Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Julitta. ‘I understand he has done very little else during his tenure.’

‘The library will be a credit to you, Sir Eustace,’ said Bartholomew, finding his voice at last. ‘In fact, Kente has already made you immortal by carving your face on one of the lecterns.’

‘You noticed, did you?’ Dunning was pleased. ‘There is one of Julitta, too, and of Ruth, my other daughter.’

‘Kente has immortalised Tynkell, too,’ said Michael sullenly. ‘As Eden’s serpent.’

‘Nonsense, Brother!’ exclaimed Julitta, laughing again. ‘What an imagination you have!’

Dunning changed the subject by turning to Bartholomew and asking conversationally, ‘Surgeon Holm, who is soon to be my son-in-law, told me last night that you drilled a large hole in Coslaye’s skull after it was crushed by a flying book at the Convocation. Is it true?’

Bartholomew found himself strangely reluctant to have Julitta think badly of him by admitting that he regularly trespassed on barber-surgeon territory, especially as she was betrothed to one of them. ‘Well,’ he hedged awkwardly. ‘It was …’

‘He also said that Coslaye would have died had you not done so,’ added Julitta. ‘I think you were extremely brave to have undertaken such a difficult procedure. Brave and noble.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, taken off guard. He was unused to praise for his surgical skills.

Julitta nodded. ‘He said that he would not have dared do it, and was astonished that you did.’

Bartholomew made no reply, but was dismayed to hear that a tried and tested technique like trephining was beyond the talents of the town’s new surgeon. In fact, he recalled being unimpressed with Holm’s ‘help’ during the entire procedure, and it added to his growing suspicion that the man was not as proficient as he would have everyone believe.

‘Perhaps you should not have bothered,’ said Dunning tartly, ‘given that Coslaye recovered to spread lies about the promises I am alleged to have made.’

‘Really, Father!’ admonished Julitta. ‘That is not a nice thing to say, and Coslaye has his virtues. He is said to be an excellent teacher.’

‘You are quite right, my dear,’ said Dunning with a sigh. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. We had better go home before weariness leads me to say something else I do not mean.’

They moved away. Bartholomew watched them go, and might have stared at Julitta until she was out of sight, had Michael not prodded him, bringing him to his senses.

The two scholars resumed their journey, but had not gone far before their attention was caught by an altercation between four men. Browne was one of them, and Principal Coslaye another. Coslaye was a large man with rough, soldierly features and a notoriously hot temper, and he was shouting at the top of his voice. The objects of his ire were Riborowe and Jorz from the Carmelite Priory, and there was a lot of finger-wagging involved.

Bartholomew skirted to one side, loath to become involved in any debate that involved the waving of digits; in his experience men who employed such gestures were invariably bigots and closed to reason. However, the Senior Proctor could not walk past a quarrel that looked set to become violent, and when Coslaye jabbed Riborowe hard enough to make the skinny friar stagger, Michael stepped forward to intervene.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, interposing his considerable bulk between them.

‘There is a rumour that the University is going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites,’ explained Browne when his Principal was too enraged to speak. ‘But Chancellor Tynkell said we could have first refusal on any sale of land.’

Riborowe sneered at him. ‘If you took Tynkell’s word for anything, you are a fool. He will say anything for a quiet life, and is always reneging on agreements.’

‘Tynkell would have pledged no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He knows better than to annoy me further with anything concerning the Common Library.’

That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew: Tynkell had been wholly unprepared for the extent of Michael’s wrath when the monk had learned that the Chancellor had been negotiating with wealthy benefactors behind his back. Some very harsh words had been aimed in his direction, and Tynkell had been desperate to make amends ever since.

‘You do not need more land,’ snarled Coslaye, ignoring him and addressing the Carmelites. ‘You have lots already. But we do not, and if you were good Christians, you would let us have it.’

‘Please, gentlemen,’ began Michael. ‘This is hardly the–’

‘How will you pay for it?’ sneered Jorz. ‘You are paupers. However, we White Friars have the money to buy any land we choose.’

‘We can find funds,’ shouted Coslaye, incensed. ‘We have generous friends who will–’

‘Enough!’ roared Michael. He lowered his voice when both the Carmelites and the Batayl men regarded him in astonishment. ‘People are staring at you, laughing at your unedifying behaviour.’

‘I do not care.’ Coslaye’s face was mottled, and Bartholomew hoped rage would not induce a seizure. ‘Besides, the White Friars started it.’

Michael scowled at each of the four in turn. ‘Bring your grievances to me at St Mary the Great tomorrow, and we shall attempt to resolve the matter amicably.’ He raised a plump hand when all four began to object. ‘Not another word, or I shall fine all for breaching the peace.’

‘Who told you that the University was going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew of the Batayl men in the resentful silence that followed. ‘Because Michael is right: Tynkell would never have made such an offer.’

‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Browne, regarding him with dislike. ‘No one invited you to join this discussion.’

‘There is no need to be rude,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘I owe Bartholomew my life, in case you do not recall. He even waived his fee for the help he gave me, on account of our poverty.’

‘Yes, but the Devil probably paid him in kind,’ said Riborowe slyly. ‘I have heard that Satan is partial to poring over exposed brains. It amuses him.’

‘And how do you come to be party to Satan’s preferences, pray?’ asked Michael archly. He turned to Browne while the Carmelite was still floundering about for a suitable reply. ‘Matt posed a good question. Who told you this tale?’

‘The stationer,’ replied Browne. ‘Not that it is–’

‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘His lying tongue will see our town in flames yet. But we shall discuss this tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.’

Riborowe opened his mouth to object to the curt dismissal, but Jorz grabbed his arm and pulled him away, sensing it was unwise to irritate the Senior Proctor further.

‘The experiment we are running with the ink should be finished by now, Riborowe,’ he muttered. ‘Let us return to the scriptorium and see the results.’

‘I am complaining to the Bishop about you, Brother,’ called Riborowe threateningly over his shoulder, struggling to free himself from Jorz’s grip. ‘You run the University like a tyrant.’

‘Try it,’ shouted Coslaye challengingly. ‘It will do you no good. He is the Bishop’s spy, and he has accrued his power with de Lisle’s approval and connivance.’

Bartholomew suspected that was true: Michael could not have reached such dizzying heights without the backing of some extremely influential supporters. ‘How are you feeling, Coslaye?’ he asked, eager to change the subject to one that was less contentious; Michael was looking angry. ‘Any headaches?’

Coslaye sniffed. ‘Yes, a great big one. It is called the Carmelites!’