‘You may be about to lose a few more, though,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly behind them. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College, where three students are said to be in great distress.’
Bartholomew ensured he had enough barley and angelica in his bag, and headed for the stairs. ‘You will have to talk to William on your own, Brother. Three patients may take some time.’
‘I would rather wait. For all his faults, I do not want William implicated in this nasty business, and I want you with me when I interview him. Two minds are better than one.’
Bartholomew had been right to predict that he might be at Bene’t College for some time. He had been summoned early enough to help two of the ailing scholars, but the third was rapidly sliding towards death, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. It was not the first time Bene’t had waited too long before calling him, but when he remonstrated with Master Heltisle he learned that the porters had been ordered to fetch him the previous day, but had apparently forgotten.
‘Their faulty memories have cost this student his life,’ snapped Bartholomew. He tried to control his temper, but it was difficult when a youngster was dying in his arms.
Heltisle was a tall, haughty man with the easy confidence of someone born to power and wealth. He had been a clerk on the King’s Bench before he had forsaken law for academia, and such a lofty personage did not appreciate being railed at by a physician. His expression was a little dangerous.
‘I will speak to them about it,’ he said tightly, warning in his voice.
Bartholomew turned back to his patient, suspecting he would do no such thing. Bene’t’s servants were the surliest men in Cambridge, and it was common knowledge that even the Master was nervous of them. The head porter was a lout called Younge, and when his minions retired or died in office – the latter being more common, given their propensity for violence – he possessed a knack for appointing replacements worse than the originals.
It was late afternoon when the student died, but Bartholomew lingered at Bene’t, wanting to be sure the other two would not follow suit. He was used to fevers claiming lives, but losing young patients still distressed him, and he was in a dark mood by the time he had satisfied himself that the others were out of danger. He headed for the gate, and it was unfortunate that Younge happened to be lounging in the porters’ lodge as he passed.
‘The next time your Master issues you with an order to summon me, you would do well to follow it immediately,’ he snarled, itching to punch the insolent grin from the man’s face.
‘And who is going to make me?’ asked Younge, rising to his feet menacingly. Although he was shorter than the physician, he was considerably broader. ‘You?’
‘The Senior Proctor,’ snapped Bartholomew, far too angry to be intimidated.
‘We shall see about that,’ sneered Younge. ‘Master Heltisle will protect me.’
‘I imagine he would rather protect his students,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘They pay him to be here.’
Younge made no reply, so Bartholomew began to trudge back to Michaelhouse. He felt drained of energy, partly from sitting helplessly while a child died, but also because the heat remained oppressive. And, of course, there was the fact that he could not recall the last time he had had a full night’s sleep. The previous one had been no exception, although he had at least managed to snatch a couple of hours before he had been called out.
When he reached the College, he found his chamber a frenzy of activity as his room-mates packed for their enforced vacation. They were all going to Waltham Abbey, where one had a post when he was not at his studies and had decided to leave that afternoon rather than wait until morning. When their horses arrived, they bade him a hasty farewell and were gone in a flurry of hoofs. The place felt oddly empty without them, and he did not stay there long before going in search of Michael. Together they went to see William.
‘William’s students were the first to go,’ said Michael, as they walked across the yard. ‘They are relieved to be away from him, and one even asked if he might share with you when he comes back. They are all Franciscans, but they are uncomfortable with the stance he has taken towards the Dominicans.’
‘He has always held those views. He has not changed.’
‘But he was always a lone voice before. Now he has Mildenale – and Thomas, when he was alive – and their support has made him more extreme. He is much worse than he was.’
They knocked on William’s door, and found the friar on a small prayer-stool that had been set up in one corner. When Bartholomew heard the words ‘Dominican’ and ‘Satan’ murmured in the same breath, he almost walked away, wondering what sort of god William thought was listening.
‘I am sorry about Carton,’ said Michael once he was comfortably seated with a cup of the friar’s cheap wine. Bartholomew was not offered any – not that he would have accepted anyway; William’s brews tended to give most people a headache. ‘You were friends, and his death must be a shock.’
William nodded, and his heavy features creased into an expression of grief. ‘I shall miss him, just as I miss Thomas, but Mildenale will recruit others to our cause. Do you have any idea who might have killed Carton? If not, I have a theory you might like to hear.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Michael cautiously.
William folded his arms. ‘The Dominicans hated the way Carton denounced Satan, who is their master. So they bashed out his brains with one of the sinful books he was gathering for his pyre.’
Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael, hoping it was significant that the friar did not appear to know how Carton had been killed.
‘That is an intriguing notion, but impossible,’ said Michael evenly. He did not want to antagonise William by dismissing his opinions quite so early in the interview. ‘I visited the Dominican friary this afternoon, and learned that the entire convent was at a lecture in Merton Hall when Carton was murdered. Prior Morden can vouch for every one of them, and so can several other scholars, including the Chancellor. The Black Friars are innocent.’
William’s jaw dropped in disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael, although Bartholomew knew him well enough to see he was not. However, the claim might serve to muzzle William. ‘And now you can tell me where you were.’
‘Surely, you cannot suspect me?’ cried William, shocked. ‘I am your colleague and your friend.’
‘Are you?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Then why do you accuse Matt of witchcraft? You know perfectly well he would never apprentice himself to Mother Valeria or steal hands from corpses.’
William scowled at the physician. ‘I know nothing of the kind. And I might not have voiced my concerns aloud had he not given Thomas the medicine that took his life.’
‘It is time you stopped these vile accusations,’ snapped Michael, while Bartholomew winced. ‘Or does the fact that you quarrelled with Thomas the night before he died still prey on your conscience?’
William sniffed. ‘I admit I wish the encounter had been less acrimonious, but he said I was stupid, and no man should accept that without voicing his objections. So I called him a Dominican.’ He sat back with a satisfied expression, obviously thinking he had won the insults contest.
‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought the dispute between the two friars was not as serious as he had been led to believe. Then he realised it was: to men like Thomas and William, being accused of belonging to the Order they so despised was one of the gravest slurs imaginable.