Brother Timothy was in one corner, reading a battered copy of William Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. He frowned slightly, concentrating on what was a difficult text. Janius had apparently been sitting at the table making notes on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, a text that, along with the Bible, formed the basis of theological studies at Cambridge. Sitting by the fire was another familiar face, that of Brother Adam, an ageing monk whom Bartholomew treated for a weakness of the lungs. They all looked up as Michael and Bartholomew entered the room. Timothy stood, and came to touch Michael on the shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.
‘We were so sorry to hear about Will Walcote. We will say a mass for his soul later today.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘But I came here to ask you whether you would take his place as Junior Proctor.’
‘Me?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘But I could not possibly undertake such a task.’
‘I told you,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot expect people to abandon everything on your command.’
‘To be called to perform such duties is a great honour for the Benedictines,’ said old Adam from his fireside chair. ‘You should accept Michael’s offer, Timothy.’
Timothy shook his head, flushing red. ‘I could never fulfil such duties as well as Michael has. I would be a disappointment to him.’
‘It is true you would have high standards to aim for,’ said Michael immodestly. ‘But I feel you would be the ideal man for the post, and so does Chancellor Tynkell.’
‘The Chancellor?’ whispered Timothy, flushing more deeply than ever. ‘But I scarcely know him. What have I done to attract his attention?’
‘Accept, Brother,’ said Janius, his eyes shining with the light of the saved. ‘God has called you and you cannot deny Him.’
‘I thought Michael had called you,’ muttered Adam from the fireside. ‘It is hardly the same thing, no matter what Michael thinks of himself.’
Janius ignored him, and gripped Timothy’s arm. ‘God wants you to serve Him and our Order. To have a senior and a junior proctor who are Black Monks will be excellent for the University, and it will go a long way to setting us above the disputes between the friars.’
Bartholomew was not so sure about that, and suspected that many people would see Timothy’s appointment as favouritism on Michael’s part, and as a deliberate move to secure the best positions in the University for men in his own Order.
‘I cannot accept,’ said Timothy, shaking his head and refusing to look at Michael.
‘There is always Father William,’ muttered Bartholomew wickedly in Michael’s ear.
Michael’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. ‘Very well. If you have teaching that you cannot escape, or other duties that are important, then there is nothing I can do to persuade you.’
‘You misunderstand,’ said Timothy. ‘I cannot accept because I will not be good enough.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Michael relieved. ‘Give me a week, and I will prove that you are perfect for the task. In fact, I anticipate that you will be the best Junior Proctor I have ever had – and I have had a few, believe me.’
Timothy still hesitated, and it was Janius who spoke up. ‘We will undertake Timothy’s teaching duties when necessary, and will do all we can to support both of you. It is God’s will.’
Timothy sighed and then smiled at Michael. ‘When would you like me to start?’
‘Now,’ said Michael briskly, apparently deciding that Timothy should be allowed no time to reconsider. ‘I knew a Benedictine would be a good choice. The ink is barely dry on the parchment, and yet you are prepared to abandon your personal duties to help me in this difficult situation.’
While they were talking, Bartholomew crouched down next to Brother Adam. The monk was small and wizened, and the murky blue rings around his irises suggested failing eyesight, as well as extreme old age. A few hairs sprouted from the top of his wrinkled head, but not nearly as many as sprouted from his ears.
‘How are you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is good to see you out of your bed.’
The old monk grinned with toothless gums. ‘The brethren do not normally permit themselves the indulgence of a fire during the day, but Janius always has one lit when he thinks I might come downstairs. He imagines I have not guessed why there is always a blaze in the hearth just when I happen to leave my room. His religion can be a little unsettling from time to time, but he is a good man, to think of an old man’s pride.’
‘And your lungs?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you breathing easier now?’
‘Your potion helps,’ said Adam, ‘although I long for warmer weather. Spring is very late this year, and Lent has been interminable. Still, as I am elderly and ill, Brother Timothy insists that I be fed meat at least three times a week.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Timothy was an enlightened man not to demand that the restrictions of Lent be kept by the old and infirm. Although the Rule of St Benedict suggested more lenient guidelines for the sick, not everyone accepted them. He was sure Father William would not be so compassionate. ‘I hope you do not refuse it because meat is forbidden in Lent.’
The old monk raised his eyebrows and regarded him in amusement. ‘I am no martyr, Doctor. If I am commanded to eat meat, then eat it I shall. And my brethren have always been good to me. I will not burden them by insisting on doing things that are bad for me and that make me ill. It would be very selfish.’
‘I wish all my patients had that attitude,’ said Bartholomew fervently. He stood as Michael and Timothy made for the door.
‘If you are going to Barnwell, then I shall accompany you,’ said Janius, reaching for a basket that stood in a corner. ‘I have eggs and butter to take to the nearby leper hospital, so I can do God’s work and enjoy your company at the same time.’
He took a cloth from a rack where laundry was drying, and covered the basket to protect its contents from the rain, then set out after the others.
Chapter 4
WALCOTE’S BODY LAY IN THE CONVENTUAL CHURCH AT the Austin canons’ foundation at Barnwell. Barnwell was a tiny settlement outside Cambridge, comprising a few houses and the priory itself. Beyond it was another small hamlet called Stourbridge, famous for its annual fair and its leper hospital.
The priory was reached by a walk of about half a mile along a desolate path known as the Barnwell Causeway. Once the town had been left behind, and the handsome collection of buildings that belonged to the Benedictine nuns at St Radegund’s had been passed, Fen-edge vegetation took over. Shallow bogs lined the sides of the track, and stunted elder and aspen trees hunched over them, as if attempting to shrink away from the icy winds that often howled in from the flat expanses to the north and east. Reeds and rushes waved and hissed back and forth, and the grey sky that stretched above always seemed much larger in the Fens than it did elsewhere. As they walked, more briskly than usual because it was cold, ducks flapped in sudden agitation in the undergrowth, and then flew away with piercing cackles.
‘Damned birds!’ muttered Michael, clutching his chest. ‘No wonder people like to poach here. I would not mind taking an arrow to some of those things myself! That would teach them to startle an honest man.’
The Fens were known to be the haunt of outlaws, and Bartholomew kept a wary watch on the road that stretched ahead of them, as well as casting frequent glances behind. Since the plague had taken so many agricultural labourers, the price of flour had risen to the point where many people could not afford bread. Three well-dressed Benedictines and a physician with a heavy satchel over one shoulder would provide desperate people with a tempting target.