The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘It is difficult to find the truth when there are no independent witnesses and both protagonists claim the other is at fault,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew sit on the bed and gently probe the swelling.

‘I have told you what happened,’ objected Bulmer, pushing the physician away. ‘I will take final vows soon, and I am not given to lying. The Roughe brothers are, though; they steal, too.’

‘Can you prove dishonesty?’ asked Michael. ‘I will prosecute them, if so.’

Bulmer looked sheepish. ‘I am repeating what others have told me. They may be too timid to take on the Roughes, but I am not.’

‘Where did the altercation happen?’ asked Michael.

‘Outside St Andrew’s.’

‘What were you doing there?’

Bulmer was surprised by the question. ‘It is the nearest church to the friary, and I often go there to pray. Many Dominicans do. Our own chapel can be noisy in the daytime, and some of us crave a quieter place for our devotions.’

Bartholomew struggled to keep the incredulity from his face, although Michael had no such qualms, and his expression was openly sceptical. ‘You are not a pious lad, Bulmer, so do not pretend you are. Your skills and merits lie in other areas-equally valuable to your Order, I am sure-but do not try to deceive me.’

‘Very well,’ said Bulmer stiffly. ‘I was watching someone.’

‘I see. Does Prior Morden know you spend your time ogling whores?’

‘That is not what I was doing!’ cried Bulmer, shocked. ‘I only ever watch them at night, and the incident with Roughe happened in daylight.’

‘Who were you watching?’ asked Michael curiously.

Bulmer was uneasy. ‘I would rather not say.’

Michael followed his nervous glance towards the door. ‘Do not worry about being overheard. Matt will stand guard and make sure no one is eavesdropping.’

Bartholomew obliged, and the novice began to speak. ‘I was watching Little Tomas. I do not like him.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am not sure,’ admitted Bulmer. ‘I am not given to flights of fancy, being a practical fellow, but my feelings about him are strong, and I felt the need to act. Prior Morden is a good man, but overly inclined to see the good in people. I do not want him harmed because of the likes of Little Tomas.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ asked Michael, raising his hand when Bartholomew started to point out that the suspicion probably arose from the fact that Tomas was a foreigner, and such men often excited negative emotions in English towns.

Bulmer played with the compress against his injured face. ‘He says he is from a university called Pécs, but I have never heard of it, and I do not believe it exists. I am afraid he is here to spy on us, to see where we stand over this Holy Blood business. None of us really understands the wretched affair, and Prior Morden is too open for his own good-I think he may even believe the Franciscans are right, and might confide in the wrong people. I do not want the Cambridge community excommunicated when I am about to take my final vows-I should like to be a prior one day, and that will not happen if I am deemed a heretic.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael. ‘You do not like Tomas because he is from an unknown university and you think he may be part of an inquisition?’

Bulmer nodded. ‘And because he asks questions. I detest Kip Roughe, as you know, but even he is uncomfortable with Tomas, and that is why we fought. I was watching Tomas, but it was Kip who was about to thrust a knife between his shoulder blades. I cannot condone murder, not even of someone like Tomas. I ordered him to put down his weapon, and he punched me.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why not mention this sooner? We assumed you were gawking at prostitutes, but now it seems you averted a crime. Why did you keep your noble actions to yourself?’

‘Because I would have had to admit to following Tomas,’ replied Bulmer resentfully. ‘Although I suspect he probably already knows-as I said, he is clever. Besides, this is not the first time Kip and John have tried to kill him, but he is too cunning to be dispatched by mere servants. It is the Roughes who will die if they continue to stalk him, not Little Tomas.’

As soon as he emerged from the Dominican priory, Bartholomew was summoned by the Carmelites, whose prior had taken a turn for the worse, obliging the physician to spend the rest of the day with him. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse, it was too late to speak to Michael and the lights in almost every room were doused. Exhausted, he slept soundly, despite the stifling heat, and woke only when the bell chimed for prime. He waylaid the monk before breakfast, and learned that Kip Roughe had confirmed Bulmer’s tale-and had been proud that he had raised the courage to take a stand against a man of Tomas’s obvious wickedness. Michael had warned him not to do it again, and fined him heavily to make his point.

Both scholars spent the morning teaching, and it was well past noon before they were able to meet again. Michael, whose classes were smaller and less demanding, had gone a second time to warn the Roughe brothers against murder, only to learn that neither had been seen since the previous evening. Both Bulmer and Morden informed him that it was not an uncommon occurrence for the pair to disappear on business of their own, and neither seemed concerned about their untimely absence.

‘I am worried, Matt,’ said Michael as they walked towards the High Street. He wanted to visit Seton. ‘I do not want the Roughe brothers dead at Tomas’s hand.’

‘It is they who are trying to dispatch him, not the other way around. And if they are killed, Tomas can quite legitimately claim self-defence. I do not know why they have taken against him: he has done nothing wrong, other than to be an intelligent foreigner.’

Michael was not so sure, but did not want to argue when he knew they would not agree, while Bartholomew also dropped the matter and looked across the road to where two men in Carmelite habits walked, deep in conversation-or rather, Andrew talked while Urban listened. Bartholomew could not be certain, but he thought Urban was sobbing, and supposed the master was admonishing him for some infraction. His own, albeit brief, observations had told him that Andrew was a hard and exacting taskmaster, difficult to please. He recalled him mentioning a previous novice, who had been all a master could desire, but who had ‘betrayed’ him by seeking more knowledgeable teachers. He supposed Urban was lacking in comparison, and felt sorry for the lad: competing with ghosts was a grim and unrewarding business.

Michael knocked briskly on the door to St Bernard’s, and paced back and forth while he waited for it to be answered. Bartholomew watched Andrew sink gratefully on to the low wall surrounding the churchyard opposite, while Urban perched next to him. The old man was weary, eager for rest, while Urban appeared to be unsettled and restless. When a greasy scullion arrived to ask Michael’s business, the monk did not reply; he pushed past the man and strode inside, aiming for the smaller of the two chambers on the ground floor, where Seton was enjoying a solitary meal.

‘You are alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Where are the Carmelites?’

‘Out,’ said Seton, before Bartholomew could say they were sitting in the sun outside. ‘They have been gone much of the day, which suits me. I am here to study, and it is difficult to read when they chatter all the time.’

‘They talk a lot?’ enquired Michael, helping himself to bread.

‘Andrew does,’ replied Seton, grimacing when Michael took the last piece of chicken. ‘He is always telling that stupid novice something he will forget within an hour. Carmelites accept anyone into their ranks, and more often than not their wits are inferior. I am afraid the same is also true of my own Order. Still, at least the Franciscans have men like me to present an intelligent face to the world. Witney did so, too, before that pair murdered him.’