An Order for Death (3 page)

For the first time, he studied the friar. He had a pleasant face, with a mouth that turned up at the corners, although already
it had the waxy sheen of death about it. His fingers were deeply ink-stained, suggesting that he spent at least some of his
time studying or scribing, rather than wandering the town with his classmates looking for Dominicans or Franciscans to taunt
or attack. His hair was light brown and smelled clean, and his habit, although blood-soaked and marked with the signs of a
scuffle, was neat and showed evidence of recent brushing. Here was no lout, but a man who took care over his personal appearance.
The only unusual thing about him was the pale yellow sticky residue on one of his hands. It looked like some kind of glue,
although Bartholomew had never seen anything quite like it before. He supposed it was some new import from Spain
or France. Such items were becoming common again now that people were recovering from the impact of the plague and trade
was resuming.

‘I wonder what was in his scrip that was so important to him,’ mused Edith. The sound of her voice pulled the physician from
his reverie. ‘Whatever it was, he considered it more vital than telling you the names of the men who stabbed him.’

‘Perhaps he did not know them,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced out of the window again. ‘If I leave my Michaelhouse tabard here
and borrow that cloak of Oswald’s, I should reach the Carmelite Friary unmolested—’

‘Matt!’ whispered Edith urgently, jumping away from the Carmelite in alarm. ‘Something is wrong with him!’

Bartholomew saw the friar’s eyes roll back in his head as he began to convulse, thrashing about with his arms and legs and
pulling open the sutured wound. With Edith exhorting him to do something, Bartholomew attempted to control the fit with more
of his sense-dulling potions, but to no avail. Gradually, the uncontrolled twitching and shuddering grew weaker, along with
the friar’s heartbeat. The student was still for a few moments, gasping raggedly while the opened wound pumped his life blood
into the rugs that covered the bench. And then he simply ceased to breathe. Edith took his hand and called out to him, but
the Carmelite was dead.

‘They killed him,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes. Unlike her brother, she was unused to the presence of sudden death
and it distressed her. ‘Those Dominicans murdered him.’

‘They did,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. He stood, feeling defeated. ‘I will fetch one of the Carmelites to see to him.’

‘Fetch Brother Michael first,’ said Edith unsteadily. ‘He is the Senior Proctor, and it is his responsibility to investigate
University deaths. I want to see those murdering Dominicans brought to justice.’

‘So will the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘I just hope they will not decide to do it themselves.’

*   *   *

Brother Michael, Senior Proctor of the University, Fellow of Michaelhouse and trusted agent of the Bishop of Ely, puffed across
the yard of Stanmore’s business premises with his Junior Proctor and a group of his beadles marching untidily behind him.

With one or two exceptions, the University’s law-keepers were a rough, ill-kempt breed. They all sported coarse woollen tunics
with scarlet belts that marked them as University officers, but underneath they wore a bizarre assortment of garments that
gave most of them a very eccentric appearance. Some had donned the boiled leather leggings that suggested they had fought
for King Edward in France before the plague had forced a truce, while others possessed an eclectic collection of articles
passed to them as bribes from students they caught breaking the University’s rules. A quick glance revealed a courtier’s scarlet
hose, a Dominican’s cloak, a grey shirt that had probably been a Franciscan’s undergarment, and a pair of wooden clogs that
had doubtless belonged to a scholar from the north.

The Junior Proctor was a different matter. Will Walcote was dressed in the sober black habit of an Austin canon, and over
it was an ankle-length cloak. His calf-high boots were of good quality leather, and although they were mud-stained from walking
along the High Street, they had been carefully polished. He was of average height, had thick brown hair that was cut short
above the ears, and had a thin, intelligent face. He was popular in the University, more so than his intrigue-loving superior,
and already it was rumoured that he would be Michael’s successor as Senior Proctor, although Bartholomew knew Michael had
doubts about Walcote’s suitability.

The untidy procession came to a shambling halt, while Michael looked around him imperiously. The yard was cobbled, and everywhere
were threads of the cloth that had made Oswald Stanmore one of the richest men in Cambridge. The lean-to sheds were filled
with bales of wool
and silk, and even though the merchant himself was at a business meeting in another part of the town, his apprentices were
busy loading and unloading carts, making inventories and carrying out his orders.

Michael presented an impressive figure in his billowing black cloak and the dark Benedictine habit beneath it, and several
of Stanmore’s apprentices faltered nervously when they saw him. The monk had always been large – tall, as well as burly –
but contentment and self-satisfaction had added a further layer of fat around his middle. His thin, lank brown hair was cut
neatly around his gleaming tonsure, and his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers. He and Bartholomew had been friends
for some years, although Michael’s post as Senior Proctor and the duties it entailed occasionally put a serious strain on
their relationship.

Bartholomew watched the monk and his retinue enter the yard, then went to meet them. It was cold for March, and Michael’s
winter cloak was lined with fur to protect him from the bitter winds that shrieked across the Fens from the north and east.
Despite the fact that it was Lent, and that the monk should have been fasting or at least abstaining from some foods, he looked
a good deal better fed than most of his beadles, and his round face gleamed with health and vitality.

He spotted Bartholomew and Edith at the top of the short flight of steps that led to Oswald Stanmore’s office, and strode
to meet them. Walcote followed him.

‘I heard there was a row between the Dominicans and the Carmelites,’ said the monk, waiting for Bartholomew to descend the
steps. ‘My beadles acted immediately, and I thought we had prevented any serious trouble. Then I receive a message from you
saying that someone has been killed.’

‘It is true,’ replied Edith, answering Michael’s question before Bartholomew could speak. Her eyes were red from crying over
the death of the young friar she had not known, and her voice was unsteady. Bartholomew fervently wished
he had taken the Carmelite to Michaelhouse, and had not involved his sister in the University’s troubles. ‘The Dominicans
killed a Carmelite. He died right here, in Oswald’s office.’

‘How did he come to be there?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Merchants like Oswald have bands of apprentices, and bands of apprentices
love nothing more than lone scholars to fight – be they Carmelites or anyone else.’

‘Matt brought him,’ replied Edith. ‘The apprentices did not approve, but they carried him upstairs, then stood watch to make
sure no Dominicans broke through our gates. I suppose all the fuss has died down now, given that they seem to have gone back
to work.’

‘I suppose,’ said Michael carefully, knowing it would take very little for trouble to ignite again. ‘How did you manage to
prevent your apprentices from rushing into the street and joining in the affray?’

‘I forbade them to,’ said Edith, surprised by the question. ‘They did not like standing by while scholars threw stones that
smashed our windows, but they did as they were told.’

‘Would that all merchants had as much control over their people,’ muttered Michael, impressed that Edith had been able to
impose her will so effortlessly on a group of spirited young men. He had forgotten that dark-haired Edith, who always seemed
so slight next to her younger brother, was a very determined woman. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Where is this poor unfortunate
now?’

Bartholomew led him and Walcote to the office, while the beadles remained in the yard to be shown broken windows and scratched
paintwork by the indignant apprentices. Edith had covered the body of the friar with a crisp white sheet, although a circular
red stain had already appeared, a stark foretaste of what lay underneath. Gently, Bartholomew pulled the sheet away from the
friar’s face, so that Michael could see it. Both men turned in surprise when they heard Walcote’s sharp intake of breath.

‘That is Faricius of Abington,’ said the Junior Proctor, gazing down at the body in horror.

‘You know him?’ asked Michael. ‘Have you arrested him for frequenting taverns or brawling or some such thing?’

‘Not Faricius,’ said Walcote, clearly shocked. ‘He was a peaceful and scholarly man. I met him at a lecture we both attended
on nominalism. After that, we met from time to time to discuss various philosophical concepts. I liked and admired him.’

‘Do you have any idea why someone might wish him harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew cover the face of the dead scholar
again.

Walcote’s voice was unsteady when he replied. ‘None at all. He was a good man, respected by the people who knew him. This
is a vile town, if friars like Faricius are slain in broad daylight.’

‘I agree, Will,’ said Michael sympathetically, but rather condescendingly. ‘But it happens occasionally, and it is our duty
– yours and mine – to bring the culprits to justice. Matt, what were you doing in the middle of a fight between friars that
ended in bloody murder?’

‘I was visiting a patient, and heard the sounds of a brawl in the making on my way home. Then I saw a group of Dominicans
standing around a bloodstained Carmelite lying in a doorway.’

Michael eyed his friend warily. ‘How many Dominicans?’

‘Half a dozen or so. The Carmelite was bleeding from a wound in his stomach, and I assumed he had been stabbed by them.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Intervening was a foolish thing to do. One man against six is
not good odds. What were you thinking of?’

‘There was no time to consider the odds,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘I only saw an injured man and thought I might be able
to help him. I waved my childbirth forceps at the Dominicans and they dispersed readily enough.’

‘I should think so,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Those
forceps are a formidable weapon if you know how to use them. I would think twice about taking them on, too.’

‘I considered taking Faricius to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I was not sure if he would survive the journey.
I brought him here instead.’

‘So, did one of these six Black Friars definitely stab Faricius?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you see any of them holding knives or
with bloodstained hands?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I was more concerned with taking Faricius somewhere I could tend him properly,
and I did not notice much about the Dominicans. I would say that they did not look as though they were going to give him last
rites, however.’

‘Would you recognise them again?’ asked Walcote hopefully. ‘It was daylight, which is unusual. Most of these riots take place
at night, when the perpetrators stand a better chance of escaping under cover of darkness once they have had their fill of
violence.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They were not happy to see their prey snatched from under their noses and told me so. We
exchanged quite a few unpleasant words before I left.’

Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘They threatened you, did they? I shall see they pay for that with a few nights
in the proctors’ cells – whether they confess to murdering Faricius of Abington or not.’

‘I cannot believe that the Dominicans and the Carmelites are behaving like this,’ said Walcote, his eyes fixed on the still
figure under the sheet. ‘I know we Austin canons are no angels, and that there are occasional fights between individuals,
but we do not march as a body on rival Orders.’

‘Nor do we Benedictines,’ said Michael in a superior manner. ‘There are better ways of resolving differences than resorting
to fists.’

‘I am surprised their priors did nothing to stop it,’ Walcote went on disapprovingly. ‘Could they not see what consequences
their students’ actions might have – the damage
that committing a murder might have on their community here in Cambridge?’

‘They will see what the consequences are when I get my hands on them,’ said Michael grimly.

Michael ordered four of his beadles to construct a stretcher of two planks of wood and some strips of cloth, and then instructed
them to carry Faricius to St Botolph’s, the church nearest the Carmelite Friary. Walcote was dispatched to fetch Prior Lincolne,
which was no easy task given that the Carmelites were not currently responding to yells and bangs on the door. Once he had
alerted Lincolne to the fact that one of his number was dead, Walcote was to go to the Dominican property on Hadstock Way,
to ensure all the rioting Black Friars had returned home and were not still prowling the streets intent on mischief.

‘This is a bad business, Matt,’ said Michael, holding open the door to St Botolph’s, so that the beadles could carry their
grisly burden inside. Bartholomew noticed that Faricius was dripping blood, and that a trail of penny-sized droplets ran between
the Stanmore property and the church. ‘We have had no serious trouble since last November, when Runham dismissed my choir
and attempted to cheat the workmen he had employed to rebuild Michaelhouse. I was hoping the calm would continue.’

‘It has been calm because we have had a long winter,’ explained Beadle Meadowman, struggling to manhandle Faricius through
the narrow door without tipping him off the stretcher. ‘It has been too chilly to go out fighting. Scholars and townsfolk
alike would rather sit by their fires than be out causing mischief in the cold.’