other occasions. Well, I am in sympathy with your point, Matt, but I need to concentrate on preventing further riots. I cannot spare the men to look into this Joanna's death.
One of my archers says he saw Joanna in the company of some French scholars after the riot erupted. Tell Brother Michael it is a University matter and persuade him to investigate.'
He took the reins of his horse from the waiting porter and watched Bartholomew unbar the gate so that he could leave. As he led his horse out of the yard, he caught Bartholomew's arm. 'But if you do look into this death be tactful, Matt. It would be unfortunate if incautious inquiries sparked off another riot.'
Making certain that the gate was firmly closed and barred, Bartholomew strolled back across the courtyard to intercept Michael, who was heading towards the kitchens for something to eat before he, too, went to patrol the streets with his beadles. Bartholomew told the monk about Joanna but met with little enthusiasm.
'Dick Tulyet is right, Matt. There were many grievous crimes committed last night — nine dead and countless injured — which is why we cannot allow it to happen again.
It is a terrible thing that happened to this whore, but it is done, and there is nothing we can do about it now.'
'We can avenge her death,' Bartholomew replied, disgusted that Michael should take such a view. 'We can find out who misused her and punish them for it.'
'But we have no idea who it may have been,' said Michael with a patent lack of interest.
'Tulyet said she was last seen with French scholars.
French scholars tried to make away with Eleanor Tyler last night. Perhaps they had already committed one such crime.'
'Well, if so, then they are punished already,' said Michael dismissively, 'for you told me yourself that one already lies dead in the Castle, stabbed by Mistress Tyler.
And you are being unfair. There are a lot of French scholars in the University; there is no reason to assume the Godwinsson trio are to blame.'
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and considered.
'There are not that many French students here.
You could supply me with a list, since the University keeps records of such things. Then I could make some inquiries.'
'I will do no such thing,' said Michael firmly. 'First, it might be dangerous. Second, you are not a proctor and have no authority to investigate such matters. And third, even enquiring might strike the spark that will ignite another riot. No, Matt. I will not let you do it.'
'Then I will make inquiries without your help,' said Bartholomew coldly, turning on his heel and stalking back towards his room.
Michael hurried after him and grabbed his arm. 'What is the matter with you?' he asked, perplexed. 'I know you dislike violence, so why are you so intent on subverting the attempts of the Sheriff and the University to prevent more of it?'
Bartholomew looked at Michael and then up at the dark sky. 'The dead woman had hair just like Philippa,' he said.
Michael shook Bartholomew's arm gently. 'That is no reason at all,' he chided. He blew out his cheeks in a gesture of resignation. 'You are stubborn. Look, I will help you, but not tonight. I will get the list tomorrow and we can look into this together. I do not want you doing this alone.'
Bartholomew hesitated, then gave Michael a quick smile and walked briskly across the rest of the yard to his room. Michael was right: it was far too late to begin inquiries into Joanna's death that night and, anyway, he was weary from his labours with the injured all that day.
He had surprised himself by revealing to Michael the overwhelming reason why he felt compelled to avenge Joanna and supposed he must be more tired than he guessed. Bearing in mind his ill-conceived invitation to Matilde as well, he decided to retire to bed before he made any more embarrassing statements. Thinking of Matilde reminded him of Philippa and he was disconcerted to find that the image of her face was blurred in his mind. Was her hair really the same colour as Joanna's? On second thoughts, he was not so sure that it was. He reached his room, automatically extinguishing the candle to save the wax. He undressed in the darkness and was asleep almost before he lay on the bed.
Michael watched his friend cross the yard and then resumed his journey to the kitchen. He knew from experience that he would be unable to prevent Bartholomew doing what he intended, and that it would be safer for both of them if Michael helped rather than hindered him. He gave a huge sigh as he stole bacon-fat and oatcakes for his evening repast and hoped Bartholomew was not going to champion all fallen women with fair hair like Philippa.
In an attempt to keep the scholars occupied and off the streets, term started with a vengeance the following day.
All University members were obliged to attend mass in a church; lectures started at six o'clock, after breakfast. The main meal of the day was at ten, followed by more teaching until early afternoon. Since the plague, Michaelhouse food, which had never been good, had plummeted to new and hitherto unimaginable depths. Breakfast was a single oatcake and a slice of cold, greasy mutton accompanied by cloudy ale that made Bartholomew feel queasy; the main meal was stewed fish giblets — a favourite of Father William — served with hard bread. Michael complained bitterly and dispatched one of his students to buy him some pies from the Market Square.
When teaching was over for the day Bartholomew and Michael were able to meet. A light meal was available in the hall but when Bartholomew heard it was fish-giblet stew again — probably because it had not been particularly popular the first time round — he went instead to the kitchens, Michael in tow.
'And what is wrong with my fish-giblet stew?' demanded Agatha the laundress aggressively, blocking the door with her formidable frame, arms akimbo. 'If it is good enough for that saintly Father William, then it should be good enough for you two layabouts.'
'Father William is not saintly! ' said Michael with conviction.
'If he were, he would not eat the diabolical fish-giblet stew with such unnatural relish!'
'What do you mean?' demanded Agatha, looking from Michael to Bartholomew with open hostility. 'There is no unnatural relish in my fish-giblet stew, I can tell you!
I only use the finest ingredients. Now, off with you! I am busy.'
Agatha determined, and in a foul temper, was not a thing to be regarded lightly, and Bartholomew was fully resigned to returning to his room hungry. Michael, however, was less easily repulsed, particularly where food was concerned.
'Everything you cook is delicious, Madam,' he said, attempting to ease his own considerable bulk past hers.
She was having none of that and stood firm. Michael continued suavely, standing close enough so that he would be able to shoot past her the moment a gap appeared. 'And the fish-giblet stew is no exception. But a man can have too much of a good thing, and, in the interests of my immortal soul, I crave something a little less fine, something simple.'
Agatha eyed him suspiciously. 'Such as what?'
'A scrap of bread, a rind of cheese, a wizened apple or two, perhaps a dribble of watered ale.'
'All right, then,' said Agatha reluctantly after a moment's serious consideration. 'But I am busy with the preparations for the Founder's Feast next week, so you will have to help yourselves.'
'Gladly, Madam,' said Michael silkily, slipping past her and heading for the pantry. Agatha glared at Bartholomew before allowing him to pass, and he wondered what he could have done to upset her. Usually, she turned a blind eye to his occasional forays to the kitchens when he missed meals in hall. He wondered whether the Tyler women had told her that he believed she had dispensed amorous favours to the rough men in the King's Head to earn free ale.
While she gave her attention to a mound of dead white chickens that were piled on the kitchen table, he took a modest portion of ale from the barrel in the corner. Michael clattered in the pantry, humming cheerfully. Just when the monk had taken sufficiently long to make Agatha start towards the source of the singing with her masculine chin set for battle, Michael emerged, displaying two apples and a piece of bluish-green bread.
Agatha inspected them minutely.
