‘You seem very sure. Can I assume you were with Welfry at the time? In a tavern?’
‘We may have enjoyed an ale in the Cardinal’s Cap, now you mention it,’ admitted Valence reluctantly. ‘He is an intelligent man, and I enjoy his company. But the Cap is not really a tavern. It is more a society, where gentlemen gather for erudite conversation.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. There was no point in remonstrating. Valence knew the rules, and if he was willing to risk being fined by the beadles – Brother Michael’s army of law-enforcers – then that was his business. The same went for Welfry, too. He considered the friar. ‘I cannot imagine why he took the cowl. I do not think I have ever encountered a man less suited to life in a habit.’
‘Many clever men take holy orders because it is the only way they can be among books. But he is a good man, sir – generous to the poor, and endlessly patient with the sick.’ Valence grinned. ‘He does love to laugh, though. His Prior-General ordered him to Cambridge in the hope that an abundance of erudite conversation would quell his penchant for mischief, but …’
‘But his Prior-General miscalculated.’ Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Some of his tricks have been very ingenious, though – such as his picture of stairs that always go up and never down, and the tiny ship inside the glass phial. That is why I assumed it was he who lit up St Mary the Great.’
‘Kendale is ingenious, too – Welfry’s equal in intellect, although it galls me to say so, because he is a vile brute who hates the Colleges. But why are you interested in the church incident, sir? Do you plan a similar trick yourself?’
Bartholomew laughed at the notion. ‘No! I struggled to inspect a swollen throat with a flickering lamp today. If the brilliance of Kendale’s illumination could be harnessed, it might be possible to devise a lantern with a steady gleam – and that would make our work much easier.’
Valence considered. ‘I suppose it would. Of course, Kendale’s real aim was to set Gonville Hall alight – sparks went very close to their roof, and everyone knows he waited until the wind was blowing in their direction before he ignited his display. Has Brother Michael guessed the culprit?’
‘Not yet.’
Valence sniffed. ‘Welfry and I inspected the church afterwards. He thinks Kendale put buckets of black sludge at strategic points, linked by burning twine, so they would all go up at more or less the same time. The sludge contained brimstone, which is why it burned so bright.’
‘What else was in it?’
‘Welfry said it was probably charcoal and some kind of oil. He asked Kendale for the formula, but the miserable bastard refused to tell him. The Colleges answered Kendale’s challenge well, though, do you not think? Our trick showed we are just as clever as the hostels.’
‘You put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. But I thought Welfry was behind that – and he is not a member of a College, so should not be attempting to best hostels.’
Valence raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Have you not heard? The Dominicans and Carmelites are on the Colleges’ side, because we are all permanent foundations with endowments. The Gilbertines decided to back the hostels, on the grounds that they are poor and they feel sorry for them.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do the convents’ priors know about this affiliation, or is it something that has been decided by novices?’
Valence smirked and declined to answer. ‘It is only a bit of fun, sir. Cambridge has been dull since the University and the town have buried the hatchet. Moreover, most of the criminals have been ousted by Emma de Colvyll, so nothing ever happens now. The rivalry between the Colleges and the hostels will keep us amused until we have a real spat to occupy us.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance, amazed he should admit to holding such an attitude.
‘Unfortunately, Kendale is trying to turn our harmless competition into something nasty,’ Valence continued. ‘He encourages hostel men to yell abuse at College members in the street, and relations between us grow more strained every day.’
Bartholomew was worried. ‘Will the Colleges respond to Kendale’s trick involving the crated bull?’
‘Of course,’ replied Valence. ‘But it will not be with anything violent, careless or stupid. We are not savages.’
CHAPTER 3
When Bartholomew arrived at St Michael’s Church, his colleagues were in the chancel, discussing last-minute details for the Purification ceremony. As he walked up the nave to join them he saw a large number of people he knew, which included some he would not have expected to have been there. Among the latter were Emma and her family. Heslarton had brought a chair for her, and was fussing around it with cushions. Odelina and her mother stood to one side, and Bartholomew was surprised to see Celia with them, looking bright and inappropriately cheerful.
‘I find consolation in religion, Doctor,’ she whispered, when her eyes happened to meet his. Her expression was brazenly insincere. ‘As do many recent widows.’
Bartholomew inclined his head, although it had been on the tip of his tongue to retort that most had the grace to wait until after the funeral before going out with friends. As he resumed his walk, his heart sank when he realised many of the congregation were members of the Michaelhouse Choir. And they all exuded an aura of tense anticipation, which strongly indicated they were planning to make what they liked to call music.
The choir was a large body of men – and some women – who had joined because they wanted the free bread and ale that was provided after practices. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in volume, and they prided themselves on being one of the loudest phenomena in the shire, audible over a distance of two miles, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.
‘They are not going to sing, are they?’ Bartholomew asked, glancing behind him at the assembled mass.
‘Yes,’ replied Michael stiffly. He was protective of his ensemble, although as a talented musician himself, he was fully aware of its limitations. ‘They are a choir, and singing is what choirs do.’
‘They are a rabble,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘Here only for the free food.’
Bartholomew spoke before Michael could reply to the charge. ‘There seem to be more of them than usual. Do we have enough to feed them all?’
‘I will manage,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if you donate the three pennies you earned from inspecting Drax.’
‘But I need that for medicine,’ objected Bartholomew in dismay.
‘Food is more important than remedies,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Did you hear that the price of grain has risen again? A loaf of bread now costs more than a labourer can earn in a day.’
It was a dismal state of affairs, and Bartholomew wondered how many more of the poor would starve before winter relinquished its icy hold.
‘Celia Drax is here,’ remarked Thelnetham, surveying the congregation critically. ‘It did not take her long to recover from the news that her husband was murdered.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But she said she finds consolation in religion.’
Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘Yffi is here, too. Incidentally, I still think he is involved in what happened to Drax. I will interview him again tomorrow, and have the truth. I would have done it today, but the wretched man did not appear for work this morning.’
‘But he has taken all the tiles off the roof!’ exclaimed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘If it rains, we shall have water cascading—’
‘Believe me, I know,’ interrupted Michael. ‘My ceiling currently comprises a sheet nailed to the rafters. I almost froze to death last night. But we shall discuss this later – the rite is starting.’
Michaelhouse was good at ceremonies, because so many of its Fellows were in religious Orders. Thelnetham presided, ably assisted by Clippesby and Suttone, all attired in their best habits. Father William, in his grubby robes, was relegated to the role of crucifer, while Michael was in charge of music. Bartholomew, Langelee and Ayera were only obliged to stand in the chancel in
their scarlet gowns, and watch.
Thelnetham began by blessing a large number of beeswax candles, which, Bartholomew recalled, had been donated by Drax. Then, after sprinkling them with incense, he lit them, and the choir swung into action. Bartholomew knew it was the Nunc Dimittis, because that was always chanted at this point, although it was unrecognisable as such. He exchanged an amused grin with Ayera, then struggled for a suitably reverent expression when Michael glanced in his direction.
It was difficult to remain sombre, though, when Emma and her household were open-mouthed in astonishment at the cacophony – with the exception of Heslarton, who was nodding in time to the rhythm, such as it was. As the volume grew, despite Michael’s frantic arm-waving to indicate this was not what he wanted, their incredulity intensified, and Bartholomew was aware that both Langelee and Ayera were shaking with laughter next to him.
Thelnetham processed slowly down the aisle when the choir began to wail the antiphon Adorna thalamum tuumSion, followed by every Michaelhouse scholar, each carrying one of the candles. Deynman opened the door, and the procession moved into the cemetery, the scholars shielding the lights with their hands to prevent them from blowing out. The daylight was fading as the short winter afternoon drew to a close, so the candles were bright in the gloom. Similar services were being held in every other church in the town, and the beautifully harmonic voices of St Mary the Great were carried on the wind, melodic and mystical in the dying day.
Unfortunately, the Michaelhouse Choir heard them, and this was not to be borne. There were some glares of indignation, and Isnard raised his arm to indicate the matter was to be rectified. Michael tried to stop them, but to no avail: a challenge had been perceived, and it was going to be answered. The tenors launched into the Nunc Dimittis again, but the basses preferred an Ave Maria, while the higher parts flitted from piece to piece as and when the fancy took them.
Isnard’s conducting grew more urgent, and the volume rose further still. The racket brought the High Street to a standstill, as carts careened into each other. Several dogs started to howl, although they could not be heard over the din, and neither could the whinnies of frightened horses.
Thelnetham stepped up the pace of the ceremony, eager to be back inside so the clamour could be brought to an end. The Fellows hurried to keep up with him, while the students at the very end of the line were obliged to break into a run. Several were helpless with laughter, and by the time Thelnetham had circumnavigated the churchyard and was heading back up the aisle, his procession was in shambles.
He blessed the image of the Holy Child that Suttone was holding, then read the canticle Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel before the choir could sing that, too. But there was one more musical interlude to be performed, and scholars and congregation alike were relieved when Michael shot his singers a glance that told them they had better not join in, and chanted the Inviolata himself.
Bartholomew closed his eyes as the monk’s rich baritone filled the church, enjoying the way it echoed around the stones. When the last notes had faded away and he opened his eyes again, it was to find the church filled with flickering gold light. Then it was plunged into darkness as the scholars blew out their candles. The ritual of Purification was over.
‘I have heard worse,’ said Bartholomew consolingly, as he walked home next to Michael. The High Street was still in chaos, with two broken wagons and a man wailing over the fact that his sheep had been frightened into a stampede. ‘They were not as bad today as they were at Christmas.’
‘They were louder, though,’ said Michael. He grinned, a little wickedly. ‘How many other foundations do you think we managed to disrupt this time? At Christmas, we received complaints from five, but I think we may have surpassed ourselves this afternoon.’
‘It would not surprise me to learn that they disrupted the Pope in Avignon. Can you not tell them that producing that sort of din is bad for the ears? It hurt mine, and I was some distance away. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be among them.’
Michael’s expression was pained. ‘I do tell them, but my advice is forgotten once they are in public. You should have heard them practise the Ave Maria last week. It was beautiful – moving.’
Bartholomew seriously doubted it, but said nothing. He could hear the sounds of merriment behind him, as the singers, delighted with the impact they had made, shared the bread and ale Michael had provided. He was glad they would have at least one good meal that day, and began to look forward to the feast, aware that it was some time since he had eaten well, too.
But he was to be disappointed, because when he arrived at Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting with a message. The singing had aggravated Emma’s toothache, and she wanted him to visit immediately, to see what might be done about it.
‘You will have to go,’ said Langelee, overhearing. ‘I appreciate that your inclination will be to ignore the summons and enjoy the feast, but you must put duty first.’
‘I never ignore summonses from patients,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Even when I know that patient will continue to be unwell until she agrees to have her tooth removed.’
‘Well, do what you can for her,’ instructed Langelee. ‘I know you disapprove of me accepting her charity, but I did what had to be done, and you must make the best of it.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Have you found out who killed Drax yet? He was a benefactor, too, and I do not want it said that helping Michaelhouse is dangerous.’
‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘But tomorrow I shall learn from Yffi whether he created a diversion so the body could be dumped here – and if he did, I shall have the name of the killer.’
‘And if he did not?’ asked Langelee.
‘Then I shall have another word with Celia. I sense there is a lot more to be gleaned from her.’
Despite his words to Langelee, Bartholomew was sorry to be leaving Michaelhouse, and resentful, too – summonses from patients meant he had missed breakfast and the noonday meal, and it was not every day his College had decent food. He hoped Michael would save him some.
‘I am in agony,’ Emma announced without preamble, when a chubby-faced maid had escorted him to her solar. In the dim light, her black eyes glittered unnervingly, and she looked more like a bloated, malevolent spider than ever. ‘Your choir’s so-called music seared right through me.’
‘Me, too,’ agreed Bartholomew, taking a lamp so he could inspect the inflamed mouth. The flame flickered, and once again he wished he had a source of light that did not dance about.
‘Give me more of that sense-dulling potion,’ she ordered. ‘It makes my wits hazy, but that is a small price to pay for relief. If I keep taking it, my tooth will eventually heal itself.’
‘It will not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It will ache until it is drawn.’
‘You are not pulling it out,’ Emma snapped. ‘And if you do not cure me by other means, I shall withdraw my benefaction to your College.’
‘That is your prerogative.’ Bartholomew wished she would, so Michaelhouse would be rid of Yffi and his shoddy work, and a debt owed to a woman whom everyone thought was sinister.
She glared at him, then relented. ‘You must forgive me – it is pain speaking.’
Bartholomew rubbed an ointment of cloves on the inflamed area, then prescribed a tonic of poppy juice and other soothing herbs, although it was a temporary solution at best.
‘You should see another physician,’ he said when he had finished. ‘You refuse to accept my advice, so consult them – see whether they can devise a more acceptable alternative.’
He knew there was none – at least, none that was sensible – but he was tired of arguing with her.
‘Very well.’ He glanced at her in surprise: she had always refused when he had suggested it before. She shrugged. ‘I cannot stand the pain any longer, so we shall send for Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. We shall summon them now, in fact.’
‘You do not need all three,’ said Bartholomew, while thinking uncharitably that
she did not need Meryfeld at all. The man was little more than a folk healer, who was likely to do more harm than good. ‘Either Rougham or Gyseburne will be—’
‘You will wait here until they arrive,’ Emma went on, cutting across him. ‘They may need details of my condition, which you will provide, thus relieving me of tedious probing. If you refuse, I shall tell your Master that you have failed to live up to your end of the bargain. I doubt you want to be responsible for losing your College my goodwill.’
She snapped her fingers, and the maid scampered away to do her bidding. With a sigh, Bartholomew went to sit near the fire, heartily wishing he could tell her what to do with her benefaction. He was chilled to the bone, partly from being hungry, but also because it was a bitterly cold night. He settled himself down to wait, trying to ignore his growling stomach.
It was not long before the door opened, and Heslarton marched in. His fine clothes were mud splattered, and there were even dirty splashes on his bald pate, indicating he had done some hard riding that day. He was armed to the teeth – a heavy broadsword at his waist, a long dagger in his belt, and a bow over his shoulder.
‘Well, Bartholomew?’ Heslarton demanded, going to rest a sympathetic hand on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have you cured her? I do not like to see her in such discomfort.’
Bartholomew stood quickly, seized with the alarming notion that if he admitted failure, Heslarton might run him through. They were a strange pair – the bullying, irascible old woman and the loutish, soldierly man – and, not for the first time, Bartholomew wondered what made them so obviously fond of each other.
‘We are waiting for second opinions,’ explained Emma. ‘Although the Doctor has given me medicine to ease my pain. That horrible choir should be deemed a hazard to health!’
‘I rather enjoyed their performance,’ said Heslarton, going to stretch his hands towards the fire. ‘I cannot be doing with silly, warbling melodies, and that was music for real men.’
‘I will tell Michael,’ said Bartholomew. It was not often the choir earned compliments.
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 8
