‘Why?’ asked Stanmore with a shrug. ‘Cynric is perfectly capable of making up his own mind about what he wants. It is high time he was released from all that creeping about in the night that you seem to demand of him. I have given him and Rachel Atkin a pleasant room in my property in Milne Street, where they are very happy.’
‘He does seem happy,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘You have always been kind to me – and are even prepared to make anonymous donations on my behalf – but I am afraid I have yet one more favour to ask of you.’
‘You are thinking about young Roger, the stable boy dismissed from Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment and Stanmore smiled, gratified to see his brother-in-law so impressed by the scope of his knowledge.
‘That was taken care of days ago,’ Stanmore continued loftily. ‘Agatha brought him to me, and said that you thought I might find a place for him. He is currently employed in the kitchen, with the promise of an apprenticeship if he proves himself to be a diligent worker.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Thank you, Oswald. You are a good man.’
‘I am, but do not spread it around the town, or I will have all manner of people striving to take advantage of me – like that damned Runham.’
They continued to talk until the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky. The more he thought about his decision to make a new life in Paris, the more Bartholomew felt the choice was the right one. Edith, however, was determined to persuade him to remain in Cambridge as a physician and take one of her six hopeful ladies as a wife. Stanmore fell asleep, lulled by their voices, and only woke when a heavy-eyed servant came to rake over the cooling ashes and build a new fire.
Bartholomew was enjoying a breakfast of coddled eggs and fresh bread with honey when there was a clatter of horse’s hooves in the courtyard. Intrigued by the urgency of the voices that rang out as the rider dismounted, he followed Stanmore outside and was startled to see Cynric holding the reins of a panting, sweating horse.
‘There you are, boy,’ said the Welshman breathlessly. ‘I thought I might find you here.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, as a sense of unease began to uncoil in the pit of his stomach. ‘What has happened? Is it Michael? Is he ill again? Or is it Matilde?’
Cynric shook his head, resting his hands on his knees to try to bring his ragged breathing under control. ‘I went to collect the last of my belongings from Michaelhouse at dawn – Runham said he would sell them if I had not claimed them by then – and I found the College in a terrible commotion.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew again, feeling the unease turn into outright anxiety.
‘Runham,’ gasped Cynric, still doubled over. ‘I thought I should warn you as soon as I could. He was found dead in his room this morning. And Michael says if it was not murder, then it should have been!’
Chapter 8
IT WAS SATURDAY, AND THE ROAD THAT LED INTO Cambridge was already busy with traffic heading for the town market. Huge, lumbering carts pulled by plodding oxen and laden with firewood, bundles of reed for thatching and faggots of peat cut from the Fens clogged the middle of the path, while impatient horsemen and pedestrians jostled for space at the sides. There were chapmen with their packs filled with ribbons, buttons, needles and toys; there were pardoners wearing wide-brimmed black hats and carrying scrolls that gave the buyer absolution of all manner of sins; there were shepherds and drovers and geese boys, all driving their livestock to the market in squawking, braying, lowing, bleating herds; and there were soldiers, weary from a night of patrolling, with the mud of their travels splattered on their cloaks and boots.
The faster Bartholomew tried to ride, the slower was his progress. Although it was only just past dawn, the crowds heading for the market did not want to waste a precious moment of the winter daylight, and Bartholomew was not the only one in a hurry. A man with several braces of pheasants slung over his shoulder gave Bartholomew a venomous glower when the physician’s horse bumped him, but backed away when he saw Cynric’s hand resting lightly on his short Welsh sword.
By the time Bartholomew reached the Trumpington Gate, the bells were ringing for prime, and the streets were filled with dark-garbed scholars heading for the churches. Friars, monks and students bustled along the muddy roads, some sporting the distinctive uniforms of their College or hostel, and others wearing the habits of their Order. Bells rang all over the town. The tinny clatter of St Botolph’s, the flat clank of St Edward’s and the shrill ding of St John Zachary’s vied for attention above the great bass toll of St Mary’s.
He saw the scholars of Bene’t heading for their church in an orderly line. Heltisle and Caumpes seemed to be discussing their partly completed building, and gazed up at its abandoned scaffolding as they walked, their thoughts clearly on temporal matters rather than on mass. Simekyn Simeon, his colourful clothes exchanged for the sober blue of his College, slouched after them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and making it evident that he was unused to being woken at such an ungodly hour.
Behind him, and moving in a way that Bartholomew could only describe as a slink, was the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton – the man whom no one seemed to like because of his obsession with the state of his health.
Osmun the porter brought up the rear of the procession, wielding a hefty stick that he seemed prepared to use if any students broke ranks or moved too slowly. He saw Bartholomew, and his face creased into an ugly snarl. Bartholomew was surprised to see Walter, the dismissed night porter from Michaelhouse, walking next to him, and assumed that Walter had inveigled himself a post at Bene’t. When Walter spotted Bartholomew, he gave what almost passed for a smile. Bartholomew could only suppose that it had been Walter’s legendary surliness that had enticed Bene’t to give him a position.
Scholars and traders were not the only ones awake that morning. Sitting astride a splendid grey was Adela Tangmer, riding briskly down the centre of the High Street, showing off her equestrian skills by weaving expertly between the carts and academic processions that jammed the road.
‘I think you and I need to have a chat, Matthew,’ she said when they drew level. He saw that she at least had the grace to appear sheepish.
‘We most certainly do,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not now. I must get to Michaelhouse.’
He tried to ride on, but his way was blocked by a baker who was selling sticky cakes from a greasy tray that he carried on his head. Adela watched Bartholomew critically as he tried unsuccessfully to direct his horse around the obstruction.
‘You ride like a peasant,’ she said bluntly. ‘Sit straight. And do not wave your hands in front of you like a magician. Keep them still and low.’
‘I do not have time for this,’ he said, digging his heels in his horse’s flanks. It snickered at him and twisted its head around to favour him with a look of pure malevolence. ‘Runham is dead, and I need to return to College as soon as possible.’
‘Then perhaps you will allow me to help you,’ she said, leaning down and snatching the reins from his hands. ‘It is the least I can do.’
She turned her horse, and then they were off along the High Street, moving more quickly than Bartholomew felt was safe. But they reached Michaelhouse without mishap, and he slid off the horse and handed the reins to Cynric.
‘Thank you,’ he said, addressing both Cynric and Adela.
‘Send for me if you want me, boy,’ said Cynric, still hovering anxiously. ‘I know I no longer have a post at Michaelhouse, but I will come if you need me.’