An Order for Death

inspect his body and to ask among his colleagues whether he had any enemies.’

‘I thought you would have known that, Brother,’ said Tynkell. ‘If Walcote had enemies, they were made while carrying out his duties as your deputy.’

‘Speaking of my deputy, I would like you to appoint one of the Benedictines from Ely Hall as Walcote’s replacement. Either Timothy or Janius would be acceptable.’

‘Timothy,’ said Tynkell immediately, taking up his pen and beginning to write the order. ‘Beadle Meadowman informs me that Timothy was a soldier before he took the cowl, and that is exactly the kind of man we need as a proctor. Janius would also be good, but he is smaller and thus less able to wrestle with burly young students in their cups.’

‘He is stronger than he appears,’ said Michael. ‘And he is very good at talking sense to people. On balance, I suspect he would be better than Timothy, who is slower and milder.’

‘But Janius is so… religious,’ said Tynkell, frowning.

‘He is a monk,’ interjected Bartholomew. ‘He is supposed to be religious.’

But despite his flippant words to Tynkell, Bartholomew knew what the Chancellor meant. Janius could scarcely utter a sentence without mentioning matters holy, and even Bartholomew, who was usually tolerant of other people’s beliefs and habits, found the force of Janius’s convictions unsettling.

‘There is a difference between the religion we all practise and the religion that Janius promotes,’ said Tynkell. ‘Janius always wears that serene smile that makes him appear as though he has been in direct contact with God, and that he knows something the rest of us do not.’

‘Master Kenyngham is like that,’ said Michael.

‘It is not the same,’ insisted Tynkell. ‘Janius’s religion is so intense and… preachy. I cannot think of another word to describe it. It makes me feel acutely uncomfortable and rather inferior.’

Bartholomew understood his sentiments perfectly. Kenyngham’s devoutness was much more humble than that of Janius, and the elderly Gilbertine certainly did not give the impression that he knew he was bound for the pearly gates, although Bartholomew imagined he was more likely to be admitted than anyone else he knew. Janius, however, exuded the sense that he already had one foot and several toes through the heavenly portals, and that he felt sorry for everyone else because they did not. Timothy had a similar attitude, although it was less flagrant.

‘You have a point,’ said Michael. ‘I always feel I should not swear when I am with Janius, which could prove tiresome in some circumstances. Very well: Brother Timothy it is. I shall go to Ely Hall immediately, and inform him of his good fortune.’

‘Do you not think you should ask him first?’ said Bartholomew, thinking that he would not be very pleased to be presented with a writ informing him that his days would now be spent visiting taverns to ensure they were free of undergraduates, or trying to suppress riots.

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He will be delighted to do his duty. Come, Matt. Let us go and give him the happy news.’

Ely Hall, where the Benedictines lived, was a large, two-storeyed house on Petty Cury, overlooking the Market Square and St Mary’s Church. It was a timber-framed building, the front of which had been plastered and then painted a deep gold, so that it added a spot of colour to an otherwise drab street. The door was bare, but the wood had been scrubbed clean, and someone had engraved a cross and a rough depiction of St Benedict in the lintel.

Michael’s knock was answered by Janius, whose blue eyes crinkled with pleasure when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. He ushered them inside, then preceded them along a narrow passageway to a large chamber at the back of the building, which served as a refectory and conclave. A flight of wooden stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew knew from his previous visit had been divided into six tiny chambers where the masters and their students slept.

Several black-robed monks were in the refectory that morning, most of them reading or writing. Through a window that overlooked a dirty yard at the rear of the house, Bartholomew could see a lean-to with smoke issuing through its thatched roof; cooking often started fires, and the Benedictines, like many people in the town, had opted to do most of theirs outside their house. Meanwhile, a merry blaze burned in the hearth of the refectory, and there was an atmosphere of good-natured industry.

Brother Timothy was in one corner, reading a battered copy of William Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. He frowned slightly, concentrating on what was a difficult text. Janius had apparently been sitting at the table making notes on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, a text that, along with the Bible, formed the basis of theological studies at Cambridge. Sitting by the fire was another familiar face, that of Brother Adam, an ageing monk whom Bartholomew treated for a weakness of the lungs. They all looked up as Michael and Bartholomew entered the room. Timothy stood, and came to touch Michael on the shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.

‘We were so sorry to hear about Will Walcote. We will say a mass for his soul later today.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘But I came here to ask you whether you would take his place as Junior Proctor.’

‘Me?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘But I could not possibly undertake such a task.’

‘I told you,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot expect people to abandon everything on your command.’

‘To be called to perform such duties is a great honour for the Benedictines,’ said old Adam from his fireside chair. ‘You should accept Michael’s offer, Timothy.’

Timothy shook his head, flushing red. ‘I could never fulfil such duties as well as Michael has. I would be a disappointment to him.’

‘It is true you would have high standards to aim for,’ said Michael immodestly. ‘But I feel you would be the ideal man for the post, and so does Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘The Chancellor?’ whispered Timothy, flushing more deeply than ever. ‘But I scarcely know him. What have I done to attract his attention?’

‘Accept, Brother,’ said Janius, his eyes shining with the light of the saved. ‘God has called you and you cannot deny Him.’

‘I thought Michael had called you,’ muttered Adam from the fireside. ‘It is hardly the same thing, no matter what Michael thinks of himself.’

Janius ignored him, and gripped Timothy’s arm. ‘God wants you to serve Him and our Order. To have a senior and a junior proctor who are Black Monks will be excellent for the University, and it will go a long way to setting us above the disputes between the friars.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, and suspected that many people would see Timothy’s appointment as favouritism on Michael’s part, and as a deliberate move to secure the best positions in the University for men in his own Order.

‘I cannot accept,’ said Timothy, shaking his head and refusing to look at Michael.

‘There is always Father William,’ muttered Bartholomew wickedly in Michael’s ear.

Michael’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. ‘Very well. If you have teaching that you cannot escape, or other duties that are important, then there is nothing I can do to persuade you.’

‘You misunderstand,’ said Timothy. ‘I cannot accept because I will not be good enough.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael relieved. ‘Give me a week, and I will prove that you are perfect for the task. In fact, I anticipate that you will be the best Junior Proctor I have ever had – and I have had a few, believe me.’

Timothy still hesitated, and it was Janius who spoke up. ‘We will undertake Timothy’s teaching duties when necessary, and will do all we can to support both of you. It is God’s will.’

Timothy sighed and then smiled at Michael. ‘When would you like me to start?’

‘Now,’ said Michael briskly, apparently deciding that Timothy should be allowed no time to reconsider. ‘I knew a Benedictine would be a good choice. The ink is barely dry on the parchment, and yet you are prepared to abandon your personal duties to help me in this difficult situation.’

While they were talking, Bartholomew crouched down next to Brother Adam. The monk was small and wizened, and the murky blue rings around his irises suggested failing eyesight, as well as extreme old age. A few hairs sprouted from the top of his wrinkled head, but not nearly as many as sprouted from his ears.