their whitewashed walls.
The Hall of Valence Marie, where Bartholomew and Michael were to attend the ceremonies for the installation of its new Master, stood just outside the town boundary near the Trumpington Gate. They were about to pass through it when a young man tore up to them, gasping for breath, his eyes wild and his clothes dishevelled.
‘Brother Armel is dying! It was not what we intended! You must believe me!’ He took a handful of Michael’s best cloak and tried to haul him back towards the town. Michael disengaged himself firmly, resentful at being manhandled after he had taken so much trouble with his appearance.
‘What are you shouting about?’ he demanded crossly, trying to brush the creases out of his sleeve. ‘Who is Brother Armel and what must I believe?’
The boy gulped for breath, clenching and unclenching his hands and clearly forcing himself to resist the urge to grab at Michael again in his agitation.
‘It will be quicker if you speak rationally,’ said Bartholomew gently, taking pity on the frantic student. ‘Tell us what has happened. Is someone ill? Do you need a physician?’
The young man nodded and then shook his head. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes tightly shut and fought to gain control of himself. ‘We – I and the other students – were drinking in the Brazen George,’ he began, referring to a tavern near St Mary’s Church. Michael gave him an admonishing stare. Students were not allowed in the town’s taverns, chiefly because the University did not want bands of drunken undergraduates meeting gangs of equally intoxicated townspeople: the relationship between University and town was uneasy at best, violent at worst, and it took very little to spark off fights that resulted in bloodshed on both sides.
The young man continued. ‘A man sold us wine. We took it home and Armel drank from the bottle. Then he fell into a swoon. He was poisoned! You must come!’
The lad’s story was still far from clear, but Bartholomew guessed they would prise no more sense from him until one of them went to see Brother Armel. It occurred to him that not even the sensibilities of the Master-Elect of the Hall of Valence Marie could be offended if his excuse for being absent was that he was dealing with a medical emergency. He seized the opportunity with sudden enthusiasm.
‘You go to the ceremony,’ he said to Michael. ‘I will see Brother Armel.’
‘But he needs you both,’ pleaded the student, his hands furiously twisting the buckle on his belt to avoid laying hands on the august personage of the University’s Senior Proctor a second time. ‘He needs last rites and a physician.’ His self-control finally broke and he grasped Bartholomew’s cloak to haul him back up the High Street, evidently assuming Michael would follow.
‘Then you need a priest, not a monk,’ called Michael, standing firm. ‘One of the Gilbertines will oblige, or the Carmelites just across the road. I have pressing business to attend.’
‘You can give last rites!’ said the student accusingly, turning back to him without relinquishing his hold on Bartholomew. ‘You did so during the Death – Father Yvo told us how you gave last rites to his predecessor. And you have heard my confessions before now!’
The student was right. While friars lived and worked among the people, monks led contemplative lives in the cloister and were not authorised to hear confessions or give last rites. But Michael had been granted special dispensation by his Bishop so that he might attend the needs of the small number of Benedictines enrolled at the University. During the plague, he had been tireless in his spiritual duties and had trudged around the town with Bartholomew tending the hopeless cases. These days, however, he seldom drew on his authority, preferring to advance the Benedictines’ earthly interests rather than their spiritual ones.
‘Please!’ cried the student, desperation making his voice crack. ‘We need the Senior Proctor
How poor Armel had gone so suddenly from a swoon to being a murder victim was unclear, but Bartholomew allowed himself to be led back along the High Street by the frightened student. Michael followed reluctantly, muttering bitterly about missing the installation ceremony to which he had been so looking forward. Bartholomew did not for an instant imagine they would find Brother Armel murdered, nor even poisoned. The student who tugged and heaved at his cloak to make him hurry was very young – no more than fifteen years old at the most – and Bartholomew was sure he would not be able to tell a drunken stupor from an unconsciousness brought on by poison. He wondered how much of the installation he might legitimately escape, although a backward glance at Michael’s black scowl suggested the answer would be very little if the monk had any say in the matter.
‘Which hostel do you live in?’ Bartholomew asked, more to soothe the student’s increasing agitation than to solicit information.
‘Bernard’s,’ said the student, hauling harder still as they drew closer to the dirty brown facade of St Bernard’s Hostel. ‘My name is Xavier.’
‘Bernard’s is a Franciscan institution,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled, ‘so why are you not wearing your friar’s habit?’
Xavier gave him a look of disbelief. ‘We could not go to the Brazen George wearing our habits! The landlord would know we were students and would refuse to serve us.’
Before Bartholomew could comment further, he was propelled into the building. A large room that opened directly off the street was occupied by six students, all arguing among themselves in apprehensive whispers. None of them wore either scholars’ tabards or the robes of Franciscan novices, and Bartholomew imagined the entire hostel must have been involved in the illicit trip to the tavern.
As they entered, the students parted to reveal someone lying on the floor with his eyes closed. Bartholomew knelt to examine him while Michael snapped questions at the others.
‘Where is Father Yvo? He is Principal here, is he not?’
Miserably the students nodded, some hanging their heads and none able to meet the stern visage Michael reserved for dealing with recalcitrant undergraduates.
‘He is at the installation, but Brother Henry has gone to fetch him home,’ said Xavier. ‘I came to find you. I was lucky to catch you before you reached Valence Marie.’
Michael’s grimace suggested he did not consider the encounter to be a fortuitous one. ‘I suppose you took advantage of Father Yvo’s absence to go visiting taverns?’ he surmised, eyeing the students’ odd assortment of secular clothes with proctorly disapproval.
They nodded again, exchanging guilty glances and shuffling their feet uncomfortably.
‘Well, Brother Xavier,’ said Michael, eyeing the sheepish undergraduates with weary reproach. ‘Now you have me here, tell me what happened properly.’
Xavier took a deep breath, less anxious now that Michael had assumed control of the situation. ‘We have all worked really hard this term and yesterday the last of us passed our disputations. It seemed as though we were being given a perfect opportunity to celebrate – with Father Yvo at the installation along with all the other Masters, Principals, and Fellows. And Proctors,’ he added, giving Michael a sidelong glance. ‘We meant no harm – just a tankard or two of ale and we would have been home. None of us intended to become drunk.’ This statement was confirmed vehemently by a chorus of agreement from the others. ‘Then a man offered to sell us some wine. He was asking a very reasonable price for claret from France and we thought we could bring it here and continue our celebrations more discreetly. We bought three bottles and came home.’
‘What did this man look like?’ asked Michael, reflecting with a distinct lack of enthusiasm on all the petty thieves he knew who might approach a gaggle of gullible undergraduates and sell them inferior wine under the pretence that it was fine quality stuff from abroad. He supposed the culprit would be well away by now, doubtless enjoying the congratulations of his cronies for having so easily cheated members of the University the townspeople so despised.
Xavier looked to his friends for help. ‘Not tall. He had a brown beard.’
‘He wore a blue tunic,’ put in a student with freckles and red hair, who looked about fourteen.
‘And his hose were undyed homespun,’ put in another. ‘Like these.’ He plucked at the rough material of his leggings and looked expectantly at Michael, as if the monk should immediately know the identity of the wine-seller from his meagre scrap of information.
‘He had brown eyes …’ added the red-haired student uncertainly.
‘No, he had blue eyes,’ said Xavier, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘Well, a sort of blue-grey. And there was something wrong with the skin on his hands.’
