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 the 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.