An Order for Death (54 page)

‘This Easter Sunday, we have gathered in St Mary’s Church to hear Master William Heytesbury of Merton College in
Oxford,’ began Tynkell in a grand voice. ‘Although an esteemed proponent of nominalism, Heytesbury will speak on a different
matter to us. The question we shall ponder is: Let us debate whether life exists in other universes.’

Bartholomew saw Heytesbury grimace, and one or two supporters of realism begin to grin at each other, gloating over the fact
that the greatest nominalist in the country had been forbidden to speak his mind. Lincolne, looked as black as thunder.

‘Does he think God will strike him down?’ he boomed, the sudden loudness of his voice making several scholars jump in alarm.
‘Is he afraid to declare his heretical theories in a church?’

Heytesbury gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am willing to explain my theories anywhere, but I have not been invited to talk
about them. I have been asked to speak about whether hairstyles like yours exist in parallel universes.’

The Dominicans began to cheer, drowning Chancellor Tynkell’s attempt to silence them and to bring the debate back to the subject
in hand. The Carmelites objected to Heytesbury’s remark, and began to yell insults at him.

‘Perhaps it was not such a good idea to try to censor the debate,’ Bartholomew shouted to Michael, trying to make himself
heard over the din. ‘You might cause more trouble by declining to discuss the problem than if it had been aired in the open.’

‘Our mistake was trying to hold the debate at all,’ yelled Michael. ‘We should have waited until matters calmed down.’

‘Look at Lincolne,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the distinctive topknot making its way towards Heytesbury and Tynkell. ‘I
have a feeling he intends more than a quiet chat about nominalist principles, Brother. Unless you want Heytesbury riding home
with a blackened eye and tales of Cambridge’s violent debates, you should stop him.’

‘Come with me,’ instructed Michael. ‘I will never restrain Lincolne and fend off his students alone, and my beadles are struggling
with the Dominicans.’

Bartholomew followed the monk as he elbowed his way through the surging mass. Any control Tynkell might have commanded had
been lost, and the church was filled with ringing shouts and threats. Michael reached Lincolne and grabbed him by the arm.

‘Let me go!’ howled the Carmelite Prior furiously, trying to free himself. ‘I will not stand here and be forced to listen
to the lies of that wicked man.’

‘Leave,’ suggested Michael breathlessly. ‘Then you will not have to.’

‘Our Prior will not be forced from his University church by a nominalist,’ declared Horneby hotly, trying to push his way
past Bartholomew. ‘It is unthinkable!’

‘I will kill him where he stands,’ vowed Lincolne, white-faced with anger.

With a shock, Bartholomew saw that Lincolne had a knife in his hand, and the expression on his face indicated that he fully
intended to use it. Even loyal Horneby’s jaw dropped in shock at the sight of his Prior armed and murderous in a church.

‘Wait!’ Horneby yelled, catching Lincolne’s sleeve and trying to pull him back. ‘This is no place for a fight, Father.’

‘It is the perfect place,’ snarled Lincolne, trying to free his arm from Horneby and the rest of him from Michael. It was
easier said than done, and he started to lose his balance, threatening to drag his restrainers down with him.

Lincolne was not the only one who had decided it was a good time for a debate with fists rather than wits. Here and there,
small skirmishes had broken out in the nave, and Bartholomew found himself hemmed in tightly by a throng of struggling, shoving
scholars. Lincolne began to topple and snatched at Bartholomew to try to retain his balance. But Bartholomew was being pushed,
too, and he grabbed at Lincolne at about the same time. They both fell, surrounded by churning boots and shoes that threatened
to trample them.

A heavy foot planted on his hand convinced Bartholomew
that the floor was no place to linger, but the press of bodies around him was such that he could not stand. Through the milling
legs and swirling habits that surrounded him, he glimpsed the wooden platform that had been erected for Heytesbury to stand
on. He made his way towards it on all fours.

When he arrived, bruised and rather breathless, he eased himself into its sanctuary only to discover that he was not the only
one determined to use it as a refuge. Lincolne was already there, filling most of it with his bulk.

Michael saw that Bartholomew was still on the ground, and surged forward to try to pull him upright before he was injured.
He snatched at a handful of the physician’s gown, and pulled as hard as he could. The rip was audible even over the frenzied
yelling that filled the church, and the sudden removal of Bartholomew’s sleeve caused Michael to lose his balance. He staggered,
crashing into Bartholomew, who was knocked forward into Lincolne. The physician reached out with both hands, instinctively
grabbing at anything he could reach to save himself.

Unfortunately, his flailing hands encountered Lincolne’s topknot. He was horrified, embarrassed and slightly revolted when
it came off. He glanced up. Without it, Lincolne was just an ordinary-looking man with a bald, yellowish forehead.

‘Give that back,’ snapped Lincolne, snatching it from the physician and replacing it. He glowered furiously at Bartholomew,
who felt he had committed a most frightful indiscretion.

Mortified, the physician looked away, gazing at the hand that had deprived Lincolne of his hairpiece. He was confused to see
that it was marked with a yellowish, sticky residue. He had seen a stain just like it on Walcote, and on Faricius before that.
Bewildered, he stared at Lincolne.

‘I use gum mastic to keep my hair in place,’ explained Lincolne. ‘It is a better glue than anything else I have discovered,
but it still has a habit of coming off in situations like this.’

‘“Situations like this”?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘You mean situations in which you are trying to kill someone?’ He flinched as
a Dominican, punched hard by a Carmelite, reeled into the platform, and scrambled further inside.

‘It has come off in public twice before today,’ confided Lincolne. ‘Is it on straight? I do not like to be seen without it.
It is nice, do you not agree?’

‘Is it real?’ asked Bartholomew, ghoulishly curious, despite the fact that he knew he should be asking Lincolne about his
role in the deaths of Faricius and Walcote, not discussing fashions.

Lincolne nodded. ‘I had it made from my own hair, when I still had some.’

‘I have seen this glue before,’ said Bartholomew, glancing down at the vivid stain on his hand. ‘It was on the bodies of Faricius
and Walcote.’

‘Yes,’ said Lincolne. ‘As I just said, it has a habit of coming off when I am trying to rid the world of people who should
not be in it.’

‘
You
killed Faricius?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

Lincolne pursed his lips. ‘The boy was writing the most scurrilous nonsense I have ever read. When he went out during the
riot to retrieve it, I saw too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘
You
stabbed him and left him to die?’ asked Bartholomew in a sickened whisper.

‘I thought I had killed him, and I was going to bury that vile essay with him. But the Dominican Precentor must have stolen
it from his body. You understand, do you not? I could not have the Carmelites’ reputation sullied by the filth of nominalism.’

‘It is only a philosophical theory,’ said Bartholomew, his shocked voice only just audible over the deafening racket of the
fight that surged above him. ‘An idea. It is nothing to kill for. But you urged Michael to investigate the Dominicans, while
all the time the killer was you?’

‘Of course I encouraged him to look at the Black Friars,’
said Lincolne testily. ‘I did not want him discovering it was I who killed Faricius, or even worse, him learning about the
existence of the essay.’

‘But why did you not just confiscate Faricius’s work?’ asked Bartholomew, ducking as someone in a grey habit tried to kick
him.

‘I tried, but Faricius would not be silenced,’ replied Lincolne, striking out at the grey habit with his knife. There was
an agonised howl and blood dribbled on to the creamy yellow tiles of the floor. ‘When I confronted him on Milne Street, he
told me he intended to go to Oxford with Heytesbury, so that he could become a better nominalist than ever.’

‘And you killed Walcote, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought Timothy and Janius did that, but the gum mastic stain on Walcote’s
hand indicates otherwise.’

‘He declined to hand over the essay. We offered him a chance to live, but he refused to take it. We hanged him, and Michael
generously furthered our plan by appointing Timothy in his place.’

‘But why should that matter to you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were only interested in retrieving the essay.’

‘Then you are wrong,’ said Lincolne. ‘I am concerned with wider issues, too, such as Michael’s cavorting with Oxford men and
threatening the welfare of the entire University. I had to stop him, and Timothy and Janius were helping me.’

‘So Timothy was telling the truth after all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said someone else was in control, but we did not believe
him, especially when Janius denied it. But I did not imagine it was you. To be honest, I suspected Heytesbury, given that
he is always chewing gum mastic.’

Lincolne snarled his disgust. ‘I am a decent man, who is prepared to act to see our University saved from men like Michael
and Walcote. But that evil nominalist chews gum mastic to hide the fact that he is a heavy drinker.’

‘But what were
you
doing there when Walcote, Timothy
and Janius caught Kyrkeby outside your friary?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘Did Timothy summon you?’

‘I was watching Kyrkeby,’ said Lincolne, stabbing at another pair of legs that came too close. He grimaced in annoyance when
they moved before he could pierce them. ‘He was hovering outside our friary, as if he meant us harm. The other three frightened
him to death and Walcote suggested we should hide him in the tunnel. It was time it was sealed anyway.’

‘But you said you did not know about it,’ said Bartholomew. Then he recalled what Lincolne had said the first time they had
met, when the Carmelite had been ranting about the death of Faricius: that he had been at the friary since he was a child.
And if that were the case, then he would certainly have known about the tunnel. Masters were never told, but Lincolne had
been a student.

Lincolne saw the understanding in his face and sneered. ‘Did you imagine I was the only student ever to pass through the friary
who was not party to the secret of the tunnel?’

‘Did you attend any of those meetings Walcote arranged at St Radegund’s Convent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And did you know that
Timothy and Janius were going to kill Michael?’

‘Of course I attended Walcote’s meetings,’ snapped Lincolne impatiently. ‘I am the leader of the Carmelites, and an important
man. It was I who recommended that he hold them at St Radegund’s.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is no place for decent men.’

‘Walcote did not invite decent men,’ said Lincolne reasonably. ‘He invited Pechem and Morden and Ralph. Holding the meetings
there ensured they all came – they were all very sanctimonious about the venue, but I knew they would not attend if he held
them anywhere less interesting. It was also the last place Michael would think to look for us.’

‘You are wrong about the others,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are the only one to cavort regularly with prostitutes.’

‘Lies!’ spat Lincolne. ‘I do no such thing.’

‘You have a long-standing arrangement with Yolande de Blaston,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Matilde had told him. ‘None
of the others break their vows with such regularity. But I want to know more about St Radegund’s. Did Eve Wasteneys, Mabel
Martyn or Tysilia help you?’

‘Tysilia?’ exclaimed Lincolne in genuine horror. ‘The woman is a half-wit in a pretty body. She killed my poor novice – Brother
Andrew – by breaking his impressionable heart. She is vermin, who will not survive the Death when God sends it a second time
to rid the world of evil.’

‘What about the other nuns, then?’ pressed Bartholomew, wincing as Michael tumbled against the platform, threatening to demolish
it with him and Lincolne still underneath. ‘How much did they know about what was discussed?’

Lincolne pulled his thoughts away from Tysilia. ‘Eve Wasteneys was too busy to be interested, while it was Dame Martyn’s task
to arrange for services to be provided for those who required them. And I do not mean services of a religious nature, so do
not tell me the likes of Pechem, Morden and Ralph are saints where women are concerned.’

‘Did you know that Timothy and Janius retrieved Faricius’s essay because they intended to have it published under their own
names?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that would shock the friar.

‘Liar!’ snapped Lincolne.

‘They stole it from Father Paul. Janius is in the proctors’ cells, and doubtless will confirm it when you join him there.’

‘Not me,’ said Lincolne, lunging at Bartholomew with the knife. ‘I am going to no such place.’

Bartholomew twisted to one side, and the gleaming blade made a long groove in one of St Mary’s beautiful decorated tiles.
Lincolne stabbed again, and Bartholomew hurled himself against the Prior, aiming to crush the man against the side of the
platform. Michael, however, intervened. Determined to haul the physician to his feet before he was trampled, he took a firm
hold of Bartholomew’s arm and pulled with considerable force. Bartholomew found himself
pinned against the platform himself, unable to move. With a grin of triumph as he saw his quarry rendered immobile, Lincolne
began to move towards him.

Just when Bartholomew thought that Michael would unwittingly bring about his death, Lincolne’s determined advance was brought
to a halt by a group of skirmishing Dominicans and Carmelites, who collided with the platform, causing it to topple. Bartholomew
struggled free of Michael as it fell with an almighty crash that hurt his ears. Lincolne suddenly found himself deprived of
the relative safety of his refuge, and Bartholomew took advantage of the Prior’s moment of confusion by diving at him. One
of the brawling Dominicans blundered into the physician at exactly the wrong moment, so that he fell awkwardly, and managed
to end up underneath Lincolne rather than on top, as he had intended.