‘I know that,’ said Theophilis impatiently. ‘But you will need a good man at your side, so Bruges will stand in for whoever you select to help you. Perhaps you will pick me, but perhaps you will decide on another – the choice will be yours to make.’
‘You see, Matt?’ said Michael, when the Junior Proctor had gone. ‘His intentions are honourable. He was thinking of the University, not himself.’
Bartholomew did not believe it for an instant, but knew there was no point in arguing. He and Michael went to the house next to Tyled’s dormitory, where they learned that the owners – a tailor and his wife – were ‘far too busy to gaze out of windows all day like lazy scholars’.
When they emerged, Tulyet was waiting to report that none of his spies had heard the slightest whisper of groups of Frenchmen in the area – and they had all been alert for such rumours, given what had happened to Winchelsea.
‘Perhaps the Gilbertines will have noticed something useful,’ said Michael, although his shoulders slumped; their lack of success was beginning to dishearten him.
They had not taken many steps towards the priory before they met Sir Leger and Sir Norbert, marching along with an enormous train of townsfolk at their heels, most from the nearby King’s Head tavern. The two knights wore military surcoats, and their hands rested on the hilts of their broadswords. All their followers carried some kind of weapon – cudgels, pikes or knives.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Tulyet, aghast. ‘You cannot allow such a great horde to stamp about armed to the teeth! It is needlessly provocative.’
‘Needlessly provocative?’ echoed Leger with calculated insolence. ‘We are preparing to repel a French invasion, as per the King’s orders.’
‘All true and loyal Englishmen will applaud our efforts,’ put in the swarthy, hulking Norbert, ‘which means that anyone who does not is a traitor. Besides, if there is any trouble, it will not be us who started it, but that University you love so much.’
‘Quite,’ said Leger smugly. ‘Because all we and our recruits are doing is walking along a public highway, minding our own business.’
‘Do not test me,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘I know what you are trying to do and I will not have it. Either you behave in a manner commensurate with your rank, or I shall send you back to the King in disgrace. Do I make myself clear?’
Norbert looked as though he would argue, but the more intelligent Leger knew they had overstepped the mark. He nodded sullenly, jabbing his friend in the back to prevent him from saying something that would allow Tulyet to carry out his threat.
‘Where were you going?’ Bartholomew asked in the tense silence that followed.
‘The butts,’ replied Leger stiffly. ‘For archery practice.’
‘The butts are ours on Wednesdays,’ said Michael. ‘You cannot have them today.’
When the King had first issued his call to arms, a field near the Barnwell Gate had been hastily converted into a shooting range – ‘the butts’. As it was the only suitable land available, both the town and the University had wanted it, so Tulyet and Michael had agreed on a timetable: the town had it on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, while scholars had it on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. There had been no infringements so far, but everyone knew it was only a question of time before one side defaulted, at which point there would be a fracas.
‘Take them to the castle instead,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘It is time they learned something of hand-to-hand combat. I shall join you there later, to assess the progress you have made. I hope I will not be disappointed.’
There was a murmur of dismay in the ranks, as infantry training was far less popular than archery. Norbert opened his mouth to refuse, but Leger inclined his head.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘We shall teach everyone how to use a blade. I have always found throat-slitting and stabbing to be very useful skills. Men! Forward march!’
‘There will be a battle before the week is out,’ predicted Tulyet, watching them tramp away. ‘They itch to spill your blood, and the University itches to spill ours. But I had better go and make sure they do as they are told. While I do, ask the Gilbertines if they saw our murderous arsonist slinking past, and we shall go to the Spital as soon as I get back.’
The Gilbertine Priory was a beautiful place, and Bartholomew knew it well, as he was often summoned to tend poorly canons. They had a more liberal attitude towards women than the other Orders, and had not minded at all when Michael had asked them to house a few nuns during the conloquium. They had offered them the use of their guesthouse, a building that stood apart from the main precinct, although still within its protective walls.
Its Prior was a quiet, decent man named John, who had one of the widest mouths Bartholomew had ever seen on a person. He appeared to have at least twice as many teeth as anyone else, and when he smiled, Bartholomew was always put in mind of a crocodile.
‘We were having a meeting in our chapel, so the first we knew about the blaze was when our porter came to tell us that you were racing out to the Spital,’ John said apologetically. ‘But perhaps your nuns saw something – our guesthouse overlooks the road.’
He left them to make their own way there. As they went, Michael told Bartholomew that he had housed ten nuns there – nine from Swaffham Bulbeck and one from Ickleton Priory.
‘Both foundations are wealthy,’ he explained, ‘and I thought they might become Michaelhouse benefactors if I put them somewhere nice. It was a serious mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘Because last year, Abbess Isabel of Swaffham Bulbeck visited Ickleton on behalf of the Bishop. She was so shocked by what she found that its Prioress – Alice – was deposed. And which nun should be sent to represent Ickleton at our conloquium? Alice!’
‘That must be uncomfortable for both parties,’ mused Bartholomew.
‘It is more than uncomfortable,’ averred Michael. ‘It has resulted in open warfare! I offered to find one faction alternative accommodation, but neither will move, on the grounds that it will then appear as if the other is the victor.’
Bartholomew was intrigued. ‘What did Abbess Isabel find at Ickleton, exactly?’
‘Just the usual – corruption, indolence, licentiousness.’
‘Those are usual in your Order, are they?’
Michael scowled. ‘I meant those are the most common offences committed by the rare head of house who strays from the straight and narrow. Alice allowed her friends to live in the priory free of charge, and gave them alms that should have gone to the poor. She also let her nuns miss their holy offices, and too many men were regular visitors.’
‘Then it is no surprise that the Bishop deposed her. But are you sure that Abbess Isabel did not exaggerate? I have met her, and she is very easily shocked.’
‘She is,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Probably because she is generally considered to be a saint in the making.’
Bartholomew was surprised to hear it. ‘Is she?’
‘She was to have married an earl, but when she expressed a desire to serve God instead, he chopped off her hands. That night, he was struck dead and her hands regrew.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Surely, you do not believe that?’
‘The Pope did, and granted her special dispensation to wear a white habit instead of a black one, as an expression of her purity. But how did you meet her?’
‘She is the one who found Paris the Plagiarist’s body. She was so upset that she fainted, so I carried her into a tavern to recover – where she saw the landlady’s low-cut bodice and swooned all over again. I wondered at the time why her habit was a different colour. I wanted to ask, but she did not seem like a lady for casual conversation.’