‘Obviously. But his role is that of corpse.’
Cynric continued to stare. ‘You mean we have been watching a rite involving a real body! When I saw him lying like that, I just assumed … I would never have brought you here to watch …’
‘He is growing stiff,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Motelete’s jaw. ‘I know it is not a reliable indicator for a time of death, but it suggests he has been dead hours, not minutes. And, judging by the blisters around his mouth and the scent from his mouth, I would say he has been poisoned.’
CHAPTER 10
The evening went from bad to worse. Cynric fetched Michael, and they took Motelete to Clare, where Bartholomew undertook the grim task of breaking the news to the lad’s friends. Kardington was shocked, the students distressed and Spaldynge suspicious that a physician should happen to discover the body. Michael tried to ask questions, but the Clare men were too overwrought for a sensible discussion, and he decided it would be better to return in the morning. By the time Bartholomew flopped exhaustedly into his bed, it was well past midnight.
The porter had forgotten to put his peacock to roost, and as a consequence it woke the entire College long before dawn the following day. The new scholars leapt from their straw mattresses in alarm, then grinned sheepishly at each other when they realised what had happened. The ungodly racket made even Bartholomew stir and open his eyes. When the students in his chamber began chatting and lighting a lamp, he saw there was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and forced himself to sit up. He rubbed his eyes, feeling sluggish and thick-headed from the lack of rest.
‘It is good of Michaelhouse to take us in,’ said a pleasant theologian called Simon Hemmysby, watching him step across two prone students to reach his bowl of washing water. Langelee had chosen Hemmysby from the many hopefuls because he held a post – and thus a stipend – in Waltham Abbey, and would be able to pay his fees and make the odd additional donation. ‘However, I did not think accommodation in a wealthy College would be quite so cramped.’
‘It is not a wealthy College,’ said Bartholomew. Water flew as he began to wash, making one lad leap from his mattress in shock. ‘King’s Hall is wealthy. We are always looking for ways to make ends meet.’
‘Wynewyk did his best,’ said Hemmysby, flinching when spray flew in his direction. ‘But he is a lawyer, and it would have been better if Michaelhouse had used a mathematician.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Wynewyk did his best at what?’
‘At the Dispensary,’ said Hemmysby, a little impatiently. ‘At winning money for his College.’
Bartholomew glanced at the other students and saw none seemed particularly surprised by the conversation. ‘Are Michael and I the only ones who did not know about Lynton’s little enterprise?’
Hemmysby raised his eyebrows. ‘If you are saying you were ignorant of its existence, then you are certainly in a minority. Did he never invite you? I thought you and he were friends.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I dislike gambling. I lose interest, because of the unpredictable nature of the wins and losses. They require no skill.’
Hemmysby regarded him in surprise. ‘But Lynton’s contests did require skill. With most games of chance, everything does depend on luck – you can be the cleverest man in the kingdom, but your chance of success is the same as the dunce sitting next to you. Lynton, however, introduced a degree of probability to his games, which meant people were challenged to crack his system.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘Were you one of these gamesters?’
‘I am in major orders,’ said Hemmysby primly. ‘Priests do not gamble.’
‘They do in Cambridge,’ muttered Bartholomew.
Hemmysby did not hear him. ‘Before I was awarded my post at Waltham Abbey, I was always short of money. Then Lynton offered to pay me for serving wine to his guests. I no longer need the work, but I have kept it up, because I like it – the company is erudite and always entertaining.’
Bartholomew tried to understand what Lynton had done. ‘He invented a game that allowed players to predict the outcome?’ He could see why that would have been popular – scholars liked exercising their minds, especially when they thought they might win something for correct answers.
Hemmysby nodded. ‘It did not involve dice, but imaginary horses. Participants had to guess how long a particular animal would take to travel across a certain amount of ground.’
Bartholomew stared at him as several facts snapped together. ‘The mean speed theorem! That is all about the time an object – in this case a horse – needs to cover a set distance, and it is a predictive formula. Did he base his games of chance around that?’
Hemmysby nodded again. ‘It was extremely complicated, and scholars loved it – Lynton would change variables and enter unknowns into the equation to make calculation more difficult – the size of the horse, the slope of the land, the weight of the rider, and so on. The sums had to be done very fast, too, which added an additional thrill to the proceedings.’
‘Had I known there was intricate arithmetic involved, I might have signed up myself,’ said Bartholomew, rather wistfully. ‘However, I fail to see the appeal for townsfolk – they will not know the formula. Yet a number of them played.’
‘They claimed they were any scholar’s equal, and were just as good at predicting the outcome of these horse races. Of course, they were not, and they lost more often than they won.’
Bartholomew recalled Blankpayn saying as much. ‘Why did Lynton admit laymen in the first place? He must have known it would cause trouble.’
‘There were rarely problems. The Dispensary operated for years without ill feeling, and Lynton did not mind who played, as long as he – or she – paid his debts.’
‘Paxtone said he disagreed with Lynton’s conclusions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They argued.’
‘Of course there were arguments. There were scholars involved, and arguing is what we do best. But Friday nights were good-natured occasions with discreet, well-behaved men who always parted friends. However, not all the merchants were as civil.’
‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place.
‘He has an unattractive habit of gloating when he wins. In the end, he was banned.’
‘When?’ asked Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. No wonder Candelby had hated Lynton.
‘Good Friday. There was a fuss, and wine was spilled. Has no one told you about this?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Apparently, participants are bound by vows of secrecy.’
‘They are. And because most are decent men, they are unlikely to break that trust. I did not swear the oath, though, because I was not a player. I only served the wine.’
‘I cannot believe Lynton did this! We have been told wagers included houses, livestock, boats and money. With the stakes so high, it is not surprising that he might have attracted resentment.’
‘The stakes were high, but Lynton refused to let anyone ruin himself. He even restored goods to losers on occasion, when he felt it was warranted. There was no resentment – not from anyone.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Was he magnanimous when Candelby lost?’
‘We never had occasion to find out, because Candelby rarely came up with the wrong answer. Why do you think he was so peeved when he was debarred? All his houses came from betting on Lynton’s races, you see.’