An Order for Death

enable you to force your own rigid religious views on people?’

Janius’s blue eyes were hard. ‘It will be for their own good. If we do not want God to send another Great Pestilence, we must act now. Walcote was too weak, and Michael is a debauched glutton who is more interested in making suspect deals with Oxford than in safeguarding the spiritual well-being of the University. Neither was fit to be a proctor.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Walcote uncovered a plot to kill Michael at Christmas: your plot.’

‘Unrealised plot, unfortunately,’ said Janius. ‘That stupid beadle drank so much with the money we paid him to deliver our message to a hired assassin, that he fell into a puddle and drowned. Walcote found the document, and started to investigate. It was me who suggested that it would be kinder not to tell Michael about it.’

‘And, as everyone knows, Walcote could be made to agree to anything,’ added Timothy. ‘When Janius said sharing such information would only upset Michael, he immediately agreed to keep it from him.’

‘Walcote told the men who attended his nocturnal meetings, though,’ said Janius, peeved. ‘I have no idea who told him to hold those gatherings, but I am sure they were not his own idea.’

‘They were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He paid for St Radegund’s room with money he had seized from Master Wilson’s broken effigy. He believed he was acting in the best interests of the University.’

‘And look what he did,’ said Janius in disgust. ‘He encouraged the two factions in the realism – nominalism debate to argue with each other more fiercely than ever. The issue would never have become so violent if he had not provided a forum for like-minded men to whip each other into a frenzy. Stupid man!’

‘It did work in our favour, though,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘It showed all those scholars that Walcote was acting behind Michael’s back, and that Michael was too incompetent to prevent it.’

‘Then why kill Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. He was finding the discussion exhausting, and was not sure how much longer he could keep it up. And why should he try anyway? Help would not be coming. Even if Cynric thought he was taking too long, there would be little the book-bearer could do. ‘Why not wait until someone complained that Walcote was not the man for the job? Michael said his days as Junior Proctor were numbered.’

‘This business with Oxford forced us to act sooner,’ said Janius. ‘We do not approve of it.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Michael plans to use the information from Heytesbury to Cambridge’s advantage.’

‘No,’ said Janius. ‘He wants to use the information to ensure he will dine on good cheese and fresh butter for the rest of his days. Imagine how it will look when word spreads that the Benedictine Order dispenses with University property for the good of its stomach.’

‘Michael may have allowed people to believe that personal greed is his motive, but I can assure you it is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was simply trying to fool Heytesbury into thinking he had the better end of the bargain. And it worked. Heytesbury signed the deed today.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Timothy, shocked. ‘We are too late?’

‘Then we should bring an end to this futile chatter,’ said Janius, indicating with a nod of his head that Timothy was to kill Bartholomew. ‘We must ensure that Heytesbury does not leave the town alive, and that Michael is blamed for his death.’

‘How did you kill Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, realising that he had made a mistake in mentioning the signed deed. While he found the company of the two monks distasteful, and disliked hearing their sanctimonious, gloating voices bragging about their cleverness, he was certainly not ready to die. ‘You hanged him the same night that Kyrkeby died.’

‘Enough questions,’ said Janius.

Timothy took a step towards Bartholomew, who quickly moved behind the table, and continued to speak in the same patronising, gloating tone. ‘While we were struggling to hide Kyrkeby, Walcote gave the essay to Father Paul. Walcote lied: he told us he was going to keep nosy beadles away, while all the time his intention was to hide the essay from us.’

‘We threatened to hang him unless he handed it over,’ said Janius. ‘He refused, and so he died. And that is what you are about to do.’

‘And how will you explain my corpse in your hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, desperate to keep them talking.

‘Your nephew,’ replied Timothy, coolly assessing which side of the table to approach. ‘He will be the perfect scapegoat for the murder of his uncle and his uncle’s friend.’

‘No one will believe that Richard would kill me or Michael,’ said Bartholomew, so defiantly that Timothy paused in his relentless advance. ‘He may be a fool, but he is no killer.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Janius. ‘First, lots of people heard you scolding him for his reprehensible treatment of Sergeant Orwelle the other day. Second, we all know how disgusted you are that he allowed the Black Bishop of Bedminster to try to eat Pechem. And third, no one likes Richard anyway. They will be only too pleased to see him accused of a crime.’

That was probably true, Bartholomew thought. Richard’s behaviour had won him no friends. ‘So, what is your plan?’ he asked, trying to keep the unsteadiness from his voice as he eased away from Timothy. ‘Whatever it is, there will be a flaw that will warn Michael before you harm him. You should know by now that he is not an easy man to fool.’

‘God will see that our plan works,’ said Janius confidently. ‘He has chosen us to do His bidding, and He will not let us fail.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. He had been afraid from the moment he had been caught, but Janius’s calm and serene conviction that what he was doing was good had just sent a new chill of fear through him. Bartholomew had learned from Father William that there was no arguing with a zealot, but Janius’s moral fanaticism was far more invidious than William’s crude dogmatism, because it was disguised by a coating of sugary goodness.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked again, in another desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

‘Brother Adam is unwell, and it is time he made a will,’ said Janius. ‘The best lawyer in Cambridge is Richard Stanmore – he told us so himself – and so we have sent for him. When he arrives, the pair of you will fight and he will kill you.’

Bartholomew was startled enough to laugh. ‘No one will believe that happened.’

‘But we will witness it,’ said Janius simply. ‘Who will disbelieve two Benedictine monks with a reputation for honesty and compassion?’

‘And I suppose Michael will then see what Richard has done, and they will kill each other in the ensuing struggle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Michael does not carry weapons; you should know that.’

‘He snatched up yours to parry Richard’s first blow,’ said Janius, unperturbed by the inconsistencies in his plot. ‘As the son of a nobleman, Michael had some knightly training before he joined the Church. His riding skills are legendary, and so there is no reason to assume that his Benedictine habit does not conceal a little-used talent for swordplay, too.’

‘And now,’ said Timothy, raising the sword and advancing on the physician again, ‘the time for chatter is over. Richard will be here soon, and I do not want to tackle two of you at the same time. Would you like to be absolved before you die?’

Bartholomew looked from the wicked edge of the sword to Timothy’s determined face, and knew that it was an offer he should consider very carefully.

‘The only person dispensing absolution tonight will be me,’ said Michael, opening the door and stepping into Timothy’s room. ‘You were right, Timothy. I am a practised swordsman, and even though my habit – and yours – forbids us to carry steel, I will fight you unless you put up your weapon immediately.’

Cynric was behind him, with his sharp sword, and a sudden clatter of voices, both in the building and in the street outside, indicated that they were not alone. The beadles had arrived, and so had Richard, pale and shocked, and holding his ornate dagger ineptly in one hand. The other Benedictines, seeming as appalled by the turn of events as was Richard, stood in the corridor and regarded their two brethren with a mixture of disbelief and unease.

‘It is over, Timothy,’ said Brother Adam, his face sickly white in the pale light of the lamp that he held. ‘We heard everything you said, including your admission that you killed Walcote and the lad at Michaelhouse. Put down your sword and surrender, before anyone else is hurt.’

‘Give ourselves to Satan?’ cried Janius, as he backed against a wall. ‘Never! What we did was good and