An Order for Death (28 page)

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But remember the position of the body? Kyrkeby appeared to be
leaving
the Carmelite Friary, not entering it.’

‘Then perhaps he was meeting someone there. But he was taking a risk if he were. It would have been safer to arrange a meeting
outside both friaries, on neutral ground – for him
and
for the Carmelite with whom he had business.’

‘But that assumes that the person Kyrkeby was meeting knew Kyrkeby wanted to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he did not.’

Michael sighed and scrubbed hard at his temples with two forefingers that were flecked with oatcake crumbs. ‘I do not understand
any of this, Matt.’

‘Nor me,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have the feeling that all the evidence we have gained so far has been very superficial
and incidental, and that there is a lot more that we do not know.’

Michael agreed. ‘But tomorrow we will find out. We will tell the Dominicans what has become of their Precentor first thing
in the morning, and then I will ask whether any of them knows anything about a missing essay on nominalism.’

The following morning, just as the first glimmerings of dawn lightened the sky, Bartholomew dragged himself from a deep sleep,
and washed and shaved in the dim light, muttering under his breath when he could not find a clean shirt. Michael tapped on
the door and they walked into the courtyard together, ready to process to the church for the morning mass. The other scholars
had barely started to assemble when Brother Timothy arrived, breathless and white-faced. Michael regarded his Junior Proctor
uneasily, anticipating more bad news, but it was not Michael that Timothy wanted: he had been sent to fetch Bartholomew, because
old Brother Adam was having trouble catching his breath. The physician grabbed his bag and set off at a run with Michael following
at a rather more sedate pace.

It was raining steadily, and the High Street was little more than a river of thin, splashy mud. Those who were early risers
looked cold and miserable as they trudged along, and seemed to be wearing clothes that had dulled to a shade of drab brown
in the wet semi-darkness. Even the animals that were being herded to the Market Square were dirty and bedraggled. Roofs released
thin trickles of filthy water into
the streets below, and the plaster-fronted houses were grey with damp.

They reached Ely Hall, and Timothy shoved open the front door to precede them along the narrow corridor and up the stairs
to the upper floor. What had once been a single large chamber had been divided into six small rooms to afford the Benedictines
some privacy. Timothy had a chamber that overlooked a vile little yard at the back, while Janius and Adam had been allocated
ones at the front with windows that boasted a view of the Market Square.

‘Thank God you are here,’ said Janius, crossing himself vigorously when he saw Bartholomew. ‘We were beginning to fear that
you would be too late. We have been praying hard, but God has not performed a miracle yet.’

Bartholomew pushed past him to where Brother Adam lay wheezing and gasping on his bed. The old man’s face was grey, and his
eyes indicated that he was very frightened. The room was stifling hot from the fire that blazed in the hearth, so the physician
ordered the window opened. Then he helped Adam to sit and asked Timothy for a bowl of boiling water. While he waited, he gave
Adam a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then a larger dose of lungwort in wine to ease the congestion. When the hot
water arrived, he scattered myrrh into it and talked calmly while the old man inhaled the vapours with a cloth over his head.

After a while, Adam’s breathlessness eased and colour began to creep back into his cheeks. The monks who had clustered around
the door heaved a sigh of relief, and Janius began to recite a prayer of thanksgiving in a loud, braying voice. He glared
at his brethren until they joined in.

‘Thank you,’ said Adam softly, leaning back against his cushions and smiling weakly at Bartholomew. ‘This happens from time
to time, especially when I go out.’

‘Why did you go out?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I recommended that you remain indoors, at least until the weather improves.’

‘At dawn today I felt like a stroll in the Market Square,’
replied Adam. ‘And in December I attended a meeting at St Radegund’s Convent. Other than that, I have obeyed your instructions
to the letter.’

‘
You
were at the gatherings called by Walcote?’ asked Michael in astonishment, crouching next to the bed so that he could hear
Adam above the strident prayers emanating from the corridor.

Adam nodded. ‘It was unpleasant walking there so late at night, and I was so ill afterwards that I told Walcote I would not
attend any more. It was not a very interesting meeting, anyway.’

‘Why did
you
go?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not one of the others?’

‘Walcote invited me specifically, because I am Ely Hall’s senior Benedictine,’ said Adam. ‘I was going to suggest that Janius
or Timothy went in my place, but the meeting was a waste of time, as it happened. We did nothing but talk about how to repair
the Great Bridge and how to suppress the ideas of the realists. I do not hold with realism personally, but I do not like the
notion of censoring theories and thoughts. It is a dangerous path to tread.’

‘Who else was there?’ demanded Michael.

‘Will Walcote and Prior Ralph represented the Austin canons, while Prior Morden put in an appearance for the Dominicans.’

‘The Austins and the Dominicans,’ said Michael in an undertone to Bartholomew. ‘That is new information. Matilde and Eve Wasteneys
told us about the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines. If Adam is right, then virtually every Order in Cambridge was represented
at Walcote’s nasty little covens.’

Bartholomew addressed Adam. ‘What about the Franciscans, Carmelites and Gilbertines? Did you see any of those at these meetings?’

Adam shook his head. ‘When Walcote told me that he was organising meetings for the leaders of the religious Orders, I told
him I would be surprised if he could persuade
the Dominicans to sit under one roof with Carmelites and Franciscans. I was right: he could not.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘Walcote probably divided his gatherings between those who follow nominalism
and those who follow realism. That is why Matilde – whose information came from the Carmelite Lincolne – only knew about him,
the Franciscans and the Gilbertines. And that is why only Benedictines, Dominicans and Austins were at the gathering attended
by Adam.’

‘It also explains why Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the men she saw attended the same meetings,’ said Timothy
thoughtfully. ‘She knew different people came on different occasions.’

Michael sighed heavily. ‘But this still does not explain why no one told
me
about these wretched events. I am the Senior Proctor. It was not right for Walcote to have organised them without my knowledge.’

‘It was not,’ said Janius, who had finished his prayers and was apparently honing his talent for eavesdropping. ‘But now Timothy
is your Junior Proctor, such things will not happen again.’

‘Did
you
know about all this?’ Michael asked him.

Janius nodded slowly. ‘Adam confided in me. He had been sworn to secrecy and so obviously I could not mention it to anyone
else. However, I confess I had forgotten about it until Adam reminded me just now. It happened months ago – before Yuletide.’

‘I remember it clearly, because it was the walk in the cold and the rain that caused my illness,’ said Adam. ‘I was stupid
to have gone in the first place, and Janius recommended that I should attend no more of them.’

‘And Walcote invited no one in your place?’ asked Michael.

There were shaken heads all around. ‘If he had, I would have suggested that we did not go,’ said Janius. ‘Who would want an
assignation in a place like that, anyway?’

‘The fact that the Benedictines did not attend after the
first time explains something else, too,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Matilde mentioned that the numbers of people at
the meetings had been dwindling. Now we learn that Adam declined to go because he considered them a waste of time. I was worried
that there might be a more sinister reason for the dropping attendance.’

‘But someone still should have told me,’ persisted Michael.

‘There was very little to tell,’ said Adam apologetically. ‘As I said, we chatted about whether to donate money to repair
the Great Bridge and the nominalism–realism debate.’

‘But why did Walcote hold his gatherings in the middle of the night if you discussed such mundane matters?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I suppose subsequent ones might have been more interesting,’ admitted Adam. ‘As I told you, I only went to one.’

‘We will have that information from Prior Morden of the Dominicans,’ determined Michael. ‘We shall ask him about it when we
deliver his dead colleague. Meanwhile, if you receive another invitation to one of these affairs, please tell me.’

‘We can do better than that,’ said Timothy with a grin. ‘Janius or I will go in Adam’s place and report everything that is
said.’

Michael smiled his appreciation, then followed Bartholomew down the stairs and out into the Market Square, leaving Adam to
rest. Timothy walked with them, then made his way to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles were assembling to receive their
daily orders. Michael watched him go.

‘I made a wise decision when I chose a Benedictine as Junior Proctor. Timothy has held office for only two days, and yet I
can trust him to direct my beadles already. I would have far less time to investigate these murders, if it were not for him.’

‘There is Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a
small, neat figure who stood near one of the farmers’ stalls in the Market Square.

‘He is an early riser,’ said Michael.

‘It looks to me as though he has not yet gone to bed,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at Heytesbury’s display of whiskers and dishevelled
appearance. ‘He and Richard have probably been enjoying Cambridge’s taverns. Look, there is Richard’s horse.’

‘Heytesbury is not the kind of man to indulge in all-night debauchery,’ said Michael. ‘I do not believe he has been carousing
with your errant nephew.’

Heytesbury was watching with amusement the antics of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, which had managed to slip its tether
and was browsing a stack of wizened apples. The outraged farmer was powerless to stop it: slaps on its gleaming rump resulted
in flailing back hoofs that threatened to kill, while no one dared to grab the reins because they were too near its battery
of strong yellow teeth. Black Bishop’s eyes glistened evilly in its head, and its ears twitched back and forth as it listened
for anyone rash enough to approach it while it gorged itself.

‘I do not know what possessed Richard to buy that thing,’ said Heytesbury, as Bartholomew and Michael strolled over to join
him. Bartholomew detected the unmistakable odour of wine on his breath, and knew that Michael was wrong to think that Heytesbury
was no carouser. ‘He is quite unable to control it, and it is only a matter of time before it does someone a serious injury.’

‘How much longer do you plan to stay in Cambridge?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Because if you intend to leave soon,
I have the documents that will formalise our arrangements already drafted in my room at Michaelhouse. You can sign them any
time you are ready.’

‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Heytesbury. He nodded to where Black Bishop still grazed the furious farmer’s fruit. ‘Is
that the Fellow of Michaelhouse whom everyone claims is mad?’

Bartholomew started forward in alarm when he saw Clippesby – who had evidently managed to slip away from the Michaelhouse
mass – stride up to the horse and take a firm hold of the reins. Black Bishop started to rear, angry eyes rolling white in
its dark head. But Clippesby was talking in a low, intense voice, and the horse apparently had second thoughts. Its front
hoofs thumped down on the ground, and its ears flicked, as if it were listening. When Clippesby’s voice dropped to a whisper,
Black Bishop’s head craned forward, as if straining to catch everything that was said.

‘I see what people mean about him,’ said Heytesbury, regarding the scene in amusement. ‘A Fellow who talks to animals is peculiar
indeed.’

‘You have seen nothing yet,’ muttered Michael. ‘In a few moments Clippesby will probably tell everyone in the Market Square
what the Black Bishop of Bedminster said to him.’

Heytesbury laughed. ‘How can I sign your document and leave Cambridge, Brother? There is simply too much here to entertain
me.’

‘Damn!’ said Michael, as Heytesbury moved away from them and edged closer to Clippesby and the horse, aiming to gain a better
view. ‘I wish he would just make his mark on our agreement and go home. The future of our University lies in securing wealthy
benefactors, and the longer he dallies, the less time I will have to coax Oxford’s patrons over to Cambridge. I might have
secured a couple this summer, but now I will not have sufficient time.’

‘Why do we need to steal Oxford’s patrons?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why can we not find some of our own?’

Michael gave him an incredulous glance. ‘It is not so much that we need the patrons ourselves; it is more a case that we do
not want
Oxford
to have them. They are already bigger than us, and I do not want to be in a position where they are capable of crushing us.’

‘That will not happen. It was possible after the plague, when there was a shortage of scholars, but things seemed
to have settled down since then. Oxford poses no danger to us now.’

‘Do not be so sure. It is not impossible that the plague will return, and then there will be even fewer men willing to study.
I do not want to see this University cease to exist for the want of a little forethought. Look what happened to the fledgling
universities at Stamford and Northampton.’

‘Scholars from Oxford and Cambridge joined forces and petitioned for them to be suppressed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is
a very different matter for two large universities to suppress a smaller third, than for one to suppress another.’