An Order for Death (9 page)

Michael scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on two days’ growth of bristles. ‘It is odd. On the one hand, we have Prior
and friends certain that an exit from the friary was impossible and that Faricius was inside; on the other we have the very
real evidence of his corpse outside it. I cannot decide what the truth is.’

‘Either they really believe what they say is true – even though it clearly is not – or they want to hide the real truth and
have decided to do it by confusing you.’

‘Well, it is working,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I
am
confused.’

‘So, what will you do? Where will you start?’

Michael sighed. ‘I can do no more to solve Faricius’s murder today. I worked hard questioning those Dominicans and I am tired.
I feel like doing something pleasant this evening – and I do not mean sitting in a freezing conclave with Michaelhouse’s eccentric
collection of Fellows after an inadequate meal.’

‘Lent is almost over,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that the miserable food was the real cause of the monk’s discontent. Michael
was usually perfectly happy to relax in the company of his colleagues, despite their peculiarities.

‘And not a moment too soon,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘Lent is a miserable time of year. No meat to be had; church services
held at ungodly hours; gloomy music sung at masses; everyone talking about abstention and fasting and other such nonsense.’
He watched the physician swing the medicine bag he always carried over his shoulder as he prepared to leave. ‘Going out alone
when you have an offer of company is madness, Matt. Let me escort you to Trumpington.’

‘I do not need an escort,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I walk to Trumpington quite regularly, and you have never expressed any concern
before.’

Michael gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You are being remarkably insensitive, Matt. Edith told us what she planned to cook tonight,
to celebrate Richard’s return to Cambridge. However, the offerings at Michaelhouse are more of that revolting fish-giblet
stew and bread I saw Agatha sawing the green bits from this morning. If you were any kind of friend, you would see my predicament
and invite me to dine with Edith.’

‘I wondered what was behind all this uncharacteristic concern for my safety. It is not my well-being that preoccupies you:
it is Edith’s trout with almonds, raisin bread and pastries.’

‘You have convinced me to come,’ said Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘I took the precaution of hiring a couple of horses
yesterday. We will ride. It will leave more time for eating.’

‘And what do you think Edith will say when she sees you have invited yourself to her family reunion?’ asked Bartholomew, sure
that his sister would not be pleased to see Michael on her doorstep determined to make short work of her cooking.

Michael gave a smug grin. ‘She will thank me for my devotion to you – for accompanying the brother she adores along a dangerous
road so that he can spend an evening in her company. And anyway, I want to meet your nephew again. It is five years since
last I saw him.’

‘He has changed,’ said Bartholomew, walking with the monk across the courtyard to where Walter, the surly porter, was holding
the reins of the two horses Michael had hired. ‘He abandoned medicine to study law and it has made him pompous and arrogant.
Perhaps he has just spent too much time with lawyers.’

‘Or perhaps he has just spent too much time with that band of mongrels at Oxford who call themselves scholars,’ said Michael
with an unpleasant snigger.

‘Brother Michael!’ exclaimed Oswald Stanmore, as the Benedictine and Bartholomew walked into his manor house at the small
village of Trumpington. ‘What are you doing here?’ His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. ‘You have not come about the murder
of that Carmelite, have you? Matt was wrong to have brought him to my property.’

Edith sighed crossly. ‘Really, Oswald! What was Matt supposed to do? He could hardly carry Faricius all the way back to Michaelhouse.’

‘But by taking him to my house, he endangered the lives of you and my apprentices,’ said Stanmore sternly. ‘It was a thoughtless
thing to do.’

‘I am sorry, Oswald,’ began Bartholomew, knowing the merchant had a point. ‘I did not—’

Edith raised a hand to silence him. ‘Matt was right to do what he did, Oswald, and any decent man would have done the same.
Those louts murdered a priest right outside our door. Would you rather he turned a blind eye to such an outrage?’

‘From what I hear, the killers were priests, too,’ retorted Stanmore. ‘And so I imagine that turning a blind eye would have
been a very prudent thing to do. But prudence is not something that runs in your side of the family, it seems. Thank God Richard
does not take after you two.’

‘No one could ever accuse me of imprudence,’ said Richard lazily from his position in the best chair in the house – a cushion-filled
seat that was placed so close to the fire that Bartholomew was surprised his nephew did not singe himself.

Bartholomew saw Michael regard Richard with interest. Richard had indeed changed from the gangling seventeen-year-old who
had marched away to Oxford University some five years before with dreams of studying medicine. He possessed the same unruly
black curls and dark eyes as Bartholomew, and had grown tall. But there the likeness ended. Richard’s face was plumper than
it should have been for a man of his age, and there were bulges above his hips that testified to too much good living. His
hands were pale and soft, as though he scorned any sort of activity that would harden them, and there was a decadent air about
him that certainly had not been there when he had lived in Cambridge.

His clothes presented a stark contrast to those of his uncle, too. Whereas the physician’s shirt and tabard were frayed and
patched, Richard’s were new and the height of fashion. He wore blue hose made from the finest wool, a white shirt of crisp
linen, and a red jerkin with flowing sleeves that were delicately embroidered with silver thread. On his feet were red shoes
with the ridiculously impractical curling toes that were currently popular at the King’s court, and in his ear was the gold
ear-ring to which Edith had
taken such exception. His beard was in the peculiar style that covered the chin and upper lip, but left the sides of the
face clean shaven, and was so heavily impregnated with scented oil that Bartholomew could smell it from the door. The physician
resisted the urge to comment on it.

‘Well,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose and smothering a sneeze. ‘You are not the awkward youth I remember from the black
days of the plague.’

‘And you are not the slender monk I once knew, either,’ retorted Richard promptly, his insolent eyes taking in Michael’s considerable
bulk.

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘If you recall a slender monk, Richard, then your memory is not all it should be. Michael
has never been slender.’

‘When I was a child, I was so thin that my mother was convinced I was heading for an early grave,’ said Michael. ‘She took
me to see a physician, who bled me and dosed me with all manner of vile potions. I have spent the rest of my life ensuring
that I never warrant such treatment again.’

‘Most physicians are charlatans,’ agreed Richard, throwing Bartholomew a challenging stare. ‘They claim they can cure you,
but their powdered earthworms and their lead powder and their paste of sparrows’ brains no more heal the sick than do the
expensive horoscopes they insist on working out.’

‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why his nephew was trying to goad him into an argument when it would only spoil
Edith’s evening. ‘I have long believed that horoscopes make no difference to a patient’s health. However, I have also learned
that a patient’s state of mind is important to his recovery – if he believes a horoscope will provide a more effective cure,
then he is more likely to get well if I use one.’

Richard yawned and reached out to take some nuts from a bowl that had been placed near him. ‘If you say so.’ He lost interest
in his uncle and turned his languorous gaze on Michael. ‘But what brings you to Trumpington on this cold
and windy night, Brother? It would not be the fish-giblet stew that Agatha is simmering at Michaelhouse, would it?’

Michael regarded him coolly, and if he were surprised that Richard had guessed the real reason for his visit he did not show
it. ‘The Trumpington road is haunted by outlaws. I merely wanted to ensure that your uncle arrived safely.’

‘So, will you be returning to Cambridge now?’ asked Richard with feigned innocence. ‘You have discharged your duty and he
is here in one piece.’

‘I thought I might stay a while – at least until the rain stops,’ said Michael, smiling comfortably. Bartholomew knew that
Michael allowed very little between him and a good meal, and it would take far more potent forces than the irritating Richard
to make him abandon one. And Michael knew perfectly well that the rain had settled in for the night, and that it was unlikely
to abate until the following day. ‘You seem to have had an interesting sojourn at Oxford; I would like to hear more about
it.’

‘Perhaps later,’ said Richard, reaching for more nuts. He smiled ingratiatingly at Edith. ‘Is the food ready?’

Edith returned her son’s smile. ‘Almost. I will tell the servants that we have two more guests.’

‘Two?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Who else did you invite?’

‘Not me,’ replied Edith as she left the room. ‘Richard asked a friend to come.’

‘Who?’ asked Stanmore of his son, surprised. ‘You have only been back a few days, and you have spent most of that time in
bed, recovering from your “arduous journey”.’

‘It is no one from Cambridge – and certainly no one from Trumpington,’ said Richard, with a contrived shudder. ‘I do not know
why you live here, father. It is little more than a few hovels stretched along a muddy track, and it is occupied almost entirely
by peasants. If I were you, I would live in the house in Cambridge.’

Bartholomew found he was beginning to dislike his nephew. The manor Stanmore and Edith occupied was luxurious by most standards
and certainly by anything Richard
was likely to have experienced at Oxford, if Bartholomew’s memories of the place were anything to go by. It was a large hall-house
near the church, which looked out across strip fields and orchards. It had red tiles on the roof, and the walls were plastered
and painted pale pink. Inside, the house was clean and airy. Wool rugs covered the floor, rather than the more usual rushes,
and the walls were decorated with wall hangings. There were plenty of cushioned benches to sit on, and the table at which
the Stanmores and their household ate was of polished wood – of the kind that did not puncture the diners’ hands with splinters
each time they ate, as at Michaelhouse. But it was the smell of the house that Bartholomew liked best. It was warm and welcoming,
a mixture of the herbs Edith tied in the rafters to dry, of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, and of the slightly bitter
aroma of burning wood. Bartholomew had spent his childhood at Trumpington, and the house always brought back pleasant memories.

That evening, the main chamber was even more welcoming than usual. Edith had decorated it with early spring flowers, and little
vases of snowdrops and violets stood here and there, mingling their sweet fragrance with the scents already in the room. Because
it was dark, lamps were lit, filling the room with a warm amber glow. They shuddered and guttered as the wind rattled the
window shutters and snaked under the doors, sending eerie yellow patterns flickering over the walls.

Michael poured himself a goblet of wine from a jug that had been placed on the table, and went to sit in the chair opposite
Richard. He took a sip, and then stretched his legs towards the fire with an appreciative sigh.

‘It is cold out tonight,’ he said conversationally. ‘It is just as well we rode, Matt. Walking would not have been pleasant
in this wind.’

‘You rode?’ asked Stanmore. He handed Bartholomew a goblet of wine and then sat next to him on the bench near the table, since
Michael and Richard had already claimed
the best places. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Michael with amusement. ‘You anticipated that Matt would ask you to
accompany him and took the precaution of hiring horses?’

‘I am a man prepared for every eventuality,’ said Michael silkily. He turned his attention to Richard. ‘But tell me about
Oxford. Why did you abandon medicine and embrace law instead?’

‘Law is a nobler profession,’ replied Richard. ‘It is better to make an honest living than to practise medicine.’

‘Law? Honest?’ asked Bartholomew, too astonished to feel offended. ‘Is that what they taught you at Oxford?’

Richard sighed irritably. ‘I was educated just as well at Oxford as I would have been in Cambridge – better, probably.’

‘It was not your allegiance to Oxford that startled him,’ said Michael. ‘It was your claim that law is an honest profession.
Where did you learn such nonsense?’

Richard regarded him coolly. ‘It is not nonsense. I decided it would be better than poking around with sores and pustules
and suchlike. And then, when the Death comes again, I shall ride away as fast as I can, not linger to lance buboes and watch
people die.’

‘Running will not save you,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘There was barely a town or a village in the whole of Europe that escaped
unscathed. The plague would just follow you. Or worse, you might carry it with you and spread it to others.’

‘We are supposed to be celebrating,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘We will not spend the evening dwelling on the Death. We all lost
people we loved, and I do not want to discuss it.’

‘Quite right,’ said Michael, holding out his goblet for Stanmore to fill. He changed the subject to one that was equally contentious.
‘I have never been to Oxford, but Matt tells me it is an intriguing place. Personally, I have no desire to see it. I imagine
its greater size will render it very squalid.’

‘It is not squalid,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Richard look angry. ‘Well, not as squalid as some places I have seen.’