The Tainted Relic (39 page)

Morden grimaced. ‘Yes, you told me yesterday that, as a Dominican, I am supposed to denounce blood relics. I imagine that was why Witney approached me: as the highest-ranking Black Friar, he expected me to concur with his views.’

‘Views which run contrary to those of his own Order,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So, now we know where he stood–we do not need to ask Seton about him.’

‘Do you know what Little Tomas thinks?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he follow your Order’s guidelines, or is he, like Witney, the kind of man to take against them?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Morden. ‘We have discussed the polemic, but he has never honoured me with his own opinions. Do you think he might have been sent by the Master-General, to ferret out heretics and rebels among us?’ His elfin features creased into an expression of alarm.

‘It is possible,’ said Michael spitefully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew at the same time.

Morden looked unhappier still as he snapped his fingers at a passing servant. It was John Roughe, who was ordered to convey the visitors to the dormitory Bulmer shared with the other novices. On the way, Roughe did his best to engage them in conversation and find out what they wanted to ask Bulmer. He was clearly unconvinced by Bartholomew’s claim that he was there in a professional capacity, and looked meaningfully at the bulky presence of the Senior Proctor.

‘It was Bulmer who started that fight,’ John asserted, abandoning his ingratiating manner when he saw it would not work. ‘Not my brother Kip. If Bulmer tells you otherwise, then he is a liar. He was at the church, after whores.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Bartholomew, not much caring what the novice was doing. It was not his affair.

‘Yes,’ stated Roughe angrily. They were in a narrow corridor, and he stepped forward smartly to block their way. ‘And he does not need the services of a physician, so you might as well save your time and go home.’

Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘I am a better judge of that than you. Stand aside.’

‘I will not—’ But Michael’s bulk loomed, and Roughe’s words died in his throat. With a silent and infinitely resentful gesture, he indicated that the room they wanted was straight ahead.

‘He does not like us being here,’ mused Michael, watching him slouch away. ‘We are
personae non gratae
wherever we go these days.’

‘You have the power to fine his brother for attacking Bulmer–and from what I saw of Kip earlier today, I would not be surprised to learn that he was the aggressor. It is an odd tale anyway. Why should a lout like Kip take exception to Bulmer eyeing prostitutes? Is it because he has a favourite lady, and he does not want to share her with members of the university?’

He opened the dormitory door and entered the long chamber. Bulmer was sitting in the end bed with a cooling poultice pushed to his swollen face. He looked a good deal worse than he had the day before, because the swelling had come out, although he was no longer reeling and stupid. He scowled as they approached.

‘I told you yesterday,’ he began without preamble. ‘Kip Roughe punched me.’

‘It is a strange wound to be caused by a punch,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the bruising closely. ‘He must have caught you at an odd angle.’

‘It hurt, I know that,’ said Bulmer ruefully. ‘But, being a peace-loving man, I have no knowledge about what constitutes the right or wrong angles for blows.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, knowing perfectly well that Bulmer was an accomplished and experienced brawler, and that he knew exactly how to hit people.

‘It is difficult to find the truth when there are no independent witnesses and both protagonists claim the other is at fault,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew sit on the bed and gently probe the swelling.

‘I have told you what happened,’ objected Bulmer, pushing the physician away. ‘I will take final vows soon, and I am not given to lying. The Roughe brothers are, though; they steal, too.’

‘Can you prove dishonesty?’ asked Michael. ‘I will prosecute them, if so.’

Bulmer looked sheepish. ‘I am repeating what others have told me.
They
may be too timid to take on the Roughes, but I am not.’

‘Where did the altercation happen?’ asked Michael.

‘Outside St Andrew’s.’

‘What were you doing there?’

Bulmer was surprised by the question. ‘It is the nearest church to the friary, and I often go there to pray. Many Dominicans do. Our own chapel can be noisy in the daytime, and some of us crave a quieter place for our devotions.’

Bartholomew struggled to keep the incredulity from his face, although Michael had no such qualms, and his expression was openly sceptical. ‘You are not a pious lad, Bulmer, so do not pretend you are. Your skills and merits lie in other areas–equally valuable to your Order, I am sure–but do not try to deceive me.’

‘Very well,’ said Bulmer stiffly. ‘I was watching someone.’

‘I see. Does Prior Morden know you spend your time ogling whores?’

‘That is
not
what I was doing!’ cried Bulmer, shocked. ‘I only ever watch them at night, and the incident with Roughe happened in daylight.’

‘Who were you watching?’ asked Michael curiously.

Bulmer was uneasy. ‘I would rather not say.’

Michael followed his nervous glance towards the door. ‘Do not worry about being overheard. Matt will stand guard and make sure no one is eavesdropping.’

Bartholomew obliged, and the novice began to speak. ‘I was watching Little Tomas. I do not like him.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am not sure,’ admitted Bulmer. ‘I am not given to flights of fancy, being a practical fellow, but my feelings about him are strong, and I felt the need to act. Prior Morden is a good man, but overly inclined to see the good in people. I do not want him harmed because of the likes of Little Tomas.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ asked Michael, raising his hand when Bartholomew started to point out that the suspicion probably arose from the fact that Tomas was a foreigner, and such men often excited negative emotions in English towns.

Bulmer played with the compress against his injured face. ‘He says he is from a university called Pécs, but I have never heard of it, and I do not believe it exists. I am afraid he is here to spy on us, to see where we stand over this Holy Blood business. None of us really understands the wretched affair, and Prior Morden is too open for his own good–I think he may even believe the Franciscans are right, and might confide in the wrong people. I do not want the Cambridge community excommunicated when I am about to take my final vows–I should like to be a prior one day, and that will not happen if I am deemed a heretic.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael. ‘You do not like Tomas because he is from an unknown university and you think he may be part of an inquisition?’

Bulmer nodded. ‘And because he asks questions. I detest Kip Roughe, as you know, but even he is uncomfortable with Tomas, and
that
is why we fought. I was watching Tomas, but it was Kip who was about to thrust a knife between his shoulder blades. I cannot condone murder, not even of someone like Tomas. I ordered him to put down his weapon, and he punched me.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why not mention this sooner? We assumed you were gawking at prostitutes, but now it seems you averted a crime. Why did you keep your noble actions to yourself?’

‘Because I would have had to admit to following Tomas,’ replied Bulmer resentfully. ‘Although I suspect he probably already knows–as I said, he is clever. Besides, this is not the first time Kip and John have tried to kill him, but he is too cunning to be dispatched by mere servants. It is the Roughes who will die if they continue to stalk him, not Little Tomas.’

As soon as he emerged from the Dominican priory, Bartholomew was summoned by the Carmelites, whose prior had taken a turn for the worse, obliging the physician to spend the rest of the day with him. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse, it was too late to speak to Michael and the lights in almost every room were doused. Exhausted, he slept soundly, despite the stifling heat, and woke only when the bell chimed for prime. He waylaid the monk before breakfast, and learned that Kip Roughe had confirmed Bulmer’s tale–and had been proud that he had raised the courage to take a stand against a man of Tomas’s obvious wickedness. Michael had warned him not to do it again, and fined him heavily to make his point.

Both scholars spent the morning teaching, and it was well past noon before they were able to meet again. Michael, whose classes were smaller and less demanding, had gone a second time to warn the Roughe brothers against murder, only to learn that neither had been seen since the previous evening. Both Bulmer and Morden informed him that it was not an uncommon occurrence for the pair to disappear on business of their own, and neither seemed concerned about their untimely absence.

‘I am worried, Matt,’ said Michael as they walked towards the High Street. He wanted to visit Seton. ‘I do not want the Roughe brothers dead at Tomas’s hand.’

‘It is they who are trying to dispatch him, not the other way around. And if they are killed, Tomas can quite legitimately claim self-defence. I do not know why they have taken against him: he has done nothing wrong, other than to be an intelligent foreigner.’

Michael was not so sure, but did not want to argue when he knew they would not agree, while Bartholomew also dropped the matter and looked across the road to where two men in Carmelite habits walked, deep in conversation–or rather, Andrew talked while Urban listened. Bartholomew could not be certain, but he thought Urban was sobbing, and supposed the master was admonishing him for some infraction. His own, albeit brief, observations had told him that Andrew was a hard and exacting taskmaster, difficult to please. He recalled him mentioning a previous novice, who had been all a master could desire, but who had ‘betrayed’ him by seeking more knowledgeable teachers. He supposed Urban was lacking in comparison, and felt sorry for the lad: competing with ghosts was a grim and unrewarding business.

Michael knocked briskly on the door to St Bernard’s, and paced back and forth while he waited for it to be answered. Bartholomew watched Andrew sink gratefully on to the low wall surrounding the churchyard opposite, while Urban perched next to him. The old man was weary, eager for rest, while Urban appeared to be unsettled and restless. When a greasy scullion arrived to ask Michael’s business, the monk did not reply; he pushed past the man and strode inside, aiming for the smaller of the two chambers on the ground floor, where Seton was enjoying a solitary meal.

‘You are alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Where are the Carmelites?’

‘Out,’ said Seton, before Bartholomew could say they were sitting in the sun outside. ‘They have been gone much of the day, which suits me. I am here to study, and it is difficult to read when they chatter all the time.’

‘They talk a lot?’ enquired Michael, helping himself to bread.

‘Andrew does,’ replied Seton, grimacing when Michael took the last piece of chicken. ‘He is always telling that stupid novice something he will forget within an hour. Carmelites accept anyone into their ranks, and more often than not their wits are inferior. I am afraid the same is also true of my own Order. Still, at least the Franciscans have men like
me
to present an intelligent face to the world. Witney did so, too, before that pair murdered him.’

‘Witney was interested in Andrew’s Holy Blood relic,’ began Michael. ‘Are you sure he did not try to take it from him? Your Order is intent on preserving such items from destruction by the Dominicans. Perhaps he tried to seize it in a misguided attempt to protect it–to take it from a feeble old man who would be unable to repel the determined advances of single-minded Black Friars.’

Seton sighed. ‘I was not going to bother you with irrelevant detail, but Witney was
not
an adherent of my Order’s teachings–he did not accept the validity of such relics. But why do you ask? Have you come around to my way of thinking: the Carmelites killed him?’

‘Did you like Witney?’ asked Michael, declining to reply.

Seton was taken aback. ‘I have known kinder, more gracious men, but
I
did not kill him, if that is what you are asking. I heard what you found on the roof, but I am not a man to scramble up buildings, Brother. That sort of agility is for the likes of young Urban.’

‘Did you see Urban by the chimney?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or covered in bits of thatching to suggest he had been climbing?’

‘No,’ admitted Seton. ‘But I paid little attention to him or his master, because I considered them beneath my dignity. It was Witney who engaged them in conversation. But, now I think of it, Urban
did
climb a ladder at one point. There was a pigeon’s nest near our window, and the constant coos and flaps were disturbing Witney, so Urban offered to knock it down for him. There! I have proved your case, Brother: Urban is an experienced user of ladders and happy on roofs.’

‘I hardly think—’ began Bartholomew, but Seton was not to be deterred.

‘And whoever murdered Witney was a man with exactly those skills. Urban is the villain, just as I predicted.’

It was clear they would learn no more from Seton, so Bartholomew and Michael took their leave.

Bartholomew followed Michael out of the hostel into the intense glare of the afternoon sun. Michael gasped at the sudden heat, then insisted they visit the Brazen George for cool ale while they discussed what they had learned. Although scholars were not permitted in taverns, Bartholomew felt the humidity was unpleasant enough to warrant some rule-breaking. He followed the monk into a peaceful room at the back of the inn, where they were served ale that had come directly from one of the deeper cellars. It was clear, cold and refreshing, and he began to feel somewhat revived. The same could not be said for their progress on the case, however, and although they discussed it at length, neither had anything new to add. They were staring disconsolately into the dregs of their ale when the door opened, and Little Tomas walked in.