‘And napping during the day is out, because of teaching. Langelee was wrong to have enrolled so many new students last Easter, because none of us can really manage, what with Clippesby still on leave. I never thought I would miss Clippesby – he is insane, after all – but I wish he was home.’
‘I do not – not as long as Mildenale and William persist in their claims that all Dominicans are Satan-worshipping heretics. Clippesby is a Black Friar, and even his gentle temper would baulk at putting up with that kind of nonsense day after day.’
‘William has always hated Dominicans,’ said Michael. ‘And having someone else who thinks the same way must be enormously satisfying for him. He is alone in his bigotry no longer.’
‘But he has not always hated me, and I am not a Dominican, anyway. Yet these days, he attacks me at every opportunity. Is it just because of Thomas, or have I done something else to annoy him?’
‘It is just because of Thomas. They quarrelled bitterly the night before he died, and William said things of which he is now ashamed; it is easier to be angry with you than to admit he behaved badly. Of course, you are not his only target at the moment. He seems ready to condemn the religious beliefs of virtually everyone in Cambridge these days.’
‘He may have a point this time. Superstition is more rife than I have ever known it, and several of my patients say they regularly consult witches for charms and spells.’
‘It is a pity the Church’s most vocal supporter is Mildenalus Sanctus,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘He does more harm than good with his diatribes. Indeed, I feel like applying for membership of a cadre when I hear what he thinks the Church represents.’
Both scholars glanced behind them, to where the man in question was walking with Carton and William. Mildenale, a commoner, was in his late fifties, but still sported a head of lank black hair. He was in the habit of looking skywards when he spoke, as though addressing Heaven, although Bartholomew was sure the angelic hosts would not be impressed with some of the vitriol that spouted from his mouth. Like most people, the physician was uncomfortable with Mildenale’s unbending piety, and he was certainly disturbed by the man’s uncompromising views on ‘heretics’.
Carton, on the other hand, was a Fellow, and he taught law. He was short, serious and something of an enigma. Although Bartholomew liked him well enough, he found he never knew what the friar was really thinking, and there was something reserved and distant about him that would prevent them from ever becoming real friends.
‘I was just telling Langelee that I think the Sorcerer is to blame for our Franciscans joining forces,’ Michael went on. ‘He is becoming increasingly popular in the town, seducing people away from the Church. It was only when Mildenale realised how serious a threat the Sorcerer posed that he started recruiting the likes of William, Carton and Thomas.’
‘And now Thomas is dead,’ said Bartholomew, forcing himself to discuss a topic that was still painful for him. ‘When I tended his wound, he told me the Sorcerer is a Dominican.’
‘William and Mildenale agree. Of course, I have no idea what Carton thinks, given that I have never met a man more difficult to read. But the preaching of all three is a distraction I could do without. Monitoring them will impede my two investigations.’
‘What two investigations?’
Michael’s grin was rather crafty. ‘I am glad you asked, because I need your help. The first is the blood that was left in our font; we must find out who put it there, because we cannot have it happening again. The second is learning who desecrated Margery Sewale’s grave.’
Bartholomew held up his hands and began to back away. ‘I cannot, Brother. I need the half-term break to prepare next term’s teaching, or my students will not learn the–’
‘You are my Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You cannot refuse. Besides, Langelee said you can be excused College duties if you assist me.’
Bartholomew thought about the cycle of disputations and lectures Langelee had organised. The timetable was so full that there would be very little time for preparing lessons; helping Michael meant the situation might be a good deal more flexible. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But it does not set a precedent for the future.’
Michael smiled serenely, thinking a precedent had been set the first time they had ever investigated a murder together, some nine years before. Bartholomew just did not appreciate it.
Unfortunately for the monk, Bartholomew did not make it as far as the College before he received a summons from a patient. It was Isnard the bargeman, who lived in a cottage near the river. As usual, Isnard had spent his Friday night at the King’s Head tavern, and had awoken that morning to find himself with a deep cut on his foot. He could not remember how it had happened, but it was an inconvenient injury, because it was the only foot he had; Bartholomew had been forced to amputate the other after an accident two years before.
‘Someone must have done it during the night,’ declared Isnard, when Bartholomew arrived and he saw that Michael had accompanied him. The bargeman was desperate to make a good impression on the monk, and did not want to be seen as a drunkard. ‘It could not have happened at the King’s Head, not with me drinking watered ale all night.’
He adopted a pious expression, and Bartholomew laughed. ‘I heard the taverner broached a new cask of claret last night.’
Isnard’s face was all innocence. ‘Really? I did not notice. And I would not have swallowed claret anyway, because it might damage my voice. I have been keeping it honed, you see, for when I am allowed back in the Michaelhouse Choir.’
‘My choir is full at the moment,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have all the basses I need.’
‘But none are as loud as me,’ objected Isnard. His expression was piteous. ‘Please let me rejoin, Brother. Singing in the King’s Head is not nearly as much fun as singing with you, and we do not get free bread and ale after practices, either.’
Michael was unmoved, and turned his attention to the physician. ‘Have you finished, Matt? My tenors are coming to see me this morning. We are going to discuss arrangements for the Feast of Corpus Christi, at which they will perform.’
‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily. The choir was not the College’s greatest asset, and Isnard had summed up its abilities rather neatly when he had boasted about the loudness of his voice. What the ensemble lacked in talent it made up for in volume, and took pride in the fact that once it got going, it could be heard up to two miles away, if the wind was blowing in the right direction.
‘We are doing Tunstead’s Jubilate,’ added Michael as he sailed out, head in the air. It was a cruel thrust, because the Jubilate was one of Isnard’s favourite pieces. The bargeman made a strangled sound that might have been a sob, and Bartholomew hastened to finish his bandaging, reluctant to witness the man’s misery. Isnard caught his hand before he could leave.
‘You must help me, Doctor! I have apologised for saying rude things about you earlier this year, and you have forgiven me, so why does he continue to be offended? I cannot bear hearing the choir sing and not be allowed to join in. Please talk to him. If you do, I will give you a spade.’
‘A spade?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. It was not an item guaranteed to appeal to the acquisitive instincts of most physicians.
‘For digging up dead bodies,’ whispered Isnard, tapping his nose confidentially. ‘We all know it was a medicus who took Margery from her grave – for anatomy. And since Paxtone refuses to touch corpses, and Rougham condemns anatomy as a pagan rite, you are the only one left.’