Order moved to Cambridge, in fact.’
‘That was in 1290,’ Timothy pointed out pedantically. ‘The Carmelites were granted land in Milne Street in 1290 by the Archdeacon of York, which is why Humphrey de Lecton was buried here. It was certainly not hundreds of years ago.’
‘Well, it has been here a long time,’ said Horneby, dismissive of such details. ‘Each year, new students are shown the tunnel, then made to swear an oath that they will never tell anyone about it. The masters are never informed.’
‘Why did you not mention this before?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘You must see that this has a bearing on our enquiries. It explains how Faricius left the friary without using the gates.’
Horneby cast a nervous glance at his Prior. ‘No masters are ever told, and you have always questioned us when Prior Lincolne was present. And anyway, Walcote knew about it. We assumed he would tell you.’
‘Walcote is dead,’ said Michael harshly. ‘And why are you so sure that he knew, anyway?’
‘He caught Simon Lynne using it a few days ago,’ replied Horneby reluctantly. ‘He was furious, and ordered us to close up the entrance immediately. He said he would return in a week, and if it were not blocked, he would report all of us to Prior Lincolne.’
‘And I assume he did not?’ asked Michael.
‘He died,’ explained Horneby. ‘The week expired today. We were going to obey him, but when we learned he was dead, we saw we would not have to. You clearly did not know about it, or you would have guessed how Faricius left the friary on the day he was murdered. Walcote was as good as his word when he promised to tell no one if we did as he ordered.’
‘That is outrageous!’ exploded Lincolne, his topknot trembling with anger. ‘Such a tunnel is a breach in our security, and it was extremely foolish of you to keep it from me.’
‘But we have not always been at loggerheads with our rival Orders,’ Horneby pointed out. ‘It is only a security problem if we are under attack, and that has not happened until recently.’
Lincolne favoured him with an icy glare. ‘Perhaps that is so during the few months that you have graced us with your presence. But in past years there have been nasty incidents – perhaps not with other Orders, but with the Colleges and the hostels – where such a tunnel might have been very dangerous for us. Where is the damned thing, anyway?’
Horneby walked to the tomb of Humphrey de Lecton and pulled back a nearby tree branch to reveal a sinister black slit.
‘Here it is. You slide through this hole, make your way forward on your hands and knees for about the length of a man, then a short tunnel leads to the garden of the house next door. You climb the wall, which is lower than ours and easier to scale, and you are in Milne Street.’
‘I could not fit down that,’ said Michael, eyeing it doubtfully.
‘No,’ agreed Horneby, looking him up and down. ‘It would be much too tight for you. But most of us students have done it at various times.’
‘Why?’ demanded Lincolne. ‘What would you leave the friary for?’
Horneby had the grace to look sheepish, and one of the younger novices was unable to prevent a nervous giggle escaping from his lips. Lincolne glowered at him, and the boy shrank backwards in abject embarrassment.
‘To do what most young men do of a night, I imagine,’ said Michael, seeing that none of the student-friars were prepared to furnish their Prior with an honest answer. ‘The taverns and the town’s women are an enticing proposition compared to an evening seated in a cold conclave with someone reading from the Bible.’
‘But that is against the University’s rules,’ cried Lincolne, appalled.
‘Yes,’ said Michael dryly. ‘So, I recommend that you seal up this hole before any more of your students clamber through it and pay the price. But you still have not answered my original question, Horneby. I want to know what Faricius was doing outside the walls, not how he got there.’
Horneby exchanged more glances with his fellows, some of whom Bartholomew saw were shaking their heads, warning him not to tell. Michael saw them, too.
‘Enough of this!’ he snapped angrily. ‘Faricius is dead. He was stabbed in the stomach and he bled to death with no priest present to give him spiritual comfort. It was a brutal, violent end for a man you say was gentle and peace-loving. If his memory means anything at all to you, you will tell me why he happened to be outside at the wrong time.’
‘Was it a woman?’ asked Lincolne, more gently. ‘It seems that is the main reason most of you slip away from your duties and obligations.’ His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. ‘It is not that Tysilia, is it? I warned you all about her, after what happened to Brother Andrew.’
‘Do you mean the Brother Andrew who drowned himself in the King’s Ditch just before Christmas?’ asked Timothy curiously.
‘Yes,’ said Lincolne. ‘Tysilia stole his heart and then refused to see him. We told people his humours had been unbalanced and that he was ill when he took his own life – which was certainly true after he had encountered that witch.’
‘Faricius was not seeing a woman,’ said Horneby. ‘Not even Tysilia. We all kept our distance from her, just as you ordered, Father.’ He smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Do not think that obeying him over this one woman redeems you,’ said Michael, seeing that Lincolne was vaguely mollified by Horneby’s claim. ‘Personally, I do not believe it should be necessary for a Prior to issue such a warning to men of the cloth.’
‘Do not be so pompous, Brother,’ muttered Bartholomew in Michael’s ear. ‘The chances are that some of your own escapades with women are known around the town. You will look foolish if they challenge your right to ask such questions.’
Michael ignored him. ‘And do not try to change the subject, Horneby. I want to know why Faricius left the friary.’
‘He was writing an essay,’ said Horneby reluctantly.
‘An essay?’ echoed Michael, surprise taking the anger from his voice.
Horneby shot an apologetic glance at Lincolne. ‘I am sorry, Father, but Faricius’s essay was in defence of nominalism and supported the controversial theories of the Oxford philosopher William Heytesbury. Faricius was a nominalist.’
‘An essay on nominalism?’ asked Michael, looking around the assembled scholars in wary disbelief. ‘Is that what this great secret is? Is that why Faricius risked life and limb to go outside when it was obvious he should have remained here?’
Horneby nodded unhappily, while the other students shook their heads in disgust that Horneby had betrayed their dead colleague’s trust.
‘Faricius was a nominalist?’ whispered Lincolne, aghast. ‘If only I had known! I could have used my powers of reason to show him that he was wrong, and that nominalism is heresy.’
‘No,’ said Horneby. ‘He was quite certain of his beliefs and he argued them convincingly. You would not have dissuaded him. We all tried and were unsuccessful.’
Michael scratched his chin, a puzzled frown creasing his fat features. ‘Nominalism is a complex theory. I cannot see that a mere novice would provide us with any new insights, and so I fail to see why this essay is important.’
‘Faricius could have provided you with new insights,’ argued Horneby. ‘He had a brilliant mind, and spent a good deal of time honing his debating skills. We were proud of him, but afraid for him at the same time.’
Bartholomew suspected that Horneby was right. Walcote, Timothy and Janius had all claimed to admire Faricius’s thinking, while the great William Heytesbury had even offered to take him as a student. A man like Heytesbury could choose any scholar he wanted, and that he was interested in Faricius was revealing. Bartholomew realised that Horneby and his cronies were not the only ones who had maintained their silence about Faricius’s beliefs: Heytesbury had also declined to enlighten Michael with what he knew of the Carmelite friar murdered at around the time he had arrived in Cambridge himself.
‘And all of you knew about Faricius’s philosophical leanings?’ asked Michael, looking around at the other students. They nodded reluctantly, casting guilty glances at each other.
