Susanna GREGORY: An Order for Death

‘And he has not?’

Michael shook his head. ‘He tries, but he just does not have the right attitude. He is too willing to see the good in people. He should follow my lead, and assume everyone is corrupt, violent or innately wicked until proven otherwise.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘No wonder your cells are always full.’

‘Do not tell Father William any of this,’ said Michael seriously, referring to their colleague at Michaelhouse, who was determined to be a proctor himself. ‘He will petition the Chancellor to have Walcote removed so that he can apply for the post himself. Although I may complain about Walcote’s ineffectuality, William’s ruthlessness would be far worse.’

‘Do you think Walcote will resign when he realises he is not suited to the task?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael sighed. ‘I doubt it, Matt. He has not taken any notice of my heavy hints so far.’ He gave his friend a nudge with his elbow and nodded across the High Street to where two Benedictines walked side by side. ‘But if he did, one of those two would be my choice as his successor.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Because they are Benedictines, like you?’

Michael tutted impatiently. ‘Of course not. It is because they are exactly the kind of men we need to represent law and order in the University. Have you met them? Allow me to introduce you.’

Before Bartholomew could point out that it was hardly an appropriate occasion for socialising, with the body of Faricius barely inside the church and a murder to investigate, Michael had hailed his Benedictine colleagues. Bartholomew studied them as they walked towards him.

The taller of the two had light hair, a handsome face and large grey eyes. There was a small scar on his upper lip, and when he spoke he had a habit of frowning very slightly. The second had dark hair that fitted his head like a cap and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. They seemed pleasant and affable enough, although Bartholomew immediately detected in them the smug, confident attitude of men who believed their vocation set them above other people.

‘This is Brother Janius,’ said Michael, indicating the dark-haired monk, before turning to the fairer one. ‘And Brother Timothy here comes from Peterborough.’

‘We have met before,’ said Timothy, returning Bartholomew’s bow of greeting. ‘A few days ago, you came to Ely Hall, where the Cambridge Benedictines live, and tended Brother Adam.’

‘He has a weakness of the lungs,’ said Bartholomew, remembering Adam’s anxious colleagues clustering around the bedside as he tended the patient, making it difficult for him to work. He vaguely recalled that Timothy and Janius had been among them, and that Janius had insisted on a lot of very loud praying, so that Bartholomew could barely hear Adam’s answers to his questions. ‘How is he?’

‘He has been better since you recommended that lungwort and mullein infused in wine,’ replied Timothy, smiling.

Janius gave his colleague an admonishing glance. ‘He has been better since we began saying regular masses for him, Timothy. It is God who effected the change in Adam’s health, not human cures.’

‘Of course, Brother,’ said Timothy piously. ‘But it is my contention that God is working through Doctor Bartholomew to help Adam.’

Janius inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘God shows His hand in many ways, even by using an agent like a physician. But what has happened here?’ he asked, glancing down at the ominous trail of red that soiled the stones in St Botolph’s porch. ‘I hope no one was hurt when the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites earlier.’

‘Unfortunately, one of them was stabbed,’ replied Michael. ‘His name was Faricius.’

Timothy raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Faricius? But he was no fighting man.’

‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘How?’

‘Faricius was a good scholar,’ said Janius. ‘Brilliant, even. He was one of the few Carmelites who came here because of a love of learning, rather than merely to further his own career in the Church by making useful connections.’

‘We were near St Mary’s Church when the Carmelites nailed their proclamation to the door,’ said Timothy, still shocked by the outcome of the riot. ‘I saw the Dominicans were furious, and it was clear that a fight was imminent, but I did not anticipate it would end quite so violently.’

‘But do not blame only the Dominicans,’ said Janius reasonably. ‘I heard the Carmelites taunting them and daring them to attack. One side was every bit as responsible as the other.’

‘As always,’ agreed Timothy. ‘These silly quarrels are invariably the result of two wrongs.’ He leaned forward, rather furtively, and spoke to Michael in a soft voice. ‘Is there any more news about your negotiations with Oxford, Brother? Forgive me for mentioning this in such a public place, but you told me Doctor Bartholomew knows your business, anyway.’

‘He does,’ replied Michael. ‘But I am not expecting any progress on the Oxford matter until Ascension Day at the earliest – a good six weeks from now.’ He turned to Bartholomew and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘We are talking about my plans to surrender a couple of farms and a church to Merton College at Oxford University in exchange for a few snippets of information.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew carefully. He knew Michael had been engaged in a series of delicate negotiations with an Oxford scholar for several months, and that the monk tended to tell different people different stories about his motives and objectives. The arrangements were supposed to be secret, but a Michaelhouse scholar named Ralph de Langelee had made them public the previous year in an attempt to discredit Michael and prevent him from becoming the College’s new Master. It had worked: Langelee had been elected instead.

‘What happens on Ascension Day?’ asked Janius curiously. He crossed himself and gave a serene smile. ‘Other than the spirit of our Lord rising to heaven, that is.’

‘Other than that, William Heytesbury is due to come to Cambridge to finalise our agreement,’ said Michael. ‘He is keen to secure the property for Merton, but he still does not trust me to deal with him honestly.’

‘And does he have cause for such distrust?’ asked Timothy bluntly.

Michael’s expression was innocence itself. ‘Why should he? I have two farms and a church that are nearer Oxford than Cambridge, and I propose to transfer them in exchange for a little information and a document or two. It is a generous offer. Those Oxford men are so used to dealing with each other, that they do not recognise a truthful man when they see one.’

Bartholomew, however, was sure Heytesbury had good cause to be suspicious of Michael’s ‘generous offer’. Whatever it entailed, the monk would make certain it was Cambridge that emerged with the better half of the bargain. He was surprised that Timothy, who seemed to know Michael well, should need to ask.

‘Here comes Prior Lincolne,’ said Timothy, looking down the street to where the leader of the Carmelite Order in Cambridge was hurrying towards them. ‘We will leave you to your sorry business, Brother. Come to see us soon: you are always welcome in Ely Hall.’

‘Thank you; I imagine I shall need a dose of sanity and calm after dealing with this murder,’ said Michael, as the Benedictines walked away. He rearranged his face into a sympathetic smile as the Carmelite Prior reached him. ‘Accept my sincere condolences for this dreadful incident, Father.’

Lincolne did not reply. His eyes lit on the spots of blood that splattered the ground, and he pushed past Michael to enter the church. Lincolne was a man of immense proportions. Bartholomew was tall, but Lincolne topped him by at least a head, a height further accentuated by a curious triangular turret of grey hair that sprouted from his scalp in front of his tonsure. The first time Bartholomew had seen it, when Lincolne had arrived in Cambridge to become Prior after the plague had claimed his predecessor, he thought a stray ball of sheep wool had somehow become attached to the man’s head. But closer inspection had revealed that it was human hair, and that it was carefully combed upward in a deliberate attempt to grant its owner a hand’s length more height. Lincolne was broad, too, especially around the middle, and his ill-fitting habit revealed a pair of thin white ankles that looked too fragile to support the weight above them.