‘I had a letter today. Matilde and my sister are coming home tomorrow. I have missed them both.’
Michael smiled contentedly. ‘So all is well at last. You are to be reunited with your loved ones, I shall soon have another malleable Chancellor, all the nuns have gone home, I now own a magnificent horse, and Michaelhouse prospers beyond its wildest dreams.’
‘It does?’
‘The Pope has given the Chicken Debate his seal of approval, so the demand for copies will soar. Not only will we be paid every time one is sold, but we are on the verge of international fame. It is high time – our College is a good place, and I am glad its future is assured. You may be leaving us, but we will survive.’
Bartholomew was delighted to hear it.
* * *
De Wetherset was not really equipped for life as a fugitive in the Fens. He had grown soft and fat from easy living in the University, and hated sleeping in the open like a beggar. But it was better than being paraded as a criminal, as he was sure that Michael had amassed more than enough evidence to see him convicted by the Bishop’s court.
He grimaced. He had been right to try to claw power back from the monk, although he realised now that he should have done it gradually, rather than racing at the problem like a bull at a fence. But he had been impatient for change, and ever since his pilgrimage to Walsingham, he had been imbued with great energy and ambition.
Now all his plans lay in ashes, and he was not sure what to do. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to avenge himself, but he had no idea how to go about it. Should he slip back to reignite the trouble between University and town that he had so carefully stoked up? Or go to Avignon, to give the Pope his own version of events?
He winced as he moved the foot that his so-called friend Heltisle had stabbed. He had refused to let Bartholomew examine it again, preferring instead to hire Doctor Rougham. Bartholomew had warned Rougham that slivers of the pen might still be in the wound, but Rougham had scoffed his disagreement. Unfortunately, Bartholomew had been right, because the wound was festering and it hurt like the Devil.
That night, de Wetherset fell into a fever, and when a Fenland fisherman found him two days later, he was gibbering in delirium. The fisherman had heard that the Spital took local lunatics in for free, so he carried him there on his boat. Tangmer and Amphelisa accepted the new arrival politely, and rewarded the good Samaritan with a bowl of stew and a penny. The fisherman went away, happy in the belief that he had done the right thing.
‘Well?’ asked Tangmer, staring down at the writhing, gabbling ex-Chancellor. ‘Here lies the author of all our troubles. Should we help him or let him die?’
‘We should help him,’ said Amphelisa. ‘But he will never fully recover from the madness that afflicts him now, so we shall instal him in our most secure cell. Later, when his fever abates, he will doubtless claim that he is sane, but all lunatics do that, do they not?’
Tangmer blinked. ‘You mean we should keep him here for ever? Locked up like a dangerous madman?’
‘He is a dangerous madman. Why else would he have killed Wyse, Orwel and Abbess Isabel, or stirred up hatred between his University and the town – hatred that almost saw us destroyed? This is the best place for him, husband, and we shall keep everyone safe from his wicked machinations for as long as he breathes.’
‘Well, then,’ said Tangmer softly. ‘Let us hope he lives for a very long time.’
Historic Note
The Hundred Years War was an uncertain time for England and France. The Battle of Poitiers in 1356 had dealt the French a serious blow – their king was captured and carried back to England as a prisoner – but the resulting peace was uneasy. To show England that France was not yet ready to concede defeat, part of the Dauphin’s army staged lightning raids on the English coast. Two of these targeted Winchelsea, which was much easier to reach from the sea in the fourteenth century, although it is inland now.
The first attack was in 1359, while townsfolk were at their Sunday devotions. The church door was locked and the building set alight, an act of savagery that became known as the St Giles’ Massacre. The second incursion came a year later, when some two thousand men, according to some sources, slaughtered the port’s inhabitants, and looted and burned its buildings. Robert Arnold was Mayor of Winchelsea at about this time, and Valentine Dover was a burgess.
This second raid sent alarm rippling through England. There was an immediate call to arms, where every male aged between sixteen and sixty was ordered to prepare himself for war. Meanwhile, the regular English army marched south to Paris, leaving a trail of death and destruction in its wake. This campaign ended with the Treaty of Brétigny in July 1360, although that was by no means the end of hostilities, which rumbled on for the rest of that century and half of the next one.
The war with England was not France’s only problem. In 1358, there was a popular uprising known as the Jacquerie. It was disorganised and chaotic, and fell to pieces when its leader was captured and executed. After his death, the aristocracy embarked on a programme of vicious reprisals that displaced a huge number of people, many of them hapless innocents. Some doubtless did try to find safety across the Channel.
Thomas de Lisle, Bishop of Ely, was in self-imposed exile at the time. He had been accused of several criminal acts, including murder, kidnapping, theft and extortion, and rather than risk conviction in a court of law, he had legged it to Avignon, where he threw himself on the Pope’s mercy. There was a Katherine de Lisle who became Prioress of Lyminster some time before 1370, but her relationship with the Bishop is uncertain. Her predecessor was Joan de Ferraris, who last appears in the records in April 1360.
The Bishop’s incumbency was marked by a number of unsavoury disputes. One was with Alice Lacy, Prioress of Ickleton, and followed a visitation by Isabel of Swaffham Bulbeck (Isabel was actually a Prioress, but I promoted her to Abbess to avoid too many nuns holding the same title; similarly, Katherine de Lisle was never Magistra).
Isabel discovered ‘various enormous defects’ and evidence of loose morals at Ickleton, and her report to the Bishop saw Alice immediately deposed. However, Alice did not go quietly. She returned to her priory in a terrible rage, breaking down its doors and helping herself to its treasure. When the Bishop’s agents tried to stop her, she threatened to cut off their heads. She was eventually excommunicated.
There was no conloquium of nuns in Cambridge in 1360, although there was a Benedictine convent called St Radegund’s on the road known then as the Barnwell Causeway. Remnants of the foundation can still be seen in Jesus College today.
Other people in The Sanctuary Murders were also real. Richard de Wetherset did return for a third term as Chancellor in 1360. He was succeeded by Michael de Aynton (or Haynton). The Master of Bene’t College was Thomas Heltisle, and other scholars in the University at this time included Baldwin de Paris, Jean de Bruges, Walter Foxlee, John Smith and William of Koln (Cologne). William Shropham was Warden of King’s Hall, and William Pechem was Prior of the Franciscan convent.
By 1360, Ralph de Langelee had stopped being Master of Michaelhouse. Evidence is sketchy, but it seems Michael (de Causton) took his place. Other Michaelhouse Fellows in the mid-fourteenth century included William (de Gotham), John Clippesby and Thomas Suttone. There was also a William Theophilis, who had arrived by 1369, when he also became a proctor. John Aungel, Thomas Mallett and John Islaye were later members of the College.
There were three hospitals in the Cambridge vicinity. One was the Hospital of St John the Evangelist, which later became St John’s College. Another was the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene of Stourbridge, the chapel of which still stands today. And the third was the Hospital of St Anthony and St Eloy, or Eligius, which stood on the corner of Trumpington Road and what is now Lensfield Road. It was founded in 1361 by Henry Tangmer (who had a kinswoman named Amphelisa), and although it was technically a ‘lazar house’, leprosy was in decline by the fourteenth century, so the likelihood is that it was for people with a variety of skin conditions, or perhaps even those with mental health problems. Regardless, its relatively isolated position suggests that the residents were kept apart from the general populace. It was often referred to as the Spetylehouse or Spital. It later became an almshouse, and was only demolished in 1837.