lit the lamp quickly, and went to the monk’s rescue before he did any more damage. While he gathered up the wilting blooms and shoved them back into the now dented jug, Michael slapped the sacred vessels on the altar in an undisguised display of temper, limping far more than was necessary, and not always favouring the same foot.
Michael had completed his preparations and Bartholomew had just kicked the flowers that remained on the floor out of sight under a bench, when the Michaelhouse procession entered the church, sleepy and shivering in their scholar’s tabards – with the exception of Alcote, who was clad in a gorgeous, fur-lined cloak that an earl would have been proud to wear.
Father William’s leather-soled sandals skidded in the water that had been spilled from the vase, and he gazed up at the roof in concern, seeking signs of another leak. Runham frowned when he saw the state of his blooms, as many stalks pointing upwards as flower heads, and Bartholomew heard him muttering disparaging remarks about the parish children who sometimes played in the church when it was empty.
Because it was the festival of the Conversion of St Paul, and therefore a feast day, a few parishioners had dragged themselves from their beds to attend the mass. Most of them were members of Michael’s choir, present because the College provided oatmeal and sour ale to anyone who sang on special occasions. Also present were Thomas Deschalers and his niece Julianna. Julianna stood at the front of the small congregation, watching everything with open interest. She caught Bartholomew’s eye and gave him a wink, and then did the same to Langelee. Afraid that the philosopher would see her smiling at him so brazenly and start some kind of fight over it, Bartholomew studiously avoided looking at her for the remainder of the service.
When it was over, he waited until he was sure her attentions were fixed on Langelee, and then slipped past her quickly to walk back to Michaelhouse, without waiting for his colleagues. As he shoved open the wicket door, Walter started guiltily, and Agatha’s cockerel flapped out from under his arm. It rushed across the yard in a huff of bristling feathers and disappeared over the orchard wall. Bartholomew said nothing, although he suspected that he and Michael were not the only ones that the irritating bird was keeping from their sleep.
Master Kenyngham’s procession – with the marked absence of Langelee – was not long in following, and Walter went to ring the bell for breakfast. Bartholomew was in his room, putting dirty clothes in a pile for Cynric to take to the laundry, and folding the others, when the book-bearer tapped on the door.
‘A messenger has just arrived to say that Master Stanmore’s steward returned with Egil’s body late last night,’ said the Welshman. ‘Master Stanmore and your sister have spent the night in town, and he wants you and Brother Michael to go to his premises immediately.’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the warm oatmeal flavoured with honey and cinnamon that would be waiting for him in the hall. ‘Can it not wait a while?’
‘It sounded urgent,’ said Cynric. ‘Master Stanmore would not issue such a demand lightly.’
Bartholomew sighed and told Cynric to fetch Michael, who was already at his place at the breakfast table. He waited in the yard and shivered. It was beginning to rain: the dry spell of the past two days seemed to be over, and the weather was reverting to its customary dampness. He leaned against the wall and kicked absently at the weeds that grew around the door. He saw Father Paul walking hesitantly from his room to the hall, and he went to offer him his arm when the blind friar skidded in the mud.
Paul smiled. ‘How cold you are!’ he exclaimed, taking Bartholomew’s hand in both of his.
‘A problem with winter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially with no fires anywhere and Alcote the only one of us with enough money to buy wood to burn.’
‘Then you should inveigle yourself an invitation to his room,’ said Paul wisely. ‘Not only does he have roaring fires, but he has a lamp and comfortable chairs with woollen rugs.’
‘He is still indignant about three logs he thinks I stole,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. It was a shame, though: it would be worth enduring Alcote’s company for the pleasure of sitting in a comfortable chair by a fire with a lamp to read by.
‘Brother Michael took those logs,’ said Paul. ‘I quite clearly heard his distinctive puffing as he wrested with the stable door the night they disappeared. I put Alcote right about that, although you should not allow yourself to take the blame for things Michael does.’
Bartholomew smiled, amused that Paul should consider him in need of advice about how to deal with Michael.
Still clutching Bartholomew’s hand, Paul lifted his face to the sky. ‘It is beginning to rain; you are about to go out and you are not wearing your cloak.’
‘And how do you know all that?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. He knew the friar relished playing such games, showing off his superior skills of detection.
‘The rain is simple,’ said Paul, showing an upturned palm. ‘I know you are going out because I heard Michael grumbling about missing breakfast; you are apparently waiting for him, which means you are going, too. And I know you are not wearing your cloak, because I would hear it moving around your legs. And I cannot.’
‘I lost it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shall I tell you how, or will you tell me?’
It was Paul’s turn to laugh. ‘Tell me when Brother Michael is not glowering at you to hurry,’ he said. Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise. ‘I just heard his thundering footsteps coming down the stairs from his room,’ Paul explained.
Bartholomew looked to where Michael waited impatiently by the gate.
‘I have several cloaks,’ said Paul. ‘I insist you borrow one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but I could not. First, I do not seem able to take good care of clothes and will be sure to spoil it. Second, I cannot wear a cloak that is part of a Franciscan habit – Father William would construe it as heretical, and would have me burned in the Market Square.’
‘It is just a plain grey one,’ said Paul. ‘It is not part of my habit. And, as I said, I have several. If you find you like it, I can sell you one.’
The rain began to come down harder, and Bartholomew relented and accepted Paul’s kind offer. He waited while the friar fetched it, and then ran across to meet Michael.
‘Oh, very nice,’ said Michael, eyeing the long garment with amusement. ‘Now you look like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Pestilence!’ He laughed uproariously, while Cynric crossed himself hurriedly, and muttered about the dangers of jesting about the plague.
Stanmore had left an apprentice to direct them to the room to which Egil’s body had been taken. It was an empty storeroom, and the corpse had been placed on a table and covered with a large piece of black cloth. Bartholomew saw dark red stains on the floor, and winced. Edith was ushering the fascinated apprentices away from the window, but when she saw Bartholomew she abandoned them to their own devices, and ran into his arms.
‘Oh Matt!’ she sobbed. ‘What vile business have you been dragged into this time?’
‘It will all be solved soon,’ said Bartholomew gently.
She wiped her eyes and stood back to look at him. ‘How did you come by those scratches on your neck? This is not your cloak! And who put that awful red patch on your hose?’
Bartholomew put his hands on her shoulders. ‘There is nothing to worry about. And I borrowed this cloak from Father Paul. I lost mine.’
‘It is fine cloth,’ said Stanmore, coming up behind him to feel it. ‘Best quality wool. He is a fool to lend it to you – you will have it spoiled in no time. I would recommend you use a hard-wearing worsted of some kind, perhaps–’
‘Oswald,’ prompted Edith, quelling the lecture that was about to begin. ‘We did not drag Matt from his breakfast to talk about cloth.’
Stanmore’s face became sombre. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Putting off the moment, I suppose.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It took some time to find Egil’s corpse – your directions were understandably vague, and my steward had to make three journeys to the Fens before he could locate it. It had been moved, and Cynric’s stick-marker was some distance away from it. It is Egil’s body, without question, because I recall he had a prominent scar on his left calf. But …’ His voice trailed off, and his eyes went to the body lying on the table. Since Stanmore made no move towards it, and was clearly reluctant to offer a further explanation, Bartholomew walked over and lifted the cloth. And drew in a sharp breath of horror. Egil’s heavy body, clad in its thick, homespun clothes, lay under the sheet. But someone had hacked off his head and both of his hands.
‘I take it this is not how you left him?’ asked Stanmore, watching Bartholomew’s expression of shock. ‘You
