‘I do not see why we should study before term begins,’ said John Goodwyn, a haughty newcomer who was older than the rest. Bartholomew had not chosen to teach him – indeed, he would have rejected the lad had he interviewed him himself – but the Master had been bribed with the offer of double fees. Bartholomew was not pleased: Goodwyn was a disruptive influence, leading the others to grumble when they normally would have been compliant.
‘Sitting in a tavern would be much more fun,’ agreed Aungel wistfully.
‘Taverns are forbidden to scholars.’ Bartholomew raised his hand to quell the immediate objection that Goodwyn started to make. ‘And do not say you will not be a scholar until next week, because you became one when you signed our register.’
Goodwyn fell silent, although he shot his teacher a resentful glare. Bartholomew ignored it, and set the class an exercise that would keep them busy for the rest of the day. He knew he drove them hard, but the country was still desperately short of qualified physicians after the plague, and he was determined that the ones he trained would be worthy to replace those who had died.
When he was sure they had understood his instructions, he left Aungel to supervise, and retreated to the storeroom. He closed the door to block out the sound of Goodwyn’s whine, and slumped on a stool. He was exhausted. Lawrence had taken on some of his patients, but he still had far too many, and he was not sure how he would cope when teaching began the following week.
He glanced at the treatise on fevers he had been writing for the past few years, originally intended to be a brief guide for students, but now extending to several volumes. He could not remember when he had last added to it. Admittedly, some of his spare time had gone on trying to invent a decent lamp for night-time consultations – experiments from which he was now banned after they had gone disastrously wrong – but how much longer would he have to struggle against increasingly impossible workloads?
Sighing wearily, he pulled Galen’s Prognostica towards him and started to write the commentary he would need to provide as his students slogged their way through it. He had only been working a few moments when the door opened and Brother Michael stepped in. The monk was his closest friend, but Bartholomew still felt a surge of annoyance at the interruption.
‘Where is your wine?’ Michael demanded. ‘I need a drink.’
He snatched the flask from the shelf before Bartholomew could reply, and poured himself a generous measure. It was the cheapest claret available, used in medicines where its taste was irrelevant, and he winced as it went down. The sour flavour did not prevent him from taking a second swig, though. Then he plumped himself down on a bench, where an ominous creak made both scholars tense in alarm – Bartholomew afraid for furniture he could not afford to replace, and Michael worried for his dignity. But the joints held, and the two of them relaxed.
Besides being a Benedictine theologian of some renown, Michael was also Senior Proctor, and his years in post – he stubbornly refused to allow an election that might allow someone else a turn – had made him the most powerful man in the University. The Chancellor, who should have been in charge, was a mere figurehead, there to take the blame when things went wrong.
‘Well?’ Michael asked.
Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Well, what?’
‘Well, what can you tell me about Elvesmere? It was I who sent you to Winwick Hall, if you recall, and who will pay you threepence for it.’
‘Oh, yes. He was stabbed at some unknown location, then dragged to the College latrine. Poor Elvesmere. He would have been mortified to know what had been done to him.’
Michael stared at him in horror. ‘Stabbed? You mean murdered? And it did not occur to you to tell me immediately?’ He waved away Bartholomew’s sheepish apology. ‘Stabbed by whom?’
‘The killer left nothing to incriminate himself, Brother. All I can say is that the wound would not have been instantly fatal.’
‘Could you have saved him, had you been called at once?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The blade punctured a lung. At least, I assume it did. It is impossible to be sure without looking inside him.’
‘Then we shall accept your educated guess,’ said Michael briskly, well aware of his friend’s controversial views on the art of anatomy. ‘Could you deduce anything else? Such as whether Elvesmere knew his assailant?’
‘Of course not! However, there were no signs of a struggle, which means that either his killer attacked without warning, or Elvesmere did not consider him a threat.’
‘Poor Winwick Hall! A murder on the eve of its entry into the University will do its reputation no good whatsoever. Did you meet the other Fellows while you were there? And perhaps observe their reactions when you told them that one of their number had been unlawfully slain?’
‘Illesy was shocked, but I think it was more fear of the harm it might do his College than dismay for the victim. Lawrence had to take him to sit down. Ratclyf seemed more indignant than distressed, and the other two – Nerli and Bon – had heard the news before I went to their parlura, so I have no idea how they responded. Why? Do you suspect one of them of the crime?’
‘Well, they are the ones with access to the place where the victim died,’ Michael pointed out.
‘Not so, Brother. The gates are off their hinges, which means that anyone can wander in and out. Jekelyn has been hired as a porter, but he is not very conscientious.’
‘True.’ Michael’s green eyes were wide in his chubby face. ‘How am I supposed to find a culprit when there is so little in the way of clues? Moreover, I am still busy with the murder of my Junior Proctor, not to mention struggling to keep the peace between the townsmen and the new matriculands who are flocking to enrol in the University.’
‘Felbrigge,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘How is that enquiry progressing?’
‘Slowly. But I will catch his killer if it is the last thing I do. I must, or the culprit may set murderous eyes on another University official.’
When the bell rang to announce the midday meal, Bartholomew and Michael started to walk towards the hall, joining the streams of scholars emerging from the accommodation wings and gardens. Meals in College were obligatory, and no one could absent himself without the Master’s permission. Fortunately for Bartholomew and Michael, the Master was a pragmatic soul who appreciated that physicians and senior proctors sometimes needed to obey more urgent summons, and rarely took them to task if they were missing.
His name was Ralph de Langelee, a tall, barrel-chested individual who had been a henchman of the Archbishop of York before deciding that the University was a better place to ply his range of dubious skills. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were mostly satisfied with his rule. He spotted Michael and Bartholomew as he came out of his quarters, and changed direction to intercept them.
‘You know the College statutes, Brother,’ he said shortly. ‘Is there anything in them that I can use to stop Father William and Thelnetham from sniping at each other? Their feud has lasted for months now, and I am heartily sick of it. It is even worse now that Hemmysby is back.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Simon Hemmysby was a diffident theologian, who spent half his time teaching in Cambridge, and the other half as a canon in Waltham Abbey. Bartholomew could not imagine him aggravating spats.
‘William preached a sermon saying that Waltham is home to the Devil,’ explained Langelee. ‘So now Hemmysby joins with Thelnetham in deploring William’s excesses, and clamours at me to dismiss him on the grounds of bigotry. Can I, Brother? I would do anything for peace.’