To Kill or Cure (37 page)

A sudden low rumble made Bartholomew turn quickly towards the spiral staircase that led to the roof. A billow of dust belched
through the doorway, and he glanced up at the rafters uneasily, noting that several of the supporting beams were at very odd
angles. He was not the only one to be concerned. Candelby was regarding the joists with considerable trepidation, and Blankpayn
was already heading for the exit.

‘If you want to talk to me, do it outside,’ said Candelby
to the monk. ‘It is disgusting that scholars have let this poor place decay, and I do not want to be inside when it tumbles
apart.’

‘We would not mind
you
being in here though, Brother,’ called Blankpayn, from the comparative safety of the porch. ‘That would be divine justice.’

Michael ignored him. ‘I would like to talk to you about Lynton,’ he said to Candelby, once they were in the churchyard. ‘I
understand you were one of the Dispensary’s most faithful customers.’

‘So?’ asked Candelby, with a shrug. ‘A lot of men liked Lynton’s games.’

‘I did not,’ growled Blankpayn. ‘They were too complicated, and for some reason, scholars always won more often than me. And
Lynton wondered why I decided to help myself to a bauble or two! It was because those rings were mine in the first place –
I lost them when I placed a bet.’

‘Scholars win a lot because they have sly minds,’ explained Candelby matter-of-factly. ‘What do you want to know, Brother?
Normally, I would object to being quizzed by you, but I have nothing to hide about my association with Lynton, so you can
ask what you like.’

‘Why did you not mention your gambling to me sooner?’

Candelby shrugged again. ‘Because it was none of your business and, like all participants, I was sworn to secrecy. I did not
want to besmirch Lynton’s reputation by blabbing to you.’

Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘You did not care about his reputation when you accused him of riding his horse at you last
Sunday.’

‘I was angry and in pain – not thinking clearly. Of course he did not ride at me deliberately. I have apologised to Wisbeche
for my intemperate remarks, so let that mark the end of the matter.’

‘How much did you lose at these sessions?’ asked Michael.

‘Actually, I won more than I lost. Why do you think I own so many houses? I was good at Lynton’s games – better than many
scholars.’

Something occurred to Michael. ‘Is that why you are so well acquainted with the University’s private affairs? You gossiped
with my colleagues when you were gaming?’

Candelby’s smile was enigmatic. ‘I am a good listener, and scholars are naturally verbose. Thus I knew Lynton preferred to
lease his properties to merchants, not students; I was told all about a debate in Peterhouse, in which the Fellows elected
to charge high rents on the houses they will inherit from Lynton; and I was aware that Spaldynge was desperate to sell Borden
Hostel. I made him an offer he could not refuse.’

‘You must really hate scholars,’ said Michael wonderingly.

Candelby shook his head. ‘I am quite happy to lease my buildings to your comrades – if they pay me a competitive market price.’

‘The University will not wield power for much longer,’ gloated Blankpayn. ‘When we win the right to charge what rent we like,
it will flounder.’

‘I do not care about that,’ said Candelby, walking away. ‘I just want to make some money.’

That evening, as lamps were beginning to gleam through the twilight, and the Michaelhouse men were preparing to retire to
bed or repair to the communal rooms for company, conversation or warmed ale, Cynric slipped up to Bartholomew.

‘Grab your cloak, boy,’ he whispered. ‘I want to show you something.’

‘I am not going out now,’ said Bartholomew, amazed
that the book-bearer should think he might. ‘It is madness to wander the streets after dark these days.’

‘Come on,’ wheedled Cynric. ‘Please? It will be fun, and I will not enjoy it nearly as much alone. Normally, I would invite
Carton, but he is out somewhere, and I cannot find him.’

‘Out?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘This late? Does Michael know?’

Cynric grinned, teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘I doubt it! Hurry up, or you will miss it.’

‘Miss what?’ demanded Bartholomew, not liking Cynric’s mysterious manner.

But the book-bearer could not be persuaded to tell, so Bartholomew followed him down the darkening lane and on to the High
Street. A religious office was under way in St Michael’s Church; Michael and William were singing vespers, and their chanting
voices carried on the still evening air. Stars twinkled in a dark blue sky, and Bartholomew shivered – the clear weather had
brought with it a snapping cold, and there would be a frost that night.

A blackbird sang its evening song, and the air was rich with the scents of the day – manure from horses and donkeys, the sulphurous
reek of the river and the nearby marshes, the smell of spring flowers, and a delicious aroma from a meat stew that was someone’s
supper. The town was quiet, the clatter of hoofs and footsteps stilled for the night, as folk prepared for sleep.

When they reached St Mary the Great, Cynric slid into the shadows of the churchyard. Bartholomew was slow in following, because
a cemetery was not somewhere he wanted to be at that time of night, and there was always the danger that a group of townsmen
might be there. Since the plague, some folk had abandoned traditional religion, and haunted graveyards after dark. They performed
sinister rites in the
hope that the denizens of Hell would protect them against future outbreaks. After all, God and His saints had done nothing
to help them, had they?

‘Come on,’ hissed Cynric from the bushes. ‘You should see what goes on in your own town.’

Bartholomew was acutely uneasy. ‘Someone will catch us, and demand to know what we are doing. And as I have absolutely no
idea, how am I supposed to reply?’

Cynric beckoned him towards the back of the church. Bartholomew strained his eyes, and saw a figure lying motionless on the
ground, hands folded across his chest. After a moment, a second person emerged from the trees that separated the churchyard
from the Market Square, and started to move around him. It was too dark to identify faces or distinguishing features, and
all the physician could see was that the second man – or woman – was swathed in a cloak. As virtually everyone in the town
owned such a garment, it was impossible to say who it might be. The figure knelt, and there was a brief flicker as a candle
was lit. It guttered in the evening breeze, but was too feeble to illuminate the face of either person. Bartholomew grew even
more uncomfortable.

‘I do not like this,’ he whispered. ‘Why did you drag me all the way here, when witches probably do this sort of thing every
night?’

‘Not in St Mary the Great,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘St John Zachary and All Saints-next-the-Castle are favourites with
warlocks, but they leave St Mary the Great alone. Too holy, see.’

Bartholomew tried to read his expression in the darkness. ‘Do you witness these rites often?’

Cynric nodded. ‘They happen more frequently than you might think, and I like to keep an eye on these Satan-lovers. You never
know when they might decide to stage a
rebellion, and drive out honest, God-fearing citizens like me.’ He crossed himself.

‘You watch with Carton?’

Cynric nodded a second time. ‘He is the only one interested.’

Bartholomew supposed his colleagues had been right after all, when they had declined to elect Carton to take Kenyngham’s place.
He gestured to the two figures. ‘What are they doing? The one lying down will catch his death. It is freezing, and the ground
is wet.’

‘They are casting spells,’ explained Cynric darkly. ‘And I brought you here because Honynge has sawn through the chains on
the books in the hall, and has taken them all to his room – to protect them from Tyrington’s drool, he says. The other Fellows
are furious, and things are being said that will be regretted tomorrow. I thought you would be better off here.’

Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘Surely the kitchen would have sufficed? Or my room? Or even the porters’ lodge. You did not
have to lure me out to this …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what he was witnessing.

Cynric shook his head firmly. ‘You are best well out of the place. Besides, I have a feeling this is more sinister than witchcraft.’

Bartholomew did not bother to make the point that witchcraft was more than sinister enough for him. He was about to abandon
his hiding place and go home, when he became aware that the cloaked figure had stood, and was looming over the one on the
ground. It was not easy to see what he was doing, but the faint light from the candle certainly illuminated the fact that
the person held something long and sharp. It was a dagger, and it was descending towards the man on the ground.

Bartholomew reacted instinctively, launching himself
from behind the buttress and towards the would-be killer as fast as he could. He did not stop to rationalise what he was doing
– all he knew was that he was not about to stand by and do nothing while murder was committed. The cloaked figure leapt in
alarm at the sound of sudden footsteps, and whipped around to face him. Then everything happened very quickly.

The cloaked figure lunged at Bartholomew, but his deadly swipe missed. Unusually slow on the uptake, Cynric took a moment
to join the affray, but when he did, it was with one of his bloodcurdling battle cries. He tore towards the knifeman, but
another shadow emerged from the bushes, and a well-placed foot sent the Welshman sprawling on to his face. While Cynric shook
his head to clear it, the newcomer shoved Bartholomew hard enough to make him crash back against the buttress, and dragged
his cloaked comrade into the undergrowth.

‘After them, Cynric,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to climb to his feet, but he could see it was too late. The mysterious pair
had melted away, using bushes and darkness to mask where they had gone. Cynric took a few steps after them, but knew a lost
cause when he saw one, and soon abandoned the chase.

‘That was rash,’ he said, unimpressed. ‘You flew at them without bothering to draw a weapon – or telling me what you were
going to do. I thought your experiences in France had cured you of antics like that.’

‘He had a knife,’ said Bartholomew. He looked around uneasily, afraid the pair might return with reinforcements. Wanting to
be done with the business, so he could go home to Michaelhouse, he knelt next to the prostrate figure, using the abandoned
candle to see what he was doing.

‘It is Motelete from Clare!’ exclaimed Cynric, when light flickered across the face.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And this time, he really is dead.’

Cynric regarded him in shock. ‘No! He is just part of whatever game the others were playing.’

‘Obviously. But his role is that of corpse.’

Cynric continued to stare. ‘You mean we have been watching a rite involving a
real
body! When I saw him lying like that, I just assumed … I would
never
have brought you here to watch …’

‘He is growing stiff,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Motelete’s jaw. ‘I know it is not a reliable indicator for a time of death,
but it suggests he has been dead hours, not minutes. And, judging by the blisters around his mouth and the scent from his
mouth, I would say he has been poisoned.’

The evening went from bad to worse. Cynric fetched Michael, and they took Motelete to Clare, where Bartholomew undertook the
grim task of breaking the news to the lad’s friends. Kardington was shocked, the students distressed and Spaldynge suspicious
that a physician should happen to discover the body. Michael tried to ask questions, but the Clare men were too overwrought
for a sensible discussion, and he decided it would be better to return in the morning. By the time Bartholomew flopped exhaustedly
into his bed, it was well past midnight.

The porter had forgotten to put his peacock to roost, and as a consequence it woke the entire College long before dawn the
following day. The new scholars leapt from their straw mattresses in alarm, then grinned sheepishly at each other when they
realised what had happened. The ungodly racket made even Bartholomew stir and open his eyes. When the students in his chamber
began chatting and lighting a lamp, he saw there was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and forced himself to sit up.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling sluggish and thick-headed from the lack of rest.

‘It is good of Michaelhouse to take us in,’ said a pleasant theologian called Simon Hemmysby, watching him step across two
prone students to reach his bowl of washing water. Langelee had chosen Hemmysby from the many hopefuls because he held a post
– and thus a stipend – in Waltham Abbey, and would be able to pay his fees
and
make the odd additional donation. ‘However, I did not
think accommodation in a wealthy College would be quite so cramped.’

‘It is not a wealthy College,’ said Bartholomew. Water flew as he began to wash, making one lad leap from his mattress in
shock. ‘King’s Hall is wealthy.
We
are always looking for ways to make ends meet.’

‘Wynewyk did his best,’ said Hemmysby, flinching when spray flew in his direction. ‘But he is a lawyer, and it would have
been better if Michaelhouse had used a mathematician.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Wynewyk did his best at what?’

‘At the Dispensary,’ said Hemmysby, a little impatiently. ‘At winning money for his College.’

Bartholomew glanced at the other students and saw none seemed particularly surprised by the conversation. ‘Are Michael and
I the only ones who did not know about Lynton’s little enterprise?’

Hemmysby raised his eyebrows. ‘If you are saying you were ignorant of its existence, then you are certainly in a minority.
Did he never invite you? I thought you and he were friends.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I dislike gambling. I lose interest, because of the unpredictable nature of the wins and losses. They
require no skill.’