Kyrkeby’s jewel box to see that they own a good deal. And second, Walcote and probably Kyrkeby were killed in the dark. Perhaps their killers did not know they were clerics.’
‘But it was obvious
‘I think you are attributing too much importance to this essay,’ said Timothy. ‘Just because you cannot locate a few scribbled notes does not mean Faricius died for them. You know how poor many people are these days: some would kill for a loaf of bread – and Faricius’s purse almost certainly contained enough for that.’
‘I thought you admired Faricius and his work,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I did,’ said Timothy. ‘But that does not mean to say that I believe his writing was the cause of his death. He did not mention the essay specifically to you on his deathbed, so how do you know there was not something else in his scrip that he was concerned over? He had a ruby ring at the friary, so perhaps there were more riches in his purse that he was worried about.’
Bartholomew could think of no arguments to refute what Timothy said, although he remained convinced that the monk was wrong to dismiss the essay so completely. Michael was halfway through his second bowl of beef stew, and Bartholomew had just finished a dish of buttered turnips, when the door opened and more people entered the cosy tavern. Bartholomew saw Michael’s eyes narrow when he recognised Richard Stanmore, then watched the monk’s face assume an expression of innocent friendliness when Heytesbury followed the young lawyer in.
‘How does your nephew know about this place?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, maintaining his pleasant expression, although his voice was petulantly angry. ‘It is not open to just anyone.’
‘Good afternoon, Brother,’ said Richard cheerfully, taking a seat next to Michael and peering into his bowl. ‘What is this? An additional meal to see you through to suppertime? And meat, too! Do you not know it is Lent?’
Michael glowered at him, suddenly not caring that Heytesbury saw his murderous expression. ‘I missed my midday meal, because I was engaged with important University business.’
‘A missed meal would do you no harm,’ said Richard rudely. ‘To be grossly fat–’
‘Show some manners, Richard,’ said Heytesbury sharply. ‘It is not polite to comment on another man’s personal appearance.’
‘He is not fat, anyway,’ said Timothy loyally. ‘These habits make us look larger than we are.’
‘Quite,’ muttered Michael, casting a venomous glower at Richard, whose clothes that day were green and whose ear-ring glittered tantalisingly close to the monk’s fingers.
‘I thought you said you would punch the next man who commented on your girth,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a good thump might do Richard some good. Timothy regarded Bartholomew in alarm, and the physician had the feeling that the Junior Proctor wondered whether to arrest him for inciting a scholar to fight with a townsman.
‘Next time,’ vowed Michael. ‘I do not fight men who are unwell. What have you been doing to make you so wan and pale, Richard? You look worse than Kyrkeby’s corpse.’
Bartholomew saw what Michael meant. Richard’s green clothes did nothing to improve the unhealthy pallor of his face, and even the powerfully scented goose grease that was plastered on his hair was not quite able to disguise the fact that he had recently been sick. Evidently, Richard and Heytesbury had indulged themselves in yet another night of merrymaking in some tavern or another. Michael sneezed, then yelped suddenly.
‘Sorry,’ said Richard, giving the monk a grin that was far from apologetic. He held his decorative dagger in his hand. ‘Your sneeze made you wobble into this.’
‘What is it?’ asked Timothy disparagingly. ‘I would confiscate it as a dangerous weapon, but it looks like a toy – all handle and no blade.’
‘And what would a monk know about such things?’ sneered Richard.
‘I was a soldier once,’ said Timothy. ‘I fought at Crecy with the Black Prince. He is a man well acquainted with court fashions, but he would never carry a thing like that.’
‘What is wrong with it?’ asked Richard, offended. ‘I can defend myself with it well enough.’
‘Put it away,’ said Michael, seeing that the other occupants of the tavern were beginning to wonder why a townsman was brandishing a knife at the University’s proctors. Father Aidan had already left, unwilling to be caught in a place where trouble might be brewing. ‘And tell us how you come to be looking so peaky this morning.’
‘I had a meeting with Mayor Horwoode last night,’ began Richard by way of explanation, slipping the silly weapon into an equally impractical scabbard. ‘He wanted to ask my opinion about who is legally responsible for maintaining the Great Bridge.’
‘He wanted you to find a loophole in the law that will make someone other than the town liable,’ surmised Timothy tartly. ‘He is loath to levy a tax on the townsfolk to pay for it, and is hoping that you could put the onus on the Castle or the University.’
‘How did a meeting with Horwoode make you ill?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he give you bad food?’
Richard shook his head. ‘He gave me a good deal of wine, although that stopped flowing as soon as I told him that the bridge was the town’s responsibility and he had better raise some funds before someone was killed on it and he was held accountable. On my way to collect Black Bishop from the stables, I met Heytesbury, and we adjourned to the Swan for a drink.’
‘It sounds to me as if you had had more than enough to drink already,’ muttered Michael.
‘I have given Richard some of my gum mastic,’ said Heytesbury, withdrawing the packet of yellow resin from his scrip. ‘Mixed with alehoof, it is an infallible remedy for overindulgence.’
Bartholomew saw that Heytesbury’s fingers were coloured a deep yellow, rather like the stains the physician had noted on the bodies of Walcote and Faricius. Had they also used gum mastic as a cure for too much drink? Neither had seemed the kind of man who drank a lot, although neither did Heytesbury, and Bartholomew guessed the Oxford scholar was actually very partial to his ales and wines. That morning, there was an amber sheen to the whites of Heytesbury’s eyes, and his hands were unsteady, as if they required a jug of something fermented to settle them.
‘And what would Oxford men know of over-indulgence?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Surely the noble men of that fine institution do not need such remedies?’
‘We use them on rare occasions,’ said Heytesbury, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘But by the time we left the Swan it was rather late to return to Trumpington, so we spent the night at Oswald Stanmore’s business premises on Milne Street, instead.’
‘However, when I woke this morning, someone had been in my room during the night,’ Richard went on. ‘There was a bowl of burnt feathers and garlic next to my bed, and the stench was unbelievable.’
Bartholomew smiled, knowing exactly who had been responsible for placing the foul-smelling substance near Richard, and why. The superstitious Cynric was following the Franciscans’ instructions for removing the curse of an unpleasant personality. The physician recalled that William had caught the mad Clippesby taking feathers from the College cockerel, doubtless at Cynric’s request.
‘I had a rotten night,’ complained Richard churlishly. He fiddled restlessly with something he had pulled from his pocket. Bartholomew saw it was a gold pendant, and wondered whether his nephew’s excesses now ran to jewellery.
‘It looked to me as if someone had been practising witchcraft,’ said Heytesbury, amused. ‘We all know that burned feathers are a common ingredient in spells.’
‘Cynric, probably,’ grumbled Richard. ‘He is Welsh, and so believes in that kind of thing. I expect he imagined he was protecting me from evil spirits. But, what with the stink of burning feathers, the bad wine in the Swan, and the Carmelites carousing across the road, I slept badly.’
‘The Carmelites?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘Lent is not over and they have recently buried a colleague. They have no cause for carousing.’
‘I hope it was not because they found Kyrkeby dead on their property,’ groaned Michael. ‘I thought we had averted a fight over that particular issue.’
‘Actually, I think they were just pleased that Kyrkeby is not to give the University Lecture,’ said Heytesbury wryly. ‘They were angry that he planned to talk in defence of nominalism, and were delighted to hear that the
