Susanna GREGORY: An Order for Death

For the first time, he studied the friar. He had a pleasant face, with a mouth that turned up at the corners, although already it had the waxy sheen of death about it. His fingers were deeply ink-stained, suggesting that he spent at least some of his time studying or scribing, rather than wandering the town with his classmates looking for Dominicans or Franciscans to taunt or attack. His hair was light brown and smelled clean, and his habit, although blood-soaked and marked with the signs of a scuffle, was neat and showed evidence of recent brushing. Here was no lout, but a man who took care over his personal appearance. The only unusual thing about him was the pale yellow sticky residue on one of his hands. It looked like some kind of glue, although Bartholomew had never seen anything quite like it before. He supposed it was some new import from Spain or France. Such items were becoming common again now that people were recovering from the impact of the plague and trade was resuming.

‘I wonder what was in his scrip that was so important to him,’ mused Edith. The sound of her voice pulled the physician from his reverie. ‘Whatever it was, he considered it more vital than telling you the names of the men who stabbed him.’

‘Perhaps he did not know them,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced out of the window again. ‘If I leave my Michaelhouse tabard here and borrow that cloak of Oswald’s, I should reach the Carmelite Friary unmolested–’

‘Matt!’ whispered Edith urgently, jumping away from the Carmelite in alarm. ‘Something is wrong with him!’

Bartholomew saw the friar’s eyes roll back in his head as he began to convulse, thrashing about with his arms and legs and pulling open the sutured wound. With Edith exhorting him to do something, Bartholomew attempted to control the fit with more of his sense-dulling potions, but to no avail. Gradually, the uncontrolled twitching and shuddering grew weaker, along with the friar’s heartbeat. The student was still for a few moments, gasping raggedly while the opened wound pumped his life blood into the rugs that covered the bench. And then he simply ceased to breathe. Edith took his hand and called out to him, but the Carmelite was dead.

‘They killed him,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes. Unlike her brother, she was unused to the presence of sudden death and it distressed her. ‘Those Dominicans murdered him.’

‘They did,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. He stood, feeling defeated. ‘I will fetch one of the Carmelites to see to him.’

‘Fetch Brother Michael first,’ said Edith unsteadily. ‘He is the Senior Proctor, and it is his responsibility to investigate University deaths. I want to see those murdering Dominicans brought to justice.’

‘So will the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘I just hope they will not decide to do it themselves.’

Brother Michael, Senior Proctor of the University, Fellow of Michaelhouse and trusted agent of the Bishop of Ely, puffed across the yard of Stanmore’s business premises with his Junior Proctor and a group of his beadles marching untidily behind him.

With one or two exceptions, the University’s law-keepers were a rough, ill-kempt breed. They all sported coarse woollen tunics with scarlet belts that marked them as University officers, but underneath they wore a bizarre assortment of garments that gave most of them a very eccentric appearance. Some had donned the boiled leather leggings that suggested they had fought for King Edward in France before the plague had forced a truce, while others possessed an eclectic collection of articles passed to them as bribes from students they caught breaking the University’s rules. A quick glance revealed a courtier’s scarlet hose, a Dominican’s cloak, a grey shirt that had probably been a Franciscan’s undergarment, and a pair of wooden clogs that had doubtless belonged to a scholar from the north.

The Junior Proctor was a different matter. Will Walcote was dressed in the sober black habit of an Austin canon, and over it was an ankle-length cloak. His calf-high boots were of good quality leather, and although they were mud-stained from walking along the High Street, they had been carefully polished. He was of average height, had thick brown hair that was cut short above the ears, and had a thin, intelligent face. He was popular in the University, more so than his intrigue-loving superior, and already it was rumoured that he would be Michael’s successor as Senior Proctor, although Bartholomew knew Michael had doubts about Walcote’s suitability.

The untidy procession came to a shambling halt, while Michael looked around him imperiously. The yard was cobbled, and everywhere were threads of the cloth that had made Oswald Stanmore one of the richest men in Cambridge. The lean-to sheds were filled with bales of wool and silk, and even though the merchant himself was at a business meeting in another part of the town, his apprentices were busy loading and unloading carts, making inventories and carrying out his orders.

Michael presented an impressive figure in his billowing black cloak and the dark Benedictine habit beneath it, and several of Stanmore’s apprentices faltered nervously when they saw him. The monk had always been large – tall, as well as burly – but contentment and self-satisfaction had added a further layer of fat around his middle. His thin, lank brown hair was cut neatly around his gleaming tonsure, and his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers. He and Bartholomew had been friends for some years, although Michael’s post as Senior Proctor and the duties it entailed occasionally put a serious strain on their relationship.

Bartholomew watched the monk and his retinue enter the yard, then went to meet them. It was cold for March, and Michael’s winter cloak was lined with fur to protect him from the bitter winds that shrieked across the Fens from the north and east. Despite the fact that it was Lent, and that the monk should have been fasting or at least abstaining from some foods, he looked a good deal better fed than most of his beadles, and his round face gleamed with health and vitality.

He spotted Bartholomew and Edith at the top of the short flight of steps that led to Oswald Stanmore’s office, and strode to meet them. Walcote followed him.

‘I heard there was a row between the Dominicans and the Carmelites,’ said the monk, waiting for Bartholomew to descend the steps. ‘My beadles acted immediately, and I thought we had prevented any serious trouble. Then I receive a message from you saying that someone has been killed.’

‘It is true,’ replied Edith, answering Michael’s question before Bartholomew could speak. Her eyes were red from crying over the death of the young friar she had not known, and her voice was unsteady. Bartholomew fervently wished he had taken the Carmelite to Michaelhouse, and had not involved his sister in the University’s troubles. ‘The Dominicans killed a Carmelite. He died right here, in Oswald’s office.’

‘How did he come to be there?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Merchants like Oswald have bands of apprentices, and bands of apprentices love nothing more than lone scholars to fight – be they Carmelites or anyone else.’

‘Matt brought him,’ replied Edith. ‘The apprentices did not approve, but they carried him upstairs, then stood watch to make sure no Dominicans broke through our gates. I suppose all the fuss has died down now, given that they seem to have gone back to work.’

‘I suppose,’ said Michael carefully, knowing it would take very little for trouble to ignite again. ‘How did you manage to prevent your apprentices from rushing into the street and joining in the affray?’

‘I forbade them to,’ said Edith, surprised by the question. ‘They did not like standing by while scholars threw stones that smashed our windows, but they did as they were told.’