authority sufficient to answer my questions, tell me so, and I will relay the message to His Majesty myself.'
Disconcerted by Michael's sudden force of will and by the none too subtle threat of treason, Lydgate hurriedly sent his steward to find the friars, and fought to regain moral superiority by bluster.
'I will complain to the Chancellor about your attitude,' he said hotly. 'The King's authority does not give you the right to be offensive.'
Cecily Lydgate joined in with her nasal whine. 'You have been most rude.'
Michael rounded on her fiercely. 'How so, Madam? By requesting to speak to two men who were seen quarrelling with a student the day before he was brutally murdered?
Do you have something to hide from me?'
'No! I…' protested Cecily, flustered. 'I have done nothing…'
'Then kindly refrain from meddling in University affairs, Madam,' said Michael in his most icy tones. 'Neither the Chancellor nor the King will be pleased if they hear that Godwinsson proved unhelpful — obstructive even — during the course of my inquiries into the foul murder of a member of the University.'
By the time Huw had ushered the friars into the solar, Lydgate and his wife were sitting side by side on the bench, while Michael stood in front of them, allowing his own considerable bulk to dominate them, as Lydgate had attempted to do to him.
'Where were you last night?' Michael snapped at the wary friars. 'Ah! Do not look at each other for the answer! Where were you? Come on, come on. I do not have all day!'
'Here,' ventured Werbergh, watching Michael fearfully.
'Here!' sneered Michael. 'Doctor, would you take Brother Werbergh into the corridor and ask him for his movements since his quarrel in the street yesterday?
I will talk to Brother Edred here, and then we will see whether their accounts tally.'
Bartholomew took Werbergh's arm before he had the chance to exchange the slightest of glances with the sullen Edred, and guided him outside, closing the door behind them. Huw the steward scuttled away from where he had evidently been listening through the keyhole.
Werbergh looked terrified, which was no doubt what Michael had intended. Bartholomew waited in silence for Werbergh to bare his soul. The physician had learned from Michael that uncomfortable silences frequently served to make people gabble, and, in gabbling, they often revealed more than they intended.
'After we… after you saved us from the Scots, Edred and I went to St Botolph's Church for vespers. We came straight home then, because the Senior Proctor told us to. We had to go out in the evening for compline, and after that I came back here. I walked home with Mistress Lydgate. You can ask her. She likes one of us to take her arm when she goes to church. Prefers us to her husband, I would say,' he added, with a sly grin at Bartholomew.
'What are you saying, Brother?' asked Bartholomew coldly, not liking the way in which the pale-faced friar was trying to ingratiate himself by taletelling.
Werbergh began to talk quickly again, Bartholomew's hostility making him more nervous than ever. 'Mistress and Master Lydgate are not the loving couple they seem, and she prefers younger scholars to his company.'
'What has this to do with where you were last night?' asked Bartholomew, making no attempt to hide his disgust at the friar's transparent obsequiousness. Any fool could see that relations between the Lydgates were far from rosy, and Bartholomew resented Werbergh's attempt to distract him from his inquiries by plying him with malicious gossip. Mistress Lydgate could seduce all the young scholars she pleased, and it would be none of Bartholomew's business — unless she set her sights on any of his own students, but they were all perfectly capable of looking after themselves in that quarter, probably far more so than Bartholomew would be.
The student shook his head miserably, his attempt to distract Bartholomew in tatters. 'I escorted Mistress Lydgate to her house and then followed the other students here. It was already getting dark, so most of us went to bed.'
'And what of Edred? Where was he?'
Werbergh licked dry lips. 'I did not notice where he was. We do not go everywhere together, you know,' he added with a spark of defiance. 'But I have been with other people from the moment we returned from our quarrel with the Scots until now. You can check.'
'Do you have any idea why we mightbe askingyou this?' asked Bartholomew, watching the student carefully.
Werbergh shook his head, but two pink spots appeared on his cheeks, and the way in which his eyes deliberately sought and held Bartholomew's was more indicative of guilt than honesty.
'It is surely against the rules of your Order to lie?' said Bartholomew softly.
Werbergh's eyes became glassy, and the redness increased. 'Yes,' he said finally, tearing his gaze away, and studying his sandalled feet instead. 'I can guess why you are asking me these questions. But I was afraid such an admission might make you assume my guilt. You think Edred and I may have stolen his ring.'
'Ring?' echoed Bartholomew, taken off-guard.
Werbergh looked at him with an expression of one who has played cat-and-mouse for long enough. 'The Scottish student's ring,' he said wearily. 'He was waiting for us when we came out of compline. He accused us of stealing his ring while we were pushing at each other in the High Street.' He paused for a moment, oblivious to Bartholomew's confusion. 'He was very upset; I almost felt sorry for him. We professed our innocence, and he left quietly.' He looked up and met Bartholomew's eyes a second time, but this time with truthfulness. 'That is why you have come, is it not? Because he has accused us of stealing his nasty ring?'
'It is not,' said Bartholomew. 'James Kenzie was murdered last night. And if what you say is true, you may have been the last ones to see him alive, with the exception of his killer.'
Blood drained from Werbergh's face, leaving him suddenly white and reeling. Bartholomew, genuinely concerned that the friar might faint, took his elbow and sat him on a chest. Werbergh stared ahead of him blankly for a moment, before looking up at Bartholomew with eyes that were glazed with shock.
'You would not jest with me on such a matter?' he asked in a whisper. He studied Bartholomew's face. 'No.
Of course you would not. What can I tell you? The Scot had been waiting in the churchyard, and he beckoned Edred and me to one side. Mistress Lydgate saw, I think.
He sounded more hopeful that we might give his ring back to him, than angry that we might have stolen it.
When we denied having it, he left. As I said, I felt almost sorry for him, even though he was so offensive earlier. He was alone — at least, I saw no one with him.
I did not see anyone following him when he left.' He screwed up his face in what Bartholomew assumed was a genuine attempt to remember anything that might help.
Eventually, he shrugged, and shook his head. 'That is all I can recall, I am afraid. We had a stupid argument in the street, but I did not wish any of the David's men dead because of it.'
The solar door flung open and Michael stalked out, the Lydgates and Edred, whose face was tearstained, on his heels. Bartholomew bowed to Mistress Lydgate, and followed Michael, leaving Werbergh to make good his escape from his Principal by scuttling off in the other direction. Bartholomew was aware that Lydgate was pursuing him and Michael along the corridor and down the stairs to the front door, but was surprised to find his shoulder in a grip that was so firm it was almost painful. He spun round quickly so that Lydgate was forced to let go.
'I resent this intrusion into my affairs, Bartholomew,' said Lydgate in a low hiss. 'I have connections in the University. If I find you have been meddling in things that are not your concern, you will live to regret it.'
Had Lydgate overheard them talking about the burning of the tithe barn, Bartholomew wondered, as he met Lydgate's hostile glower with a cool stare of his own?
Or was he merely referring to the rather insalubrious connection of two of his students with a murder victim? 'Leave well alone, Bartholomew,' Lydgate whispered with quiet menace when Bartholomew did not answer, and pushed the physician roughly towards the door.
Bartholomew slithered out of his grip, and thrust Lydgate away from him. The two stared at each other for a long moment of undisguised mutual loathing, before Bartholomew turned on his heel and strode after Michael.
Lydgate watched him go and then closed the door. He leaned against the wall and his eyes narrowed into hard, vicious slits.
