‘Were these Merton men deep sleepers?’ asked Wormynghalle curiously. ‘You say they dozed through the dumping of a body in their chamber.’
‘We suspect a soporific was used on them,’ said Bartholomew.
‘That would make sense,’ said Paxtone, intrigued, despite his antipathy to the subject. ‘I read about a similar incident that took place in Padua: a murder carried out in the presence of insensible “witnesses”. I recall that poppy juice was used.’
‘These men are from Oxford,’ said Michael, taking an egg with one hand and more meat with the other, ‘so they may well have access to sinister texts from foreign places, telling them how to render men senseless while they murder their colleagues. What a feast! And what makes it so especially fine is that there is not a vegetable to be seen. Only meat will help me solve the mystery surrounding this particular victim’s death, because it is complex and nothing is what it seems.’
‘I have a theory,’ said Dodenho, who had recovered from his embarrassment at being caught out in a lie, and was back to his confident self.
‘You do?’ asked Michael, cheeks bulging with pork. ‘Let us hear it, then.’
‘Well, it is a reductio ad absurdum, really.’ Dodenho cleared his throat and adopted an expression he imagined was scholarly. ‘Consider this proposition: what I am now saying is false.’
‘The “liar paradox”,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what the man was getting at. ‘Expounded by Bradwardine in his Insolubilia. What does it have to do with Chesterfelde?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Dodenho impatiently. ‘I never said it did – I just said I have a theory. It relates to the paradox I have just mentioned, and it is my idea, not this Bradwardine’s. I could grow to dislike you, Bartholomew, always telling a man his ideas belong to someone else.’
‘I thought you meant you had an idea relating to Chesterfelde, too,’ said Norton accusingly. ‘But all you did was change the subject to something that revolves around you.’
Dodenho shrugged. ‘I can think of worse things to discuss.’
Eventually, Powys stood and said the final grace, dismissing the Fellows to their teaching. Paxtone walked with Bartholomew to the gate, with Michael trailing behind, his large face glistening with grease. Reluctantly, Bartholomew declined Paxtone’s offer of a visit to the clyster pipes, knowing duty called him to the Tulyet household and Dickon.
‘Good luck with the Devil’s brat,’ said Paxtone. ‘And with your murder. I hope you solve it quickly, so it does not plunge us into a series of riots, like those at Oxford.’
‘So do I,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming.’
As it transpired, Paxtone’s recommendation to dally before visiting Dickon was a good one, and, by the time Bartholomew and Michael arrived, the boy had recovered from his initial shock and was back to normal. The injury comprised a small bruise surrounding a minute perforation, and needed no more than a dab of salve. The operation was over in a moment, and Bartholomew and Dickon were relieved to discover it was painless for both of them. This was not always the case, because Dickon employed fists, teeth, feet and nails to fight off the physician’s ministrations, often resulting in Bartholomew being just as badly mauled as his small patient.
Tulyet then invited Bartholomew and Michael to his office and, wanting to hear more about the town’s preparations for the Visitation, Michael accepted. The Sheriff led the scholars into the ground-floor chamber he used for working, and barred the door so Dickon could not follow. He was amused when a tousled head appeared at the window a few moments later: Dickon had discovered an alternative entrance. While Tulyet crowed his delight at the child’s resourcefulness, Bartholomew and Michael braced themselves for an invasion. They were not to be disappointed.
‘Bang!’ yelled Dickon, leaning through the window with a small bow in his chubby hands. There was an arrow nocked into it, and the missile was pointed at Michael.
Although Dickon hated Bartholomew tending the results of his various mishaps – and anything went when treatment was in progress – he did not mind the physician at other times, and was perfectly happy to sit on his knee and insert grubby fingers into his medical bag in search of something dangerous. But Michael was a different matter. Dickon did not like Michael, and the feeling was wholly reciprocated. Michael was not averse to doling out the occasional slap while Dickon’s doting parents were not looking, and was unmoved by the boy’s shrieks of outrage when he did not get his own way. In essence, Dickon knew that in Michael he had met his match, although that did not prevent him from trying to score points over the monk whenever he could. That morning it looked as if he might do it with a potentially lethal weapon.
‘God’s blood, Dick!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, leaping up to interpose himself between boy and target. ‘I thought you said you would not let him have that again after he shot himself in the foot.’
‘That was a freak accident,’ objected Tulyet. ‘The drawstring was too tight, and made the arrows fly with too much power. But we have loosened it again, and now it is quite safe.’
‘I do not feel safe,’ snapped Michael, cowering behind Bartholomew. ‘Tell him to put it down.’
‘Dickon!’ said Tulyet sharply. ‘Do you remember what I said? You can only have the bow if you do not point it at anyone. If you aim it at Brother Michael, I will take it away and burn it.’
Dickon’s small face lost its expression of savage delight and became sombre as he considered his options. He studied his father hard, as if assessing how seriously to take the threat, then moved to one side so he could see the tempting target that quailed behind the physician. Then he looked back at Tulyet. His fingers tightened on the weapon and Bartholomew saw that the little arrow had a nasty point on it, and while Dickon was probably too small to shoot it with sufficient power to kill, he could certainly cause some painful damage. He moved again to block Dickon’s line of vision, and wondered what the Sheriff was thinking of, to give the lad such a dangerous plaything.
‘Come and watch me,’ ordered Dickon imperiously, lowering the bow when he saw he would not have a clear shot at Michael anyway. ‘By the river.’
‘We are busy,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘Go away.’
‘Come!’ insisted Dickon firmly. ‘Now.’
‘Go and see your mother, Dickon,’ suggested Tulyet, wheedling. ‘She may have a cake.’
‘Now,’ repeated Dickon, and the bow came up again. ‘I shoot.’
‘We shall have no peace unless we oblige,’ said Tulyet resignedly. ‘He only wants us to watch him in the butts at the bottom of the garden for a moment.’
‘You should not give in to him, Dick,’ grumbled Michael heaving himself out of his seat and preparing to hike to the end of the Tulyets’ long toft. ‘It will make him worse than he already is.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet indignantly. ‘He is a little more boisterous than some lads his age, but only because he is unusually intelligent. Besides, what do you know about being a parent? You are a monk.’
‘I know more than you can possibly imagine,’ replied Michael, aloofly enigmatic and leaving Bartholomew and Tulyet wondering exactly what he meant.
‘But a bow, Dick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not wise. He may harm himself again or, worse, decide to shoot a person or an animal. He could do real harm.’
‘He must to learn how to handle weapons,’ insisted Tulyet. ‘It will be part of his knightly training, and the younger he is, the faster he will become accomplished in their use. He will be Sheriff one day, and I want him properly prepared, or the first armed outlaw he meets will make an end of him.’
‘I must have myself promoted to Chancellor before you relinquish your post,’ muttered Michael, as they followed the boy to the end of the vegetable plots, where a sturdy wall had been erected to keep the child away from the river. ‘Dickon will not work as smoothly with me as you do.’