Susanna GREGORY - To Kill or Cure

‘Enough!’ roared the monk. His livid face made several scholars slink away before he started to issue fines. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, brawling on Easter Day! Go home, all of you, and do not come out again until you are in a more peaceful frame of mind.’

Bartholomew was astonished when people began to do as they were told. There were some resentful grumbles, but it was not long before the horde had dissipated.

‘Where is Falmeresham?’ demanded Bartholomew of Carton, who was standing uncertainly nearby. ‘I thought he was with you.’

‘I thought he was with you ,’ countered the Franciscan alarmed. ‘I saw you dash towards him, but I had no wish to fight Blankpayn and his henchmen, so I hung back.’

‘He will have gone home,’ said Michael, still glaring at the dispersing mob. ‘He is not a fool, to loiter in a place where daggers were flailing.’

‘He could not go anywhere – he was stabbed,’ said Carton in a hushed, shocked whisper. He put his hand to his side, just above the hip bone. ‘Here. I should have overcome my terror and tried to reach him.’

‘Easy,’ said Michael. There was blood on Carton’s mouth, indicating he had not been entirely successful in avoiding the violence. ‘We will find him.’

‘Perhaps Blankpayn took him prisoner.’ Carton declined to be comforted, and was working himself into an agony of worry. ‘Perhaps he intends to hold Falmeresham hostage, to blackmail our University over these rents. He is Candelby’s lickspittle, and will do anything for him.’

‘Blankpayn does not have the wits to devise such a devious plan,’ said Michael. ‘Falmeresham will be home at Michaelhouse. Go, see if you can find him.’

The friar hurried away, anxiety stamped across his portly features, and Michael sighed. ‘Lord save us! Will you fetch a bier for Lynton, Matt? We cannot leave him here, because our students may use his corpse as an excuse for another fracas – claim he was murdered or some such nonsense.’

‘Actually, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, ‘he died because he was shot. He was murdered.’

The conclave at Michaelhouse was a pleasant chamber adjoining the main hall. It was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, and they used it when they met to discuss College business or to relax in the evenings, leaving the hall free for students and commoners. It was an arrangement that suited everyone – the senior members had a place where they were safe from the demands of overenthusiastic students, and the junior ones were left to their own devices for a few hours, as long as they were not too unruly. Fortunately, the students liked being trusted, and were invariably better behaved when they were alone than when anyone was monitoring them. The upshot was that Michaelhouse had a reputation for harmony among its scholars, and Langelee had been asked by several envious masters for the secret of his success.

However, there was none of the usual laughter and music in the conclave or the hall that Easter. Kenyngham’s death created a pall of sadness that hung over everyone, and the College had never been so quiet. Langelee, who had been fretting over the fact that he would be three teachers short in the forthcoming term – with two away and one dead – asked his four remaining Fellows to join him in the conclave an hour before dawn the following day. They would hold an emergency meeting, during which a replacement for Kenyngham would be chosen. It was an unusual time for such a gathering, but Langelee was not a man to dither once his mind was made up.

Bartholomew was early, so he began to prepare the room while he waited for the others. He placed stools around the table, retrieved the College statutes and the Master’s sceptre from the wall-cupboard, and found parchment and ink so Wynewyk could make a record of the proceedings.

‘I did not sleep a wink,’ said Michael, when he arrived a few moments later. He took his customary seat near the window. ‘Neither did you. I heard you come home just moments ago.’

‘I was out all night, looking for Falmeresham,’ replied the physician tiredly. He had changed his wet, muddy clothes, but there had been no time to rest – not that he felt like sleeping anyway. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see the student falling to his knees, hand clasped to his bleeding side. ‘I cannot imagine where he might have gone – or where someone may have taken him.’

‘Does he have family in Cambridge? Or friends in another College?’

‘His family live in Norfolk. And you always advise against fraternising with scholars from other foundations, lest it leads to quarrels, so his closest friends are here, in Michaelhouse.’

‘How badly do you think he was injured? Perhaps he has collapsed somewhere.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Cynric and I have searched every garden, lane and churchyard between here and the place he was attacked – and knocked on the door of every house. If he had wandered off and lost consciousness somewhere, we would have found him.’

Michael was worried. ‘Do you think Carton is right – that Blankpayn has done something to him? Blankpayn is Candelby’s henchman, and Candelby will do anything to harm the University.’

‘I tried to talk to Blankpayn, but he is mysteriously unavailable.’

‘Not so mysteriously. I would not linger if I had stabbed someone. It looked like an accident, but that may not save his neck if Falmeresham is found … harmed. I hope it does not mean he knows he killed the lad, and is lying low until the fuss dies down.’

Bartholomew refused to contemplate such an eventuality. ‘Blankpayn’s friends say he has gone to visit his mother in Madingley. She summoned me once, for a fever, so I know he has a mother.’

Agitated, Michael paced, his thoughts switching to another matter he was obliged to investigate. ‘After this meeting, I want you to examine Lynton’s body. I need to know exactly how he died.’

‘I have told you already – there is a crossbow quarrel embedded in his chest.’

‘That does not correspond to eyewitnesses’ accounts. The Carmelite novices – an unruly gaggle, but not one given to lying – say Lynton was riding down Milne Street when his mare began to buck. He tumbled off, and a hoof caught his head as he fell.’

‘Then perhaps the horse was frightened by the sound of the bolt impaling its victim. There is a cut on Lynton’s head, either from a flailing hoof or from him hitting the ground, so the Carmelites’ account is not entirely incompatible with the evidence. However, the fatal injury was caused by the missile, not the nag.’

Michael sighed. ‘If you say so. But who would want to kill Lynton? Other than you, that is.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would I want to kill him?’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am not accusing you. However, it may occur to others that Lynton challenged you to public debates on several occasions, because he thought your teaching was heretical. You must have found it a nuisance – I certainly would have done.’

‘On the contrary, I enjoyed the discussions. That is what a university is for, Brother – to pit wits against intellectual equals. I learned a lot from sparring with Lynton.’

‘I doubt he felt the same way. He was not very good at defending his preference for old-fashioned practices over your more efficacious new ones, and I suspect the reason you enjoyed these dialogues is because you always won.’

‘Medicine was not the only subject we aired,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael was wrong. Lynton might have disagreed with his theories, but their many disputations had always been conducted without malice or anger. ‘At our last public debate, we talked about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem – whether it is correct to assume that velocity is uniformly accelerated.’