At that moment, there was a commotion by the gate – Isnard was trying to force his way past the guards. As the felonious bargeman never entered the castle willingly, Tulyet knew there must be a very good reason as to why he was keen to do it now. He indicated that Isnard should be allowed inside.
‘I came out of the goodness of my heart,’ declared Isnard, all bristling indignation as he brushed himself down. ‘But if you do not want to hear my news, I shall go home.’
‘My apologies, Isnard,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Now, what did you want to tell me?’
‘That there has been a murder,’ reported Isnard gleefully. ‘Of a French scholar named Baldwin de Paris. He was a member of King’s Hall, a place that is well known for harbouring foreigners, traitors and spies.’
‘And so it begins,’ sighed Tulyet wearily.
Chapter 1
Cambridge, early May 1360
It was noon, and the bell had just rung to tell the scholars of Michaelhouse that it was time for their midday meal. The masters drew their discourses to a close, and the servants came to turn the hall from lecture room to refectory, carrying trestle tables from the stack near the hearth and setting benches next to them.
Most Fellows were only too happy to stop mid-sentence and rub their hands in gluttonous anticipation, but one always needed a nudge to make him finish. This was Doctor Matthew Bartholomew, who felt there was never enough time in the day to teach his budding physicians all they needed to know. He was regarded as something of a slave driver by his pupils, although he genuinely failed to understand why.
‘Enough, Matt!’ snapped Brother Michael, tapping his friend sharply on the shoulder when the first two more polite warnings went unheeded.
Michael was a portly Benedictine and a theologian of some repute. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, and had recently been elected Master of Michaelhouse – although what had actually happened was that he had announced he was taking over and none of the other Fellows had liked to argue.
Under Michael’s auspices, College meals had improved dramatically. Gone was the miserable fare of his predecessors, and in its place was good red meat, plenty of bread and imported treats like raisins. He considered food a divine blessing, and was not about to deprive himself or the scholars under his care of God’s gracious bounty.
As he dragged his mind away from teaching, Bartholomew was astonished that it was midday already. He had been explaining a particularly complicated passage in Galen’s De semine, and as semen held a special fascination for most of the young lads under his tutelage, they had not minded running over time for once.
‘Are you sure it is noon, Brother?’ he asked, startled. ‘I only started an hour ago.’
‘Four hours ago,’ corrected Michael. ‘I appreciate that you have much to cover before you leave us for a life of wedded bliss in ten weeks, but you should remember that even your lively lads have their limits. They look dazed to me.’
‘Transfixed,’ corrected Bartholomew, although it occurred to him that while De semine might have captured their prurient imaginations, he was less sure that his analysis of purgative medicines, which had taken up the earlier part of the morning, had held their attention quite so securely. Indeed, he was fairly sure a couple had dozed off.
‘Well, you can continue to dazzle them this afternoon,’ said Michael, drawing him to one side of the hall, out of the servants’ way. ‘But make the most of it, because tomorrow morning will be wasted.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Will it? Why?’
Michael scowled. ‘Because William is scheduled to preach on the nominalism–realism debate. You know this, Matt – we have been discussing ways to prevent it for weeks. But my predecessor agreed to let him do it, and William refuses to let me cancel.’
Father William was the College’s Franciscan friar. He was bigoted, stupid, fanatical and a disgrace to the University in more ways than his colleagues could count. Unfortunately, he had been a Fellow for so long that it was impossible to get rid of him, as the statutes did not list dogmatism and unintelligence among the crimes for which an offender could be sent packing.
‘You should have tried harder,’ grumbled Bartholomew, hating the thought of losing an entire morning to the ramblings of a man who knew even less about the subject than he did.
The dispute between nominalists and realists was deeply contentious, although Bartholomew failed to understand why it evinced such fierce passions. It was a metaphysical matter, revolving around the question of whether properties – called universals – exist in reality or just in the mind or speech. Even those who did not really understand it felt compelled to make a stand, with the result that a lot of rubbish was being spouted. William was a worse offender than most.
‘“Tried harder”?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘How, when William threatened to sue me for breach of contract if I stood in his way? Yet I shall be glad of a morning away from the lecture hall. I have a lot to do now that I am Master of Michaelhouse and Senior Proctor.’
‘You mean like hunting whoever murdered Paris the Plagiarist?’
Paris, an elderly French priest, had caused a major scandal the previous term, when he had stolen another scholar’s work and passed it off as his own. In academic circles, this was considered the most heinous of crimes, and had brought great shame to King’s Hall, where Paris had been a Fellow. Someone had stabbed him ten days before, but Michael was no nearer to finding the killer now than he had been when it had first happened.
‘I suspect the culprit acted in a drunken rage,’ the monk confided. ‘He was no doubt sorry afterwards, and aims to get away with his crime by keeping his head down. I shall not give up, of course, but the trail is stone cold.’
‘You have no leads at all?’
‘There are no clues and no witnesses. It was a random act of violence.’
‘Not random,’ said Bartholomew, who had been particularly repelled by what Paris had done. Academic integrity was important to him, and he thought Paris had committed an unpardonable offence. ‘I imagine he was killed for being a fraud, a liar and a cheat.’
‘His killer may be someone who feels like you,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I think he was struck down because he was French.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘You consider being French worse than stealing ideas?’
‘Most townsmen do. The Winchelsea massacre ignited much anti-French fervour, as you know. The last few days have seen the rise of a ridiculous but popular belief that anyone with even remote connections to France will applaud what happened in Sussex.’
Bartholomew grimaced, aware of how quickly decent people could turn into a mob with unpalatable opinions. ‘Of course, our own army is no better. I saw them run amok in Normandy once, and it was an ugly sight.’
‘Hush!’ warned Michael sharply. ‘Say nothing that might be considered pro-French, not even here among friends. Emotions run too high, and folk are eager to roust out anyone they deem to be a traitor.’
‘No one can accuse me of being unpatriotic,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Not when I shall squander an entire evening practising archery tonight – time that would have been much better spent teaching.’
‘It would,’ agreed Michael. ‘But shooting a few arrows will not save you from the prejudices of the ignorant.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that the monk was right. ‘Townsfolk glare at me when I go out, even ones I have known for years. I am glad Matilde and Edith are away.’