Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

He stood still for a moment, gazing up at the dark silhouettes of the buildings opposite. A soft groan invaded his thoughts. At first, he did not know where it had come from, but then he heard snoring coming from the chamber Suttone shared with three lively students from Lincolnshire: the sound had either been Suttone himself, or perhaps one of his students, caught in some restless dream. Then there was a blood-chilling howl followed by a babbling voice, which made him leap in alarm and silenced the soft sounds of merriment issuing from Langelee’s chamber. Bartholomew heard Cynric sharply informing Clippesby that people were sleeping, and that he had best save his screeches for the daytime.

Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief, and heard the muted conversation resume in Langelee’s quarters. Nocturnal disturbances were commonplace when Clippesby was going through one of his episodes, and there was nothing anyone could do but try to calm him. Cynric seemed to have it under control, so, taking a final breath of sweet night air that was scented with a faint tang of salt from the marshes to the north, Bartholomew turned and entered his room.

It was dark inside his chamber without a candle, and Bartholomew groped around blindly, swearing under his breath when he stubbed his toe on the end of the bed. He ran his hands up the damp wall until his fingers encountered the wooden pegs that had been driven into it, and then hung up his cloak and tabard. He tugged off his boots, setting them near the window in the futile hope that the icy blasts that whistled under the shutters might serve to dry them out a little, and then washed in the jug of water left for him each night. The surface of the water cracked when he touched it, and tiny slivers of ice scratched him as he splashed handfuls of it over his face and neck. Finally, hopping on tiptoe on the freezing flagstones, with his hands aching and burning from the coldness of the water, he leapt into the bed.

The first few moments in bed during the winter were never pleasant, and on very cold nights, the unpleasantness sometimes lasted until dawn. The bed-covers were damp, and Bartholomew did not know which was worse: the chill wetness that forced him to curl into a tight ball until the warmth of his body began to drive the cold away, or the moistness that made him feel sticky and clammy once it had warmed up. He lay shivering in his night-shirt and hose, his hands tucked under his arms, rubbing his feet together in a futile attempt to warm them.

Gradually, the cold began to recede and he was able to uncoil himself bit by bit, until his feet were at the end of the bed. Once the misery of the icy blankets had been breached, his mind automatically returned to Michael and the accusations regarding the Carmelites’ chest. He tried not to think about it, and to consider more pleasant matters, such as the treatment of the lepers at Stourbridge or the arguments he might use on Langelee regarding cleaning of the College latrines. But even these fascinating issues failed to distract him, and he found himself once again pondering how best to prove Michael’s innocence.

He tossed and turned in an exhausting half-sleep, while his mind teemed with questions. He was restless enough to become quite hot, and the moist blankets stuck to him in a restricting kind of way that made him hotter still. At last he sat up, knowing that he would be unable to rest properly until he had spoken to Michael. He listened carefully, trying to hear whether the monk was still with Langelee, or whether he had returned to his room. A small creak from above indicated that he was at home, and was probably sitting at his table, working in the silence of the night.

Now grateful for the sensation of cool stone against his bare skin, Bartholomew walked across his room and opened the door, stepping into the small hallway beyond. Lamplight still gleamed under the window shutters in Langelee’s quarters, and he imagined that Michael was not the only one to take the opportunity of the peace and quiet to do some work. He heard the bell of St Mary begin to toll, announcing the office of nocturns for those who were awake. It was three o’clock.

He turned, and began to grope his way forward until he encountered the wooden stairs that led to the upper floor, swearing under his breath when he stubbed his toe a second time that evening, this time on the metal scraper on which scholars were supposed to remove the worst of the mud from their shoes before entering their rooms. It was heavy and hard, and Bartholomew hopped around for several moments in mute agony as the pain shot through his foot. He hoped his inadvertent antics had not disturbed the scholars who were sleeping in the room opposite.

In Michaelhouse, each ‘staircase’ had four rooms: two on the ground floor and two on the upper floor. Suttone, the skeletal Carmelite, lived in the room opposite Bartholomew’s, and the sounds of snoring that issued through the door suggested that he and his room-mates were doing what all decent people should be doing so late in the night – which was certainly not preparing to tell a friend that he was accused of murder and theft.

Bartholomew turned to the stairs and began to climb. They were rough and gritty under his bare feet, and at one point he trod on something soft. He did not even want to consider what it might be, and made a mental note to ask Agatha to see it cleaned up the following day.

The chamber opposite Michael’s was occupied by three elderly men whom Langelee had admitted to the College. They were priests who found the daily running of a parish too much and who wanted nothing more than to be provided with a bed at night, regular meals and a little teaching. The snores emanating from the old men’s chamber were even louder than the ones issuing from Suttone’s room, and Bartholomew wondered whether he would feel the door vibrating if he put his hand on it.

There was a ribbon of light under Michael’s door, and another slight creak indicated that the monk was moving between the table and the shelves where he kept his pens and parchment, treading softly so that he would not disturb Bartholomew sleeping below. The physician was about to unlatch the door, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Michael laugh. But it had not come from his own chamber: it had come from Langelee’s quarters across the courtyard, where, it seemed, he was still enjoying the Master’s hospitality.

Then who was moving so carefully in the monk’s room? Was it a Michaelhouse colleague looking for a book or a scroll that might have been borrowed from the College’s library? But it was late to be ransacking the room of a friend for a book, and most people would have waited until the morning to ask for it. The only alternative was that it was an intruder from outside the College, and that whoever it was had no business to be there.

Bartholomew considered his options. He could run across the yard to fetch Michael and Langelee, both of whom were large men and a match for any would-be thief. But the intruder might escape while Bartholomew was rousing them, and then they would never know his identity. He supposed he could wake Suttone and his students, but Suttone was not a man noted for courage, and Bartholomew was afraid he would decline to help and forbid his students to become involved, too. There was only one real choice: he would have to approach the intruder himself. He had heard no voices, so he assumed the burglar was alone.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and was reaching out to unclip the latch when the light disappeared as the candle was extinguished. Simultaneously, the door was jerked open. Bartholomew had a brief glimpse of a hooded outline in the doorway and heard a sharp intake of breath when, presumably, the intruder also saw Bartholomew. For a moment, neither of them did anything. Then the intruder struck.