On the left was the dark mass of St John’s Hospital, where lamps gleamed under the fastened shutters, and shadows moved back and forth as the friars tended their charges. Next to it was a noisy tavern called the Swan, and Sergeant Orwelle happened to reel out of it as they passed. As the soldier struggled to close the door, Bartholomew glimpsed the smelly cosiness within. He was surprised to see Richard and Heytesbury sitting at a table near the fire, raising slopping goblets in a drunken salute to the surgeon Robin of Grantchester. Heytesbury’s face was flushed and he looked happy and healthy, although Richard seemed pale. Their effusive camaraderie with their companions indicated that they had been enjoying the tavern’s ale for some time. Bartholomew thought his nephew looked seedy now that he was halfway through his second night of debauchery in a row, and he admired Heytesbury for his energy and dedication to his carousing.
Orwelle finally succeeded in closing the door, and the street was plunged into darkness again; the peace was then shattered by the sound of the soldier’s slurred singing. Bartholomew, Cynric and Paul walked on, passing the Round Church, which stood short and sturdy with its little lantern tower perched on top. Suddenly, a figure darted out of the blackness surrounding the graveyard and snatched at Bartholomew’s arm. The physician yelped in alarm, while a quick rasping sound indicated that Cynric had drawn his sword and was preparing to use it.
‘The owls saw them,’ hissed Clippesby wildly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist so tightly that it hurt. ‘They told me to warn you.’
‘Damned lunatic,’ muttered Cynric testily, sheathing his weapon and glancing uneasily up and down the street. ‘What is he doing out? I thought Langelee had locked him in his room.’
‘I speak to the beasts of the night,’ raved Clippesby. ‘The owls and the bats and the unicorns.’
‘Take him home, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, freeing his arm and feeling the fluttering panic in his stomach begin to subside. ‘And make sure he cannot escape again – stay with him, if you have to. He may harm himself when he is like this.’
‘He had better not try to harm me,’ said Cynric sternly, grabbing Clippesby by the hood and beginning to march him away down the High Street. ‘Or I shall see that his days with bats and unicorns are numbered.’
‘The poor man,’ said Paul with compassion, when the sound of Clippesby’s deluded ranting had faded into the night. ‘He is quite mad.’
Bartholomew took Paul’s arm and guided him the short distance to the Franciscan Friary. ‘You do not know anything about secret meetings held in St Radegund’s Convent, do you?’ he asked, as they waited for their knock to be answered, suspecting that Paul did not, but deciding he should question anyone who might have snippets of information, given that Michael’s life might be at stake. The blind friar was disconcertingly perceptive, and it was possible he had heard something pertinent in his friary.
‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘Is it connected to the murders of Walcote and Faricius?’
‘Possibly. Have you heard anything about those that may help us?’
Paul shook his head. ‘But I knew Faricius. Were you aware that he was writing an essay defending nominalism? I think his room-mates knew, but they are unlikely to mention it, and his Prior was certainly not party to this information.’
‘So how do you know?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you Franciscans, like Carmelites, were of the opinion that nominalism is heresy.’
‘They are in general,’ said Paul. ‘But the Franciscan Order has not yet reached the point where it informs its members precisely which philosophical tenets they should embrace. Personally, I lean towards nominalism, although I do not feel it is wise to discuss it with my colleagues at the moment. This silly row will soon die down, and then we will all begin to see sense again.’
‘And Faricius talked to you about nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself as he realised the answer to that question was staring him in the face. When the dying Faricius had learned that his scrip was missing, he had asked Bartholomew to find it and hand it to Father Paul. And the Carmelite students had mentioned that Faricius had sought other nominalists in the University, including Paul.
Paul’s opaque eyes were curiously glassy in the lamplight. ‘Faricius attended a lecture on nominalism I gave last year, and he came to ask if we could discuss it. We discovered that we shared similar ideas, and he regularly read parts of his essay to me.’
‘How long was it? His friends mentioned it, but I have no idea of its size.’
Paul turned his blind eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Obviously, I never saw it, but I imagine it ran to several large pieces of parchment. It was of a very high quality, too: well argued and concise. It would have become a standard text in time.’
‘It was that good?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just an undergraduate analysis of the ideas proposed by Heytesbury.’
‘Faricius’s work was original and clever. He would have been a great scholar, had he lived.’
‘Do you know where this essay is?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Faricius kept it under a stone in the churchyard of St John Zachary. His friends Simon Lynne or Horneby will tell you where to look.’
‘Lynne has fled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Horneby said the essay is missing.’
‘How dreadful,’ said Paul. ‘I hope it comes to light. I can recall some of his arguments, but Faricius had a writing style that was beautifully concise. I could never hope to emulate it accurately.’
‘When he was dying, he asked me to find his scrip and to bring it to you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He wanted you to have his essay. What would you have done with it?’
Paul was moved by this, and tears spilled from his eyes and made their way down his leathery cheeks. ‘I would have kept it safe until this latest bout of bickering is over and we all have regained our senses. And then I would have had it read at one of the University lectures, so that our greatest scholars would be able to appreciate the purity of his logic and the clarity of his writing.’
A lay-brother came to open the gate, and Bartholomew followed Paul across a courtyard and up some stairs to where Prior Pechem occupied a pleasant suite of rooms that were located above a barrel-vaulted storeroom. The physician looked around him as he entered the Warden’s quarters. Like the leaders of the other Orders in Cambridge, the head of the Franciscans knew how to look after himself. Thick rugs spared him the unpleasantness of placing bare feet on the flagged floor, while tapestries adorned with exotic birds and plants meant that he was not obliged to stare at bare walls. There was a large bed heaped with furs near the window.
‘Ah, Bartholomew! At last!’ came a voice from under the bed-covers. Bartholomew jumped, because he had imagined the room was empty. ‘That horse has done me some serious harm.’
‘So I understand,’ said Bartholomew, advancing on the mountain of furs and peering over them, to see if he could detect the owner of the voice.
‘Young Stanmore promised you would not charge me for your services,’ said Pechem, as Bartholomew continued to hunt for him. ‘I plan to hold him to that – and you.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, tentatively removing one fur, only to find another beneath it. ‘Perhaps you will show me the damage, so that I might examine it.’
He started backward as an arm shot though the covers, although there was still no sign of its owner’s face. He supposed that avoiding eye contact was the Warden’s way of approaching what might prove to be an uncomfortable interview. He perched on the edge of the bed and began to unravel the crude bandage that someone had wrapped around the afflicted limb. After some moments, during which the chamber was still and the only sound was the distant hum of prayers coming from the tiny chapel across the courtyard, Bartholomew removed the bindings to reveal a hand in which the impression of a large set of equine teeth was clearly etched.