in a stuffy room. He began to remove his tunic, revealing an intricately embroidered shirt underneath with huge puffed sleeves. ‘I would have been doomed to poverty had I pursued a medical career. Lord, it is hot in here!’
‘Move away from the fire, then,’ suggested Stanmore, a little acidly. ‘You would not be so warm if you allowed some of the heat to travel to other people.’
‘What,’ demanded Michael suddenly and loudly, ‘are those?’ Everyone followed his eyes to the front of Richard’s newly revealed shirt.
‘They are called buttons,’ said Richard haughtily, glancing down at them. ‘Why?’
‘I know what they are,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I have never before seen such monstrous examples of them – at least, not on a man. I understand the King’s mother goes in for that kind of thing.’
Bartholomew could see his point. Buttons had only recently gained popularity, because it was said that the King approved of them. Most were made of bone or wood and were small, unobtrusive discs that performed the function of holding two pieces of material together without the need for elaborate systems of laces. Richard’s buttons, however, were huge, almost the size of mushrooms, and were evidently made of some precious metal.
‘They are the height of fashion,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Do you know nothing of the King’s court?’
‘They are ugly,’ said Stanmore, eyeing them critically. ‘But I doubt this modern liking for buttons will last long. They will never take the place of laces.’
‘You should be careful if you ever need to run,’ Bartholomew advised his nephew with a smile. ‘If one of those things bounces upwards, it will take your teeth out.’
Michael regarded Richard with arched eyebrows. ‘Do all Oxford scholars adorn themselves with these “buttons”, as well as drink liquid that would be better employed in scouring drains? Or is it just confined to those people who study law?’
Richard bristled at the insult, but Heytesbury laid a soothing hand on his arm as he smiled at Michael. ‘It is a passing phase, no more. You will find no buttons on me. I would not have expected you to negotiate with me if I had been covered in lumps of metal.’
‘Speaking of our agreement, perhaps we should draw it up tomorrow,’ suggested Michael hopefully. ‘I am sure you need to be back in Oxford for the beginning of the new term, and if we finalise matters now, you will not be obliged to make a second journey.’
Heytesbury’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Patience, Brother. There is no hurry. I will stay here for a while, and visit your halls and Colleges to see how they compare to my own. There may be things for me to learn.’
The expression on his face made Bartholomew suspect that he had serious doubts on that score.
‘I am sure the Chancellor would be delighted if you offered to lecture here,’ suggested Richard. He turned eagerly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Master Heytesbury is one of the leading authorities on the theory of nominalism.’
‘I am not sure that is a good idea,’ said Michael hastily. ‘For some unaccountable reason, the religious Orders here have taken that debate very much to heart recently. I do not want a full-scale riot with the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines on one side and the Dominicans, Austins and Benedictines on the other.’
‘Your scholars riot over philosophical issues?’ asked Heytesbury in a contemptuous voice. ‘At Merton, we tend to fight with our wits, not our fists.’
‘Things have changed, then, have they?’ asked Bartholomew archly, not prepared to let Heytesbury get away with that one. ‘There was a good deal of fighting when I was a student there.’
‘There are fights, of course,’ said Heytesbury coolly, not pleased to be contradicted. ‘But not over issues of philosophy. What kind of world would it be if the theory that gained predominance was the one that had the most aggressive supporters?’
‘One that would suit a lot of the scholars I know,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would save them the embarrassment of exposing their inferior minds.’
‘A lecture on nominalism by its leading protagonist would be a great thing for Cambridge,’ persisted Richard. ‘It would show them the nature of
‘We will see,’ said Michael vaguely.
Richard was about to add something else, when there was a loud, urgent hammering at the gates. The merchant looked at his wife in surprise.
‘Who can that be? It is late, and I am surprised anyone in the village is still awake.’
He stood abruptly when horses’ hoofs clattered on the cobbles of the yard outside. Bartholomew heard Hugh the steward demanding to know the rider’s business, but then there was the sound of approaching footsteps and the door to the hall was flung open. A cold draught swirled inside, making the fire gutter and extinguishing several lamps.
‘I am sorry to intrude, Master Stanmore,’ said Sheriff Tulyet, pushing past Hugh, who seemed about to make a more mannerly announcement. His cloak was sodden, and he was breathless from a hard ride against a fierce headwind. ‘But I must speak to Brother Michael.’
Richard Tulyet was small, with a wispy beard that gave him the appearance of a youth unable to produce the more luxurious whiskers of an older man. Only the lines of worry and tiredness around his mouth and eyes suggested that he was loaded with the considerable responsibility of maintaining law and order in a rebellious town where a significant portion of the population comprised young men.
‘Me?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘Why? What can have happened to induce the town’s Sheriff to ride through such a foul night to seek me out?’
‘Your University,’ replied Tulyet, grim-faced. ‘It is in uproar again. You must return with me immediately and take charge of your beadles, or we shall have no town at all by the morning.’
‘Who is it this time?’ asked Michael wearily, reaching for his cloak. ‘Hugh, saddle up my horse, if you please.’
‘The Franciscans have some Austin canons trapped in Holy Trinity Church,’ replied Tulyet in some disgust. ‘Apparently there was a dispute over who should preach the sermon. They tossed a coin, would you believe, and the Austins won. The Franciscans declined to listen to an Austin, and left.’
‘So what is the problem?’ asked Michael when the Sheriff paused. Stanmore poured Tulyet a goblet of wine, which he accepted gratefully. ‘If the Franciscans went home, why are you here?’
‘They did not return to their friary,’ said Tulyet. ‘Apparently, they made for the Cardinal’s Cap, where they spent the evening drinking the poor taverner dry of ale – for which they still need to pay. And then they headed back to Holy Trinity Church.’
‘Were the Austins still inside?’ asked Stanmore.
Tulyet nodded. ‘The Franciscans claim that neither I nor my soldiers have jurisdiction over them, because they are in holy orders – under canon, rather than secular law – and refuse to go home.’
‘My Junior Proctor can deal with this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I left him in charge, and he knows what he is supposed to do if the scholars cause mischief.’
Tulyet sighed, his face sombre. ‘That is the real reason why I am here, Brother. I am afraid I have some bad news for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.
Tulyet sighed. ‘Will Walcote is dead. Someone hanged him from the walls of the Dominican Friary.’
Chapter 3
ONCE MICHAEL HAD LEFT WITH TULYET TO BEGIN AN immediate investigation into Walcote’s death, Bartholomew did not feel like continuing with the celebrations at Edith’s house. He offered to accompany the monk home, afraid that the murder of a close colleague would prove to be a harrowing experience, but Michael declined, muttering that he did not want to spoil Edith’s party.
The physician did not enjoy the rest of the evening, and escaped to the bed in the attic that had been provided for him as soon as he could do so without causing offence. Meanwhile, Richard dominated the conversation, outlining his grand plans to amass wealth and fame. Bartholomew had encountered many greedy
