An Order for Death (30 page)

‘This particular fashion will not last long,’ she announced, indicating the ear-ring with a jerk of her thumb. ‘What sane
person deliberately pierces himself with a piece of metal?’

‘Everyone at court has one,’ objected Richard, rubbing his ear ruefully. ‘Those who do not are considered to be dowdy and
not worth knowing.’

‘It is comforting to know that our country is being governed by men with gold through their ears and buttons on their shirts,’
said Michael coolly. ‘No wonder we have been at war with France for so long: everyone spends his time thinking about ear-rings
and clothes, while affairs of state are deemed unfashionable and unimportant.’

Disgusted, both by Richard and the courtiers he imagined were damaging his country, the monk began to stride towards the door.
Richard hovered to talk to Bartholomew.

‘Have you heard that Master Heytesbury is to give the University Lecture on Sunday in St Mary’s Church?’ he asked smugly.
‘You have me to thank for that: I arranged it all.’

‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, storming back down the nave. ‘It is not for the likes of you to organise who speaks in the
University of Cambridge’s public debates.’

‘Because I am an Oxford man?’ asked Richard insolently. ‘I will tell Master Heytesbury you take that attitude. He will certainly
rethink whether he wishes to do business with you, if you regard him and his colleagues in so poor a light.’

‘You will mind your own affairs,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘My arrangements with Heytesbury have nothing to do with you.’

‘He asked me what I thought of you,’ said Richard carelessly, relishing the fact that he had nettled the monk. ‘He wanted
to know whether you can be trusted.’

‘My affairs have nothing to do with you,’ repeated Michael in a venomous whisper.

‘So, why are you prepared to give Oxford that property?’ pressed Richard, unmoved by Michael’s fury. ‘As Heytesbury’s lawyer,
I have been over the deeds very carefully, but there is no trick. Since you are not a generous man, the only other explanation
is that you are a fool.’

‘That is for Heytesbury to decide,’ said Michael, bringing his ire under control and turning away from the infuriating young
man. ‘Come on, Matt. We should go.’

‘I do not think you are a fool,’ Richard continued. ‘I always remembered you as a cunning sort of fellow. Then I saw through
your little game.’

Michael stopped walking and gazed at Richard, but his beady glare broke when he sneezed, suddenly and violently. Agatha coughed
meaningfully, and flapped her hand back and forth in front of her face.

‘Brother Michael is right,’ she declared. ‘You smell like a whore – although I do not know of any self-respecting women who
would douse themselves in whatever stinking potion you have bathed yourself in.’

Richard looked her up and down with as much distaste as she had treated him. ‘Better that than reeking of old onions and garlic,’
he drawled.

Agatha advanced on him. ‘Old onions and garlic—’

‘Where is that sheet you had for Kyrkeby, Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew quickly. ‘The day is wearing on, and I am keen
for the Dominicans to see the fine work you have done this morning. I imagine they will be very grateful to you.’

‘It is in my basket,’ said Agatha, easily diverted when told she could expect the praise of men like the Dominicans. ‘I will
fetch it.’

‘Are you sure she is safe to be let loose in a small town like this?’ asked Richard, watching her large figure sway importantly
up the aisle to where she had left her belongings.

‘She will rip you limb from limb if I ask her to,’ said Michael nastily. ‘So tell me what you meant when you said you had
guessed my plan, or you shall see exactly how unsafe she can be.’

Richard glanced from Agatha to Michael and saw the cold fury in the monk’s eyes. He decided it was not worth taking the risk
to see whether Michael was bluffing.

‘Heytesbury believes that you want to use the information he will give you to become the University’s next Chancellor. He
thinks you will use the names of the wealthy, but anonymous, Oxford patrons that he will divulge to you to make sure that
you are elected.’

Michael did not reply.

‘But I think there is another reason,’ Richard went on. ‘I think that you already know that one of the patrons is a man with
large dairy farms, who is reputed to make the best cheese in the country. I think your motive lies entirely with your stomach!’

‘I have never heard such nonsense in my life,’ said Michael, shoving Richard out of the way as he started to walk towards
the door. ‘I can assure you that my stomach has nothing to do with my arrangements with Heytesbury.’

‘It has!’ crowed Richard triumphantly. ‘You intend to dine on fine cheese, best butter and large brown eggs for the rest of
your indulgent life.’

Bartholomew was thinking about something else Richard had said. ‘What did you mean earlier, when you said Heytesbury was lecturing
this Sunday?’

‘Kyrkeby has not yet confirmed with the Chancellor that he still intends to speak,’ said Richard. ‘So, the Chancellor has
been looking for a replacement.’

‘If Kyrkeby does speak, it will cause some raised eyebrows,’ muttered Agatha, walking towards them with a winding sheet clasped
in one meaty hand. ‘And it will not be his clean hair and scrubbed fingernails that people will notice.’

‘Most scholars would be oblivious to the fact that they were receiving a lecture from a corpse,’ Cynric replied in an undertone.
‘I sometimes wonder whether half of them are dead anyway, but just do not know it.’

Agatha gave an inappropriate guffaw of laughter that echoed around the church and made everyone jump.

‘The Chancellor was in a quandary,’ Richard continued. ‘University lectures are important events, and he had no distinguished
speaker for Easter Sunday. I recommended Heytesbury.’

‘You interfering little snake,’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘Heytesbury is England’s leading nominalist. The mere presence of
such a man in the University church will incite a riot.’

‘Why?’ asked Richard smugly. ‘Is it because your scholars cannot trust their powers of reason and skills in rhetoric to win
them the day?’

‘It is because Cambridge is a tinderbox at the moment,’ Michael almost shouted. ‘It is on the verge of serious unrest, and
something like this could tip the balance. Do you really want to see the streets of the town where you were a child run with
blood?’

Richard blanched, but remained defiant. ‘If they choose to use their fists rather than their wits, I cannot find it in my
heart to mourn their fates.’

‘I am sure you cannot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But I care little for what is in your heart. I care about the innocent people
this will affect.’

‘I do not understand why you are in such a state about this,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Kyrkeby was going to speak
on nominalism anyway, and the only difference is that your scholars will listen to a man whose logic is brilliant, instead
of some bumbling old friar with bad teeth and no hair.’

‘Kyrkeby did not have bad teeth,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And he had plenty of hair.’

‘Had?’ asked Richard. ‘What happened to it?’

Bartholomew gestured to the pale corpse, blotched and flaccid, that lay in the parish coffin. Agatha stepped past him and
began to cover it with the sheet.

‘It is Kyrkeby,’ said Richard in horror, gazing down at the distorted features. ‘And he is dead!’

‘And you decided not to become a physician!’ muttered Michael. ‘With powers of observation like yours, the medical world should
mourn such a dreadful loss.’

‘He is a funny colour,’ remarked Cynric, looking critically at Agatha’s handiwork. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘That is what happens when you spend two days in a wet, muddy hole after you are dead,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I can do something about the colour of him,’ said Agatha, treating Bartholomew to a conspiratorial wink. ‘I can make him
look good enough to eat.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not certain what she intended to do, but very certain that she should not
be permitted to proceed.

Agatha tapped the side of her nose and gave him a significant glance. ‘Women know about these things. Just leave it to old
Agatha.’

‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, as her ponderous bulk began to move off down the aisle like a great ship leaving a harbour – stately
and virtually unstoppable. ‘Do not—’

‘No wonder Kyrkeby did not contact the Chancellor,’ said Richard, when Bartholomew’s objections faltered away to silence.
Agatha had decided she was going to act on whatever notion had sprung into her mind, and was underway.

‘
When
did Chancellor Tynkell become concerned that Kyrkeby had not confirmed his intention to lecture?’
demanded Michael of Richard. ‘He did not mention this to me.’

‘He said he did not want to bother you with administration when you were busy with murders,’ said Richard. ‘But he was worried
last night – Wednesday – when Prior Morden informed him that Kyrkeby had gone missing. I happened to be on hand to solve his
dilemma.’

‘What were you doing with Chancellor Tynkell?’ demanded Michael. ‘He is too busy to waste time on youths who believe that
owning big black horses and an ear-ring make them respected members of the community.’

‘Be that as it may, but I did him and your University a favour last night,’ said Richard firmly. ‘It would have been difficult
to find a replacement, given that Kyrkeby’s lecture is scheduled for three days’ time.’

‘It would not,’ argued Michael. ‘We have many skilled and distinguished speakers who are prepared to lecture at a moment’s
notice.’

‘Name one,’ challenged Richard.

‘Your uncle,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘He is the University’s most senior master of medicine. Will you claim he is one of
these old friars with no hair and poor teeth?’

The young lawyer tossed the end of his capuchin over his shoulder in a deliberately casual gesture and gave a careless smile.
‘I am sure he gives a fascinating account of lancing boils and examining urine. And he has fine hair and good teeth. But Heytesbury
will talk about nominalism, not give some diatribe on pustules and amputation.’

Michael’s smile was suddenly wicked. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said, so abruptly acquiescent that Richard’s eyes narrowed
in suspicion. ‘Has Heytesbury actually agreed to speak?’

‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘It is all settled, so it is too late for you to interfere.’

‘I would not dream of it,’ said Michael, his grin widening. ‘I shall look forward very much to Master Heytesbury’s lecture
on Sunday.’

‘Good,’ said Richard, giving a courtly bow before turning and strutting out of the church. The long points of his fashionable
shoes flapped on the flagstones and his russet-red cloak billowed about his elegantly clad legs as he walked. One of the shoes
caught in a crack and made him stumble, although his near fall did nothing to moderate his confident swagger.

‘What did Oxford do to him?’ asked Cynric. ‘No one in the town likes him any more. I wonder whether a witch put a spell on
him. Perhaps I will make enquiries at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The friars will not know any witches.’

‘But they know cures for curses,’ said Cynric. ‘They are very good with their remedies. Their rat poison is famous from here
to Peterborough.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But killing rats and removing curses that make people unpleasant are scarcely the same thing.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Both rid the world of something we would rather be without.’

Bartholomew glanced at him. ‘Why were you suddenly so pleased to hear that Heytesbury’s lecture is now an immovable feature?’

‘The day that Faricius was stabbed – Saturday – Chancellor Tynkell told me he was worried that the subject of Kyrkeby’s lecture
might cause further problems,’ began Michael.

‘Is that why Kyrkeby was killed, do you think?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing down at the grey body in the coffin. ‘Because
he was going to talk about nominalism? Lord help us, Brother! We had better keep our opinions to ourselves in future, if holding
controversial theories might result in our being stuffed in someone else’s tomb.’

‘Your interpretation of nominalism involves accelerating units and stable velocities,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘No one
is likely to become too excited about that. Kyrkeby, however, was more interested in how nominalism relates to
the nature of God – that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are in fact three names –
nomen
– for the same being. That would make Him a universal, and universals do not exist in the real sense.’

‘That would be contentious,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not nearly as exciting as Heytesbury’s ideas on uniformly accelerated
motion.’

‘Each to his own, Matt. But Chancellor Tynkell told me on Saturday that he was reconsidering whether to ask Kyrkeby to change
the title of his lecture. Then, yesterday morning, Tynkell mentioned that he
had
made the decision to tell Kyrkeby that nominalism was banned. Tynkell, of course, did not know that Kyrkeby was missing,
and so sent a note to the friary.’

‘Then Kyrkeby never received that letter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been dead for two days – probably since Monday night,
when he was first missed from his friary.’

‘So, he died still thinking that he was going to speak on nominalism,’ said Michael. ‘But I know that Tynkell was nervous
about demanding a change in topics at such short notice, and his letter told Kyrkeby to confirm that he was happy with the
new arrangements – hence Tynkell’s concern last night when he still had not heard, I imagine.’

‘A lecture takes a long time to prepare,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfair of Tynkell to expect Kyrkeby to talk about something
completely different just like that.’

‘And that was exactly why he asked Kyrkeby to visit him, so that they could discuss it,’ said Michael. ‘But Tynkell thought
he was doing Kyrkeby a favour, actually: everyone is so obsessed with the realism–nominalism debate at the moment, that Kyrkeby’s
lecture would have had to be very good – and he was an adequate scholar at best.’