better that I do not know.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But Kyrkeby was found near the Carmelite Friary. Do you want to complain about that, or shall we keep it to ourselves for now?’
‘Do not tell me that the Carmelites saw him like this?’ whispered Morden in horror.
‘They did not,’ replied Michael truthfully. ‘But you can rest assured that I will do all in my power to discover how he died and why.’
‘I am not sure that would be best for our Order,’ said Morden nervously. ‘What do you plan to do? Ask around the vendors in the Market Square to ascertain which of them sold him the paints? I really would rather you did not.’
‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘I shall defer to you in that matter. But in return, I want certain questions answered.’
‘Very well,’ said Morden. He clasped Michael’s hand gratefully. ‘Thank you for what you have done, Brother – for tending Kyrkeby with such respect as well as for hiding him from prying eyes.’
‘Well,’ said Michael smiling in satisfaction as he watched Morden and his student-friars carry Kyrkeby to their chapel. ‘It seems we have averted a riot, Matt. The Dominicans will not march on the Carmelites today at least.’
‘Perhaps not, but word will soon spread that Kyrkeby was excavated from a tomb in the Carmelites’ graveyard. And then where will we be?’
‘That,’ said Michael complacently, ‘is a bridge we shall cross when we reach it.’
When Prior Morden had seen the body of his Precentor escorted to the chapel, Michael led the way to the small chamber that served as the Prior’s sleeping quarters and office. The monk thrust open the door with such vigour that it crashed against the wall with a sound like a thunderclap. Morden sighed irritably.
‘I wish you would not do that, Brother. Every time you visit my friary, I am obliged to repaint part of the wall.’ He bent to inspect the damage, clicking his tongue over the flakes of plaster that fell to the ground.
‘How long do you think Master Kenyngham will stay?’ asked Ringstead worriedly. In the chapel below, Kenyngham’s voice rose in an ecstasy of prayer. ‘We appreciate his concern, but we have friars of our own to say masses for Kyrkeby. I told him this, but he did not seem to hear.’
‘Kenyngham hears very little once he is into the business of praying,’ agreed Michael. ‘But if he is still here when we leave, we will try to take him with us.’
‘Good,’ said Morden, leaving the door and clambering into the large chair behind the table, to sit with his short legs swinging in the air. ‘He is a saintly man, but I do not want members of other Orders inside our grounds at the moment. The different sects have never been easy in each other’s company, but I am sure you have noticed matters have been worse recently.’
‘It is because it is Lent, and spring is a long time in coming,’ supplied Ringstead helpfully. ‘And because this realism – nominalism debate has everyone agitated.’
‘It is the Carmelites who exacerbated that,’ said Morden disapprovingly. ‘We might have all agreed to differ if Lincolne had not been so aggressive and dogmatic.’
‘He is a fanatic,’ said Ringstead, just in case Bartholomew and Michael had not noticed. ‘He gives the impression that he would defend realism to the death. I am not entirely convinced that nominalism provides all the answers, but his very attitude makes me want to oppose him.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But we should not be discussing philosophy when your Precentor lies dead. I need to ask some questions. Did he own a purse or a scrip?’
‘He had a leather scrip, as do we all,’ said Morden, pulling a tiny one from his belt and showing it to Michael. It looked like something a child might carry. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘We did not find one with his body, and we need to know whether it was stolen,’ said Michael. ‘Is there anything distinctive about this scrip? Was it patterned in a particular way?’
‘No,’ said Morden immediately.
‘Yes,’ said Ringstead at the same time.
Michael raised his eyebrows, and treated Morden to the kind of glance that was intended to remind him that a favour had been granted, but could just as easily be withdrawn. The tiny Dominican swallowed hard, then gestured for Ringstead to speak.
‘Kyrkeby’s scrip was of a very delicate design,’ said Ringstead. ‘You can see that ours are plain, but his was patterned with flowers and butterflies.’
‘Flowers and butterflies?’ asked Michael, startled. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I imagine that will not be too difficult to identify!’
‘It was more like something a woman would own than the scrip of a friar,’ elaborated Ringstead. He saw Morden gesticulating not to give away more than was necessary, but went on angrily. ‘They already know about the face paint, Father Prior, so it cannot matter if they know about the scrip, too. Besides, we all want to know why he died.’
Morden sighed. ‘Then I hope you will be discreet with this knowledge, Brother Michael. Kyrkeby liked pretty things. He had jewellery, too.’
‘I thought Dominicans were sworn to poverty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the fine collection of crosses and rings that Ringstead had shown them when Kyrkeby was first reported missing. ‘Why did your Order allow him to own such things?’
Morden spread his hands and gave a sickly smile. ‘St Dominic did not intend us to live in poverty in a literal sense. He merely intended that we be aware of the dangers of earthly possessions, and that we eat bread and water from time to time.’
‘I see,’ said Michael wryly. ‘That is the most conveniently liberal interpretation of St Dominic’s Rule that I have ever heard. But let us return to Kyrkeby. Do you think he may have been wearing any of these rings when he died? It is important to know whether any are missing.’
‘You have already looked at his possessions,’ Ringstead pointed out. ‘And I have already told you that I do not know whether anything has gone.’
‘But I might,’ said Morden tiredly. ‘Fetch them, Ringstead, if you please.’
Ringstead left to do his bidding, while Bartholomew sat in a seat in the window and stared across the Dominicans’ yard. The rain had stopped, but there were deep puddles everywhere, the surfaces of which wrinkled and shivered as the breeze played across them. He turned when he heard a soft tap at the door, and was surprised to see Clippesby ease himself through it.
The recent unrest had told on the Michaelhouse Fellow. His hair stood up in a wild halo around his tonsure, and Bartholomew suspected that he had been tearing at it. His eyes seemed unfocused, and he wore the serene smile that usually preceded some of his more peculiar antics. The scholars at Michaelhouse were growing used to Clippesby’s eccentricities, and many of the students and masters barely noticed them any more. But the friary was less tolerant, and Bartholomew had the impression that they would have been happier if Clippesby did not pay them such regular visits.
‘What are you doing here, Clippesby?’ demanded Morden, none too pleasantly. ‘Do not tell me that the pig has been giving you its philosophical opinions again?’
Clippesby smiled, his peculiar eyes shifty. ‘The pig is convinced that nominalism is a more rational theory. She is a true Dominican in her beliefs.’
If Bartholomew had not known that Clippesby was verging on insanity, he would have suspected the man of playing a game with Morden. But Clippesby’s face was a picture of earnest innocence and there was no humour there. Bartholomew heard Michael give a snort of laughter.
‘What do you want, then?’ snapped Morden, glaring at Michael as well as Clippesby. ‘Can you not see that I am busy?’
‘I came to tell you that someone has put paint all over poor Kyrkeby’s face,’ said Clippesby helpfully. ‘Someone has made him look like a prostitute.’
‘You can take
‘Michaelhouse is a cold place,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But that will not matter soon.’
