town’s streets.’
‘Not as gratifying as it was to seize some of it,’ said the man in charge. ‘And now I propose to put it to good use. It will pay for meetings such as this, so that we will all benefit from it.’
‘Get on with it, then,’ said the old man, refilling his cup from the wine jug yet again. ‘I have other business to attend tonight.’
‘I brought you here to discuss a murder,’ said the man in charge. He gazed at each one of them, his eyes sombre. ‘The murder of one of the University’s highest officials.’
Chapter 1
THE FIRST STONE THAT SMASHED THROUGH THE WINDOW of Oswald Stanmore’s comfortable business premises on Milne Street sprayed Matthew Bartholomew with a shower of sharp splinters and narrowly missed his head. He dropped to his knees, ducking instinctively as a loud crack indicated that another missile had made its mark on the merchant’s fine and expensive glass, and tried to concentrate on suturing the ugly wound in the stomach of the Carmelite friar who lay insensible on the bench in front of him.
Bartholomew’s sister entered the room cautiously, carrying a dish of hot water and some rags ripped into strips for bandages. She gave a startled shriek when a pebble slapped into the wall behind her, and promptly dropped the bowl. Water splashed everywhere, soaking through the sumptuous rugs that covered the floor and splattering the front of her dress.
‘Damn!’ she muttered, regarding the mess with annoyance before crouching down and making her way to where Bartholomew worked on the injured man. She winced as another window shattered. ‘How is he?’
‘Not good,’ replied Bartholomew, who knew there was little he could do for a wound such as had been inflicted on the Carmelite. The knife had slashed through vital organs in the vicious attack, and, even though he had repaired them as well as he could, the physician thought the damage too serious for the friar to recover. Even if the injury did heal, his patient was weakened by blood loss and shock, and was unlikely to survive the infection that invariably followed such piercing wounds.
‘Shall I fetch a priest?’ asked Edith, watching her brother struggle to close the end of the gaping cut with a needle and a length of fine thread. ‘He will want a Carmelite – one of his own Order.’
Bartholomew finished his stitching and peered cautiously out of the window. A sturdy wall surrounded his brother-inlaw’s property, so that it was reasonably safe from invasion. It could still be bombarded with missiles, however, and the Dominican students who had massed outside were dividing their hostile attentions between the Carmelite Friary opposite and Stanmore’s house – where they knew a Carmelite had been given shelter.
‘Neither of us will be going anywhere until those Dominicans disperse,’ he said, ducking again as another volley of stones rattled against the wall outside. ‘They have the Carmelite Friary surrounded and I doubt they will be kind enough to allow one of the enemy out, even on an errand of mercy.’
‘I will fetch a Franciscan or an Austin canon instead, then,’ said Edith, gathering her skirts as she prepared to leave. ‘This poor boy needs a priest.’
‘You cannot go outside,’ said Bartholomew firmly, grabbing her arm. ‘I suspect the Dominican student-friars will attack anyone they see, given the frenzy they have whipped themselves into. It is not safe out there.’
‘But I have nothing to do with the University,’ objected Edith indignantly. ‘No Dominican student – or any other scholar – would dare to harm
‘Usually, no,’ replied Bartholomew, pushing her to one side as a clod of earth crashed through the nearest window and scattered over a handsome rug imported from the Low Countries. ‘But their blood is up and they are inflamed beyond reason; I doubt they care who they hurt. The Carmelites were insane to have written that proclamation.’
‘A proclamation?’ asked Edith warily. ‘All this mayhem is about a proclamation?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘They denounced a philosophical belief that the Dominicans follow, and pinned it to the door of St Mary’s Church.’
Edith regarded him in disbelief. ‘The scholars are killing each other over philosophy? I thought academic arguments were supposed to take place in debating halls, using wits and intellect – not knives and stones.’
Bartholomew gave her a rueful smile. ‘In an ideal world, perhaps. But factions within the University are always squabbling over something, and this time the religious Orders have ranged themselves on two sides of a debate about whether or not abstracts have a real existence.’
Edith’s expression of incomprehension intensified. ‘You are teasing me, Matt! People do not fight over something like that.’
‘Scholars do, apparently,’ replied Bartholomew, laying his fingers on the life pulse in the Carmelite’s neck. It was weak and irregular, and he began to fear that the lad would not survive until the Dominican students grew tired of throwing stones at windows, and would die without the benefit of a final absolution.
Edith shook her head in disgust, and began to wipe the student’s face with a damp cloth. Bartholomew understood exactly how she felt. For years, the various religious Orders that gathered in the University had bickered and quarrelled, and one of them was always attacking the views and ideas expounded by the others. On occasion, emotions ran strongly enough to precipitate an actual riot – like the one currently under way between the Black Friars and the White Friars in the street below – and it was not unknown for students to be killed or injured during them. It was nearing the end of Lent, and the students, especially the friars and monks, were tired and bored with the restrictions imposed on them. They were ripe for a fight, and Bartholomew supposed that if it had not been a philosophical issue, then they would have found something else about which to argue.
He eased backward as another hail of missiles was launched, and cracks and tinkling indicated that more of Stanmore’s windows were paying the price for Bartholomew’s act of mercy in rescuing the Carmelite. The physician realised he had made a grave error of judgement, and saw that he should have carried the friar to Michaelhouse, his own College, and not involved his family in the University’s troubles. He hoped the Dominicans’ fury at losing their quarry would fade when the heat of the moment was past, and that they would not decide to take revenge on the Stanmores later.
‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Edith, taking another cloth and trying without much success to wipe the blood from the friar’s limp hands.
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. He felt the life-beat again, half expecting to find it had fluttered away to nothing. ‘The current debate between the nominalists and the realists is a complicated one, and I doubt half the lads throwing stones at us really believe that nominalism is the ultimate in philosophical theories: they just want to beat the Carmelites.’
Edith continued to tend the unconscious man. Bartholomew had administered a powerful sense-dulling potion before he had started the messy operation of repairing the slippery organs that had been damaged by the knife, and did not expect the Carmelite to wake very soon – if at all. He laid the back of his hand against the friar’s forehead, not surprised to find that it was cold and unhealthily clammy. So he was surprised when the friar stirred weakly, opened his eyes and began to grope with unsteady fingers at the cord he wore around his waist.
‘My scrip,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible. ‘Where is my scrip?’
Edith looked around her, supposing that the leather pouch friars often carried at their side had fallen to the floor. ‘Where is it, Matt?’
Bartholomew pointed to a short string that had evidently been used to attach the scrip to the friar’s waist- cord. It was dark with dirt, indicating that it had served its purpose for some time, but the ends were bright and clean. It did not take a genius to deduce that it had been cut very recently. Bartholomew could only assume that whoever had stabbed the friar had also taken his pouch, probably using the same knife. Bartholomew had found the injured friar huddled in a doorway surrounded by Dominicans; the scrip must have been stolen by one of them.
‘Easy now,’ he said gently, trying to calm his patient as the search became more frantic. ‘You are safe here.’
