Murder by the Book (29 page)

Bartholomew set about cleaning and binding the cut. When he had finished, he gave Ayce a potion to ease his discomfort, then indicated the food. ‘You might feel better if you eat, too.’

Ayce picked up the bread and took a tentative bite. ‘I should never have let myself be taken alive,’ he said, more to himself than Bartholomew. ‘But I was stunned by a blow to the head …’

‘You are fortunate your comrades did not make an end
of you,’ said Bartholomew, packing away his pots and potions. ‘I understand they dispatched one of their number who was too badly wounded to run away.’

‘It was what we had agreed before we began our mission. It is better that way.’

‘Better for the men who hired you, perhaps.’

Ayce shrugged. ‘We were well paid for it. Besides, I have not cared what happens to me since John was stabbed, and this seemed as good a way as any to make an exit from the world. I was more than happy to volunteer when they came hunting for recruits. And if we had been successful, I would have had enough money to drink myself to death.’

‘Who are these men?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘They did not say, and I did not ask. Not that they would have told me if I had.’

Bartholomew regarded him sceptically. ‘You expect me to believe that strangers came along, and you joined them without knowing who they were or what they intended?’

‘Oh, I knew what they intended. They said from the start that their aim was to attack the town.’

‘For the taxes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or the ribauldequin?’

Ayce regarded him blankly. ‘What is a ribauldequin?’ Then he held up his hand. ‘No, do not tell me – I do not care. However, I am glad our raid caused such consternation. Cambridge is where John was murdered, and I hate everything about it.’

‘People have been telling me about your son’s death. It is said that he often bullied scholars.’

Ayce regarded him with dislike. ‘And that gave a clerk the right to slaughter him?’

‘No, of course not, but it explains how it came about. It was self-defence.’

‘You
would
take Hildersham’s side – you are a scholar. The town found him guilty, though, and steps should have been taken to catch him after he escaped. Now go away and leave me alone. I do not wish to talk any longer.’

The interview had depressed Bartholomew, and he was in a gloomy frame of mind as he left the castle. Outside, one of his students was waiting to tell him that he had been summoned by Prior Etone. It was dusk and he was tired, but he began to trudge towards the Carmelite Friary anyway. When he arrived, it was to find Jorz sitting with his hand in a bucket of cold water.

‘It was Browne’s fault,’ the scribe twittered tearfully. ‘He came up behind me, and deliberately startled me out of my wits.’

‘He did,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘I saw it happen. Poor Jorz was boiling up a new recipe for red ink, when Browne came creeping in. He clapped his hand hard on Jorz’s shoulder, and made him spill it all over himself.’

Bartholomew inspected Jorz’s arm, but the cold water had already worked its magic, and although the scribe would be uncomfortable for a few days, he did not think there would be any lasting damage. He set about applying a soothing salve.

‘Browne laughed when he saw I was hurt,’ Jorz went on. ‘He is a vile fellow – cruel and sly.’

‘What was he doing in our domain in the first place?’ asked Etone. ‘I thought we had agreed that members of Batayl were barred, lest they stage some sort of revenge over the soot incident.’

‘He claimed he wanted to buy some ink,’ explained Riborowe. ‘But I know for a fact that he does not have any money – he is always saying that times are hard. So I
imagine he was here to spy, to look around and see what might be done to repay us for our novice’s high spirits.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Etone worriedly. ‘We shall have to ask Michael’s beadles to keep a protective eye on us for the next few days.’

‘Or you could apologise for the soot, and offer a truce,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Apologise?’ spluttered Riborowe. ‘Never!’

‘Actually, that is a good idea,’ countered Etone, somewhat unexpectedly. ‘I am weary of this dispute, and see no point in continuing it. I shall apologise, and Matthew will go with me, as a witness.’

‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically.

‘Yes, now,’ said Etone. ‘Before I decide it is too great a burden for my pride to bear.’

Unhappily, Bartholomew trailed after him, but when they reached Batayl it was to discover everyone out except Pepin, who had been left on guard. The Frenchman said that the students had gone to hear a sermon in St Mary the Great, while Coslaye and Browne were in Newe Inn.

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I thought they disapproved of the library.’

‘They do,’ replied Pepin. ‘But Walkelate thinks he can win them over by showing them his finished lecterns. The man is a fool. His nasty library has deprived Batayl of better living conditions, and no amount of fine carving will ever make us overlook that fact.’

‘Well, I intend to overlook the wrong that has been inflicted on me,’ said Etone loftily. ‘I do not have the energy to hold grudges – not against Dunning for breaking his promise, and not against Batayl for challenging us about it.’

Once again, Bartholomew found himself in Etone’s wake, as the Prior strode towards Newe Inn. The door was open, so they entered.

‘Good God, it reeks in here!’ exclaimed Etone, waving his hand in front of his face. He grinned a little spitefully. ‘The guests at its grand opening are going to be asphyxiated.’

Bartholomew followed him up the stairs, where they could hear voices. They entered the room containing the
libri distribuendi
, and found Walkelate proudly displaying some finished mouldings to an unlikely audience that included Coslaye, Browne, Dunning and Bonabes. Meanwhile, Kente and Frevill, exhausted after yet another day of gruellingly hard work, were packing up their tools.

‘They are all right, I suppose,’ Coslaye was saying grudgingly. ‘But battle scenes would have been preferable to all this Paradise nonsense. And you should have made Aristotle more manly.’

‘We should not linger here, Coslaye,’ said Browne, also regarding the bust with contempt. ‘Libraries are dangerous. Five men have died in and around them already.’

‘I hardly think—’ began Walkelate indignantly.

‘Etone! What are you doing here?’ Browne’s instantly furtive expression suggested that he probably had intended to harm Jorz by slinking up behind him, and was now worried that the Prior intended to demand reparation.

‘I came to offer a truce,’ replied Etone. ‘We are even now: our novice should not have put soot on your mural, but you should not have startled Jorz when he was working with hot liquids. I should like to bring an end to our dispute. What do you say?’

‘I shall think about it,’ said Coslaye coldly. ‘And I will send you my decision later. Or perhaps I shall reject your slithering advances. You will just have to wait and see.’

Head held high, he sailed away. With a churlish smirk, Browne followed.

‘You see, Matthew?’ said Etone in exasperation. ‘It is hopeless! I offer them an olive branch, and they spit on it. Well, they can have a feud, if that is what they want.’

‘No!’ cried Walkelate, distressed. ‘You are right to end this silly spat. It would be a pity for ill feelings to sour our opening ceremony on Thursday, and—’

But Etone was already striding away, so Walkelate was obliged to scurry after him to finish what he wanted to say. Kente and Frevill were hot on his heels, tool-bags slung over their shoulders, eager to wash the wood dust from their throats with cool ale. Bonabes, Dunning and Bartholomew followed more sedately.

‘You are wasting your time if you think you can help forge a truce between Batayl and the Carmelites, Bartholomew,’ said Bonabes. ‘Neither side seems wholly rational to me.’

‘Nor to me,’ agreed Dunning. ‘And I object to them saying that the source of their discord is my so-called promise to give each of them Newe Inn. I did nothing of the kind.’

‘What were you doing here?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Surely it is a little late for guided tours?’

Bonabes winced. ‘We happened to be passing, and Walkelate raced out and hauled us inside to inspect Aristotle’s newly buffed bust. It is not the first time he has ambushed me to admire his works of art, so I think I must avoid Cholles Lane in future.’

Dunning chuckled good-naturedly. ‘He is something of a menace in that respect.’

They walked down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, Etone used the opportunity afforded by their arrival to escape from Walkelate. Bonabes and Dunning followed him, and they could be heard laughing in the lane together, amused by the architect’s eccentric
enthusiasm. Oblivious of the reason for their mirth, Walkelate began talking to Bartholomew.

‘I am glad you came, because I have something to tell you. Alfred, our youngest apprentice, informed me today that he heard a bell in the garden last week – he spent a night here, you see, sanding a cornice. He only remembered it today, but he wanted me to inform you or Michael. However, I imagine he fell asleep and dreamt it, because bells do not ring at that hour.’

‘I am not so sure. Coslaye heard one chiming when Northwood and the others died.’

‘Really?’ Walkelate shook his head, baffled. Then a happy grin stole across his face. ‘Kente put the finishing touches to the lecterns for the
libri distribuendi
an hour ago. Come and see them.’

‘Another time.’ Bartholomew saw the disappointment in Walkelate’s face, and hastened to make amends. ‘It is too dark to appreciate them properly now.’

‘We made excellent progress today,’ said Walkelate, his excitement bubbling up again. The
libri concatenati
are ready, and we shall keep their room closed now, until our grand opening. Well, we shall have to oust the bale of hay, but that will not take a moment.’

‘The bale of hay?’ asked Bartholomew, nonplussed.

Walkelate smiled. ‘Holm’s concoction was not working, so Dunning suggested an old country remedy instead – the theory is that dry grass absorbs strong odours from the air. He assures me that by Thursday, the room will smell as sweet as a meadow.’

Bartholomew started to walk home to Michaelhouse, aware that the daylight was fading fast. Recalling what had happened the last two times he had wandered about the town after dark on his own, he broke into a trot, eager
for the sanctuary of the conclave, where wine and perhaps some cake would be waiting. He jumped in alarm when Cynric materialised in front of him.

‘You should not be out at this time of night without me,’ the Welshman said admonishingly. ‘It is not safe.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we are almost home.’

‘You cannot go home,’ said Cynic. His expression became sympathetic when he saw Bartholomew’s tiredness. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘They are Meryfeld’s patients.’

‘There was a dispute about overcharging, apparently, and Meryfeld declines to answer their summonses until they acknowledge that he is in the right.’

‘But Master Heltisle does not like me,’ said Bartholomew, too weary for a confrontation with the prickly Master of Bene’t. ‘It would be better if you fetched Gyseburne or Rougham.’

‘Neither is home. I am on my way to Batayl, by the way, to tell them about Poitiers, but I will walk with you to Bene’t first.’

Bartholomew had forgotten about Cynric’s invitation to lecture, and hoped the talk would not induce a lot of patriotic fervour that would be uncomfortable for Pepin.

‘Do not mention me in your account,’ he begged. ‘Half the town believes I am a warlock, and I do not want the other half thinking I am a warrior. Tell them about your own exploits.’

‘Very well,’ promised Cynric. ‘But here we are at Bene’t. Knock on the door to make sure they are willing to let you in. If not, I shall escort you back to Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew was disappointed when the porter stepped aside and indicated he was to enter, because Cynric’s offer of company home was appealing. The book-bearer nodded
a farewell and disappeared into the gathering shadows, as silent-footed as a cat.

‘Damn!’ muttered Thomas Heltisle, a tall, aloof man with neat silver hair, when he saw which physician had answered his summons. ‘I had hoped one of the others would be available.’

‘I am happy to leave, and you can wait for—’

‘No,’ said Heltisle hastily. ‘I do not want the Devil’s crony in my College, but John Rolee has knocked himself senseless, so it is an emergency and I have no choice. Come.’

He began hauling Bartholomew across the yard before the physician could take issue with him. As they went, it occurred to Bartholomew that he had never been in Bene’t’s library before. The heads of the other Colleges were happy to let him use their books, but Heltisle had always refused.

When they arrived, he was impressed. The room – a chamber above one of the teaching halls – was crammed with texts of all shapes and sizes. Unlike King’s Hall with its mighty bookcases, Bene’t had opted for a low mezzanine gallery that ran around all four walls to provide additional storage; access to it was via an elegantly crafted but rather unstable set of wheeled steps.

Heltisle’s six Fellows stood in a huddle near the window. They nodded wary greetings to him, and one or two crossed themselves, as if they expected Satan to be close at hand now he was there.

‘Over here,’ called a small, feisty scholar named Teversham. He was crouching next to someone on the floor. ‘We have tried shouting and tapping his face, but we cannot wake him up.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank as he approached. Rolee’s head lay at a peculiar angle, and it was obvious that his neck had been broken.

‘I am afraid it is too late,’ he said, kneeling and performing a perfunctory examination to confirm what he already knew. ‘He is dead.’

‘He cannot be!’ cried Heltisle, shocked. ‘He was talking with us not half an hour ago. We were discussing elephants, and he came to fetch his bestiary, to show us what they look like.’

‘And he fell?’ asked Bartholomew.