Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone warmly. ‘Wormynghalle has already proved himself to be a valuable asset.’ He glanced at Dodenho and Norton, as though he would not have said the same about them.

‘Wormynghalle?’ asked Bartholomew. The name was familiar, but his sluggish mind refused to tell him why. Then it snapped into place. ‘There is another Wormynghalle in Cambridge at the moment.’

Wormynghalle nodded with a smile that revealed even but sadly stained teeth. ‘A tanner. I sought him out when I first heard about him, but we own no common ancestor, despite our shared name. He is from Oxford, while I hail from Buckinghamshire.’

‘You are fortunate,’ said Norton in distaste. ‘It would be dreadful for a decent man to learn he has relatives in the tannery business. Tanneries reek and so, invariably, do tanners.’

‘This one does not,’ replied Wormynghalle pleasantly. ‘But he said he is a burgess, so I imagine he no longer soils his own hands with skins. However, although I studied briefly in Oxford, I never came across him or his kin. He must be a relatively new member of the city’s government.’

‘I do not know him, either,’ said Dodenho, not liking a conversation that did not have him as its focus. ‘I spent last term at Merton College, but I never encountered any Wormynghalles. They must be inferior businessmen, or they would have been introduced to me.’

‘I may have run into him, now I think about it,’ said Norton, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘I stayed at Oxford Castle once, and I vaguely recall a common trader named Wormyngton or Wormeley or some such thing. But I was more interested in the hounds than in meeting local dignitaries.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ said Dodenho caustically. He turned to Michael and murmured, ‘Norton should never have been admitted to King’s Hall, given that he has not even attended a grammar school, but the King wanted him to “study” here – and no one refuses the King. Still, it does little for my reputation to belong to a College that appoints Fellows who can barely read.’

‘I doubt it makes much difference to a man like you,’ Michael whispered back, leaving Dodenho to ponder exactly what he meant.

‘My first love is philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle, his eyes shining at the mere mention of the subject. ‘But in my spare time I study music. When I was at Oxford I had the pleasure of visiting Balliol, where there are manuscripts ascribed to the theorist William Gray.’

‘I know all about Gray,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘I have been obliged to read him of late, in order to pass his wisdom to Clippesby’s students. His notions about plainsong and metrics are complex.’

‘But they are also logical when you think about them,’ said Wormynghalle. He flushed furiously when he realised he might have insulted Michael’s intelligence, and hastened to make amends. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to invite your lads to the lecture I intend to give on Gray next week?’

‘You most certainly may,’ said Michael, transparently relieved to share some of his responsibilities. ‘I shall attend, too, and perhaps then I will understand what the wretched fellow was getting at with his discant styles and reference pitches. But meanwhile…’ He rubbed his hands and gazed at the servants who were waiting to serve the meal.

‘Wormynghalle is doing well with our College choir,’ said Dodenho, before Powys could open his mouth to say grace. Michael grimaced. ‘Of course, he is not achieving as much as I did, when I was choral master, but that would be too much to ask.’

‘He has made vast improvements,’ said Powys, smiling encouragingly at Wormynghalle. ‘I know a good teacher when I see one. I spotted him when I was in Oxford, and I am afraid I resorted to poaching: I offered him a Fellowship. I am glad I did, especially now Hamecotes and Wolf are away.’

‘Richard de Hamecotes is my room-mate,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘We rent a large chamber, and I rattle around like a pea in a barrel without him. I hope he comes back soon.’

‘Speaking of peas,’ began Michael. ‘I–’

‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Dodenho. ‘Hamecotes is clean and tidy, but I share with Wolf, and he is a slut – clothes strewn across the floor, ink spots on the desks, parchment in untidy piles…’

‘A man with debts,’ said Norton disapprovingly. ‘You can never trust them not to run away without making good on what they owe.’

‘Wolf will pay,’ said Wormynghalle charitably. ‘His family were tardy in forwarding an inheritance, so he has doubtless gone to collect it in person. He lives in Suffolk, no great distance. I am sure he will return laden with gold soon, and prove his doubters wrong.’

‘You should have taught him to sing,’ said Dodenho, a little spitefully. ‘Then he could have earned pennies by warbling in the Market Square.’

‘I will sing, if it means the food is served,’ offered Michael pointedly.

‘Wormynghalle might know his music, but he knows nothing of horses,’ said Norton. He grinned approvingly at the young man. ‘Still, he is a crack shot with a bow.’

‘My brother taught me,’ said Wormynghalle, to explain what was an odd skill for an academic. ‘He said a scholar, travelling between far-flung universities, should know how to protect himself.’

‘This learning game is all very well,’ Norton went on, whetting an inappropriately large knife on a stone he had removed from the pouch at his side: the blade was already sharper than most of Bartholomew’s surgical implements. ‘But it means nothing if you do not also know how to hunt and ride. If a man cannot mount a horse and canter off to shoot himself a decent supper, then all the books in the world will not prevent him from starving.’

‘“Learning game”?’ echoed Powys. ‘Is that any way for a Fellow to describe academia?’ He turned to Wormynghalle, and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman regarded the youth as his best scholar, and one who would be equally affronted by Norton’s description of their profession.

‘You have a long way to go with our tenors,’ said Dodenho. The golden newcomer was stealing attention usually afforded to him, and he did not like it. ‘They are too shrill in their upper reaches.’

‘They are supposed to be shrill up there,’ said Michael. ‘Now, the meat is getting cold, and–’

‘I am a tenor, and I am not shrill,’ interrupted Dodenho. ‘But enough of my singing. We were discussing my theories about light being the origin of the universe.’

‘Your theory sounds heretical to me, Dodenho,’ said Powys. He grinned wickedly. ‘Father William of Michaelhouse has a deep interest in heresy, and considers himself an expert on the subject. Perhaps you should take your ideas to him, and have them assessed.’

‘God forbid!’ declared Dodenho. ‘The man is a lunatic. Of course, Michaelhouse is famous for that sort of thing.’

‘Famous for what sort of thing?’ demanded Michael coldly.

‘For lunatics,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Everyone knows it. You have Father William, who is so rabidly against anything he considers anathema that he is wholly beyond reason. And then there is Clippesby, and we all know about him .’

‘What do we all know about him?’ asked Michael quietly.

‘I am very hungry,’ stated Paxtone, rising quickly to his feet when he saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face. ‘Perhaps you could say grace, Warden.’

Powys obliged, waiting until all the scholars were standing with their heads bowed before saying the familiar Latin with a heavy Welsh inflexion that meant not all of it was readily comprehensible. Bartholomew struggled to follow him, while Norton nodded knowledgeably and muttered ‘amen’ in inappropriate places.