‘Funds amassed by abusing his power,’ remarked Michael. ‘He took bribes when he was Justice of the Common Bench, then committed all manner of dishonest acts to get more.’
‘Money is money as far as the King is concerned,’ shrugged Tulyet. ‘And his affection for Moleyns means that Cambridge folk have fluttered towards the man like moths to a flame, all hoping that he will write something nice about them in his letters to Court. Moleyns was inundated with offers of friendship from the moment he arrived.’
‘You mean burgesses?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The Mayor and his friends?’
‘Yes, along with wealthy scholars from King’s Hall, Bene’t and Maud’s,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And Michaelhouse – young Will Kolvyle is a regular. He and Moleyns laugh and gossip for hours together. I am surprised you allow it.’
Will Kolvyle was Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, a talented youth who had arrived to take up post at the beginning of the academic year. He had made no effort to endear himself to his new colleagues, all of whom thought him arrogant, irritating and wholly devoid of humour.
‘We did not know,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘But I will tell Langelee, and he will put an end to it. We do not want our College associated with Moleyns.’
‘Good,’ said Tulyet, and sighed ruefully. ‘I was appalled when I learned that Moleyns was to be foisted on me. He is a distraction I could do without.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you particularly busy?’
Tulyet shot him a sour glance. ‘There are taxes to be prised from folk who would rather not pay them; your University is twice the size it was a year ago; and there is a fierce feud between two rival bands of tomb-makers. So yes, I am busy.’
‘We have just been listening to Petit gripe about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks the others stole a ledger slab from him.’
‘I know,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Along with various other supplies that have recently gone missing. He mentions them every time our paths cross. It is extremely annoying.’
Michael was not very interested in a spat between craftsmen, and turned to what he considered to be a far more pressing matter.
‘Were you with Moleyns when Tynkell died?’
‘I was nearby – I happened to be free for an hour, so Helbye and I decided to mind him together. He and Moleyns were at your sister’s cloth stall, Matt, while I was next door, taking the opportunity to remind the glovers about the tax on fur. Why?’
‘Because he hinted that he knows the killer’s identity, but then declined to give us a name.’
‘Well, all I saw was a black shape flapping away to the east. But leave Moleyns to me. If he did see anything pertinent, I will prise it out of him.’
At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs – Moleyns had managed to pull his horse away from the grass and direct it back to his wife and lawyer. Once there, several scholars and townsfolk came to greet him, all nodding and bowing obsequiously. Tulyet growled something about it being time that Moleyns was back in the castle, but had not taken many steps towards his prisoner when there was a flurry of excited barks. The stallion reared and Moleyns fell off.
‘Sir John Moleyns indeed!’ sneered Michael. ‘He is not fit to bear such a title. Even you could have kept your seat then, Matt, and that is saying something.’
When Moleyns failed to stand up, Bartholomew went to see if he needed help, but so many folk had clustered around the fallen knight that it was difficult to push through them. A few carried torches, although the light they cast was unsteady, and there was a very real danger of setting someone else alight.
A person in a cloak with a prettily embroidered hem – a woman’s garment – was trying to escape, and Bartholomew was shoved away rudely when they got in each other’s way. While he staggered, off balance, he saw the cowled figure he had spotted earlier, but the cleric was more adept at surging through crowds than Bartholomew, and had vanished before he could be hailed. Grimly, Bartholomew resumed his journey.
‘Stand back!’ he shouted as he elbowed his way through the throng. ‘Let him breathe.’
The spectators eased away, allowing him just enough space to crouch down and examine Moleyns. He was vaguely aware of a number of familiar faces peering at him in the gloom, including Moleyns’ wife and lawyer, who had dismounted and were trying to keep their feet in the scrum.
Moleyns’ eyes were closed, and he lay unmoving among the scuffling feet. It did not take Bartholomew a moment to make his diagnosis, although it was not one he had been expecting.
‘Lord!’ he muttered to no one in particular. ‘He is dead.’
Chapter 2
Stars were still glittering in the black velvet of the sky when the scholars of Michaelhouse prised themselves from their beds the following day. It was still bitterly cold, and frost had settled in a hard white crust across roofs and the mud of the yard. The water in the kitchen had frozen again, despite the fire that had been left burning all night, and Agatha the laundress, who ran the domestic side of the College, could be heard cursing as she tried to break it with a poker.
As usual, the College was bursting at the seams, because Master Langelee continued to enrol far more students than was practicable in order to get their tuition fees. A run of bad luck, combined with a series of dubious investments, meant that Michaelhouse remained on the brink of financial ruin, despite several recent donations from Bartholomew’s generous sister, and overloading his Fellows with pupils was an easy way for Langelee to raise much-needed cash. This had resulted in an acute shortage of space, even with all the first years sleeping in the hall.
Bartholomew had always had two chambers at his disposal, but this was a luxury the College could no longer afford. His students – at least three times as many as he should have had – were crammed into the larger one, while he slept in the room where he kept his medicines. This had originally been provided because the reek of these powerful compounds was thought to be injurious to his health, but the danger had been conveniently forgotten in the demand for berths. He did not even have it to himself, and was obliged to share with his book-bearer Cynric and Deynman the librarian.
Deynman had once been a student himself, accepted purely because his father was rich. His studies had not gone well, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when he had abandoned a career in medicine and had opted instead to look after Michaelhouse’s small but valuable collection of books. His proud father insisted on funding the post, and as no son of his was going to lack creature comforts, the allowance included plenty of money for firewood.
It was a pleasant change for Bartholomew, who usually shivered all through winter, while wind howled through the gaps in his windows and froze the mould that dripped down his walls. Now, he woke each morning to a blaze that had kept the three of them agreeably toasty all night, and hot water was available for washing and shaving. Better yet, his clothes were always aired when he donned them, and were comfortably warm against his skin. Sleeping with his head under a bench and his legs bent was a small price to pay for such unaccustomed delights.
Cynric had been in Bartholomew’s employ for years, and the relationship between them was more of equals than master and servant. Unfortunately, the Welshman was one of the most superstitious men in the country, so their cramped quarters were liberally adorned with bundles of herbs, amulets, charms and mysterious pouches. Those Fellows in religious Orders had asked that they be removed – or at least put somewhere more discreet – but Cynric had doggedly refused, and the witchy paraphernalia remained.