‘You will never find it then,’ said Norbert, giving the impression that his sympathies lay firmly with the English thieves rather than the French victim. ‘The culprit will know better than to sell it here, so you should consider it gone permanently.’
‘We have asked for witnesses,’ added Leger quickly, seeing Tulyet’s disapproving scowl. ‘But no one saw a thing – or at least, nothing they are willing to admit.’
‘Because Bonet was a Frenchie.’ Norbert was about to spit when he caught Tulyet’s eye and thought better of it. ‘Cambridge folk think as I do – that the world is a better place without so many of them in it.’
‘Then go outside and ask again,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘Because Bonet was not just some “Frenchie” – he was a burgess who lived among us for years. I want his killer caught and hanged.’
‘Even if a scholar did it?’ asked Leger deviously, and smirked. ‘The Chancellor will not approve of you executing his people. It will likely spark a riot.’
It was not a discussion Tulyet was about to have with them. He glared until they mumbled acknowledgement of his orders and slouched out. Bartholomew breathed a sigh of relief. The solar was spacious, but Leger and Norbert overfilled it with their belligerently menacing presence.
‘They might be good at teaching archery,’ he told Tulyet, ‘but they are always trying to pick quarrels with scholars, and one day they will succeed. Then we will have a bloodbath.’
‘I know,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘But Leger is clever – he makes sure all their aggression is couched in terms of patriotic zeal, thus making it difficult for me to berate them. They are a problem I could do without, especially as de Wetherset seems intent on destroying all that Michael and I have built.’
‘Perhaps the situation will improve when the horror of Winchelsea fades in everyone’s mind,’ said Bartholomew, sorry to see the lines of strain in his friend’s face. ‘We cannot hate France and all things French for ever.’
‘I think you will find we can,’ said Tulyet wryly, ‘so do not expect a lessening of hostilities anytime soon. But tell me more about poor old Bonet. You say he was killed with a dagger. So was Paris the Plagiarist. Do we have a common culprit?’
‘I cannot say for certain, but it seems likely, given that both were French. Will it serve to unite town and University, do you think? We have lost a scholar and you a burgess.’
‘Unfortunately, what Norbert said is true: most townsfolk do think the world is a better place with fewer Frenchmen in it. Ergo, I do not see us joining you on Bonet’s behalf, or your scholars standing with us to catch Paris’s killer.’
Unhappily, Bartholomew suspected he was right.
Chapter 2
‘Two weeks,’ grumbled Michael the following morning. The scholars had attended Mass, broken their fast and then the Fellows had repaired to the comfortable room adjoining the hall that provided them with a refuge from students. ‘You and I were in Suffolk for two weeks over the Easter vacation, and we returned to find our entire world turned upside down!’
He was talking to Bartholomew, who sat by the fire with him. Three other Fellows were also in the room: William was by the window, practising the lecture he was to give that day; Clippesby was on the floor, conversing with an assortment of poultry; and Aungel was at the table reading an ostentatiously large medical tome, one specifically chosen to show his colleagues that he took his new teaching duties seriously. The last Fellow, Theophilis, had gone to St Mary the Great to spy on the Chancellor for Michael.
Bartholomew cast his mind back to the tumultuous fortnight that he and the monk had spent in Clare, where they had learned that Cambridge was not the only town plagued by murderers and people with grudges. It had only been a month ago, but felt longer, because both had been so busy since – Michael with his new responsibilities as Master, and Bartholomew determined to make the most of his last term in academia.
‘Not all the changes have been bad,’ he said. ‘You have made improvements–’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Michael impatiently. ‘There is no question that I am a fine Master, and if I ousted William we would easily be the best College in the University. However, I was referring to Chancellor Suttone and his inexcusable flight. How could he abandon us without so much as a backward glance?’
‘We should have predicted that his terror of the plague might override his sense of duty. He was obsessed with the possibility of a second outbreak.’
Michael glared into the flames. ‘He still should have spoken to me before resigning. When I think of all the trouble I took to get him in post …’
‘I imagine he went then precisely because you were away – if he had waited, you would have talked him out of it. He never could stand up to you.’
Michael continued to scowl. ‘I shall never forgive him. And it is not as if the Death is poised to return. There have been no rumours of it, like there were the last time.’
‘Actually, there have,’ countered Bartholomew soberly. ‘In the Italian–’
‘No,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I will not allow it to sweep among us. Not again.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘And how will you stop it exactly? Or have you set your ambitions on more lofty roles than mere bishoprics or abbacies, and aim to play God?’
Michael glared at him. ‘I was thinking that you and I have the authority to impose sensible anti-plague measures this time – setting up hospitals, separating the sick from the healthy, and burning infected clothing. Working together, we could defeat it.’
Bartholomew knew it was not that simple. ‘It would be–’
‘Of course, it is Heltisle’s fault that we have de Wetherset as Chancellor,’ interrupted Michael, more interested in University politics than a disease that might never materialise. ‘He was the one who forced an election the moment Suttone slunk away. Everyone else wanted to wait until I got back.’
‘He must have been within his rights to do it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Or you would have contested the result.’
‘Being legal does not make it acceptable,’ sniffed Michael. ‘And as Senior Proctor, I should have been here. I imagine Heltisle wanted the post himself, but when he realised no one would vote for him, he encouraged de Wetherset to stand instead. Then he demanded a reward, so de Wetherset created the post of Vice-Chancellor for him.’
Bartholomew had known Heltisle, who was also the Master of Bene’t College, for years, and had always disliked him. He was arrogant, dangerously ambitious, and made no secret of his disdain for the way Bartholomew practised and taught medicine. Their mutual antipathy meant they avoided each other whenever possible, as encounters invariably ended in a spat. Unfortunately, Heltisle’s new position meant Bartholomew was now obliged to deal with him more often than was pleasant.
‘It is a pity he and de Wetherset are friends,’ he mused. ‘De Wetherset was a lot nicer before poisonous old Heltisle started whispering in his ear.’
‘Heltisle is poisonous,’ agreed Michael. ‘Fortunately, he is not clever enough to be dangerous. The man who is dangerous is Commissary Aynton. Commissary Aynton! Yet another sinecure created without my permission!’
Bartholomew blinked. Calling Aynton dangerous was akin to saying the same about a mouse, and any teeth the new Commissary might possess were far too small to cause trouble. Indeed, Bartholomew was sorry that the bumbling, well-meaning Aynton had allowed himself to be dragged into the perfidious world of University politics in the first place, as strong, confident men like Michael, Heltisle and de Wetherset were sure to mangle him.