Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘They threatened you, did they? I shall see they pay for that with a few nights in the proctors’ cells – whether they confess to murdering Faricius of Abington or not.’
‘I cannot believe that the Dominicans and the Carmelites are behaving like this,’ said Walcote, his eyes fixed on the still figure under the sheet. ‘I know we Austin canons are no angels, and that there are occasional fights between individuals, but we do not march as a body on rival Orders.’
‘Nor do we Benedictines,’ said Michael in a superior manner. ‘There are better ways of resolving differences than resorting to fists.’
‘I am surprised their priors did nothing to stop it,’ Walcote went on disapprovingly. ‘Could they not see what consequences their students’ actions might have – the damage that committing a murder might have on their community here in Cambridge?’
‘They will see what the consequences are when I get my hands on them,’ said Michael grimly.
Michael ordered four of his beadles to construct a stretcher of two planks of wood and some strips of cloth, and then instructed them to carry Faricius to St Botolph’s, the church nearest the Carmelite Friary. Walcote was dispatched to fetch Prior Lincolne, which was no easy task given that the Carmelites were not currently responding to yells and bangs on the door. Once he had alerted Lincolne to the fact that one of his number was dead, Walcote was to go to the Dominican property on Hadstock Way, to ensure all the rioting Black Friars had returned home and were not still prowling the streets intent on mischief.
‘This is a bad business, Matt,’ said Michael, holding open the door to St Botolph’s, so that the beadles could carry their grisly burden inside. Bartholomew noticed that Faricius was dripping blood, and that a trail of penny- sized droplets ran between the Stanmore property and the church. ‘We have had no serious trouble since last November, when Runham dismissed my choir and attempted to cheat the workmen he had employed to rebuild Michaelhouse. I was hoping the calm would continue.’
‘It has been calm because we have had a long winter,’ explained Beadle Meadowman, struggling to manhandle Faricius through the narrow door without tipping him off the stretcher. ‘It has been too chilly to go out fighting. Scholars and townsfolk alike would rather sit by their fires than be out causing mischief in the cold.’
Meadowman, a solid, dependable man in his forties, had been recruited by Michael as a University law officer following the dissolution of the hostel in which he had been a steward. He undertook the varied and frequently unpleasant duties of a beadle as stoically and unquestioningly as he had the orders of his previous master, a man whose intentions were far from scholarly. Meadowman was a good beadle, and Michael was well satisfied with him.
‘That is true,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The early snows and the frosts that followed killed a lot of people. It was especially hard on the older ones, like poor Dunstan the riverman. I did not think he would see another Easter, but he refuses to die.’
‘But our students are not elderly men who need blazing hearths to warm their ancient bones,’ said Michael. ‘I was really beginning to feel that the worst of our troubles were over, and that the town and the University had finally learned to tolerate each other’s presence – and that the religious Orders had learned to keep their quarrels for the debating halls.’
‘You sound like Walcote,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at him. ‘He always seems horrified when the students fight, even though, as Junior Proctor, he is used to it because he spends most of his life trying to stop them.’
Michael frowned worriedly. ‘Will Walcote is a good fellow, but he is too gentle to be a proctor. I was uncertain of the wisdom of the choice when he was appointed a year ago, but I thought he would learn in time.’
‘And he has not?’
Michael shook his head. ‘He tries, but he just does not have the right attitude. He is too willing to see the good in people. He should follow my lead, and assume everyone is corrupt, violent or innately wicked until proven otherwise.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘No wonder your cells are always full.’
‘Do not tell Father William any of this,’ said Michael seriously, referring to their colleague at Michaelhouse, who was determined to be a proctor himself. ‘He will petition the Chancellor to have Walcote removed so that he can apply for the post himself. Although I may complain about Walcote’s ineffectuality, William’s ruthlessness would be far worse.’
‘Do you think Walcote will resign when he realises he is not suited to the task?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael sighed. ‘I doubt it, Matt. He has not taken any notice of my heavy hints so far.’ He gave his friend a nudge with his elbow and nodded across the High Street to where two Benedictines walked side by side. ‘But if he did, one of those two would be my choice as his successor.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Because they are Benedictines, like you?’
Michael tutted impatiently. ‘Of course not. It is because they are exactly the kind of men we need to represent law and order in the University. Have you met them? Allow me to introduce you.’
Before Bartholomew could point out that it was hardly an appropriate occasion for socialising, with the body of Faricius barely inside the church and a murder to investigate, Michael had hailed his Benedictine colleagues. Bartholomew studied them as they walked towards him.
The taller of the two had light hair, a handsome face and large grey eyes. There was a small scar on his upper lip, and when he spoke he had a habit of frowning very slightly. The second had dark hair that fitted his head like a cap and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. They seemed pleasant and affable enough, although Bartholomew immediately detected in them the smug, confident attitude of men who believed their vocation set them above other people.
‘This is Brother Janius,’ said Michael, indicating the dark-haired monk, before turning to the fairer one. ‘And Brother Timothy here comes from Peterborough.’
‘We have met before,’ said Timothy, returning Bartholomew’s bow of greeting. ‘A few days ago, you came to Ely Hall, where the Cambridge Benedictines live, and tended Brother Adam.’
‘He has a weakness of the lungs,’ said Bartholomew, remembering Adam’s anxious colleagues clustering around the bedside as he tended the patient, making it difficult for him to work. He vaguely recalled that Timothy and Janius had been among them, and that Janius had insisted on a lot of very loud praying, so that Bartholomew could barely hear Adam’s answers to his questions. ‘How is he?’
‘He has been better since you recommended that lungwort and mullein infused in wine,’ replied Timothy, smiling.
Janius gave his colleague an admonishing glance. ‘He has been better since we began saying regular masses for him, Timothy. It is God who effected the change in Adam’s health, not human cures.’
‘Of course, Brother,’ said Timothy piously. ‘But it is my contention that God is working through Doctor Bartholomew to help Adam.’
Janius inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘God shows His hand in many ways, even by using an agent like a physician. But what has happened here?’ he asked, glancing down at the ominous trail of red that soiled the stones in St Botolph’s porch. ‘I hope no one was hurt when the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites earlier.’
‘Unfortunately, one of them was stabbed,’ replied Michael. ‘His name was Faricius.’
Timothy raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Faricius? But he was no fighting man.’
‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘How?’
‘Faricius was a good scholar,’ said Janius. ‘Brilliant, even. He was one of the few Carmelites who came here because of a love of learning, rather than merely to further his own career in the Church by making useful connections.’
‘We were near St Mary’s Church when the Carmelites nailed their proclamation to the door,’ said Timothy, still shocked by the outcome of the riot. ‘I saw the Dominicans were furious, and it was clear that a fight was imminent, but I did not anticipate it would end quite so violently.’
‘But do not blame only the Dominicans,’ said Janius reasonably. ‘I heard the Carmelites taunting them and daring them to attack. One side was every bit as responsible as the other.’
‘As always,’ agreed Timothy. ‘These silly quarrels are invariably the result of two wrongs.’ He leaned forward, rather furtively, and spoke to Michael in a soft voice. ‘Is there any more news about your negotiations with Oxford, Brother? Forgive me for mentioning this in such a public place, but you told me Doctor Bartholomew
