Susanna GREGORY: An Order for Death

‘Would that all merchants had as much control over their people,’ muttered Michael, impressed that Edith had been able to impose her will so effortlessly on a group of spirited young men. He had forgotten that dark-haired Edith, who always seemed so slight next to her younger brother, was a very determined woman. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Where is this poor unfortunate now?’

Bartholomew led him and Walcote to the office, while the beadles remained in the yard to be shown broken windows and scratched paintwork by the indignant apprentices. Edith had covered the body of the friar with a crisp white sheet, although a circular red stain had already appeared, a stark foretaste of what lay underneath. Gently, Bartholomew pulled the sheet away from the friar’s face, so that Michael could see it. Both men turned in surprise when they heard Walcote’s sharp intake of breath.

‘That is Faricius of Abington,’ said the Junior Proctor, gazing down at the body in horror.

‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘Have you arrested him for frequenting taverns or brawling or some such thing?’

‘Not Faricius,’ said Walcote, clearly shocked. ‘He was a peaceful and scholarly man. I met him at a lecture we both attended on nominalism. After that, we met from time to time to discuss various philosophical concepts. I liked and admired him.’

‘Do you have any idea why someone might wish him harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew cover the face of the dead scholar again.

Walcote’s voice was unsteady when he replied. ‘None at all. He was a good man, respected by the people who knew him. This is a vile town, if friars like Faricius are slain in broad daylight.’

‘I agree, Will,’ said Michael sympathetically, but rather condescendingly. ‘But it happens occasionally, and it is our duty – yours and mine – to bring the culprits to justice. Matt, what were you doing in the middle of a fight between friars that ended in bloody murder?’

‘I was visiting a patient, and heard the sounds of a brawl in the making on my way home. Then I saw a group of Dominicans standing around a bloodstained Carmelite lying in a doorway.’

Michael eyed his friend warily. ‘How many Dominicans?’

‘Half a dozen or so. The Carmelite was bleeding from a wound in his stomach, and I assumed he had been stabbed by them.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Intervening was a foolish thing to do. One man against six is not good odds. What were you thinking of?’

‘There was no time to consider the odds,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘I only saw an injured man and thought I might be able to help him. I waved my childbirth forceps at the Dominicans and they dispersed readily enough.’

‘I should think so,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Those forceps are a formidable weapon if you know how to use them. I would think twice about taking them on, too.’

‘I considered taking Faricius to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I was not sure if he would survive the journey. I brought him here instead.’

‘So, did one of these six Black Friars definitely stab Faricius?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you see any of them holding knives or with bloodstained hands?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I was more concerned with taking Faricius somewhere I could tend him properly, and I did not notice much about the Dominicans. I would say that they did not look as though they were going to give him last rites, however.’

‘Would you recognise them again?’ asked Walcote hopefully. ‘It was daylight, which is unusual. Most of these riots take place at night, when the perpetrators stand a better chance of escaping under cover of darkness once they have had their fill of violence.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They were not happy to see their prey snatched from under their noses and told me so. We exchanged quite a few unpleasant words before I left.’

Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘They threatened you, did they? I shall see they pay for that with a few nights in the proctors’ cells – whether they confess to murdering Faricius of Abington or not.’

‘I cannot believe that the Dominicans and the Carmelites are behaving like this,’ said Walcote, his eyes fixed on the still figure under the sheet. ‘I know we Austin canons are no angels, and that there are occasional fights between individuals, but we do not march as a body on rival Orders.’

‘Nor do we Benedictines,’ said Michael in a superior manner. ‘There are better ways of resolving differences than resorting to fists.’

‘I am surprised their priors did nothing to stop it,’ Walcote went on disapprovingly. ‘Could they not see what consequences their students’ actions might have – the damage that committing a murder might have on their community here in Cambridge?’

‘They will see what the consequences are when I get my hands on them,’ said Michael grimly.

Michael ordered four of his beadles to construct a stretcher of two planks of wood and some strips of cloth, and then instructed them to carry Faricius to St Botolph’s, the church nearest the Carmelite Friary. Walcote was dispatched to fetch Prior Lincolne, which was no easy task given that the Carmelites were not currently responding to yells and bangs on the door. Once he had alerted Lincolne to the fact that one of his number was dead, Walcote was to go to the Dominican property on Hadstock Way, to ensure all the rioting Black Friars had returned home and were not still prowling the streets intent on mischief.

‘This is a bad business, Matt,’ said Michael, holding open the door to St Botolph’s, so that the beadles could carry their grisly burden inside. Bartholomew noticed that Faricius was dripping blood, and that a trail of penny-sized droplets ran between the Stanmore property and the church. ‘We have had no serious trouble since last November, when Runham dismissed my choir and attempted to cheat the workmen he had employed to rebuild Michaelhouse. I was hoping the calm would continue.’

‘It has been calm because we have had a long winter,’ explained Beadle Meadowman, struggling to manhandle Faricius through the narrow door without tipping him off the stretcher. ‘It has been too chilly to go out fighting. Scholars and townsfolk alike would rather sit by their fires than be out causing mischief in the cold.’

Meadowman, a solid, dependable man in his forties, had been recruited by Michael as a University law officer following the dissolution of the hostel in which he had been a steward. He undertook the varied and frequently unpleasant duties of a beadle as stoically and unquestioningly as he had the orders of his previous master, a man whose intentions were far from scholarly. Meadowman was a good beadle, and Michael was well satisfied with him.

‘That is true,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The early snows and the frosts that followed killed a lot of people. It was especially hard on the older ones, like poor Dunstan the riverman. I did not think he would see another Easter, but he refuses to die.’

‘But our students are not elderly men who need blazing hearths to warm their ancient bones,’ said Michael. ‘I was really beginning to feel that the worst of our troubles were over, and that the town and the University had finally learned to tolerate each other’s presence – and that the religious Orders had learned to keep their quarrels for the debating halls.’

‘You sound like Walcote,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at him. ‘He always seems horrified when the students fight, even though, as Junior Proctor, he is used to it because he spends most of his life trying to stop them.’

Michael frowned worriedly. ‘Will Walcote is a good fellow, but he is too gentle to be a proctor. I was uncertain of the wisdom of the choice when he was appointed a year ago, but I thought he would learn in time.’