‘Your scholars riot over philosophical issues?’ asked Heytesbury in a contemptuous voice. ‘At Merton, we tend to fight with our wits, not our fists.’
‘Things have changed, then, have they?’ asked Bartholomew archly, not prepared to let Heytesbury get away with that one. ‘There was a good deal of fighting when I was a student there.’
‘There are fights, of course,’ said Heytesbury coolly, not pleased to be contradicted. ‘But not over issues of philosophy. What kind of world would it be if the theory that gained predominance was the one that had the most aggressive supporters?’
‘One that would suit a lot of the scholars I know,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would save them the embarrassment of exposing their inferior minds.’
‘A lecture on nominalism by its leading protagonist would be a great thing for Cambridge,’ persisted Richard. ‘It would show them the nature of real scholarship.’
‘We will see,’ said Michael vaguely.
Richard was about to add something else, when there was a loud, urgent hammering at the gates. The merchant looked at his wife in surprise.
‘Who can that be? It is late, and I am surprised anyone in the village is still awake.’
He stood abruptly when horses’ hoofs clattered on the cobbles of the yard outside. Bartholomew heard Hugh the steward demanding to know the rider’s business, but then there was the sound of approaching footsteps and the door to the hall was flung open. A cold draught swirled inside, making the fire gutter and extinguishing several lamps.
‘I am sorry to intrude, Master Stanmore,’ said Sheriff Tulyet, pushing past Hugh, who seemed about to make a more mannerly announcement. His cloak was sodden, and he was breathless from a hard ride against a fierce headwind. ‘But I must speak to Brother Michael.’
Richard Tulyet was small, with a wispy beard that gave him the appearance of a youth unable to produce the more luxurious whiskers of an older man. Only the lines of worry and tiredness around his mouth and eyes suggested that he was loaded with the considerable responsibility of maintaining law and order in a rebellious town where a significant portion of the population comprised young men.
‘Me?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘Why? What can have happened to induce the town’s Sheriff to ride through such a foul night to seek me out?’
‘Your University,’ replied Tulyet, grim-faced. ‘It is in uproar again. You must return with me immediately and take charge of your beadles, or we shall have no town at all by the morning.’
‘Who is it this time?’ asked Michael wearily, reaching for his cloak. ‘Hugh, saddle up my horse, if you please.’
‘The Franciscans have some Austin canons trapped in Holy Trinity Church,’ replied Tulyet in some disgust. ‘Apparently there was a dispute over who should preach the sermon. They tossed a coin, would you believe, and the Austins won. The Franciscans declined to listen to an Austin, and left.’
‘So what is the problem?’ asked Michael when the Sheriff paused. Stanmore poured Tulyet a goblet of wine, which he accepted gratefully. ‘If the Franciscans went home, why are you here?’
‘They did not return to their friary,’ said Tulyet. ‘Apparently, they made for the Cardinal’s Cap, where they spent the evening drinking the poor taverner dry of ale – for which they still need to pay. And then they headed back to Holy Trinity Church.’
‘Were the Austins still inside?’ asked Stanmore.
Tulyet nodded. ‘The Franciscans claim that neither I nor my soldiers have jurisdiction over them, because they are in holy orders – under canon, rather than secular law – and refuse to go home.’
‘My Junior Proctor can deal with this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I left him in charge, and he knows what he is supposed to do if the scholars cause mischief.’
Tulyet sighed, his face sombre. ‘That is the real reason why I am here, Brother. I am afraid I have some bad news for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.
Tulyet sighed. ‘Will Walcote is dead. Someone hanged him from the walls of the Dominican Friary.’
Chapter 3
ONCE MICHAEL HAD LEFT WITH TULYET TO BEGIN AN immediate investigation into Walcote’s death, Bartholomew did not feel like continuing with the celebrations at Edith’s house. He offered to accompany the monk home, afraid that the murder of a close colleague would prove to be a harrowing experience, but Michael declined, muttering that he did not want to spoil Edith’s party.
The physician did not enjoy the rest of the evening, and escaped to the bed in the attic that had been provided for him as soon as he could do so without causing offence. Meanwhile, Richard dominated the conversation, outlining his grand plans to amass wealth and fame. Bartholomew had encountered many greedy men in his time, but such brazen avarice was a quality he had never expected to see in his nephew. Heytesbury fell silent once Michael had gone, and stared into the fire, evidently lost in his own thoughts.
The following morning, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, Bartholomew crept out of his room, and tiptoed downstairs and across to the stables. He thought he had succeeded in leaving the house undetected, and was surprised and not particularly pleased to find Richard waiting for him with a huge black stallion already saddled.
‘What is that?’ demanded Bartholomew, eyeing the vast beast uneasily.
Richard seemed startled by the question. ‘It is a horse. What does it look like?’
‘That is no horse; it is a monster,’ said Bartholomew, hurriedly stepping back as the animal tossed its mighty head and pawed at the ground. ‘Where did it come from?’
Richard patted the horse’s neck fondly, although the animal did not seem to reciprocate the affection. ‘He hales from the stables of the Earl of Gloucester, and has a pedigree of which any nobleman would be proud. I bought him two days ago from the Bigod family in Chesterton.’
‘How did you pay for such an expensive item?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘You have only been in Cambridge a week or so. I had no idea practising law could be so lucrative.’
Richard shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘I was doing well in Oxford, as it happens, but I am fortunate in having Heytesbury as a friend. He has recommended me to several of his richest acquaintances. But never mind me, what do you think of my horse?’
‘Did you have to choose one that was so big?’ asked Bartholomew, taking another step back as the horse, sensing that it was about to take some exercise, headed for the open door. Richard grabbed the reins, but the animal paid him no heed, and his tugs and curses were irrelevant to the course of its progress outside.
‘I do not ride ponies,’ retorted Richard haughtily, still hauling on the reins. ‘And this beast suits my status as a lawyer. I cannot be seen mounted on something inferior, can I?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, saddling his modest palfrey. He hoped the looming presence of the black monster would not cause it to bolt, or, worse still, that it would not follow Richard’s lead and thunder off down the dark track towards Cambridge at a speed that was unsafe. Bartholomew did not enjoy riding at the best of times, but doing so at a breakneck pace along a frost-hardened track in the near-dark was definitely low on his list of pleasant ways to spend a morning.
‘The Black Bishop of Bedminster,’ said Richard.
Bartholomew gazed at him uncomprehendingly in the gloom. ‘What?’
‘That is his name. The village of Bedminster, near Bristol, is where he was bred. It is an impressive title, do you not think? It is fitting for a fine animal to have such a name.’