Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘You mean you prefer to be constantly on the brink of a riot?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Walter nodded, unabashed. ‘Of course I do. It means I can suspect everyone of evil intent, which is much more satisfying than sickly cordiality. And the trouble is only within the University anyway – the town is quite happy to sit back and watch us squabble among ourselves this time.’

He picked up his pet peacock and hugged it. It crooned and nestled against him. Bartholomew had always been surprised by the relationship between porter and bird, because both were sour tempered and inclined to be solitary.

‘Incidentally, the uncanny calm in the town is Emma de Colvyll’s doing,’ Walter went on when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘She has driven the other criminals out of business, see.’

‘She is not a criminal,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is a businesswoman.’

‘She is a criminal,’ asserted Walter firmly. ‘She may not go around burgling and robbing, but there are other ways to deprive a man of his wealth. She is deeply wicked, and I dislike the fact that my College accepted her charity.’

He scowled into the yard. Scaffolding swathed the building where Bartholomew lived, and he was alarmed when he saw most of the roof tiles had been removed since he had gone out. If it rained – and the sky was ominously dark – the rooms beneath would be drenched. He hoped the workmen knew what they were doing.

‘It will not be for long,’ he said, wincing when a carelessly placed strut slithered off the roof to land with an almighty crash that reverberated around the whole College. The peacock issued one of its piercing shrieks in reply. The mason imitated it, and his workmates guffawed uproariously. None of them could be seen, because they were all on the far side of the roof – the section that overlooked the gardens at the back. ‘The repairs will soon be finished.’

‘The repairs will soon be finished,’ agreed Walter, hugging his bird more tightly. ‘But the debt will last for ever, and it will not be long before Emma starts demanding payment. And I do not refer to money. She will want other things.’ His voice dropped meaningfully. ‘Like services.’

Bartholomew frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes, she has asked for services. The priests among us have agreed to say masses for her husband’s soul, while Master Langelee ordered me to tend her–’

‘I do not mean prayers and medicine,’ interrupted Walter impatiently. ‘I mean other things. She will be asking for dubious favours soon. I tell you, it is not a good idea to do business with her, even if she is making us watertight. Which I seriously doubt.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The workmen seem to be doing well enough.’

‘The mason – Yffi – is careless and shoddy. Take this morning, for example. He arrived at dawn, and has been labouring ever since. Look at how much he has done.’

Bartholomew looked at the roof, trying to understand Walter’s point. ‘His apprentices have removed all the old tiles, and he has laid two rows of new ones. He has achieved a lot.’

‘Exactly!’ pounced Walter. ‘A good mason would have taken twice as long. The roof will leak again as soon as he leaves, and all this chaos and upheaval will have been for nothing. And we shall have Emma de Colvyll after us for dark favours.’

Bartholomew left, hoping Walter was wrong, then stood for a moment, looking around him. His College comprised a handsome stone-built hall, with two accommodation wings set at right angles to it. He lived in the northern wing, the older and shabbier of the pair, where he occupied two chambers – a large one he shared with his students, and a cupboard-like space that was used for storing the accoutrements necessary for his work as a physician.

There was just enough space in the little room for a mattress, and he had taken to sleeping there following an incident involving missing potions the previous term: he felt people were less likely to help themselves to what were some very dangerous substances if he was present. The smell had been uncomfortable to begin with, but he had quickly grown used to it, and his students were pleased to have the additional space in the main chamber.

He started to walk again, but had not gone far before he was intercepted by Robert de Blaston, the carpenter. Blaston, his wife Yolande and their fourteen children were Bartholomew’s patients, and he had known them for years. Blaston was a conscientious, talented craftsman, who would never be rich because he was too honest. Bartholomew was fond of him, and considered him a rare ray of integrity in a town that was mostly out for its own ends.

‘I do not know about that roof,’ Blaston said, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Yffi has not used enough battens, and I doubt the ones he has put up are thick enough to support a structure of that weight – tiles are heavy.’

Bartholomew was no builder, but could see that Blaston had a point – the wooden frame Yffi had constructed did appear too flimsy. ‘I will speak to the Master about it.’

He aimed for the hall straight away. Blaston’s concerns had made him uneasy: Emma’s thriftiness, combined with the natural skimming that went along with any building project, meant corners were going to be cut. And that might prove dangerous to Michaelhouse’s residents.

He passed through the door bearing the founder’s coat of arms, now woefully caked in dust from the renovations, then trotted up the spiral staircase to the hall, where the day’s teaching was under way. As usual, benches had been placed to face individual masters, who then held forth to classes that ranged in size from two students to ten, depending on the subject.

Normally, there was no problem with everyone being in the same room – the Fellows were used to lecturing at the same time as their colleagues, and the students were used to tuning out other lessons to attend to their own – but that day they were obliged to contend with the workmen, too. This included not only rattling pulleys, assorted crashes and hammering, but the manly banter that went along with them. Closing the window shutters would have eliminated some of the racket, but then lamps would have been needed, and fuel was far too costly to squander in such a way.

‘Blaston and Walter are worried about the quality of Yffi’s work,’ Bartholomew murmured in Langelee’s ear as he passed, en route to his own class. ‘And so am I.’

The Master of Michaelhouse was a burly man with a barrel chest. He looked more like a wrestler than a philosopher, and was not a talented academic. He had been the Archbishop of York’s henchman before deciding on an academic career, and remarks he had let slip about his duties indicated he had not been employed in any capacity the prelate would care to have made public.

‘Me, too,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘There do not seem to be enough battens, although Yffi told me I did not know what I was talking about when I said so. Damned impertinence! But I will tackle him again when teaching is finished.’

Bartholomew was about to leave him to his work when he noticed that one corner of the hall was empty. It was where Thelnetham, the College’s Gilbertine theologian usually taught, but his students were sitting with Michael’s pupils.

‘Where is Thelnetham?’ he asked. The Gilbertine was conscientious about teaching, and it was rare for him to miss a lesson.

‘At his friary,’ replied Langelee. ‘There is a meeting to discuss the purchase of some house or other, and he wanted to be there, to voice an opinion. I envy him. I would not have minded an excuse to miss hollering my way through the afternoon, either.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Suttone, a portly Carmelite, looking up from his grammar books. ‘We shall all be after you for sore-throat remedies before the day is done, Matthew. I am already hoarse.’