‘We can give her plenty to drink now,’ offered Tysilia, brandishing the wineskin helpfully.
‘I meant watered ale or milk,’ said Bartholomew, regarding her askance. ‘Do not give her wine; she has had more than enough of that already.’
‘She is not drunk,’ asserted Dame Wasteneys, regarding Bartholomew sternly. ‘She is indisposed. I would not like it said that the Prioress of St Radegund’s was tipsy before prime.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the walk through Cambridge with the Prioress staggering between two meaty novices would do more damage to her reputation than anything he could say. He knew that wine was sometimes more than just a pleasant beverage for some people, and the broken veins and slightly purple nose of the Prioress suggested that she was one of them. He handed Dame Wasteneys a packet containing some cloves, which he used for patients with toothache.
‘Give her some of these to chew. They will mask the scent of the wine.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dame Wasteneys, sketching a brief benediction at him. ‘You are very kind.’
Leaving the nuns to walk back to their convent, Bartholomew and Richard mounted their horses again. Bartholomew was sure that the sudden deluge of spray and pellets of mud that the Black Bishop of Bedminster kicked up with his hoofs, and that landed squarely on the startled Prioress, would do more to dispel the effects of wine than the coldest morning air. Oblivious to her indignant curses, Richard rode towards the town.
Bartholomew and Richard reached the Trumpington Gate, and waited for the guards to wave them through. The soldier on duty regarded Richard’s snorting black horse doubtfully. Sergeant Orwelle was a thickset man with a limp from a wound received in the service of the King. Bartholomew had recently treated him for rotting teeth, and one of his first tasks as a physician, when he had arrived in Cambridge more than a decade before, had been to remove a horn drinking vessel from the man’s nose, which had managed to become stuck there during some bizarre drinking game. Orwelle felt indebted to Bartholomew – not for the removal of the offending item, but for the fact that the incident had never been mentioned again.
‘Tell Brother Michael I am sorry about his Junior Proctor,’ said Orwelle, patting Bartholomew’s horse on the neck. ‘It was me who found him, you know. I was on patrol, when I saw him hanging. It was a sad sight.’
‘Did you see anything else – such as who did it?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.
Orwelle shook his head. ‘If I had, then that person would now be under lock and key. It does not do for scholars to flaunt their lack of respect for the law in the town. It sets a bad example.’
‘How do you know Walcote was killed by a scholar, and not a townsperson?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Orwelle regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Of course it was a scholar. The townsfolk have nothing against the proctors – quite the opposite, in fact, because it is the proctors who punish students for misbehaving. We like the proctors.’
‘Sheriff Tulyet said Walcote was hanged from the walls of the Dominican Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that true? It is a very public place.’
‘He was around the side,’ explained Orwelle. ‘The front would have been a public place, but Walcote was hanging from a drainage pipe that juts out from the north wall. A line of trees conceals it from the road.’
‘How did you find him, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
Orwelle looked shifty. ‘Do not tell the Sheriff, but I slipped home for a cup of hot ale halfway through my patrol – it was a horrible night, with all that wind and rain. I live near the Dominican Friary, and there is a shortcut along the wall that I always take. I doubt anyone else uses it after dark, and it was lucky I found Walcote when I did, or he would have been there until this morning.’
‘But he was dead when you found him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There were no signs of life?’
‘None,’ said Orwelle. ‘And I have attended enough hangings at the Castle to be able to tell right enough. He was stone cold, too, so he had been hanging there some time before I came across him.’
‘What time did you find him?’
‘When the bells chimed for compline,’ replied Orwelle. ‘You and Brother Michael had left to go to Trumpington for the evening, and I suppose it was a couple of hours after that. Whoever killed him must have done so just after dusk – any earlier, and someone else would have found him; later, and he would have been warm.’
‘Was there anything at all that might help Michael catch the culprit?’ asked Bartholomew.
Orwelle shook his head. ‘The good Brother has already asked me all this. There was nothing. I cut Walcote down, to make certain he was not still living, then I ran to the gatehouse for help.’
‘And what about the trouble between the Austins and the Franciscans?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did they fight all night?’
‘The Franciscans went home when it became clear the rain was not going to stop that evening. They do not dislike the Austins enough to endure a drenching. By the time the Sheriff arrived with Brother Michael, the Franciscans and the Austins were tucked up in their own beds.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was expecting to hear that there had been a riot.’
‘There is unrest because the University is only teaching in the mornings this week,’ said Orwelle knowledgeably. ‘The scholars are bored – they do not know what to do with free afternoons, and so spend them looking for trouble. It is a good thing Lent is almost over.’
‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, hoping the problems would be resolved when lectures returned to normal after Easter.
Orwelle suddenly sniffed the air. ‘What is that dreadful stench? Is there a whore among the crowd waiting to come in?’
‘Not that I can see,’ replied Bartholomew, hoping Orwelle would not associate the powerful smell with Richard’s carefully greased hair. The physician moved backward as Richard’s horse grew restless at the enforced delay.
‘Make sure you keep that thing under control,’ Orwelle instructed Bartholomew, eyeing the animal distrustfully. ‘We do not want it stampeding around the town, upsetting carts and knocking people down.’
Bartholomew raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It has nothing to do with me. Tell Richard.’
‘Oswald Stanmore’s boy?’ asked Orwelle, peering up at the fine figure who sat on his horse with the bandage still around his nose and mouth. The old soldier gave a sudden beam of delight. ‘You and my Tom used to go fishing together. You remember him.’
Richard gazed coolly at the sergeant. ‘Actually, I do not. And I prefer not to dwell on such unsavoury matters as fishing in dirty water.’
Orwelle’s honest face crunched into a puzzled frown. ‘Of course you remember my Tom. It was just before the Death. You and him used to sit together on the river bank, and catch minnows.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Richard, spurring his horse through the gate and into the town beyond.
Shooting an apologetic grin at Orwelle, Bartholomew rode after him, balling his fists so he would not be tempted to knock his nephew from his fine saddle.
‘What are you thinking of?’ he demanded when he had caught up, snatching the reins from Richard’s hands to make him stop. ‘You could have acknowledged Tom Orwelle’s father. You and Tom were friends once.’
‘I cannot afford to be seen cavorting with the sons of common soldiers,’ Richard flashed back. ‘I have an impression to make on this town. I hardly think people will want to employ me if they see me discussing old times with peasants.’