‘The University cannot have Newe Inn,’ Coslaye bellowed furiously. ‘Dunning promised that building to us. To Batayl!’
‘I beg to differ,’ countered Prior Etone of the Carmelites, startled. He was a serious, unsmiling man said to be better at administration than scholarship or religion. ‘He promised it to me, and–’
‘Lies!’ screamed Coslaye. ‘Dunning would never break his word to us.’
‘Or to us,’ retorted Etone coolly.
‘Well, it seems he did both,’ said Tynkell, when Coslaye was too angry to form coherent words and could only splutter with rage, hopping from foot to foot as he did so. He held up a document. ‘Because I have the deed of ownership here. Dunning gave it to me this morning, and if the vote goes as he hopes, Newe Inn will become the Common Library with immediate effect. He would like an official opening at the Feast of Corpus Christi.’
‘Well, he will not have it,’ roared Teversham, beside himself with indignation. ‘Because only fools will favour such a scheme, and my fellow Regents will have more sense than to–’
The rest of his statement was lost amid cheers from those who opposed the ‘grace’ to found a Common Library, and catcalls from those who supported it.
‘I suggest we move directly to the vote,’ said Michael, once he had quelled the uproar a third time. ‘It is obvious that we have all made up our minds, so further discussion is pointless. All those who oppose the grace will move to the south aisle.’
There was an immediate stampede that included Teversham and Coslaye. They stood in a tight, belligerent huddle, hooting and jeering at those who remained, so that the ancient building rang with feisty voices.
‘Come over here,’ hollered Coslaye to the London brothers, his stentorian tones carrying through the din. ‘You are members of Batayl, so I order you to stand with us. It-’
‘And those who support the grace will move to the north,’ boomed Michael.
The remaining Regents hurried to where he pointed, and when the shuffle was complete, it was clear that the result was going to be close. Tense and heated, they continued to harangue each other as Michael and Tynkell counted heads. And then counted them again.
‘The grace is carried by three votes,’ announced Tynkell at last.
There was a cheer from the north and a roar of disappointment from the south. The two sides converged in a fury of bawling voices and violently wagging fingers. And then something dark sailed through the air. It was a book with wooden covers, and its corner struck Coslaye hard on the side of his head. The Principal of Batayl Hostel dropped to the floor and lay still.
‘Who threw that?’ demanded Michael, in the shocked hush that followed.
There was silence. The University’s medical men – from both sides of the debate – hurried to the stricken man’s side, but their faces were grim as they inspected the wound.
‘He is bleeding inside his skull,’ said one. ‘I doubt he will survive. He has been murdered!’
Chapter 1
Cambridge, June 1358
The corpse was on its back, eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky above, arms flung out to the sides and legs dangling in the river. It was a youth with fair curls, a shabby tunic that had once been stylish, and ink on his fingers. It was a wicked shame, thought Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, that his life had been cut so brutally short.
‘You can see why I called you,’ said Richard Tulyet. He was Cambridge’s Sheriff, a slightly built man, whose wispy beard and boyish looks led criminals to underestimate him; they never made the same mistake twice. ‘His clothes and the stains on his hands …’
‘You think he is a scholar,’ surmised Brother Michael, leaning on Bartholomew’s shoulder to peer down at the body. As Senior Proctor, it was his duty to determine whether the dead boy was a member of the University, and if so, to investigate what had happened. ‘I do not recognise him.’
‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His name is Adam, and he has just started to work for the University stationer. I treated him for a summer ague a few days ago.’
‘Did he mention any enemies?’ Michael shuddered. ‘His throat has been cut from ear to ear, so he clearly did something to annoy someone.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Tulyet’s expression was sober. ‘He is the third person to have been found with a slashed throat near the river over the last eight weeks or so.’
Bartholomew was horrified. ‘There is a killer on the loose? Who are his other victims?’
‘A beggar whose name no one knows, and one of my night-watchmen,’ replied the Sheriff.
‘I hope there is no trouble brewing between your town and our University,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘We have been living in comparative harmony for months now, and it occurred to me only yesterday that we are overdue for a spat.’
‘Not on our part,’ averred Tulyet. ‘Now that summer is here at last, we are more interested in tending our crops than in quarrelling with you – none of us want another winter of crippling shortages, such as we had last year. However, your scholars have been rather warlike of late.’
‘Over the Common Library,’ said Bartholomew, nodding. ‘The grace to establish it passed by a very slim margin, and the losers are still resentful. It has caused a bitter rift.’
‘A rift that is likely to widen even further today,’ predicted Michael gloomily. ‘The Chancellor has called another Convocation of Regents because we need to elect a new Junior Proctor, but the occasion will be used to reignite the library trouble, I am sure.’
‘Another Junior Proctor?’ asked Tulyet. ‘But that makes three this year alone, Brother! What happened to your last deputy?’
‘He resigned,’ replied the monk shortly. ‘Just because I told him to put down a quarrel between Maud’s Hostel and Bene’t College. The spat was over that wretched library, of course.’
‘It was a pitched battle, not a spat,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it involved weapons.’
‘So what?’ shrugged Michael. ‘He had ten stalwart beadles at his back, and I fail to understand why he was so reluctant to do his duty. I had the matter resolved in a few moments.’
During his years in office, the portly Benedictine theologian had amassed considerable power in the University, and it was common knowledge that he, not the Chancellor, made all the important decisions. He was thus a force to be reckoned with, and had restored the peace with no more than a few sharp words. No Junior Proctor could expect to do likewise, however, and the last incumbent had been so appalled by the expectation that he was to wade into such a vicious mêlée of waving knives and flailing fists that he had quit on the spot.
Unfortunately, it would not be easy to replace him. The work was poorly paid, often dangerous and had few perks. Moreover, Michael could be something of a tartar, impatient with those less intelligent than himself and intolerant of failure. No volunteers were likely to come forward at the Convocation, and the post would almost certainly remain vacant until some unsuspecting newcomer was persuaded to take it.
‘I heard about that fight,’ Tulyet was saying. ‘Several injuries and numerous arrests. However, Adam’s death will have nothing to do with those troubles. I believe he was killed because he, like the beggar and my guard, witnessed something he should not have done.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘Smuggling – a perennial problem for any town near the Fens. Unfortunately, as soon as we catch one crew, another takes its place. There is a lot of money in the business, so the perpetrators tend to be protective of their interests, and will certainly kill to defend them.’