up: he can identify them.’
Morden treated Bartholomew, and then Michael, to unpleasant looks. ‘I am sure they meant Faricius no harm. Have you considered the possibility that they were trying to help him? Did you actually
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But they are the ones who should be answering these questions, not me. Will you send for them or would you rather I picked them out?’
Morden’s glower deepened. ‘Everyone is in the refectory at the moment, eating breakfast as they listen in reverent silence to the readings of the Bible Scholar. Come.’
‘Breakfast?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘But it is almost noon!’
‘The lateness of the meal would not have anything to do with that misguided group of Carmelites who were lingering outside your walls, would it?’ asked Walcote with raised eyebrows. ‘Were you preparing to do battle with them?’
‘What Carmelites?’ asked Morden with an air of assumed innocence that was patently false. ‘Were there Carmelites outside our walls this morning? I did not notice.’
‘It is just as well we moved them on,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, not fooled for an instant by Morden. ‘The last thing we want is a revenge killing. But let us go to see these students, eating their breakfast in the middle of the day.’
Bartholomew, Michael and Walcote followed Prior Morden down the stairs and across the yard to the largest of the buildings in the Dominican Friary. The door to the refectory was closed, but even so, Bartholomew could hear that the sounds emanating from within had nothing to do with the Bible Scholar. Morden gave an irritable frown before throwing open the door and stepping inside. Bartholomew ducked instinctively as a piece of bread whistled past his ear, although Michael was slower and received a boiled leek in the chest.
Morden gaped in horror for a few moments, before striding to the nearest table, snatching up a pewter cup and banging it against the wall. The din gradually faded to silence, and the student-friars, who had been standing to hurl their edible missiles, quickly took their places on the benches that ran the length of the room. Some had the grace to appear shamefaced as their Prior ran admonishing eyes over their ranks, but many made no secret of their amusement at having been caught.
‘Where is Kyrkeby?’ Morden demanded. ‘He is supposed to be overseeing your meals today.’
‘He is not here,’ replied one of the student-friars, a smooth-faced, arrogant youth who Bartholomew immediately recognised as one of the mob that had been near Faricius.
Morden sighed. ‘I can see that, Bulmer. But where is he?’
‘We do not know,’ answered another student. A green smear on the front of his habit and crumbs in his hair indicated that he had been in the thick of the mischief. ‘Probably working on his lecture. He does little else these days.’
Bulmer walked to the door and then turned, pointing across the courtyard to a room on the far side. The distinctive bristle-head of Kyrkeby could be seen in the window, bent over a book. ‘Yes, there he is. Working on his lecture, as usual.’
Morden glowered at the assembled students. ‘I would have hoped that you would not require a nursemaid, and that you could be trusted to behave yourselves in a manner suited to men who have chosen to become friars. But I can see my faith in you was misplaced.’
‘It certainly was,’ mumbled Michael to Bartholomew, gazing around him in disdain. ‘I have never seen such a deplorable spectacle among men of the cloth.’
Although a food fight was not something usually associated with friaries, the physician was aware that most of the religious community in Cambridge comprised young men – some only fifteen or sixteen – who had been sent to acquire an education of sorts before they were dispatched to parishes all across the country. Young men in large groups, even clerics, would inevitably display some degree of high spirits, and the scene in the refectory had been exactly that. Still, he thought, hardening his heart, six of the faces that were turned towards their Prior had been responsible for more than a bit of horseplay involving a few vegetables.
‘The proctors want to speak to those of you who were present when the Carmelite was killed yesterday,’ announced Morden in his childish voice. ‘I have been telling them that you are law-abiding men, but now I wonder whether I was wrong.’
‘You are not wrong, Father,’ said Bulmer. ‘I was there, although I swear before God that we did not harm him.’
He met Michael’s eyes steadily, and Bartholomew could not decide whether the young man’s confidence was convincing bluster or genuine truthfulness.
‘Thank you, Bulmer,’ said Morden. ‘And who was with you?’
Five others stood. Bartholomew recognised them all.
‘What Bulmer says is true,’ said a pink-faced boy with tightly curled fair hair. ‘We admit we went to the Carmelite Friary after Horneby and Simon Lynne taunted us about the fact that Lincolne had written that proclamation and pinned it on the church door for all to see, but all the White Friars had fled inside their walls long before we could reach them.’
‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘He had not fled inside.’
Bulmer and his cronies exchanged a nervous glance. ‘We were on our way home, when we saw a Carmelite lying in a doorway, so we went to see what he was doing. We saw he had blood on the front of his habit.’
‘Because you had stabbed him,’ said Michael flatly.
‘No!’ objected Bulmer. ‘He was already bleeding when we found him. We were edging closer, to see what had happened, when your colleague arrived and took him away. I am surprised you say he is dead – I did not know he was so seriously wounded.’
‘Someone had driven a knife into his stomach,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died from loss of blood about an hour later.’
‘Well, it was nothing to do with us,’ said Bulmer firmly. ‘I admit that the sight of a white habit lying in front of us was a tempting target, but you drove us off with those horrible birthing forceps before we could even touch him.’
‘If we had known he was badly hurt, we would have summoned help,’ claimed the fair-haired student. ‘But we only saw a White Friar lying in the doorway with blood on him. For all we knew, the blood might not even have been his.’
‘Do not lie!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘The poor man was trying to hold his innards in. It was patently obvious the blood was his. And you can say what you like, but you were going to finish him off. You said as much when you tried to prevent me from carrying him away.’
‘Those were words spoken in the heat of the moment,’ said Bulmer defensively. ‘We let you go, did we not? There were six of us, and had we really meant trouble, then you would not have left with him.’
Bartholomew wondered if that were true. He was not one of Cambridge’s most skilled fighters, birthing forceps or no, and suspected that the six Dominicans had carried weapons that would have been much more efficient than a heavy lump of metal.
‘It seems you must look elsewhere for your killer, Brother,’ said Morden smugly. ‘You heard these students: Faricius was already wounded when they found him. Perhaps they did mean to harm him when they saw his white habit, but they still allowed Bartholomew to carry him away. The Dominicans are not responsible for this crime.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael as he looked from the gloating features of the diminutive Prior to the calm gazes of the six student-friars who were protesting their innocence. ‘What a mess! I do not know whom to believe.’
‘Well, I do not believe any of them,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I know what I saw.’
‘You are right,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we will arrest the whole lot of them and talk about this in the proctors’ cells – that should make them reconsider their stories and their lies and the threats they made to you.’
‘You should take a horse, Matt,’ said Michael, watching critically as Bartholomew prepared to visit his sister in her husband’s country manor the following evening.
Bartholomew grabbed his warmest winter cloak and swung it around his shoulders. The pale spring sun that had cheered the town at dawn had long since slipped behind a bank of dense clouds, and a bitter wind had picked
