Bartholomew was contemptuous. ‘The only decisions they make are ones that benefit themselves, so I doubt we shall see a decent bridge any time soon.’
‘Do not be so sure, Matt. The King is watching this time, and he even sent a small donation to encourage matters along. Ergo, the council will have to do the right thing – and the right thing is a bridge of stone.’
‘It is, but I shall only believe it when it happens,’ said Bartholomew, who had heard dozens of promises to repair the bridge for good, but none had ever borne fruit.
Their journey took them past Matilde’s house, where lamps were lit within. A glance through the open window revealed her sitting with a book in her lap, while Lucy knelt on the floor with a length of cream silk.
‘That will be the cloth for Matilde’s wedding kirtle,’ surmised Michael. ‘I wish she was as interested in the minutiae of this marriage ceremony as Lucy, because it might serve to distract her from the school for women she intends to establish.’
‘Surely, you do not believe that education is only for men?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘I thought you were of the opinion that everyone should have a chance to learn.’
‘I am – my grandmother would skin me alive if I thought anything else! The thing that concerns me is what happens when these women have completed their studies. What if they demand places at the University?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who is more worthy of one: Matilde and your grandmother, or Father William and Dodenho?’
Michael pursed his lips, aware that there were actually rather a lot of men who had no business claiming to be scholars. ‘All I hope is that her venture will not cause me too many headaches at the start of my reign as Chancellor. After a few months, she can do what she likes, because I shall sit so firmly on my throne that nothing will ever dislodge me.’
Bartholomew laughed, although he suspected that Michael had not been joking.
Just past Matilde’s house was King’s Hall, the University’s largest and most prestigious College. One of the missing men was a Fellow there, as was Dodenho, who was no doubt inside at that very moment, labouring over his speech for the next day’s election.
Then came the Hospital of St John, which comprised an untidy sprawl of buildings on the left side of the road, and a cemetery with gravelled paths on the right. On the southern edge of the graveyard were four large timber-lined pits, each deeper than a man was tall. They belonged to Philip Chaumbre, Bartholomew’s new brother-in-law, who had used them for storing fermenting dye-balls until people complained about the stench. He had moved his festering wares to a site outside the town, but had so far failed to fill in the holes, which represented something of a hazard to anyone walking through the cemetery in the dark.
‘He must be short of money, to leave them open for so long,’ said Michael as they passed. ‘I can tell you for a fact that your sister bought her own wedding kirtle. As you know, the husband always sees to that, as a token of his devotion.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘You mean I should pay for Matilde’s?’
Michael gaped at him. ‘You have not done it? Lord, Matt! I wonder she has not deserted you a second time. Of course you must! What are you thinking, man?’
‘Can I borrow some money? I spent all this term’s stipend on barley water.’
‘Poor Matilde has no idea what she is letting herself in for,’ muttered Michael, and changed the subject as they turned into Bridge Street, where bobbing lights indicated a commotion around the Great Bridge. ‘Have you met Mayor Morys’s wife Rohese, by the way? She is rather loose with her affections.’
Bartholomew blinked at such a confidence out of the blue. ‘Is she?’
‘She and Burgess Baldok were lovers, and it is whispered that the affair gave her a taste for dangerous liaisons.’
‘Very dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially for her partners. I would not want to run foul of Morys.’
Michael nodded sombrely. ‘He is not a man to overlook being cuckolded, and while he would not sully his own hands with violence, he hails from a clan of Fenland louts who will happily oblige him.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Is that what happened to Baldok? It would not surprise me to learn that Morys ordered his murder, then, finding the stolen bridge money on his body, decided to keep it for himself.’
Michael pulled a wry face. ‘If so, it will never be proven. Morys is all-powerful, and the council is steeped in corruption. Of course, Morys is great friends with your new kinsman Chaumbre …’
‘Chaumbre is great friends with everyone,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘But he left Cambridge years ago to make his fortune in London, and he has not yet been back long enough to forge unsavoury alliances – with Mayor Morys or anyone else.’
‘Well, Morys made him a burgess the moment he came home again,’ persisted Michael. ‘And he does not do that for just anyone. I hate to speak ill of Edith’s new husband, Matt, but please be cautious in your dealings with him. I fear he is not all he seems.’
Although mishaps on the Great Bridge were not unusual, they always attracted a lot of attention, so the area thronged with spectators when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. Many had brought lamps, which meant the scene was very brightly lit. The light attracted insects, which swirled around them in a dense cloud. Some onlookers held sleeves over their faces to avoid inhaling them, while others ducked and flapped at the buzzing, fluttering swarms.
A number of students were among the crowd, and a small group of beadles struggled in vain to move them on. In charge was Junior Proctor Brampton, a short, nondescript man who was not very good at imposing his authority on boisterous young men. By contrast, Michael strode forward with a scowl that saw most of them scatter like leaves in the wind. Bartholomew wondered how Brampton would cope when he was Senior Proctor. If he could not break up a peaceful gathering, how would he quell a riot?
‘I had it under control, Brother,’ he objected stiffly. ‘There was no need for you to stamp up, glaring like a great fat gargoyle.’
‘You should have yelled at them,’ said Michael, manfully ignoring the insult. ‘Forced them to listen to you.’
‘I was yelling,’ said Brampton sulkily. ‘They just did not hear me.’
‘Nor did I,’ retorted Michael. ‘But never mind this now. Just tell me what happened.’
‘I have been too busy keeping the peace to ask questions,’ retorted Brampton haughtily. ‘Shall we do it now? Together?’
Bartholomew left them to it, and threaded through the onlookers, looking for Sheriff Tulyet. A number of burgesses were there, although not Chaumbre. Then a flash of movement caught his eye, and he saw a boy named Ulf Godenave dart among them. The Godenaves were a family of light-fingered layabouts who lived near the castle – which was convenient, given that at least one of them was usually imprisoned in it at any given time. Although no more than seven or eight years old, Ulf was already a skilled pickpocket, and his coat bulged with what he had stolen that night.
A few bold scholars had not melted away under Michael’s basilisk stare, and clustered together near the burgesses. One was Narboro, resplendent in a fine linen robe and extravagantly pointed shoes. Bartholomew watched as Ulf sidled up to him, and dexterously sliced the purse from his belt. As Narboro had not noticed, Bartholomew went to tell him.
‘Damn it!’ cried Narboro in dismay. ‘That contained money I can ill-afford to lose. I would give chase, but running kicks up dust, and there is nothing more unbecoming than a man covered in dirt. Do you not agree?’
He looked Bartholomew up and down, decided the physician could say nothing worth hearing on the subject, and flounced away without waiting for a reply.