An Order for Death (11 page)

‘Move away from the fire, then,’ suggested Stanmore, a little acidly. ‘You would not be so warm if you allowed some of the
heat to travel to other people.’

‘What,’ demanded Michael suddenly and loudly, ‘are those?’ Everyone followed his eyes to the front of Richard’s newly revealed
shirt.

‘They are called buttons,’ said Richard haughtily, glancing down at them. ‘Why?’

‘I know what they are,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I have never before seen such monstrous examples of them – at least,
not on a man. I understand the King’s mother goes in for that kind of thing.’

Bartholomew could see his point. Buttons had only recently gained popularity, because it was said that the King
approved of them. Most were made of bone or wood and were small, unobtrusive discs that performed the function of holding
two pieces of material together without the need for elaborate systems of laces. Richard’s buttons, however, were huge, almost
the size of mushrooms, and were evidently made of some precious metal.

‘They are the height of fashion,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Do you know nothing of the King’s court?’

‘They are ugly,’ said Stanmore, eyeing them critically. ‘But I doubt this modern liking for buttons will last long. They will
never take the place of laces.’

‘You should be careful if you ever need to run,’ Bartholomew advised his nephew with a smile. ‘If one of those things bounces
upwards, it will take your teeth out.’

Michael regarded Richard with arched eyebrows. ‘Do all Oxford scholars adorn themselves with these “buttons”, as well as drink
liquid that would be better employed in scouring drains? Or is it just confined to those people who study law?’

Richard bristled at the insult, but Heytesbury laid a soothing hand on his arm as he smiled at Michael. ‘It is a passing phase,
no more. You will find no buttons on me. I would not have expected you to negotiate with me if I had been covered in lumps
of metal.’

‘Speaking of our agreement, perhaps we should draw it up tomorrow,’ suggested Michael hopefully. ‘I am sure you need to be
back in Oxford for the beginning of the new term, and if we finalise matters now, you will not be obliged to make a second
journey.’

Heytesbury’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Patience, Brother. There is no hurry. I will stay here for a while, and visit your halls
and Colleges to see how they compare to my own. There may be things for me to learn.’

The expression on his face made Bartholomew suspect that he had serious doubts on that score.

‘I am sure the Chancellor would be delighted if you offered to lecture here,’ suggested Richard. He turned
eagerly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Master Heytesbury is one of the leading authorities on the theory of nominalism.’

‘I am not sure that is a good idea,’ said Michael hastily. ‘For some unaccountable reason, the religious Orders here have
taken that debate very much to heart recently. I do not want a full-scale riot with the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines
on one side and the Dominicans, Austins and Benedictines on the other.’

‘Your scholars riot over philosophical issues?’ asked Heytesbury in a contemptuous voice. ‘At Merton, we tend to fight with
our wits, not our fists.’

‘Things have changed, then, have they?’ asked Bartholomew archly, not prepared to let Heytesbury get away with that one. ‘There
was a good deal of fighting when I was a student there.’

‘There are fights, of course,’ said Heytesbury coolly, not pleased to be contradicted. ‘But not over issues of philosophy.
What kind of world would it be if the theory that gained predominance was the one that had the most aggressive supporters?’

‘One that would suit a lot of the scholars I know,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would save them the embarrassment of exposing their
inferior minds.’

‘A lecture on nominalism by its leading protagonist would be a great thing for Cambridge,’ persisted Richard. ‘It would show
them the nature of
real
scholarship.’

‘We will see,’ said Michael vaguely.

Richard was about to add something else, when there was a loud, urgent hammering at the gates. The merchant looked at his
wife in surprise.

‘Who can that be? It is late, and I am surprised anyone in the village is still awake.’

He stood abruptly when horses’ hoofs clattered on the cobbles of the yard outside. Bartholomew heard Hugh the steward demanding
to know the rider’s business, but then there was the sound of approaching footsteps and the door to the hall was flung open.
A cold draught swirled inside,
making the fire gutter and extinguishing several lamps.

‘I am sorry to intrude, Master Stanmore,’ said Sheriff Tulyet, pushing past Hugh, who seemed about to make a more mannerly
announcement. His cloak was sodden, and he was breathless from a hard ride against a fierce headwind. ‘But I must speak to
Brother Michael.’

Richard Tulyet was small, with a wispy beard that gave him the appearance of a youth unable to produce the more luxurious
whiskers of an older man. Only the lines of worry and tiredness around his mouth and eyes suggested that he was loaded with
the considerable responsibility of maintaining law and order in a rebellious town where a significant portion of the population
comprised young men.

‘Me?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘Why? What can have happened to induce the town’s Sheriff to ride through such a foul night
to seek me out?’

‘Your University,’ replied Tulyet, grim-faced. ‘It is in uproar again. You must return with me immediately and take charge
of your beadles, or we shall have no town at all by the morning.’

‘Who is it this time?’ asked Michael wearily, reaching for his cloak. ‘Hugh, saddle up my horse, if you please.’

‘The Franciscans have some Austin canons trapped in Holy Trinity Church,’ replied Tulyet in some disgust. ‘Apparently there
was a dispute over who should preach the sermon. They tossed a coin, would you believe, and the Austins won. The Franciscans
declined to listen to an Austin, and left.’

‘So what is the problem?’ asked Michael when the Sheriff paused. Stanmore poured Tulyet a goblet of wine, which he accepted
gratefully. ‘If the Franciscans went home, why are you here?’

‘They did not return to their friary,’ said Tulyet. ‘Apparently, they made for the Cardinal’s Cap, where they spent the evening
drinking the poor taverner dry of ale – for which they still need to pay. And then they headed back to Holy Trinity Church.’

‘Were the Austins still inside?’ asked Stanmore.

Tulyet nodded. ‘The Franciscans claim that neither I nor my soldiers have jurisdiction over them, because they are in holy
orders – under canon, rather than secular law – and refuse to go home.’

‘My Junior Proctor can deal with this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I left him in charge, and he knows what he is supposed
to do if the scholars cause mischief.’

Tulyet sighed, his face sombre. ‘That is the real reason why I am here, Brother. I am afraid I have some bad news for you.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.

Tulyet sighed. ‘Will Walcote is dead. Someone hanged him from the walls of the Dominican Friary.’

O
NCE MICHAEL HAD LEFT WITH TULYET TO BEGIN AN
immediate investigation into Walcote’s death, Bartholomew did not feel like continuing with the

celebrations at Edith’s house. He offered to accompany the monk home, afraid that the murder of a close colleague would prove
to be a harrowing experience, but Michael declined, muttering that he did not want to spoil Edith’s party.

The physician did not enjoy the rest of the evening, and escaped to the bed in the attic that had been provided for him as
soon as he could do so without causing offence. Meanwhile, Richard dominated the conversation, outlining his grand plans to
amass wealth and fame. Bartholomew had encountered many greedy men in his time, but such brazen avarice was a quality he had
never expected to see in his nephew. Heytesbury fell silent once Michael had gone, and stared into the fire, evidently lost
in his own thoughts.

The following morning, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, Bartholomew crept out of his room, and tiptoed
downstairs and across to the stables. He thought he had succeeded in leaving the house undetected, and was surprised and not
particularly pleased to find Richard waiting for him with a huge black stallion already saddled.

‘What is that?’ demanded Bartholomew, eyeing the vast beast uneasily.

Richard seemed startled by the question. ‘It is a horse. What does it look like?’

‘That is no horse; it is a monster,’ said Bartholomew, hurriedly stepping back as the animal tossed its mighty head and pawed
at the ground. ‘Where did it come from?’

Richard patted the horse’s neck fondly, although the animal did not seem to reciprocate the affection. ‘He hales from the
stables of the Earl of Gloucester, and has a pedigree of which any nobleman would be proud. I bought him two days ago from
the Bigod family in Chesterton.’

‘How did you pay for such an expensive item?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘You have only been in Cambridge a week or so.
I had no idea practising law could be so lucrative.’

Richard shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘I was doing well in Oxford, as it happens, but I am fortunate in having Heytesbury
as a friend. He has recommended me to several of his richest acquaintances. But never mind me, what do you think of my horse?’

‘Did you have to choose one that was so big?’ asked Bartholomew, taking another step back as the horse, sensing that it was
about to take some exercise, headed for the open door. Richard grabbed the reins, but the animal paid him no heed, and his
tugs and curses were irrelevant to the course of its progress outside.

‘I do not ride ponies,’ retorted Richard haughtily, still hauling on the reins. ‘And this beast suits my status as a lawyer.
I cannot be seen mounted on something inferior, can I?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, saddling his modest palfrey. He hoped the looming presence of the black monster would not
cause it to bolt, or, worse still, that it would not follow Richard’s lead and thunder off down the dark track towards Cambridge
at a speed that was unsafe. Bartholomew did not enjoy riding at the best of times, but doing so at a breakneck pace along
a frost-hardened track in the near-dark was definitely low on his list of pleasant ways to spend a morning.

‘The Black Bishop of Bedminster,’ said Richard.

Bartholomew gazed at him uncomprehendingly in the gloom. ‘What?’

‘That is his name. The village of Bedminster, near Bristol,
is where he was bred. It is an impressive title, do you not think? It is fitting for a fine animal to have such a name.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I only hope it never runs away. I would not like to think of you wandering the town
shouting “Black Bishop of Bedminster” as you try to lure it back.’

Richard scowled, and then swung himself up into his saddle. The horse pranced and reared at the weight, and Bartholomew was
not entirely sure that Richard had the thing under complete control. He watched from the safety of the stables, noting that
the saddle was a highly polished affair with a pommel that gleamed a dull gold in the first glimmerings of day. Such an object
would have cost Bartholomew at least a year’s salary.

Richard’s clothes were equally expensive looking. He had abandoned the soft wool hose and buttoned shirt he had worn the previous
night, and sported leather riding boots with silver spurs, a black tunic with flowing sleeves and dark grey hose, all topped
off with a long black cloak that he arranged carefully over the back of the saddle so that it would show off his finery to
its best advantage. The gold ring that pierced his ear gleamed even in the dim light of early morning, and the smell of the
scented goose-grease, with which he had plastered down his unruly locks and beard, was strong enough to mask even the odour
of horse.

‘What do you intend to do in the town?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what the people of Cambridge would say when they saw
such an elegant peacock strutting around their streets flaunting his wealth. Richard would be lucky if he survived the day
without someone hurling a clod of mud – or worse – at such a brazen display of affluence. ‘I have to attend mass at St Michael’s
Church, and then spend the morning teaching.’

‘Perhaps I will accompany you,’ said Richard thoughtfully. ‘Your new Master, Ralph de Langelee, has connections at court,
and would be a useful man to know. He is an
unmannerly lout, but I will have to turn a blind eye to that, if I am to make my fortune in Cambridge.’

‘It looks to me as though you have already made it,’ said Bartholomew.

Richard grinned. ‘I will do better yet if profitable business keeps coming my way. But I doubt I will stay long in Cambridge;
it is too rural for a man like me. I will go to London soon – now
there
is a place for a man who intends to make his way in the world! Opportunities in London are like leaves on the trees.’

Bartholomew heartily wished his arrogant, ambitious nephew would take his black horse and ride to London that very morning.
Eager to escape from the young man’s company as quickly as possible, he climbed on a bale of hay and made an awkward transition
from it to the back of the palfrey. Fortunately, Michael had selected a mount that was fairly tolerant, and although it was
startled by the weight that suddenly dropped on to it, it stood its ground. Hugh the steward opened the gate, and Bartholomew
and Richard began the short journey to Cambridge.

It was a Tuesday, and farmers and peasants were already making their way to the town with carts and sacks full of goods to
sell in the marketplace. Six dirty-white geese were being herded along by a listless boy who wore a piece of sacking as a
cloak; the birds honked balefully as faster-moving pigs were driven through their midst. Chapmen with heavy packs slung across
their shoulders plodded through the mud left by the rains of the previous night, cursing as their feet skidded and slipped
in the treacherous ruts that formed the road. Richard complained bitterly about the stench left by the pigs, and only stopped
when Bartholomew lent him a thick bandage to wrap around his mouth and nose. Bartholomew had seen courtiers do the same, claiming
to be more easily offended by unpleasant odours than the common folk. The physician supposed his nephew hoped to give the
impression with his silly bandage that he, too, was nobly born.

They were just passing the Panton manor on the outskirts of Cambridge, when they saw a small group of nuns standing at the
side of the road. The nuns’ heads were swathed in white veils that were bright in the dim light, and their cloaks were splattered
with muck from the road. One of them glanced up, and apparently decided that Richard’s fine horse, elegant apparel and face
bandage marked him as a man of breeding and wealth and therefore someone she might ask for help. A pale hand flagged him down.
Richard’s attempt to leap from his horse and stride boldly to her rescue was marred only by the fact that his spur caught
in the stirrup: Bartholomew’s timely lunge saved him from a tumble in the mud.

‘How might we be of assistance, ladies?’ Richard enquired suavely, unabashed by an incident that most people would have found
acutely embarrassing. Bartholomew envied his resilience and confidence.

‘It is our Prioress, Mabel Martyn,’ said one of the nuns. She was a tall woman, with dark eyes and smooth brown hair that
poked from under her wimple. She looked the splendid figure of Richard up and down in a brazen assessment of his physique.
‘There is something wrong with her.’

‘My uncle is a physician,’ said Richard generously. ‘He will heal her.’

‘I thought you said physicians were charlatans, incapable of healing anyone,’ muttered Bartholomew, pushing the reins of his
horse at his nephew and walking to three other nuns, who were clustered around a figure on the ground.

‘We are from St Radegund’s Convent,’ announced the young woman. ‘We are nuns. Well, I have taken no final vows yet, so I suppose
I am not.’

‘I hope you do not decide upon a life of chastity,’ said Richard gallantly. ‘It would be a sin to shut away such beauty in
a cloister.’

‘I agree,’ said the woman fervently. ‘Although better that than being married to some old man with no teeth who sleeps all
the time. I do not find gums very attractive.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Richard, apparently unable to think of any other response to her peculiar revelations.

She beamed at him, and Bartholomew realised that she was a little slow in the wits and that a cloister might be the safest
place for her. He turned his attention to the Prioress, who lay semi-conscious in the long grass at the side of the road.
Her wimple was askew and her breathing deep and loud. The unmistakable smell of wine was thick in the air around her.

‘I think she had a sip too much at breakfast,’ he said carefully. His natural good manners rebelled against bluntly announcing
that Prioress Martyn of St Radegund’s Convent was drunk.

‘But we have not had breakfast yet,’ objected the young woman, missing his point entirely. ‘So you must be wrong.’

‘Why are you out so early?’ asked Richard, voicing what Bartholomew had also been wondering: it was unusual to see nuns travelling
towards
their convent at such an hour in the morning. ‘Have you been to mass at Trumpington Church?’

‘We have been nowhere,’ said the young woman. ‘We are still coming back from last night.’

Richard looked confused, and one of the others hastened to explain. She was tall and strong-looking, about forty years of
age, with thick red hair and eyes that were too wise for a nun.

‘We were invited to dine at the house of Roger de Panton yesterday. Time passed more quickly than we thought, and we have
only just realised that we need to hurry so as not to be late for prime.’

Bartholomew pulled something from underneath the snoring Prioress and held it up for the others to see. It was an empty wineskin.
He supposed that the Prioress’s last tipple was more than her constitution could bear after what sounded like a heavy night.

‘I told you to dispose of that, Tysilia,’ said the older woman sharply.

Tysilia pouted sulkily. ‘I did, Dame Wasteneys. I took it when she was in the latrine.’

‘Perhaps she has more than one,’ said Bartholomew, hauling the semi-conscious woman to her feet. She groaned, and opened bleary
eyes. ‘The walk in fresh air will do her good. When you arrive home, give her plenty to drink and make sure she has a good
breakfast.’

‘We can give her plenty to drink now,’ offered Tysilia, brandishing the wineskin helpfully.

‘I meant watered ale or milk,’ said Bartholomew, regarding her askance. ‘Do not give her wine; she has had more than enough
of that already.’

‘She is not drunk,’ asserted Dame Wasteneys, regarding Bartholomew sternly. ‘She is indisposed. I would not like it said that
the Prioress of St Radegund’s was tipsy before prime.’

‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the walk through Cambridge with the Prioress staggering between two meaty novices
would do more damage to her reputation than anything he could say. He knew that wine was sometimes more than just a pleasant
beverage for some people, and the broken veins and slightly purple nose of the Prioress suggested that she was one of them.
He handed Dame Wasteneys a packet containing some cloves, which he used for patients with toothache.

‘Give her some of these to chew. They will mask the scent of the wine.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dame Wasteneys, sketching a brief benediction at him. ‘You are very kind.’

Leaving the nuns to walk back to their convent, Bartholomew and Richard mounted their horses again. Bartholomew was sure that
the sudden deluge of spray and pellets of mud that the Black Bishop of Bedminster kicked up with his hoofs, and that landed
squarely on the startled Prioress, would do more to dispel the effects of wine than the coldest morning air. Oblivious to
her indignant curses, Richard rode towards the town.

*   *   *

Bartholomew and Richard reached the Trumpington Gate, and waited for the guards to wave them through. The soldier on duty
regarded Richard’s snorting black horse doubtfully. Sergeant Orwelle was a thickset man with a limp from a wound received
in the service of the King. Bartholomew had recently treated him for rotting teeth, and one of his first tasks as a physician,
when he had arrived in Cambridge more than a decade before, had been to remove a horn drinking vessel from the man’s nose,
which had managed to become stuck there during some bizarre drinking game. Orwelle felt indebted to Bartholomew – not for
the removal of the offending item, but for the fact that the incident had never been mentioned again.

‘Tell Brother Michael I am sorry about his Junior Proctor,’ said Orwelle, patting Bartholomew’s horse on the neck. ‘It was
me who found him, you know. I was on patrol, when I saw him hanging. It was a sad sight.’

‘Did you see anything else – such as who did it?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

Orwelle shook his head. ‘If I had, then that person would now be under lock and key. It does not do for scholars to flaunt
their lack of respect for the law in the town. It sets a bad example.’