This was too much for William. ‘How can a debate between two fowls be taken seriously?’ he scoffed. ‘It is heresy in its most insidious form. You should be excommunicated!’
Clippesby was a firm favourite among the students, far more so than William, so there was an instant angry growl from the body of the hall. Aungel, so recently a student himself, rushed to the Dominican’s defence.
‘Many Greek and Roman philosophers used imaginary conversations between animals as a vehicle to expound their theories,’ he pointed out sharply. ‘It is a perfectly acceptable literary device.’
‘But those discussions were between noble beasts,’ argued William. ‘Like lions or goats. But Clippesby chose to use hens.’ He virtually spat the last word.
‘Goats?’ blurted Theophilis. ‘I hardly think they can be described as noble.’
‘What is wrong with hens?’ demanded Clippesby at the same time.
‘They are female,’ replied William loftily. ‘And it is a fact of nature that those are always less intelligent than us males.’ He jabbed a grubby finger at Gertrude. ‘And do not claim otherwise, because I saw her eating worms the other day, which is hardly clever.’
‘But you eat worms, Father,’ said Clippesby guilelessly. ‘There is one in your mouth right now, in fact – it was among the peas.’
There followed an unedifying scene during which William spat, the chickens raced to examine what was expelled, Clippesby struggled to stop them, and the students howled with laughter. Aungel joined in, while Theophilis watched in tight-lipped disapproval. Michael could have ended the spectacle with a single word, but he let it run its course, feeling it served William right.
‘How do you like University life, Theophilis?’ asked Bartholomew, once the commotion had died down and everyone was eating again, although no one was very interested in the peas. ‘Are you happy here?’
‘Yes – I enjoy teaching, while spying on the Chancellor and his deputy for Michael is pleasingly challenging. However, the tension between scholars and the town is worrisome.’
‘Relations are strained at the moment,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But the hostility will subside. It always does.’
‘Perhaps it has in the past, but that was when Michael was in charge,’ said Theophilis, pursing his lips. ‘Now we have de Wetherset, who has a mind and opinions of his own. For example, Michael wanted to pass an edict forbidding scholars from speaking French on the streets, but de Wetherset blocked it, which was stupid.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘It would have removed one cause for resentment. However, in de Wetherset’s defence, there are a lot of scholars who do not know English – and tradesmen will not understand them if they speak Latin. I understand his reservations.’
Theophilis lowered his voice. ‘De Wetherset wants to rule alone, like he did the last time he was Chancellor. He chips away at Michael’s authority constantly, so that Michael grows weaker every day. Moreover, Heltisle supports him in all he does, which is why de Wetherset created the post of Vice-Chancellor, of course – for an ally against Michael.’
‘De Wetherset will never best our Master,’ said Bartholomew confidently. ‘So it does not matter if he has Heltisle to support him or not – Heltisle is irrelevant.’
‘I hope you are right, because if not, de Wetherset will take us to war with the town, and I fear–’ Theophilis broke off when a soldier from the castle hurried in and a student conducted him towards the high table.
‘You are needed at the market square,’ the man told Bartholomew breathlessly. ‘Bonet the spicer has been murdered, and the Sheriff wants your opinion about it.’
It was not far from the College to the market square, where Jean Bonet occupied a handsome house overlooking the stall where he sold his costly wares. He had lived in Cambridge for many years, but his nationality had only become a problem since the Winchelsea massacre and the King’s call to arms. He lived alone, and was reputed to be fabulously wealthy.
Bartholomew arrived at the spicer’s home to find three men waiting for him. One was Sheriff Tulyet, who owed at least part of his shrieval success to the good working relationship he had developed with Michael. He had been horrified when Suttone had resigned, lest the new Chancellor proved to be less amenable. He was right to be concerned: relations had grown chilly with de Wetherset at the helm, despite Michael’s efforts to keep matters on an even keel.
Tulyet was dwarfed by the two knights who were with him. They were Sir Norbert and Sir Leger, sent by the King to oversee the town’s military training. The pair were much of an ilk – warriors who had honed their trade in France, with the scars to prove it. Sir Norbert was larger and sported an oily black mane that cascaded over his shoulders. He was a dim-witted brute, never happy unless he was fighting. His friend Leger was fair-headed and a little shorter, but far more dangerous, because he possessed brains to go with his brawn.
‘You took your time,’ Norbert growled when Bartholomew walked in. ‘No doubt you would have been faster if it had been a scholar who asked you to come.’
‘Perhaps he just does not want to help us solve the murder of a Frenchie,’ shrugged Leger slyly. ‘Who can blame him?’
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ objected Bartholomew. He did not care what the two knights thought, but Dick Tulyet was his friend, and he did not want him to think he had dallied.
Tulyet indicated the body on the floor. ‘We believe this happened last night – the alarm was raised when no one opened his shop this morning. Clearly, he has been stabbed, but can you tell us anything that might help us find out who did it?’
Bartholomew was sorry the spicer had come to such an end. There had been no harm in him, and he had been careful to keep a low profile once the town – and the University, for that matter – had decided that anyone even remotely foreign should be treated with suspicion and contempt. He was on the floor of his solar, and had been trying to run away when his attacker had struck – the wound was in his back, and his arms were thrown out in front of him. Bartholomew glanced around carefully, reading the clues in what he could see.
‘The killer came while Bonet was eating his supper,’ he began. ‘There is no sign that the door was forced, so I suspect he answered it in the belief that whoever was calling was friendly.’
‘He was clearly no warrior then,’ said Norbert in smug disdain. ‘Or he would have known to consider any visitor a potential threat.’
‘No, he was not a warrior,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘And I cannot imagine why anyone would kill a peaceable old man. However, I can tell you that the culprit is a coward of the most contemptible kind – the same kind of vermin who has no problem slaughtering unarmed women and children in French villages.’
Tulyet stepped between him and the knights when hands went to the hilts of swords.
‘What can you tell us about the wound, Matt?’ he asked quickly, to defuse the situation before there was trouble. ‘Was it caused by a knife from the dinner table?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Bonet was killed by a blade with two sharp edges – a dagger, rather than a knife.’ He nodded to a bloody imprint on the floor. ‘It lay there for some time after the murder, which probably means the killer left it behind when he fled the scene of the crime. Who found the body?’
Tulyet sighed. ‘Half the population of Cambridge – they burst in en masse when it became clear that something was amiss. My sergeant did his best to keep order, but Bonet was French, so his home was considered fair game for looters. His servants say all manner of goods are missing, and the murder weapon must be among them.’