An Unholy Alliance (4 page)

Bartholomew was startled into silence, wondering whether his teaching and practice were really as outlandish as many of his colleagues seemed to feel.

Bartholomew had learned medicine at the University in Paris from an Arab doctor who had taught him

that incidence of disease could be lessened by simple hygiene. Bartholomew fervently believed Ibn Ibrahim was right, a notion that brought him into conflict with many of his patients and colleagues. De Wetherset’s arguments had tripped very lightly off his tongue, suggesting that he had debated this issue before. Michael,

hiding his amusement, resumed the questioning of de Wetherset.

‘So there is no time ever when you might remove

the keys?’

‘Never,’ said de Wetherset. “I even sleep with them.’

‘What about Master Buckley?’ said Michael. ‘Where is he? We should really ask him the same questions.’

‘He is unwell,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Did you not know that, Doctor? He is your patient.’

Master Buckley, the Vice-Chancellor, was a Fellow of King’s Hall. He taught grammar, and, many years before, Bartholomew’s older sister Edith had hired Master Buckley to coach him when the school at

Peterborough Abbey broke for holidays. Bartholomew’s knowledge of grammar had not improved, and Buckley’s dull company had done a great deal to convince him that this subject made a very poor showing after arithmetic, geometry, and natural philosophy. Bartholomew had met Buckley again when he had been made Master

of Medicine at Michaelhouse six years before, and had treated Buckley frequently for a skin complaint.

‘Who usually opens the chest?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘Well, Master Buckley, actually,’ said de Wetherset.

‘Gilbert usually kindles the lamps, and I like to set out the table, ready to work on the documents locked in the chest.’

Bartholomew looked at Gilbert, who hastened to

explain. ‘Master de Wetherset hands Master Buckley his keys, he unlocks the chest and removes any documents we require, and then he locks it again immediately.’ He looked down at the lock in renewed horror. ‘You mean poor Master Buckley could have been killed like that poor friar just by unlocking the chest?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Yes. Assuming the lock has not been changed.’

Bartholomew stood to leave. ‘That is all we can tell you,’ he said. “I am sorry it is not more, but perhaps Masters Harling andjonstan will uncover the truth when they begin to investigate.’

The Chancellor shook his head slowly, and indicated he should sit again. ‘My Proctors cannot investigate this,’ he said. ‘They have their hands full trying to keep peace between students and the gangs of people gathered for the Stourbridge Fair. Also, there are scores of entertainers, mercenaries, and the Lord knows what manner of people wandering through the town gawking at our buildings and assessing our wealth. An increase in non-University folk around the town has always been a danger, but has been especially so since the Death, with lordless labourers strolling free.’

Bartholomew knew all this: the Fair was the largest in England, and merchants from all over England, France, and even Flanders came to trade. The Fair also attracted entertainers - singers, dancers, actors, fire-eaters, jongleurs, acrobats, and many more - and with the entertainers came pickpockets, thieves, rabble rousers, and tricksters. The Proctors always struggled to keep the scholars out of trouble, but this year the situation was far more serious. The plague had taken landowners as well as those who worked for them, and many previously bonded men had found themselves free.

A shortage of labour had forced wages up, and groups of people wandered the country selling their services to those that could pay the most. Compounding all this, the soldiers who had been fighting the King’s wars in France had begun to return. It was easier to steal than to work, and robbers on the roads were increasingly common, especially given the number of carts that trundled along taking goods to and from the Fair.

The Fair was only in its second week, but already there had been three deaths, and a riot had been only narrowly averted when a local tinker had stolen a student’s purse.

‘Because my Proctors are busy with the Fair,’ the Chancellor continued, “I will need to crave your indulgence a little longer, and ask that you might make some preliminary enquiries on my behalf. Of course, Harling and Jonstan will help wherever they can, but…’

‘If you will forgive me, Master de Wetherset,’ interrupted Bartholomew, “I would rather not be a party

to an extended investigation. I am a physician, and I think the events of two Christmases ago show clearly that I am not adept at this kind of thing. You would be better asking one of your clerks to do it. Perhaps Gilbert?’

“I require a physician to examine the body of my scribe Nicholas to see if he, too, was killed by this foul device,’ said de Wetherset, gesturing to the lock on the table. ‘Gilbert cannot tell me whether a man has been poisoned or not.’

‘But Nicholas is buried!’ said Michael, shocked. ‘You said he died a month ago.’

‘You mean to dig him up?’ gasped Gilbert, his face white under his beard.

Cuthbert joined in. ‘Nicholas has been laid to rest in hallowed ground! You cannot disturb him! It is contrary to the will of God!’

De Wetherset looked disapprovingly at them before addressing Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Nicholas lies in the churchyard here. I will obtain the necessary permits from the Bishop and you will exhume the body this week.

You will also report back to me regularly. I will speak with Master Kenyngham and ask that you be excused lectures if they interfere with your investigation.’

Bartholomew felt a flash of anger at de Wetherset’s presumption, followed by a feeling of sick dread. He had no wish to investigate murders or delve into the University’s sordid affairs.

‘But my students have their disputations soon,’ he protested. “I cannot abandon them!’

“I need a physician to examine the corpse,’ repeated the Chancellor. ‘You underestimate your abilities, Doctor.

You are honest and discreet, and for these reasons alone I trust you more than most of my clerks. I think you both of you,’ he added, looking at Michael, ‘are perfectly equipped to get to the bottom of this matter. I know you would both rather teach than investigate University affairs, but I must ask you to indulge me for a day or so, and do my bidding. I know the Bishop will support me in this.’

‘But if your clerk has been dead for a month, I will be able to tell you nothing about his death,’ Bartholomew protested. ‘Even if there were once a small cut on his hand, like the one on the friar, the flesh will be corrupted, and I doubt I will be able to see it.’

De Wetherset winced in distaste. ‘Perhaps. But you will not know until you look, and I require that you try.’

He leaned towards Bartholomew, his expression earnest.

‘This is important. I must know whether Nicholas came to harm because of the book I ordered he write about the University.’

Bartholomew held his gaze. ‘You must be aware of the stories that say the plague came from the graves of the dead,’ he said. ‘It is a risk

‘Nonsense,’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘You do not believe that story, Doctor, any more than I do. The plague is over.

It will not come again.’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Bartholomew,

irritated at the man’s complacency. ‘How do you know someone at the Fair is not sickening from the plague at this very moment?’

‘It has passed us over,’ said de Wetherset, his voice rising in reply. ‘It has gone north.’

‘There are people at the Fair who have come from the north,’ countered Bartholomew, becoming exasperated.

‘How do you know they have not brought it back with them, in their clothes, or in the goods they hope to sell?’

‘Well, which is it, Doctor?’ said de Wetherset triumphantly, detecting a flaw in Bartholomew’s argument.

‘Is it carried by the living, or in the graves with the dead?

You cannot have it both ways.’

‘My point is that I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s warning looks for arguing with the Chancellor. ‘No one knows! How can we take such a risk by exhuming your clerk? Will you endanger the lives of the people of Cambridge, of England, over this?’

De Wetherset snorted impatiently. ‘There is no risk!

Nicholas died of a summer ague, not the plague. I saw his body in his coffin before he was buried. Your peculiar ideas about cleanliness are making you over-cautious.

You will exhume the body in two or three days’ time when I have the necessary licences. Now, what do you plan to do about this friar?’

Michael pulled thoughtfully at the thin whiskers on his flabby cheek, while Bartholomew threw up his hands in exasperation, and went to stand near the window to bring his anger under control.

‘Can you test the lock to make certain it is poisoned?’

Michael asked Bartholomew.

Bartholomew looked at him distastefully and stifled a sigh. ‘Will one of your clerks do that?’ he asked de Wetherset.

‘How?’ asked de Wetherset, looking at the lock in renewed revulsion.

‘Test it on a rat or a bird. If the poison killed the friar through that tiny cut, then the poor animal, being considerably smaller, should die fairly quickly.’

Bartholomew felt a sudden, unreasonable anger

towards the friar whose death was about to cause such upheaval in his life. What was the man doing in the tower anyway? He could only have been there to steal or to spy. Bartholomew watched de Wetherset issue instructions to Gilbert to test the lock on a rat, and gestured to Michael that they should go.

‘Wait!’ the Chancellor commanded, standing as they made to leave. “I must ask that you observe utmost discretion over this business. That a man has died in the University chest cannot be denied, but I do not wish anyone to know about the University history that was being written.’

Michael nodded acquiescence, bowed, and walked out, while Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling dejected. He was going to become entangled in the unsavoury world of University politics a second time, and be forced to question the motives of his friends and family.

Outside, Michael rubbed his hands together and

beamed. ‘What shall we do first?’ he asked, and

Bartholomew realised that the fat monk was relishing their enforced duties. Michael had always loved University affairs, and thrived on the petty politics and plots that were a part of College life. He saw Bartholomew’s doleful expression and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Come, Matt,’ he said reassuringly. ‘This is not like the other business. There are no threats to those we love, and your Philippa is safely away visiting her brother. This has nothing to do with Michaelhouse. It is just some minor intrigue that has gone wrong.’

Bartholomew was unconvinced. “I should have gone with Philippa,’ he said bitterly, ‘or followed her brother’s lead and moved away from this vile pit of lies and deception to London.’

‘You would hate London,’ Michael laughed. ‘You make enough fuss about the filth and dirt here. In London it would be ten times worse, and they say that the River Thames is the dirtiest river in England. You would hate it,’ he said again, drawing his morose friend away from the shadows of the church and into the bright sunlight to where Cynric waited for them.

They began to walk down the High Street towards

King’s Hall to visit Master Buckley. The streets were busier than usual because of the Fair, and houses that had stood empty since the plague were bursting at the seams with travellers. A baker passed them, his tray brimming with pies and pastries, while two beggars watched him with hungry eyes.

With an effort, Bartholomew brought his mind

back to what Michael was saying about the dead

friar. Michael, strolling next to him, began to run through the possibilities surrounding the friar’s death, for Cynric’s benefit. They turned suddenly as they heard a wail. A woman tore towards them, her long, fair hair streaming behind her like a banner. Bartholomew

recognised her as Sybilla, the ditcher’s daughter, and one of the town’s prostitutes. Her mother, brothers, and sisters had died in the plague, and her father had allowed her to follow any path she chose, while he took his own comfort from the bottles of wine she brought him. Bartholomew caught her as she made to run past.

‘What has happened?’ he said, alarmed by her tear streaked face and wild, frightened eyes.

Tsobel!’ she sobbed. Tsobel!’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, looking down the street.

‘Has she been hurt?’

He exchanged glances with Brother Michael. They

were both aware of the murder of two of the town’s prostitutes during the last few weeks. Bartholomew had seen the body of one of them, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky and her throat cut.

Sybilla was unable to answer and Bartholomew let her go, watching as she fled up the High Street, her wailing drawing people from their houses to see what was happening. Bartholomew and Michael, concerned for Isobel, continued in the direction from which Sybilla had come, until they saw people gathering in St Botolph’s churchyard.

Two women bent over someone lying on the ground, and Bartholomew and Michael approached, the monk stifling a cry of horror as he saw the blood-splattered figure. Bartholomew knelt next to Isobel’s body and gently eased her onto her back. Her throat was a mess of congealed blood, dark and sticky where it had flooded down her chest.

Michael squatted down next to him, his eyes tightly closed so he would not have to look. He began to mutter prayers for the dead, while Bartholomew wrapped her in her cloak. Cynric disappeared to report the news to the Sheriff and to locate the dead woman’s family.

When Michael had finished, Bartholomew picked up the body and carried it into the church. A friar, who had been in the crowd outside, helped put her into the parish coffin and cover her with a sheet. While the friar went to clear the churchyard of ghoulish onlookers and to await Isobel’s family, Bartholomew looked again at the body, while Michael peered over his shoulder.