Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘What about our teaching?’ asked Bartholomew with arched eyebrows. ‘It is Monday, and we have lectures all day. I paid Falmeresham to read De criticis diebus aloud for an hour while I tend Dickon, but he cannot do it all morning.’

‘He can,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw a crafty look in the monk’s eye. ‘I anticipated we might be assisting each other, so I slipped him a little extra. Galen’s De criticis diebus is a lengthy work, and Falmeresham has promised to keep your students enthralled with it until noon – or at least, occupied so they do not wander around the hall and make a nuisance of themselves. I cannot imagine anyone being interested in a medical view of diet. Food is not for the cold analysis of science.’

‘What about Clippesby’s astronomers? Galen’s thoughts on vegetables are not relevant to their studies, and they are my responsibility now he is indisposed.’

‘You have only yourself to blame for that,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘You went to see him yesterday; you should have pronounced him fit and brought him home. But, as it happens, you can set your mind at rest over the astronomers, too. Young Rob Deynman has agreed to supervise them while they calculate every movable feast in the ecclesiastical year for the next decade.’

‘Deynman?’ spluttered Bartholomew in appalled disbelief. ‘ Deynman? He can barely calculate the time of day when he hears the dinner bell ring! He is not capable of helping other students.’

‘He is not going to teach them,’ said Michael, unmoved by his objections. ‘He will just make sure they do not make too much noise or escape early. And at least he can read, which is more than can be said for the scholars of some Colleges.’

He glanced meaningfully to the other side of the street, where Thomas Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, was passing the time of day with Bartholomew’s sister. Paxtone was a rosy-cheeked, smiling man from a village near Huntingdon and, unlike the other two physicians in the town – Lynton of Peterhouse and Rougham of Gonville Hall – he was willing to tend the poor, as well as those who could afford to pay for his services. His charity meant that some of the burden was lifted from Bartholomew, who was grateful.

‘Mistress Edith is telling me that she and her husband are about to embark on a journey,’ said Paxtone, nodding a friendly greeting as Bartholomew and Michael approached. ‘The weather is fine, so they will leave for London today.’

Edith kissed her brother, her face flushed with excitement at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Oswald is packing the last of our belongings and the horses are saddled. It is a week earlier than we anticipated, but our son will not mind.’

‘He might,’ warned Bartholomew, suspecting his nephew would be appalled by the unannounced arrival of his parents. Richard was a lawyer, and youth and a high income had combined to render him wild. Bartholomew trusted he would outgrow his dissolute lifestyle in time, but the lad had not shown any indication of encroaching sobriety so far. He hoped Edith would not find her beloved son entwined in the arms of a prostitute, or drunk and insensible – or both – because it would hurt her.

Edith waved away his concerns with the happy optimism he had always envied, then became serious and pulled him to one side, so Michael and Paxtone could not hear. The two scholars immediately began a rather strained discussion about whether the Archbishop should spend more time at King’s Hall, which was one of the University’s richest foundations, or Michaelhouse, which had a reputation for academic excellence. The decision would depend on whether the University wanted Islip impressed by Cambridge’s scholarship or its capacity for lavish entertainment.

‘You know I am fond of Matilde,’ Edith whispered to her brother, ‘and I think she would make you a good wife. But your nightly visits are damaging her reputation and yours.’

‘You know about them, too?’ asked Bartholomew, mortified.

She nodded soberly. ‘But I do not want my parting words to be nagging ones, so I shall say no more. Just this: be careful and trust no one – especially sweet old men from your past.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You mean Master Duraunt? Why? What has he done to make you wary of him?’

Edith lowered her voice further still. ‘I was in the apothecary’s shop when he bought a good deal of poppy juice. Now, there is nothing wrong with that, but when the apothecary questioned the high potency of the dosage, Duraunt said you had recommended that strength to him the previous evening. I happen to know you did not, because you were with Matilde all that night. He lied, Matt.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts whirled. ‘I have never recommended a sedative to him – weak or strong.’

Edith grimaced. ‘So, beware of him. But I must go, or Oswald will wonder where I am.’

She kissed Bartholomew again, and darted off down the High Street, more like a girl than a mature woman ten years Bartholomew’s senior. He watched her go fondly, trusting she would have a safe journey along the King’s highways, and that she would not be too distressed by what he was sure she would find when she invaded her debauched son’s domain.

‘I bought a new set of urine flasks recently,’ Paxtone said conversationally when she had gone. ‘Would you like to see them, Matt?’

‘He is going to visit Dickon Tulyet,’ said Michael, before his friend could accept the enticing offer. ‘He should not dally.’

‘He should,’ argued Paxtone fervently. ‘Because then the brat might have expired by the time he arrives – with luck.’

‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Dickon is a child.’

‘So his parents claim,’ said Paxtone grimly. ‘But I think otherwise. The boy is a monster, with his hot temper and unruly behaviour. You should dally, Matt. It will allow him to use up his strength by tormenting his helpless parents, so he will be more docile with you. I would not tend him if Tulyet made me a gift of Cambridge Castle!’

Without further ado, he took Bartholomew’s arm and guided him towards the impressive edifice that comprised King’s Hall. Not averse to Dickon expending some of his violent energy before their visit, and accepting the sense in Paxtone’s logic, Michael followed.

Founded almost forty years earlier, King’s Hall was a training ground for men who wanted to enter the King’s service or for those destined for exalted posts in the Church. Because it was a royal foundation, it was never short of funds, and no expense had been spared in providing its scholars with a supremely comfortable home. It comprised buildings gathered around a neat, clean yard, and well-tended grounds of orchards, fields and vegetable gardens that extended to the river. As a senior Fellow, Paxtone had been allocated two stately rooms for his personal use – an unthinkable luxury in a University where space was at a premium – both of which were elegantly furnished.

As they strolled across the scrubby grass in front of Paxtone’s window, someone hailed them. It was the Warden, a quiet Welshman with long front teeth and a shock of lank grey hair. Thomas Powys had been in office for several years and was a popular master, being kindly, tolerant and ready to grant his Fellows considerable freedom on the understanding that they did not break College or University rules. He was more strict with his students, though, which Bartholomew thought was a good thing: there were more of them in King’s Hall than in any other Cambridge institution, and the possibility of serious trouble with such a large body of closely knit young men was very real.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Powys, baring his impressive incisors in a smile. ‘I have been meaning to report to you that we are down two Fellows this term. You need to know for your attendance records.’