Murder by the Book (21 page)

‘If you are working on these levies, who is investigating Adam’s death?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet opened his eyes. ‘I am, with every free moment I have. But the taxes are almost ready now. We have great
crates of coins locked in the Great Tower, waiting to be taken to London.’

‘Perhaps you should post extra guards on the Gatehouse,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I imagine every robber in the county will be interested in “great crates of coins”.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘It would have to be a very bold thief who attempted to raid a royal castle. But what can I do for you today? Are you here to tell me what happened last night? Isnard said you would come.’

Bartholomew described the events of the previous evening in as much detail as he could, yet although Tulyet listened attentively, the physician was acutely aware that he had little of substance to relate. He could not describe the men, other than to say that they had worn armour, and he was unable to guess what they had been doing. His only real contribution was that the riverfolk considered them strangers, so they were probably not townsmen or scholars.

‘I sent one of my soldiers to inspect that strip of riverbank, but there was nothing to see,’ said Tulyet when he had finished. ‘Isnard had garnered a few more details from the riverfolk – for which I am grateful, because they would never have confided in me – but it all adds up to very little.’

‘I think they are the men who killed Adam,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One of them ordered his crony to cut my throat.’

‘You are almost certainly right. Moreover, I suspect they have claimed more than three victims. Several other folk have gone missing of late, and I cannot help but wonder whether they have had their throats cut, too, and their bodies hidden or tossed in the river. It is a bad state of affairs, and I would be hunting these villains now, were it not for these damned revenues.’

‘Can you not delegate those to someone else?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that catching killers was a lot more important than money, although he suspected the King would disagree.

‘I wish I could, but I have no wish to lose my post because a minion is careless with his arithmetic. The King takes his taxes seriously – it is expensive to keep the Prince of Wales campaigning in France. Did I tell you that we are ordered to provide a ribauldequin this year, too, as part of our payment? Still, it could have been worse – York had to make five hundred hauberks.’

Bartholomew, gazed at him, disgusted that the taxes his College was forced to pay – which always necessitated draconian economies and sacrifice – were being spent on such a wicked contraption. He was not stupid enough to say so to one of His Majesty’s most loyal officers, though, and floundered around for an innocuous response. ‘Are ribauldequins difficult to manufacture?’

‘Very. They require precision casting of high-quality metal. It is finished now, thank God. It took a while, because I had never seen one, and I had to find out what they entail.’

‘The King’s clerks did not provide specifications?’

‘They did, but we needed more detail. I would have asked you to help – you saw them in action at Poitiers – but I had a feeling you would refuse, like Northwood did.’

‘Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why would you ask him?’

‘Because he was also at Poitiers, as chaplain to one of the Prince’s generals. But he said that while he would be happy to destroy a ribauldequin, he would never assist in the making of one.’

‘I did not know he was at the battle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He never mentioned it.’

‘He claimed it was the nastiest experience he had ever had, and disliked talking about it. He confided in me only because we were friends.’

‘Holm was at Poitiers, too.’ Bartholomew felt like adding that the surgeon had sided with the French, but was not entirely sure how Tulyet would react, and although he disliked Holm, he did not want to be responsible for his arrest.

‘I doubt he did any fighting,’ said Tulyet disparagingly. ‘The man looks lean and fit, but there is no real strength in him. Women fall at his feet – and even my wife claims he has the body of a Greek god – but he is a feeble specimen in my view.’

‘It is a pity we spend money on fighting the French,’ said Bartholomew. He fully agreed with Tulyet, but was afraid that once
he
began to list the surgeon’s faults, he might not be able to stop. ‘There are much better causes.’

Tulyet nodded ruefully. ‘Like dredging the King’s Ditch, which is so full of silt that anyone can paddle across it after a dry spell, and it provides no kind of defence for the town at all.’

‘Or feeding the town’s poor,’ added Bartholomew.

Tulyet was not listening. ‘I had hoped the French would sue for peace after Poitiers. Their country is in a terrible state: their army is in disarray, their peasants are on the verge of rebellion; and their King is our prisoner but they cannot afford the ransom. Neither can a number of their nobles, including the Archbishop of Sens, the Count of Eu and the Sire de Rougé.’

‘It was in a terrible state before the battle,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the devastation wrought by the Prince of Wales’s troops. ‘Crops and villages burnt, livestock slaughtered. I do not blame the peasants for declining to pay these ransoms. Why should they, when
these nobles taxed them in order to raise troops for defence, but then failed to protect them?’

‘That is a recklessly seditious remark, Matt,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Although Northwood said much the same. Incidentally, have you heard the rumour that his death is connected to Sawtre’s – that all five dead scholars were struck down because they went against the wishes of their College, hostel or convent by supporting the University’s new library?’

‘Yes, but there is no evidence to say it is true.’

‘There is also a tale that says God is the culprit,’ Tulyet went on, ‘although I do not believe it myself. However, it is a notion that is gaining credence in many quarters.’

‘I have heard that the Devil might be responsible, too.’ Bartholomew smiled. ‘There cannot be many instances where God and Satan are credited with the same deed. But how did you build your ribauldequin if you have never seen one and people refused to advise you? No, do not tell me! Riborowe! He has an unhealthy fascination with the infernal things.’

‘Yes, he does, thankfully, or I would have been floundering. Langelee and Chancellor Tynkell were helpful, too, and so was Walkelate.’

‘Walkelate?’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But he is an architect.’

‘Precisely. And architects build things. He was able to take the others’ sketches and convert them into working plans. Would you like to see the finished article? It is quite impressive.’

‘No, thank you!’ Bartholomew shuddered. ‘If I never set eyes on one of those vile creations again, it will be too soon.’

Bartholomew was called to Batayl Hostel before he could return to Michaelhouse, but was not sorry that the
summons meant he would miss the midday meal. His innards were still tender, despite Julitta’s tonic, and nothing at College was likely to tempt him – the recent tax demand meant that Michaelhouse was in an especially lean phase, so Langelee had ordered the cooks to make meals as unappetising as possible in the hope that his scholars would eat less, and thus save him money.

Batayl was a small, shabby building, comprising a single room in which Coslaye, Browne and their eight students ate, slept, taught and relaxed. There was a tiny yard at the back that contained a reeking latrine, and any cooking was either done at the hearth, or taken to the communal ovens in the Market Square.

‘Sorry, Matt,’ said Michael, who was waiting outside for him. ‘I came to ask my questions, but when I saw the state of its residents … well, suffice to say that I sent for you, and will leave my investigation until they are feeling better.’

When Bartholomew entered Batayl, he was immediately assailed by the reek of cheap candles, burnt fat and unwashed feet, an odour he had come to associate with the poorer kind of hostel. He was taken aback to see that one wall had been given a garish mural, sure it had not been there the last time he had visited.

‘It is the Battle of Poitiers,’ explained Coslaye, hands on his stomach as he lay on a pallet. Several lads were curled in groaning misery around him, while the rest were outside, vying for a place in the latrines. ‘Most of the action took place near a wood, which you can see at the bottom. The English warriors are the ones with haloes, and the French have horns, tails and forked tongues.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, staggered by the amount of blood that had been depicted.

‘It is Principal Coslaye’s handiwork,’ said Browne, his
voice dripping disapproval. ‘He did it when he was recovering from the surgery you performed on his head.’

‘It is very … colourful,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Coslaye was waiting for a compliment, although the truth was that the whole thing was ridiculously gruesome. In one section, headless French knights were still busily doing battle with the angelic English, their limbs operated by the demons that sat on their shoulders.

‘It was either this, or a picture of Satan being welcomed at the Carmelite Priory,’ elaborated Coslaye. ‘I opted for Poitiers when I learned that red paint is cheaper than all the white I would have needed for their habits.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew changed the subject, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute that was none of his concern. ‘What happened here? Did you drink bad water? Or eat tainted food?’

‘No, we have been poisoned,’ declared Coslaye. ‘By the Carmelites. They slipped a toxin into the stew we all ate. Well, Browne did not have any, because he does not like French food.’ He indicated a handsome student who was older than the others. ‘Pepin did the cooking today, you see, and he is French.’

‘Is he?’ Bartholomew was unable to stop himself from glancing at the mural.

‘Yes, but he is not the same as his countrymen,’ whispered Coslaye confidentially. ‘He is a decent soul, whereas the rest of them are villains. We do not think of him as foreign.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Pepin could endure such bigotry. He turned his thoughts back to medicine, and looked at Browne. ‘What did you eat?’

‘A bit of bread and cheese,’ replied Browne. ‘But I am poisoned, too, because I feel sick.’

‘That is because you are in a stuffy room with a lot of
vomiting men,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Go outside, and you will feel better.’

‘You want me out of the way so you can chant spells without me hearing,’ said Browne accusingly, although he went to stand by the open door. ‘You know how I deplore your association with Lucifer.’

‘Bartholomew has no association with Lucifer,’ snapped Coslaye irritably. ‘You talk nonsense, man – and in front of our students, too. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘What was in this meal you shared?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, eager to identify the cause of the problem so he could escape. The smelly hostel was no place to linger, and he had no wish to spend time with the antagonistic Browne, either.

‘It was a recipe from my home in Angoulême,’ supplied Pepin in such perfectly unaccented French that it could only be his mother tongue. ‘It contained—’

‘Angoulême?’ blurted Bartholomew before he could stop himself. ‘That is near Poitiers.’

‘Actually, it is some distance away,’ countered Pepin, shooting an uneasy glance at Coslaye. ‘And the roads are poor, so it is impossible to ride from one to the other in less than three days.’

Bartholomew knew he was lying: he had done it in half a day, on foot. But he said nothing, already regretting having made the observation in the first place.

Coslaye regarded Pepin suspiciously. ‘If you were in the area, did you see the battle fought?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Pepin, swallowing hard. ‘I am a scholar, not a warrior.’

‘So is Bartholomew, but he still joined in,’ jibed Browne. ‘And it is not something to be proud of, either. Civilised men should know better than to slaughter each other like savages.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered Coslaye. ‘It was a great day for England, and I wish I had been there. I am envious of you, Bartholomew. I am envious of Riborowe of the Carmelites, too, and Holm the surgeon, although
he
contradicts himself when he describes the action, and his account does not tally with others I have heard.
Ergo
, I am disinclined to believe he took part.’

‘You should not be listening to battle stories at all,’ muttered Browne. He did not speak loudly enough for Coslaye to hear, although Pepin nodded heartfelt agreement. ‘It is unseemly.’

‘Are you sure you were not at the battle, Pepin?’ Coslaye asked, turning his fierce gaze on the student again. ‘We shall not expel you, if you were. I only want to know out of interest.’

‘No, I was not there,’ said Pepin levelly. ‘I rarely visit Poitiers. It is dirty and smells of onions.’

‘What was in the stew?’ asked Bartholomew, leading the discussion back to medicine. He hoped his incautious remark would not bring trouble to Pepin in the future.

‘It is called
tout marron
,’ replied Pepin, patently grateful to be talking about something else. ‘And it contained all manner of things – meat left over from Sunday, a bit of fish, some winter vegetables. And a lot of garlic. Garlic works wonders on food past its best.’

‘It might disguise the flavour, but not the impact,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Sunday was five days ago. That is a long time for meat to be stored, especially now the weather is warm.’

‘Times are hard,’ said Browne. ‘We cannot afford to throw food away, no matter what its state of decomposition. We are not rich, like cosseted Fellows in Colleges.’

‘It is cheaper than buying medicines for the consequences,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, writing out a tonic
for the apothecary to prepare. He carried enough to soothe one or two roiling stomachs, but nowhere enough to remedy an entire hostel. Batayl would have to purchase its own.

He returned to Michaelhouse just in time to intercept his students, who were on their way out. All had combed their hair and donned their finery in anticipation of an afternoon in the town.