‘So will the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘I just hope they will not decide to do it themselves.’
Brother Michael, Senior Proctor of the University, Fellow of Michaelhouse and trusted agent of the Bishop of Ely, puffed across the yard of Stanmore’s business premises with his Junior Proctor and a group of his beadles marching untidily behind him.
With one or two exceptions, the University’s law-keepers were a rough, ill-kempt breed. They all sported coarse woollen tunics with scarlet belts that marked them as University officers, but underneath they wore a bizarre assortment of garments that gave most of them a very eccentric appearance. Some had donned the boiled leather leggings that suggested they had fought for King Edward in France before the plague had forced a truce, while others possessed an eclectic collection of articles passed to them as bribes from students they caught breaking the University’s rules. A quick glance revealed a courtier’s scarlet hose, a Dominican’s cloak, a grey shirt that had probably been a Franciscan’s undergarment, and a pair of wooden clogs that had doubtless belonged to a scholar from the north.
The Junior Proctor was a different matter. Will Walcote was dressed in the sober black habit of an Austin canon, and over it was an ankle-length cloak. His calf-high boots were of good quality leather, and although they were mud-stained from walking along the High Street, they had been carefully polished. He was of average height, had thick brown hair that was cut short above the ears, and had a thin, intelligent face. He was popular in the University, more so than his intrigue-loving superior, and already it was rumoured that he would be Michael’s successor as Senior Proctor, although Bartholomew knew Michael had doubts about Walcote’s suitability.
The untidy procession came to a shambling halt, while Michael looked around him imperiously. The yard was cobbled, and everywhere were threads of the cloth that had made Oswald Stanmore one of the richest men in Cambridge. The lean-to sheds were filled with bales of wool and silk, and even though the merchant himself was at a business meeting in another part of the town, his apprentices were busy loading and unloading carts, making inventories and carrying out his orders.
Michael presented an impressive figure in his billowing black cloak and the dark Benedictine habit beneath it, and several of Stanmore’s apprentices faltered nervously when they saw him. The monk had always been large – tall, as well as burly – but contentment and self-satisfaction had added a further layer of fat around his middle. His thin, lank brown hair was cut neatly around his gleaming tonsure, and his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers. He and Bartholomew had been friends for some years, although Michael’s post as Senior Proctor and the duties it entailed occasionally put a serious strain on their relationship.
Bartholomew watched the monk and his retinue enter the yard, then went to meet them. It was cold for March, and Michael’s winter cloak was lined with fur to protect him from the bitter winds that shrieked across the Fens from the north and east. Despite the fact that it was Lent, and that the monk should have been fasting or at least abstaining from some foods, he looked a good deal better fed than most of his beadles, and his round face gleamed with health and vitality.
He spotted Bartholomew and Edith at the top of the short flight of steps that led to Oswald Stanmore’s office, and strode to meet them. Walcote followed him.
‘I heard there was a row between the Dominicans and the Carmelites,’ said the monk, waiting for Bartholomew to descend the steps. ‘My beadles acted immediately, and I thought we had prevented any serious trouble. Then I receive a message from you saying that someone has been killed.’
‘It is true,’ replied Edith, answering Michael’s question before Bartholomew could speak. Her eyes were red from crying over the death of the young friar she had not known, and her voice was unsteady. Bartholomew fervently wished he had taken the Carmelite to Michaelhouse, and had not involved his sister in the University’s troubles. ‘The Dominicans killed a Carmelite. He died right here, in Oswald’s office.’
‘How did he come to be there?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Merchants like Oswald have bands of apprentices, and bands of apprentices love nothing more than lone scholars to fight – be they Carmelites or anyone else.’
‘Matt brought him,’ replied Edith. ‘The apprentices did not approve, but they carried him upstairs, then stood watch to make sure no Dominicans broke through our gates. I suppose all the fuss has died down now, given that they seem to have gone back to work.’
‘I suppose,’ said Michael carefully, knowing it would take very little for trouble to ignite again. ‘How did you manage to prevent your apprentices from rushing into the street and joining in the affray?’
‘I forbade them to,’ said Edith, surprised by the question. ‘They did not like standing by while scholars threw stones that smashed our windows, but they did as they were told.’
‘Would that all merchants had as much control over their people,’ muttered Michael, impressed that Edith had been able to impose her will so effortlessly on a group of spirited young men. He had forgotten that dark- haired Edith, who always seemed so slight next to her younger brother, was a very determined woman. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Where is this poor unfortunate now?’
Bartholomew led him and Walcote to the office, while the beadles remained in the yard to be shown broken windows and scratched paintwork by the indignant apprentices. Edith had covered the body of the friar with a crisp white sheet, although a circular red stain had already appeared, a stark foretaste of what lay underneath. Gently, Bartholomew pulled the sheet away from the friar’s face, so that Michael could see it. Both men turned in surprise when they heard Walcote’s sharp intake of breath.
‘That is Faricius of Abington,’ said the Junior Proctor, gazing down at the body in horror.
‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘Have you arrested him for frequenting taverns or brawling or some such thing?’
‘Not Faricius,’ said Walcote, clearly shocked. ‘He was a peaceful and scholarly man. I met him at a lecture we both attended on nominalism. After that, we met from time to time to discuss various philosophical concepts. I liked and admired him.’
‘Do you have any idea why someone might wish him harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew cover the face of the dead scholar again.
Walcote’s voice was unsteady when he replied. ‘None at all. He was a good man, respected by the people who knew him. This is a vile town, if friars like Faricius are slain in broad daylight.’
‘I agree, Will,’ said Michael sympathetically, but rather condescendingly. ‘But it happens occasionally, and it is our duty – yours and mine – to bring the culprits to justice. Matt, what were you doing in the middle of a fight between friars that ended in bloody murder?’
‘I was visiting a patient, and heard the sounds of a brawl in the making on my way home. Then I saw a group of Dominicans standing around a bloodstained Carmelite lying in a doorway.’
Michael eyed his friend warily. ‘How many Dominicans?’
‘Half a dozen or so. The Carmelite was bleeding from a wound in his stomach, and I assumed he had been stabbed by them.’
‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Intervening was a foolish thing to do. One man against six is not good odds. What were you thinking of?’
‘There was no time to consider the odds,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘I only saw an injured man and thought I might be able to help him. I waved my childbirth forceps at the Dominicans and they dispersed readily enough.’
‘I should think so,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Those forceps are a formidable weapon if you know how to use them. I would think twice about taking them on, too.’
‘I considered taking Faricius to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I was not sure if he would survive the journey. I brought him here instead.’
‘So, did one of these six Black Friars definitely stab Faricius?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you see any of them holding knives or with bloodstained hands?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I was more concerned with taking Faricius somewhere I could tend him properly, and I did not notice much about the Dominicans. I would say that they did not look as though they were going to give him last rites, however.’
‘Would you recognise them again?’ asked Walcote hopefully. ‘It was daylight, which is unusual. Most of these riots take place at night, when the perpetrators stand a better chance of escaping under cover of darkness once they have had their fill of violence.’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They were not happy to see their prey snatched from under their noses and told me so. We exchanged quite a few unpleasant words before I left.’
