An Order for Death (2 page)

The man who had called the meeting cleared his throat nervously. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen. I am sorry to draw you
from your friaries, Colleges and hostels at such an hour, but I think we all agree that it is better no one sees us gathering
together if we are to be effective.’

There was a rumble of agreement. ‘There is altogether too much plotting and treachery in the University these days,’ said
the grey-cloaked scholar disapprovingly. ‘God forbid that anyone should accuse
us
of it.’

The friar forced himself not to smile. What did the man imagine he was doing? Secret meetings with the heads of other religious
Orders, to discuss the kind of issues they all had in mind when most honest folk were in bed, sounded like plotting to the
friar.

An elderly man finished his wine and went to pour himself more, glancing around him as he did so. ‘I do not imagine Prioress
Martyn has allowed us the use of this chamber out of the goodness of her heart. Who is paying for her hospitality?’

The man in charge grinned, and held a gold coin between his finger and thumb, so that everyone could see it. ‘I happened to
be in the Market Square a few weeks ago,’ he said enigmatically.

The others nodded their understanding, some exchanging smiles of genuine amusement as they recalled the incident when half
the town had profited from an unexpected spillage of treasure in the stinking mud near the fish stalls.

‘I saw it all,’ said the old man bitterly. ‘But I was not nimble enough on my feet to take advantage of the situation.’

The scholar in grey laughed from the depths of his hood. ‘I wish I had been there! It is not that I have any special desire
to take part in undignified mêlées and grab myself a handful of gold – although I confess I would not have declined the opportunity
had it arisen – but I would like to have seen the effigy of Master Wilson of Michaelhouse dropped in the Market Square muck
by irate peasants.’

‘Wilson was an odious fellow,’ agreed the old man. ‘And his cousin Runham was no better. It was satisfying to see Wilson’s
effigy and Runham’s corpse so roughly manhandled by the townsfolk. And it was even more gratifying to see the wealth that
pair had accumulated through their dishonest dealings pour into the filth of the town’s streets.’

‘Not as gratifying as it was to seize some of it,’ said the man in charge. ‘And now I propose to put it to good use. It will
pay for meetings such as this, so that we will all benefit from it.’

‘Get on with it, then,’ said the old man, refilling his cup from the wine jug yet again. ‘I have other business to attend
tonight.’

‘I brought you here to discuss a murder,’ said the man in charge. He gazed at each one of them, his eyes sombre. ‘The murder
of one of the University’s highest officials.’

Cambridge, March 1354

T
HE FIRST STONE THAT SMASHED THROUGH THE WINDOW
of Oswald Stanmore’s comfortable business premises on Milne Street sprayed Matthew Bartholomew with

a shower of sharp splinters and narrowly missed his head. He dropped to his knees, ducking instinctively as a loud crack indicated
that another missile had made its mark on the merchant’s fine and expensive glass, and tried to concentrate on suturing the
ugly wound in the stomach of the Carmelite friar who lay insensible on the bench in front of him.

Bartholomew’s sister entered the room cautiously, carrying a dish of hot water and some rags ripped into strips for bandages.
She gave a startled shriek when a pebble slapped into the wall behind her, and promptly dropped the bowl. Water splashed everywhere,
soaking through the sumptuous rugs that covered the floor and splattering the front of her dress.

‘Damn!’ she muttered, regarding the mess with annoyance before crouching down and making her way to where Bartholomew worked
on the injured man. She winced as another window shattered. ‘How is he?’

‘Not good,’ replied Bartholomew, who knew there was little he could do for a wound such as had been inflicted on the Carmelite.
The knife had slashed through vital organs in the vicious attack, and, even though he had repaired them as well as he could,
the physician thought the damage too serious for the friar to recover. Even if the injury did heal,
his patient was weakened by blood loss and shock, and was unlikely to survive the infection that invariably followed such
piercing wounds.

‘Shall I fetch a priest?’ asked Edith, watching her brother struggle to close the end of the gaping cut with a needle and
a length of fine thread. ‘He will want a Carmelite – one of his own Order.’

Bartholomew finished his stitching and peered cautiously out of the window. A sturdy wall surrounded his brother-inlaw’s property,
so that it was reasonably safe from invasion. It could still be bombarded with missiles, however, and the Dominican students
who had massed outside were dividing their hostile attentions between the Carmelite Friary opposite and Stanmore’s house –
where they knew a Carmelite had been given shelter.

‘Neither of us will be going anywhere until those Dominicans disperse,’ he said, ducking again as another volley of stones
rattled against the wall outside. ‘They have the Carmelite Friary surrounded and I doubt they will be kind enough to allow
one of the enemy out, even on an errand of mercy.’

‘I will fetch a Franciscan or an Austin canon instead, then,’ said Edith, gathering her skirts as she prepared to leave. ‘This
poor boy needs a priest.’

‘You cannot go outside,’ said Bartholomew firmly, grabbing her arm. ‘I suspect the Dominican student-friars will attack anyone
they see, given the frenzy they have whipped themselves into. It is not safe out there.’

‘But I have nothing to do with the University,’ objected Edith indignantly. ‘No Dominican student – or any other scholar –
would dare to harm
me
.’

‘Usually, no,’ replied Bartholomew, pushing her to one side as a clod of earth crashed through the nearest window and scattered
over a handsome rug imported from the Low Countries. ‘But their blood is up and they are inflamed beyond reason; I doubt they
care who they hurt. The
Carmelites were insane to have written that proclamation.’

‘A proclamation?’ asked Edith warily. ‘All this mayhem is about a proclamation?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They denounced a philosophical belief that the Dominicans follow, and pinned it to the door of St Mary’s
Church.’

Edith regarded him in disbelief. ‘The scholars are killing each other over philosophy? I thought academic arguments were supposed
to take place in debating halls, using wits and intellect – not knives and stones.’

Bartholomew gave her a rueful smile. ‘In an ideal world, perhaps. But factions within the University are always squabbling
over something, and this time the religious Orders have ranged themselves on two sides of a debate about whether or not abstracts
have a real existence.’

Edith’s expression of incomprehension intensified. ‘You are teasing me, Matt! People do not fight over something like that.’

‘Scholars do, apparently,’ replied Bartholomew, laying his fingers on the life pulse in the Carmelite’s neck. It was weak
and irregular, and he began to fear that the lad would not survive until the Dominican students grew tired of throwing stones
at windows, and would die without the benefit of a final absolution.

Edith shook her head in disgust, and began to wipe the student’s face with a damp cloth. Bartholomew understood exactly how
she felt. For years, the various religious Orders that gathered in the University had bickered and quarrelled, and one of
them was always attacking the views and ideas expounded by the others. On occasion, emotions ran strongly enough to precipitate
an actual riot – like the one currently under way between the Black Friars and the White Friars in the street below – and
it was not unknown for students to be killed or injured during them. It was nearing the end of Lent, and the students, especially
the friars and monks, were tired and bored with the restrictions imposed on them. They were ripe for a fight, and Bartholomew
supposed that if it had not been a philosophical issue, then they would have found something else about which to argue.

He eased backward as another hail of missiles was launched, and cracks and tinkling indicated that more of Stanmore’s windows
were paying the price for Bartholomew’s act of mercy in rescuing the Carmelite. The physician realised he had made a grave
error of judgement, and saw that he should have carried the friar to Michaelhouse, his own College, and not involved his family
in the University’s troubles. He hoped the Dominicans’ fury at losing their quarry would fade when the heat of the moment
was past, and that they would not decide to take revenge on the Stanmores later.

‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Edith, taking another cloth and trying without much success to wipe the blood
from the friar’s limp hands.

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. He felt the life-beat again, half expecting to find it had fluttered away to nothing.
‘The current debate between the nominalists and the realists is a complicated one, and I doubt half the lads throwing stones
at us really believe that nominalism is the ultimate in philosophical theories: they just want to beat the Carmelites.’

Edith continued to tend the unconscious man. Bartholomew had administered a powerful sense-dulling potion before he had started
the messy operation of repairing the slippery organs that had been damaged by the knife, and did not expect the Carmelite
to wake very soon – if at all. He laid the back of his hand against the friar’s forehead, not surprised to find that it was
cold and unhealthily clammy. So he was surprised when the friar stirred weakly, opened his eyes and began to grope with unsteady
fingers at the cord he wore around his waist.

‘My scrip,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible. ‘Where is my scrip?’

Edith looked around her, supposing that the leather
pouch friars often carried at their side had fallen to the floor. ‘Where is it, Matt?’

Bartholomew pointed to a short string that had evidently been used to attach the scrip to the friar’s waist-cord. It was dark
with dirt, indicating that it had served its purpose for some time, but the ends were bright and clean. It did not take a
genius to deduce that it had been cut very recently. Bartholomew could only assume that whoever had stabbed the friar had
also taken his pouch, probably using the same knife. Bartholomew had found the injured friar huddled in a doorway surrounded
by Dominicans; the scrip must have been stolen by one of them.

‘Easy now,’ he said gently, trying to calm his patient as the search became more frantic. ‘You are safe here.’

‘My scrip,’ insisted the friar, more strongly. ‘Where is it? It is vital I have it!’

‘We will find it,’ said Bartholomew comfortingly, although he suspected that if the friar’s pouch had contained something
valuable, then the chances of retrieving it were remote.

‘You must find it,’ breathed the friar, gripping Bartholomew’s arm surprisingly tightly for a man so close to death. ‘You
must.’

‘Who did this to you?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for his bag. His patient’s agitated movements were threatening to pull
the stitches apart, and the physician wanted to calm him with laudanum. He eased the friar’s head into the crook of his arm
and gave him as large a dose as he dared. ‘Do you know the names of the men who attacked you?’

‘Please,’ whispered the friar desperately. ‘My scrip contains something very important to me. You must find it. And when you
do, you must pass it to Father Paul at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Bartholomew softly, disengaging himself from the agitated Carmelite and easing him back on to the bench.
‘We will look for it as soon as we can.’

He continued to speak in the same low voice, sensing that the sound of it was soothing the student. It was not long
before the Carmelite began to sleep again. Bartholomew inspected the damage the struggle had done to the fragile stitching,
and was relieved to see that it was not as bad as he had feared. Still, he realised it would make little difference eventually:
the friar was dying. His life was slowly ebbing away, and there was nothing Bartholomew could do to prevent it.

Outside in the street, the Dominicans continued to lay siege to the Carmelite Friary opposite, although their voices sounded
less furious and the missiles were hurled with less intensity and frequency. Bartholomew risked a quick glance out of the
window, and saw that the beadles – the law enforcers employed by the University – had started to arrive, and that small groups
of Dominicans were already slinking away before they were caught. There was only so long they could sustain their lust for
blood when the Carmelites were safely out of sight inside their property, and common sense was beginning to get the better
of hot tempers.

‘It will not be long now,’ said Bartholomew, moving away from the window and kneeling next to his patient again, where his
sister still sponged the pale face. ‘The Dominicans are going home. We may yet be able to secure a Carmelite confessor to
give this man last rites.’

‘He will die?’ asked Edith in a low whisper. ‘There is nothing you can do to save him?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have done all I can.’

Edith gazed in mute compassion at the friar’s face. Bartholomew did not know what to say, and was frustrated that for all
his years of training at Oxford and then in Paris, his medical knowledge still could not prevent a young man from dying.

‘Richard is right,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘We always summon physicians when we are ill, but they make little difference to
whether we live or not.’

‘Richard has changed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Edith and Oswald’s only son. ‘He is not the same
lad who left for Oxford after the plague five years ago.’

‘It is good to have him home again,’ said Edith, declining to admit that her son had returned home lacking a good deal of
his former charm. ‘He plans to remain here for a while, to assess the opportunities Cambridge has to offer. He says he may
have to go to London, because he is a good lawyer and he wants to work on expensive land disputes and become very rich.’

‘He said that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the young man’s blunt materialism. He felt for the friar’s life-beat again.
‘I do not know why he wants to stay here anyway; he has done nothing but criticise everything about Cambridge ever since he
returned.’

Edith did not reply, but Bartholomew sensed that she was as unimpressed by her son’s behaviour as was Bartholomew. Richard
had gone to the University of Oxford to study medicine, but had returned with a degree in law instead, claiming that a legal
training would provide him with the means to make more money than a medical one. Although he disapproved of Richard’s motives,
Bartholomew knew the young man was right. Since the plague, there was work aplenty for those who were able to unravel the
complexities of contested wills and property disputes arising from the high number of sudden deaths.

His lessons in legal affairs had done nothing to improve Richard’s character, however. Although he could hardly say so to
Edith, Bartholomew had preferred the cheerful, ebullient seventeen-year-old who had set off determined to learn how to heal
the sick, than the greedy twenty-two-year-old who had returned.

‘The streets are almost clear,’ he said, glancing out of the window and then resting his hand on the Carmelite’s forehead.
‘I will leave in a few moments to fetch a confessor. Will you stay with him?’

‘Of course,’ said Edith immediately. ‘This poor boy can remain here as long as necessary. Oswald will not mind.’

‘He will,’ said Bartholomew, imagining his brother-in-law’s
disapproval. ‘He will not be pleased to return from his business meeting to learn that I endangered his wife by bringing
an injured Carmelite to her, or to see that his panes have been smashed by vengeful Dominicans.’

He edged nearer the window, so that he could see into the muddy road below. There were definitely fewer dark-robed Dominicans
in Milne Street now, and he wished the remainder would hurry up and return to their own quarters on Hadstock Way.

‘Look at him, Matt,’ said Edith softly, sponging the hands of the injured Carmelite. ‘He is about the same age as Richard.’

Bartholomew glanced down at his patient and saw that she was right. He had barely noticed the man’s face. When he had first
caught sight of the wounded student, clutching his stomach in a spreading stain of blood, all Bartholomew’s attention had
been taken with brandishing a hefty pair of childbirth forceps at the surrounding Dominicans and dragging the injured friar
to the nearest safe haven. Then, once they had reached Stanmore’s property, Bartholomew had concentrated on tending the wound
and ducking the splinters of glass.