications and experience they did not have; one of them had tended Rosa. By the time the charlatan had acknowledged her incompetence and suggested that a physician should be summoned, it was too late for Rosa. Before Bartholomew arrived, the bogus midwife had vanished into the darkness.
There was little Bartholomew could do. The baby had twisted in the womb, but had needed only to be turned and then helped out. The self-appointed midwife had dallied so long that the baby had died, and then had dallied more while the mother slowly bled to death. It was not the first time Bartholomew had been called to try to save a dying woman after other people had all but killed her, and he always experienced a wrenching frustration that they had not contacted him earlier. It was not common for a male physician to be called to what was considered the domain of women, but Bartholomew was earning something of a reputation as the next best thing to a midwife, and delivering babies was something he rather enjoyed, although he would have been regarded as peculiar had he admitted so.
He gave Rosa a sense-dulling potion and sent one of her children to fetch a priest. It was not long before her shallow breathing faltered to nothing, and all that could be heard was the appalling Latin of the parish priest, the hacking cough of one of her watching children, and the contented snuffles of the pig that seemed to occupy the best half of the house.
Dispirited, he trudged through the rain to Michaelhouse, and arrived sodden and bedraggled just as the bell rang to call the Fellows to their meeting in the conclave. Hastily, he dragged off his wet clothes and donned dry ones, kicking his leaking boots into one corner and pulling on some shoes that would make him look a little more respectable for t
he ceremony after the meeting that would admit Michaelhouse’s two new Fellows. Cynric had already laid out the red gown Fellows were obliged to wear on special occasions, along with the impractical floppy hat that went with it. Bartholomew tugged them on, polished his shoes on the backs of his hose, and ran across the courtyard, his splashing footsteps splattering mud up his legs and on the robe Cynric had cleaned with so much care.
The other Fellows were waiting for him. The conclave was a pleasant chamber, and the new glass in the windows meant that light still flooded in, while the bitter breezes of winter were kept out. Because nights came early in November, the shutters were closed and a huge fire blazed in the hearth, sending flickering yellow lights across the ceiling. One of the students with a talent for art had painted the walls with scenes from the Bible, and someone had even provided a tapestry to hang above the fireplace.
Still chilled from his soaking, Bartholomew appreciated the stifling heat in the room, but wondered how long fires would be allowed to burn at Michaelhouse once the new Master was in office. Langelee and William both seemed to delight in conditions most men would consider miserable, while Runham had a streak of miserliness in him that might well lead to some radical economies. Bartholomew’s only hope for a comfortable winter was Michael, who had no patience with the hair-shirt mentality of some of his colleagues. Michael appreciated his creature comforts, and would never deprive anyone else of theirs merely to assert his personal authority.
‘There you are, Matt,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew walked in. The monk had his sleeve pushed up, and was giving the arm that had been stung by the bee an energetic scratch. ‘Where have you been? We are ready to start, and you are the last to arrive.’
‘As usual,’ muttered Runham.
Smiling apologetically, Bartholomew closed the door and looked for somewhere to sit. The chamber was equipped with an eccentric assortment of stools and chairs, most of them cast-offs from wealthy benefactors. Michael, Runham, William and Langelee – the most senior Fellows – had already taken the best places near the hearth, leaving the newcomers Clippesby and Suttone to make do with stools by the windows. Master Kenyngham stood at the door, as though contemplating a quick escape, while blind Brother Paul had been led to his customary seat near the wall.
‘Osmun, the porter at Bene’t, claims to be Justus’s cousin,’ said Bartholomew to Runham, recalling guiltily that he had agreed to pass on the porter’s demands the day before, but had forgotten. ‘He wants his tunic and dagger.’
‘He is welcome to them,’ said Runham. ‘He can collect them whenever he likes – and he can arrange for Justus to be buried, too, since they are related.’
‘Have you not done that yet?’ asked Paul, sounding a little disgusted. ‘Justus died two days ago.’
‘The weather is cold, and the corpse lies in the church porch,’ said Runham dismissively. ‘There is no hurry, and I have been preoccupied with more important matters.’
‘Regardless of Osmun’s kinship, it is still Michaelhouse’s responsibility to bury Justus,’ said Kenyngham. ‘It would not do to have the townsfolk thinking we do not care about our servants.’
‘There are better ways to spend Michaelhouse’s funds than on funerals for suicides,’ said Ralph de Langelee. ‘If Justus has living kin, then let them pay for his burial. If I were Master, I would not throw away College money when it could be used on something more worthy – like improving the wine cellars.’
Bartholomew noted with dismay that it had not taken long for the Fellows to bring the discussion around to the matter currently closest to their own hearts – who was to be the next Master.
‘I do not know why my decision to resign has caused such consternation,’ said Kenyngham in genuine bewilderment. ‘My retirement cannot be a surprise to you. I was present when our College was founded almost thirty years ago, and I am no longer a young man. I long to be free of administrative duties, and want nothing more than to spend my time in prayer and a little teaching.’
‘It would be better if you delayed a while,’ said Paul reasonably. ‘We are not yet ready to choose another Master.’
‘I was hoping that Roger Alcote would succeed me,’ Kenyngham went on, as if he had not heard Paul. He made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer for the soul of the man who had been one of Michaelhouse’s least popular members. ‘But Alcote has gone on to better things, and you must select another.’
Michael paused in his scratching to gesture towards the two newcomers, who sat watching the proceedings with wary interest. ‘How can you expect Clippesby and Suttone to decide who would make the best Master? They do not know us.’
‘But there are only six of you to choose from,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘John Runham, Michael, Matthew, William, Paul, and Ralph de Langelee – although I anticipate that not all of you will want the responsibility of the Mastership.’
‘If you put it like that,’ said Langelee, standing and puffing out his barrel chest as he leaned a brawny arm along the top of the fireplace, ‘I feel morally obliged to offer my services to the College. I am not a man to shirk responsibility.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael under his breath to Bartholomew. ‘I will resign my Fellowship before I allow Michaelhouse to be ruled by that ape in a scholar’s tabard.’
‘Meanwhile, I am keen to continue my saintly cousin’s good work,’ said Runham, leaning back in his chair and inspecting his fingernails casually. ‘You all know that I am a man of my word – when I first arrived here and discovered the paltry tomb that had been provided to hold my noble cousin’s mortal remains, I made a vow that I would not rest until that had been rectified. I am sure you have noticed that my efforts have come to fruition, and that the late Master Wilson now lies in a tomb fit for a king.’
‘We certainly have noticed!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘That vile monstrosity is the talk of the town. People come for miles around just to smirk at the wretched thing. I have never seen such an example of bad taste in all my days.’
‘It is bad taste to erect a tomb for Wilson that outshines the one for our founder,’ Bartholomew replied in an undertone. ‘And all I can say is that Runham cannot have seen his cousin for a long time, if he considers the man to have been saintly and noble. Wilson was a nasty, greedy—’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded William. ‘I was just telling everyone that it is time a Franciscan was elected to the Mastership. And since I am the only Franciscan here – other than Paul, that is – it should be me.’
‘A subtle election speech, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Of course, I might say the same for the Benedictines: we have had friars aplenty in the Mastership since Michaelhouse’s foundation, and it is high time there was a monk at the helm. However, this is not the basis on which I offer my services. You should recall that I have better connections with secular and religious authorities than anyone else here and you know I can make Michaelhouse the richest and most powerful College in the University.’
He threaded his fingers together and placed them over his ample paunch. Bartholomew smiled, considering Michael’s election speech no more subtle than William’s.
‘All this is true,’ said Langelee, sitting down and leaning back in his chair, assuming the pose of a man who knows some secret he is about to enjoy divulging. ‘And I would vote for you myself, all things being equal. However, certain information has come to light that precludes me from supporting you. You, Brother Michael, have been doing things you should not have been, and I have written evidence to prove it.’
In Michaelhouse’s conclave, everyone looked at Michael, whose eyes narrowed as he listened to Langelee’s accusation.
‘What are you talking about?’ the monk snapped testily. ‘I can assure you that there is nothing sinister or shameful in my past.’
‘I was not thinking of your past,’ said Langelee smoothly. ‘I was thinking of your present.’
‘What present?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘Do not spe
ak in riddles, man. If you want to accuse me of something, then say what it is. However, before you make a fool of yourself, I should warn you that I am as untarnished as a sheet of driven snow.’
‘Before coming to Michaelhouse, I was an agent for the Archbishop of York,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘I have maintained the connections I made in his service – including several at the University of Oxford. I have irrefutable evidence that you have been engaging in clandestine dealings with scholars from Oxford with the express purpose of causing damage to Cambridge.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Michael is the Senior Proctor, and would never do anything to harm the University.’
But his sister had mentioned Michael’s alleged dealings with their rival university only the previous day, he recalled with an uncomfortable feeling. He wondered what shady dealings the monk was involved in this time.
‘I said I have evidence,’ said Langelee, drawing a sheaf of parchments from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. ‘Here are letters from Michael to William Heytesbury of Merton College, Oxford.’
‘William Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, impressed. ‘I have heard of him. He is a nominalist who wrote Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. It is mostly a lot of tedious logic, but the last chapter is devoted to physical motion, and is a fascinating—’
‘It is entirely predictable that you should find the natural philosophy more interesting than the logic, Bartholomew,’ said Runham nastily. ‘You have an inferior mind that is unable to grasp the finer points of the arts so clings to the physical universe.’
‘There is no need for rudeness,’ said Paul curtly. ‘I, too, found the last chapter of Heytesbury’s work the most engaging.’
‘None of you should have been reading it,’ said William frostily. ‘It is pure heresy.’
‘We were discussing Michael’s disloyal relations with Merton,’ said Langelee, seeing Paul preparing to engage William in what might prove to be a lengthy disputation. He waved his documents aloft triumphantly. ‘Now is not the time to debate nominalism. But now is the time to learn what Michael wrote to Heytesbury of Merton.’
Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder Page 7
