The Hallow-tide celebrations were to begin with a special Mass in church, and most scholars had already donned their finery, ready to go. Those in holy orders were bedecked in their best habits, while the seculars wore their College uniform of black, but with ceremonial fur trimmings to mark the special occasion. Langelee saw Bartholomew and Michael, and came to talk to them, William trailing at his heels.
‘Have you heard the rumours?’ the Master asked. ‘That Frenge the brewer will lead another assault on King’s Hall tonight?’
Michael nodded. ‘My beadles will stop him.’
‘They had better,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not like the mood that bubbles here at the moment, and another raid by Frenge will certainly ignite a spat.’
They all jumped when there was a sudden roar of delight from the High Street. Then smoke wafted into the sky above the rooftops, a few wisps at first, followed by bigger billows.
‘Will Lenne must have lit the bonfire that he and his apprentices built at the back of our church,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘I asked him to move it to a safe distance, but he refused, on the grounds that that particular plot is common land. I hope it does not do us any damage. We cannot afford repairs – at least, not until we have secured some wealthy benefactors.’
‘We should have dismantled it, as I suggested,’ growled William. ‘Because the town will not pay if anything goes wrong. And if you want an example, look at how Frenge is refusing to make good on the destruction he wreaked on King’s Hall.’
‘If we had destroyed Lenne’s handiwork, he would just have rebuilt it, and then there definitely would have been harm to our church,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been very crafty: the fire is as close to St Michael’s as it can be, without one twig over the boundary and–’
He broke off when there was an urgent hammering on the gate. Walter the surly porter emerged grumbling from his lodge with his pet peacock under his arm, a bird that possessed a temper every bit as irascible as his own. He listened to the message that was delivered, then hurried towards the little knot of Fellows.
‘Trouble,’ he reported grimly. ‘Frenge has been murdered in the Austin Priory, and the town is saying that King’s Hall did it.’
Besides being a physician and teacher of medicine, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to declare an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for anyone who breathed his last on its property. He was paid threepence for every body he inspected, money he used to buy medicines for his poorest patients. As it had been a busy few weeks and his funds were low, he was grateful for the opportunity to replenish them, and fell into step at Michael’s side with something approaching enthusiasm.
Unfortunately, the post did nothing for his reputation among the wealthy, who disliked the notion of being treated by a man whose last client might have been a cadaver. The poor were not too happy about it either, but as no other physician was willing to treat them free of charge, they tended to keep their reservations to themselves.
Rumours about Frenge’s demise were already circulating, and the atmosphere was darker and more menacing than it had been earlier. Scholars no longer walked singly or in pairs, but formed larger groups for protection, while the town’s malcontents gathered in sullen gangs that loitered in doorways or under trees. Then Michael saw that a group of academics had cornered two bakers’ apprentices in St Michael’s churchyard, their antics partially concealed by the wafts of dense smoke that billowed from the bonfire at the back.
‘Stop,’ he commanded. The students turned in surprise. They were from Zachary, and their leader was Yerland, the lad who had tried to eavesdrop on the consilium. The bakers’ boys took the opportunity to flee.
‘We were only warning them to be mindful of the flames, Brother,’ said Yerland, all wounded innocence. ‘That fire might be on common land, but its sparks are flying towards University property. Look at them!’
He was right, and Bartholomew noted with alarm that bright cinders were not only dancing over the top of St Michael’s roof, but were flying towards Gonville Hall and Michaelhouse, too. Several townsmen, careful to stay on their own side of the invisible line that marked the boundary, made challenging gestures that turned into jeers when the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner declined to respond. Zachary’s lads bristled, though.
‘Ignore them,’ ordered Michael sternly. ‘Brawlers will be fined – as will anyone not wearing his prescribed uniform.’
The students had flouted the University’s ban on ostentatious displays of wealth, and had augmented their grey and cream livery with fashionably pointed shoes, feathered hats, a plethora of jewellery and multicoloured leggings.
‘It is Hallow-tide,’ explained Yerland petulently. ‘The townsmen are wearing their best clothes, so why should we not do the same?’
‘Because they are not scholars,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now go home, before your rule-breaking costs you a penny apiece.’
The lads slouched away, although not without muttering that it was a Michaelhouse ploy to unsettle their opponents before the disceptatio. Michael treated the remarks with the contempt they deserved by pretending he had not heard.
‘Perhaps I was wrong to coax Wauter from their fold to ours,’ he sighed. ‘Irby is too gentle to be effective, and struggles to keep order without Wauter’s support.’
‘You poached Wauter?’ Bartholomew was shocked: there was an unwritten law in the University that foundations did not steal each other’s members.
The monk shrugged. ‘We needed to fill the vacancy left by Thelnetham, and I adjudged him to be the best candidate. It was a good decision: he is a fine teacher, an excellent geometrician and his company is a pleasure. Besides, he was glad to escape – Zachary had offered Nigellus a place by then, and Wauter does not like him.’
Bartholomew hoped such underhand tactics would not cause trouble at the disceptatio. He changed the subject as they walked away, tuning out the taunts from the folk around the bonfire.
‘If someone from King’s Hall did murder Frenge, why did it happen in the Austin Friary?’
‘King’s Hall did not kill him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘At least, I hope not, because it will create a rift that will not be easily mended. So bear that in mind when you make your report, please, Matt: accident or suicide, but definitely not murder. Is that clear?’
Bartholomew winced. He was not a good liar, and hoped such a deception would not be necessary. He walked faster, wanting the matter resolved as quickly as possible. Moreover, he disliked the uneasy mood in the streets. He was more popular than most members of the University, partly for his care of paupers, but also because he had kin in the town – a sister, who had recently assumed control of her late husband’s cloth business. But there was no point in courting trouble, and the wisest course of action was to go home as soon as possible and stay there.
They arrived at the Austin convent, which was shielded from the outside world by high walls and two gates: the main entrance on St Bene’t’s Street, and a smaller one at the back, although this opened on to the canal known as the King’s Ditch and could only be reached by boat. They knocked at the front gate, and were admitted by a burly friar named Hamo de Hythe, one of the two Austins who often accompanied Prior Joliet to Michaelhouse.
Like Joliet, Hamo was also a talented artist, although it seemed impossible that such huge fists could produce such beautifully delicate images. He rarely spoke in more than monosyllables, and was a great mountain of a man who could have done with a much larger habit.