An Order for Death (15 page)

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He will be delighted to do his duty. Come, Matt. Let us go and give him the happy news.’

Ely Hall, where the Benedictines lived, was a large, two-storeyed house on Petty Cury, overlooking the Market Square and St
Mary’s Church. It was a timber-framed building, the front of which had been plastered and then
painted a deep gold, so that it added a spot of colour to an otherwise drab street. The door was bare, but the wood had been
scrubbed clean, and someone had engraved a cross and a rough depiction of St Benedict in the lintel.

Michael’s knock was answered by Janius, whose blue eyes crinkled with pleasure when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. He ushered
them inside, then preceded them along a narrow passageway to a large chamber at the back of the building, which served as
a refectory and conclave. A flight of wooden stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew knew from his previous visit
had been divided into six tiny chambers where the masters and their students slept.

Several black-robed monks were in the refectory that morning, most of them reading or writing. Through a window that overlooked
a dirty yard at the rear of the house, Bartholomew could see a lean-to with smoke issuing through its thatched roof; cooking
often started fires, and the Benedictines, like many people in the town, had opted to do most of theirs outside their house.
Meanwhile, a merry blaze burned in the hearth of the refectory, and there was an atmosphere of good-natured industry.

Brother Timothy was in one corner, reading a battered copy of William Heytesbury’s
Regulae Solvendi Sophismata
. He frowned slightly, concentrating on what was a difficult text. Janius had apparently been sitting at the table making
notes on Peter Lombard’s
Sentences
, a text that, along with the Bible, formed the basis of theological studies at Cambridge. Sitting by the fire was another
familiar face, that of Brother Adam, an ageing monk whom Bartholomew treated for a weakness of the lungs. They all looked
up as Michael and Bartholomew entered the room. Timothy stood, and came to touch Michael on the shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.

‘We were so sorry to hear about Will Walcote. We will say a mass for his soul later today.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘But I came here to ask you whether you would take his place as Junior Proctor.’

‘Me?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘But I could not possibly undertake such a task.’

‘I told you,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot expect people to abandon everything on your command.’

‘To be called to perform such duties is a great honour for the Benedictines,’ said old Adam from his fireside chair. ‘You
should accept Michael’s offer, Timothy.’

Timothy shook his head, flushing red. ‘I could never fulfil such duties as well as Michael has. I would be a disappointment
to him.’

‘It is true you would have high standards to aim for,’ said Michael immodestly. ‘But I feel you would be the ideal man for
the post, and so does Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘The Chancellor?’ whispered Timothy, flushing more deeply than ever. ‘But I scarcely know him. What have I done to attract
his attention?’

‘Accept, Brother,’ said Janius, his eyes shining with the light of the saved. ‘God has called you and you cannot deny Him.’

‘I thought Michael had called you,’ muttered Adam from the fireside. ‘It is hardly the same thing, no matter what Michael
thinks of himself.’

Janius ignored him, and gripped Timothy’s arm. ‘God wants you to serve Him and our Order. To have a senior and a junior proctor
who are Black Monks will be excellent for the University, and it will go a long way to setting us above the disputes between
the friars.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, and suspected that many people would see Timothy’s appointment as favouritism on Michael’s
part, and as a deliberate move to secure the best positions in the University for men in his own Order.

‘I cannot accept,’ said Timothy, shaking his head and refusing to look at Michael.

‘There is always Father William,’ muttered Bartholomew wickedly in Michael’s ear.

Michael’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. ‘Very
well. If you have teaching that you cannot escape, or other duties that are important, then there is nothing I can do to
persuade you.’

‘You misunderstand,’ said Timothy. ‘I cannot accept because I will not be good enough.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael relieved. ‘Give me a week, and I will prove that you are perfect for the task. In fact, I anticipate
that you will be the best Junior Proctor I have ever had – and I have had a few, believe me.’

Timothy still hesitated, and it was Janius who spoke up. ‘We will undertake Timothy’s teaching duties when necessary, and
will do all we can to support both of you. It is God’s will.’

Timothy sighed and then smiled at Michael. ‘When would you like me to start?’

‘Now,’ said Michael briskly, apparently deciding that Timothy should be allowed no time to reconsider. ‘I knew a Benedictine
would be a good choice. The ink is barely dry on the parchment, and yet you are prepared to abandon your personal duties to
help me in this difficult situation.’

While they were talking, Bartholomew crouched down next to Brother Adam. The monk was small and wizened, and the murky blue
rings around his irises suggested failing eyesight, as well as extreme old age. A few hairs sprouted from the top of his wrinkled
head, but not nearly as many as sprouted from his ears.

‘How are you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is good to see you out of your bed.’

The old monk grinned with toothless gums. ‘The brethren do not normally permit themselves the indulgence of a fire during
the day, but Janius always has one lit when he thinks I might come downstairs. He imagines I have not guessed why there is
always a blaze in the hearth just when I happen to leave my room. His religion can be a little unsettling from time to time,
but he is a good man, to think of an old man’s pride.’

‘And your lungs?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you breathing easier now?’

‘Your potion helps,’ said Adam, ‘although I long for warmer weather. Spring is very late this year, and Lent has been interminable.
Still, as I am elderly and ill, Brother Timothy insists that I be fed meat at least three times a week.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Timothy was an enlightened man not to demand that the restrictions of Lent be kept
by the old and infirm. Although the Rule of St Benedict suggested more lenient guidelines for the sick, not everyone accepted
them. He was sure Father William would not be so compassionate. ‘I hope you do not refuse it because meat is forbidden in
Lent.’

The old monk raised his eyebrows and regarded him in amusement. ‘I am no martyr, Doctor. If I am commanded to eat meat, then
eat it I shall. And my brethren have always been good to me. I will not burden them by insisting on doing things that are
bad for me and that make me ill. It would be very selfish.’

‘I wish all my patients had that attitude,’ said Bartholomew fervently. He stood as Michael and Timothy made for the door.

‘If you are going to Barnwell, then I shall accompany you,’ said Janius, reaching for a basket that stood in a corner. ‘I
have eggs and butter to take to the nearby leper hospital, so I can do God’s work and enjoy your company at the same time.’

He took a cloth from a rack where laundry was drying, and covered the basket to protect its contents from the rain, then set
out after the others.

W
ALCOTE’S BODY LAY IN THE CONVENTUAL CHURCH AT
the Austin canons’ foundation at Barnwell. Barnwell was a tiny settlement outside Cambridge, comprising a few houses and
the priory itself. Beyond it was another small hamlet called Stourbridge, famous for its annual fair and its leper hospital.

The priory was reached by a walk of about half a mile along a desolate path known as the Barnwell Causeway. Once the town
had been left behind, and the handsome collection of buildings that belonged to the Benedictine nuns at St Radegund’s had
been passed, Fen-edge vegetation took over. Shallow bogs lined the sides of the track, and stunted elder and aspen trees hunched
over them, as if attempting to shrink away from the icy winds that often howled in from the flat expanses to the north and
east. Reeds and rushes waved and hissed back and forth, and the grey sky that stretched above always seemed much larger in
the Fens than it did elsewhere. As they walked, more briskly than usual because it was cold, ducks flapped in sudden agitation
in the undergrowth, and then flew away with piercing cackles.

‘Damned birds!’ muttered Michael, clutching his chest. ‘No wonder people like to poach here. I would not mind taking an arrow
to some of those things myself! That would teach them to startle an honest man.’

The Fens were known to be the haunt of outlaws, and Bartholomew kept a wary watch on the road that stretched ahead of them,
as well as casting frequent glances behind. Since the plague had taken so many agricultural labourers, the price of flour
had risen to the point where many people could not afford bread. Three well-dressed Benedictines and
a physician with a heavy satchel over one shoulder would provide desperate people with a tempting target.

Michael seemed unconcerned by the prospect of attack, and was more interested in outlining the duties of Junior Proctor to
Timothy. Timothy himself was more prudent, and carried a heavy staff that Bartholomew was sure was not a walking aid. Janius
was also alert, and Bartholomew could see that he possessed the kind of wiry strength that was easily able to best larger
men. While Michael continued to regale Timothy with details of his new obligations, Janius fell behind to walk with the physician.

‘I am still worried about Adam,’ he said, fiddling with the cover on his basket of food for the lepers. ‘He claims he feels
better, and our prayers help, of course, but sometimes he seems so frail.’

‘He is old,’ said Bartholomew matter-of-factly. ‘I can ease his symptoms, but he will never be well again.’

Janius gave a startled laugh. ‘You do not mince your words, Matthew! I was expecting some comfort, not a bleak prediction.
Have you no faith that God will work a cure if we pray hard enough?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Adam is almost eighty years old, and the wetness in his lungs will become progressively
worse, not better. Such ailments are common in men of his age, and there is only one way it will end.’

Janius shook his head and gave Bartholomew a pitying glance. ‘Yours must be a very sad existence if you place no hope in miracles.’

‘My experience tells me that miracles are rare. It is better to assume that they will not happen.’

‘You should pray with us at Ely Hall,’ said Janius, patting Bartholomew’s arm sympathetically. ‘You strike me as a man who
needs to understand God.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, determined not to engage in a theological debate with a man whose eyes were already gleaming
with the fervour of one who senses a challenge worthy of his religious attentions. He knew from
personal experience that it was never wise to discuss issues relating to the omnipotence of God with men who had the power
to denounce unbelievers as heretics, and he hastily changed the subject before the discussion became dangerous. ‘Do you often
deliver eggs to the leper colony?’

Janius seemed taken aback by the sudden change in topics. He tapped Bartholomew’s arm a little harder. ‘Remember my offer,
Matthew. It may save your soul from the fires of Hell.’

Bartholomew was relieved when Janius made his farewells, and watched the pious monk walk briskly up the footpath to where
the chapel of St Mary Magdalene dominated the huddle of hovels occupied by the lepers. The chapel was a sturdy building, pierced
by narrow windows, almost as if its builders did not want the light to shine in on the people inside. The huts were flimsy
wooden-framed affairs, with thatched roofs that allowed the smoke from a central hearth to seep out and the rain to seep in.
Bartholomew had visited them on many occasions, usually to help Urban, the Austin canon who had dedicated his life to tending
those people whom the rest of society had cast out. He saw Janius turn a corner, then ran to catch up with Timothy and Michael.

‘Janius has a good heart,’ said Timothy, who must have had half an ear on the conversation taking place behind him, as well
as on Michael’s descriptions of his new duties. ‘His own faith is so strong that he longs for others to be similarly touched.
I understand how he feels, although I am less eloquent about it.’

‘Good,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I already wear the cowl, so you have no need to preach to me.’

‘Just because you are a monk does not mean that your faith is not flawed,’ began Timothy immediately, his face serious and
intense. ‘I have met many clerics who simply use their habits to advance their own interests here on Earth, with no thoughts
of the hereafter.’

‘And doubtless you will meet many more,’ said Michael brusquely. Given what he had told Bartholomew about the
reasons most friars came to Cambridge, the physician supposed that Timothy was likely to meet a lot of men who were more
interested in the earthly than the spiritual aspects of their existence. ‘But we have arrived. Here is the priory.’

Barnwell Priory was a large institution, and the fact that it stood in the middle of nowhere meant that it had been able to
expand as and when its priors had so dictated. Its rambling collection of buildings sprawled along the ridge of a low rise
that overlooked the river. It was in a perfect location – close enough to the river for supplies and transport, but high enough
to avoid all but the worst of the seasonal floods. A substantial wall and a series of wooden fences protected it from unwanted
visitors, although beggars knocking at a small door near the kitchens were often provided with a loaf of bread or a few leftover
vegetables.

The conventual church stood next to the road, attached to the chapter house by a cloister of stone. To one side was a two-storeyed
house, which comprised the canons’ refectory on the ground floor and their sleeping quarters above. The Prior of Barnwell
had his own lodgings in the form of a charming cottage with a red-tiled roof and ivy-clad walls. Smoke curled from its chimney,
to be whisked away quickly by the wind. From the nearby kitchens came the sweet, warm scent of newly baked bread.

The canons were at prayer in their chapter house when Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy tapped on the gate and asked to see
Walcote’s body. An Austin brother named Nicholas, whom Bartholomew had treated for chilblains all winter, escorted them to
a small chantry chapel. He then returned to his duties, while the two canons who kept vigil on either side of Walcote’s coffin,
climbed stiffly to their feet, and readily acquiesced to Michael’s request to spend time alone with his Junior Proctor.

The noose around Walcote’s neck had so distorted his features that Bartholomew barely recognised the serious man who had been
Michael’s assistant for the past year. His face had darkened, and his eyes were half open and dull
beneath swollen lids. A tongue poked between thickened lips, and a trail of dried saliva glistened on his chin. Michael declined
to look at him, and retreated to the main body of the church where he pretended to be praying. Hastily following his example,
and evidently relieved to be spared the unpleasant task of inspecting a corpse, Timothy went with him.

Suppressing his distaste at submitting to such indignities the body of a man he had known and liked in life, Bartholomew began
his examination, using for light the two candles that had been set at the dead man’s head and feet. There was no question
at all that Walcote had been strangled. The vivid abrasions around his neck attested to that. Bartholomew turned his attention
to the hands, and saw that Michael had been right: more stark circles indicated that Walcote’s hands had been tied, and he
had evidently struggled hard, because he had torn the skin in his attempts to free himself. His feet had been tied, too, perhaps
to prevent him from kicking out at his killer or killers.

‘What can you tell me?’ called Michael from the shadows of the chancel. ‘Look at his fingernails. You always seem to be able
to tell things from nails. And I want to know whether he was hit on the head and stunned. It would be a comfort to know that
he was unaware of what happened to him.’

It was a comfort Bartholomew could not give, however, and it was apparent that Walcote had known exactly what someone intended
to do to him, because he had struggled. The fact that he had been strangled by the noose, and that it had not broken his neck
as was the case in many hangings, suggested it had not been an especially speedy end.

To humour Michael, Bartholomew inspected Walcote’s fingernails, but they told him little. They were broken, which implied
that the Junior Proctor had started his bid for freedom before he had been trussed up like a Yuletide chicken. The only odd
thing was that there was a sticky, pale yellow residue on one hand, just like the stain Bartholomew had seen on Faricius’s
hand. He frowned, wondering what,
if anything, it meant. He replaced the shroud, put the dead man’s hands back across his chest as he had found them, and left
Walcote in peace. Michael and Timothy followed him out of the shadowy chapel, both clearly glad to be away from the unsettling
presence of untimely death in a man they had known. Timothy heaved a shuddering sigh.

‘Nasty,’ he said unsteadily, although Bartholomew was not sure whether he meant the manner of Walcote’s death or the fact
that he was now obliged to pay close attention to such matters.

Outside the church, Nicholas was waiting for them, clutching a bundle that he proffered to Michael. ‘These are Will’s clothes,’
he said shyly. ‘He was wearing a habit, a cloak and boots, all of which I removed when his body was brought here. I suppose
we should distribute them to the poor, but it is hard to part with this last reminder of him. Will you do it?’

‘Keep them,’ said Michael, who like Bartholomew had noticed that Nicholas’s own robe was pitifully threadbare and that he
wore sandals, despite the fact that there had been a frost the previous night. Bartholomew thought it was not surprising he
had chilblains. ‘Will would have wanted them to be given to his friends.’

Nicholas swallowed hard. ‘We all liked Will, and were proud that an Austin was a proctor. We hoped he might even become Senior
Proctor one day.’ He flushed suddenly, realising that for that to happen, Michael would have to be removed. ‘I am sorry, Brother.
I did not mean …’

He trailed off miserably, and Michael patted his shoulder. ‘It is all right. I had hopes for Will’s future, too. He was a
good man.’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Nicholas, tears filling his eyes. He gave them a surreptitious scrub with the back of his hand. ‘Laying
out his body was the least I could do.’

‘You did that very carefully, but there is still a patch of something yellow on one hand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What is it,
do you know?’

Nicholas sniffed, hugging Walcote’s belongings to him. ‘I have no idea, but it would not wash off. The same substance was
on his habit, too. Look.’

He freed a sleeve from the carefully packed bundle, revealing a patch of something that was sticky to the touch, slightly
greasy and pale yellow.

‘How much of it was there?’ asked Bartholomew, touching it with his forefinger.

‘Just the patch on his hand and the little bit on his sleeve,’ said Nicholas. ‘It seems to repel water. I borrowed some soap
from Prior Ralph, but it still would not come off.’

‘I need to see Ralph,’ said Michael. ‘I have a few questions to ask.’

Nicholas went to fetch him, leaving Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy standing in the cloister alone.

‘What is that stain exactly?’ asked Timothy, bending to touch the residue on the garment Nicholas had put carefully on a stone
bench.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The only other time I have seen it was on Faricius.’

‘So is that why you imagine it to be significant?’ asked Timothy, straightening to look at him. He gave an apologetic grin.
‘Forgive my questions. I am just trying to learn as much from you as I can, so that I can fulfil my new duties. But if you
do not know what this yellow slime is, then how can you be sure that Walcote and Faricius did not acquire it quite independently
of each other?’

‘I cannot be sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a peculiar substance, and I think it odd that it should appear on two corpses
that were killed within a couple of days of each other.’

‘But Faricius was stabbed during a riot in broad daylight, and Walcote was hanged in the shadows of dusk,’ pointed out Timothy.
‘I can see nothing that connects them.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is doubtless irrelevant.’

But something in the back of his mind suggested that it
was not, and that it was an important clue in discovering who had killed a studious Carmelite friar and the University’s
Junior Proctor.

Bartholomew shivered as he waited for Nicholas to fetch Prior Ralph de Norton. It seemed colder at Barnwell than it had been
in Cambridge, and the wind sliced more keenly through his clothes. The cloisters, lovely though they were, comprised a lattice
of carved stone that did little to impede the brisk breeze that rushed in from the north east. Bartholomew had heard that
the wind that shrieked across the Fens with such violence every winter came from icy kingdoms above Norway and Sweden, where
the land was perpetually frozen and the rays of the sun never reached.