A Bone of Contention хмб-3 Page 2

  On the opposite side of the street, Michael dismissed the student friars with a contemptuous flick of his fingers, and sauntered over to join Bartholomew. The friars, apparently subdued by whatever Michael had said to them, slunk off towards St Bene’t’s Church. The plague, four years before, had claimed many friars and monks among its tens of thousands of victims in England, and the University was working hard to train new clerics to replace them. The would-be brawlers were merely two of many such priests passing through Cambridge for their education before going about their vocations in the community.

  The large number of clerics – especially friars – at the University was a continuing source of antagonism between scholars and townspeople. Much of the antipathy stemmed from the fact that clerics – whether monks and friars in major orders like Brother Michael, or those in minor orders like Bartholomew – came under canon law, which was notably more lenient than secular law.

  Only a month before, two apprentices had been hanged by the Sheriff for killing a student in a brawl; less than a day later three scholars had been fined ten marks each by the Bishop for murdering a baker. Such disparity in justice did not go unremarked in a community already seething with resentment at the arrogant, superior attitudes of many scholars towards the people of the town.

  ‘I suppose the friars said the Scots started it,’ said Bartholomew with a grin at Michael, as they resumed their walk up the High Street.

  Michael nodded and smiled back. ‘Of course. Unruly savages trying to start a fight, while our poor Dominicans were simply trying to go to mass.’ He pointed a finger at the friars as they disappeared into the church. ‘Remember their names, Matt. Brothers Werbergh and Edred. An unholy pair if ever I saw one, especially Edred. I am surprised the Dominican Order supports such blatant displays of condescension and aggression.’

  ‘Well, perhaps they will make fine bishops one day,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly.

  Michael chuckled. ‘I will go to David’s Hostel later today,’ he said, ‘and see their Principal about those rowdy Scots. Then I will complain to the Principal of Godwinsson Hostel about those inflammatory friars.’

  Bartholomew nodded absently, walking briskly so that Michael had to slow him down again, so that they – or rather the overweight Michael – would not arrive too sweat-soaked at the Hall of Valence Marie.

  As they approached the forbidding walls of the new College, Michael turned to Bartholomew and grimaced at the sudden stench from where the King’s Ditch was being dredged. Years of silt, sewage, kitchen compost, offal, and an unwholesome range of other items hauled from the dank depths of the Ditch lay in steaming grey-black piles along the banks. The smell had attracted a host of cats and dogs, which rifled through the parts not already claimed by farmers to enrich their soil. Among them, spiteful-eyed gulls squabbled and cawed over blackened strips of decaying offal and the small fish that flapped helplessly in the dredged mud.

  Bartholomew and Michael turned left off the High Street, and made their way along an uneven path that wound between the towering banks of the King’s Ditch and the high wall that surrounded Valence Marie. Because Cambridge lay at the edge of the low-lying Fens, the level of the water in the Ditch was occasionally higher than the surrounding land; to prevent flooding, the Ditch’s banks were levied, and rose above the ground to the height of a man’s head.

  Away from the High Street, the noise of the town faded, and, were it not for the stench and the incessant buzz of flies around his head, Bartholomew would have enjoyed walking across the strip of scrubby pastureland, pleasantly shaded by a line of mature oak trees.

  ‘You have been a long time, Brother,’ said Robert Thorpe, Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, as he stood up from where he had been sitting under a tree.

  There was a hint of censure in his tone, and Bartholomew sensed Thorpe was a man whose authority as head of a powerful young college was too recently acquired for it to sit easily on his shoulders. ‘I expected you sooner than this.’

  ‘The beginnings of a street brawl claimed my attention,’ said Michael, making no attempt to apologise. ‘Scots versus the friars this time.’

  Thorpe raised dark grey eyebrows. ‘The friars again? I do not understand what is happening, Brother. We have always had problems with warring factions and nationalities in the University, but seldom so frequent and with such intensity as over the last two or three weeks.’

  ‘Perhaps it is the heat,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is known that tempers are higher and more frayed when the weather is hot. The Sheriff told me that there has been more fighting among the townspeople this last month, too.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Thorpe, looking coolly at Bartholomew in his threadbare gown and dusty shoes. As a physician, Bartholomew could have made a rich living from attending wealthy patients. Instead, he chose to teach at the University, and to treat an ever-growing number of the town’s poor, preferring to invest his energies in combating genuine diseases rather than in dispensing placebos and calculating astrological charts for the healthy. His superiors at the University tolerated this peculiar behaviour, because having a scholar prepared to provide such a service to the poor made for good relations between the town and its scholars. Bartholomew was popular with his patients, especially when his absent-mindedness led him to forget to charge them.

  But tolerance by the University did not mean acceptance by its members, and Bartholomew was regarded as something of an oddity by his colleagues. Many scholars disapproved of his dealings with the townspeople, and some of the friars and monks believed that his teaching verged on heresy because it was unorthodox.

  Bartholomew had been taught medicine by an Arab physician at the University of Paris, but even his higher success rate with many illnesses and injuries did not protect him from accusations that his methods were anathema.

  Thorpe turned to the obese Benedictine. ‘What word is there from the Chancellor about our discovery?’ he asked.

  ‘Master de Wetherset wants Doctor Bartholomew to inspect the bones you have found to ensure their authenticity,’ said Michael carefully. What the Chancellor had actually said was that he wanted Bartholomew to use his medical expertise to crush, once and for all, the rumours that the bones of a local martyr had been discovered.

  He did not want the University to become a venue for relic-sellers and idle gawpers, especially since term was about to start and the students were restless. Gatherings of townspeople near University property might well lead to a fight. The Sheriff, for once, was in complete agreement: relics that might prove contentious must not be found. Both, however, suspected that this might be easier said than done.

  The Hall of Valence Marie had been founded five years previously – by Marie de Valence, the Countess of Pembroke – and the Chancellor and Sheriff were only too aware of the desire of its Master to make the young Hall famous. The bones of a local martyr would be perfect for such a purpose: pilgrims would flock to pray at the shrine Thorpe would build, and would not only spread word of the miraculous find at Valence Marie across the country, but also shower the College with gifts.

  The Chancellor had charged Michael to handle Thorpe with care.

  Thorpe inclined his silver head to Bartholomew, to acknowledge the role foisted on him by the Chancellor, and walked to where a piece of rough sacking lay on the ground. With a flourish, Thorpe removed it to reveal a pile of muddy bones that had been laid reverently on the grass.

  Bartholomew knelt next to them, inspecting each one carefully, although he knew from a glance what they were. Michael, too, had devoured enough roasts at high table in Michaelhouse to know sheep bones when he saw them. But Bartholomew did not want to give the appearance of being flippant, and was meticulous in his examination.

  ‘I believe these to be the leg bones of a sheep,’ he said, standing again and addressing Thorpe. ‘They are too short to be human.’

  ‘But the martyr Simon d’Ambrey is said to have been short,’ countered Thorpe.

  Michael in
tervened smoothly. ‘D’Ambrey was not that small, Master Thorpe,’ he said. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Am I right? You must remember him since you lived in Cambridge when he was active.’

  ‘You?’ asked Thorpe, looking Bartholomew up and down dubiously. ‘You are not old enough. He died a quarter of a century ago.’

  ‘I am old enough to remember him quite vividly, actually,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled apologetically at Thorpe. ‘He was of average height – and certainly not short. These bones cannot be his.’

  ‘We have found more of him!’ came a breathless exclamation from Bartholomew’s elbow. The physician glanced down, and saw a scruffy college servant standing there, his clothes and hands deeply grimed with mud from the Ditch. He smelt like the Ditch too, thought Bartholomew, moving away. The servant’s beady eyes glittered fanatically, and Bartholomew saw that Master Thorpe was not the only person at Valence Marie desperate to provide it with a relic.

  ‘Tell us, Will,’ said Thorpe, hope lighting up his face before he mastered himself and made his expression impassive. ‘What have you found this time?’

  They followed Will across the swathe of poorly kept pasture to the Ditch beyond. A swarm of flies hovered around its mud-encrusted sides, and even Bartholomew, used to unpleasant smells, was forced to cover his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his gown. The servant slithered down the bank to the trickle of water at the bottom, and prodded about.

  ‘Here!’ he called out triumphantly.

  ‘Bring it out, Will,’ commanded Thorpe, putting a huge pomander over his lower face.

  Will hauled at something, which yielded itself reluctantly from the mud with a slurping plop. Holding it carefully in his arms, he carried it back up the bank and laid it at Thorpe’s feet. His somewhat unpleasant, fawning manner reminded Bartholomew of a dog he had once owned, which had persisted in presenting him with partially eaten rats as a means to ingratiate itself.

  Holding his sleeve over his nose, Bartholomew knelt and peered closely at Will’s bundle.

  ‘Still too small?’ asked Michael hopefully.

  ‘Too small to belong to a man,’ said Bartholomew, stretching out a hand to turn the bones over. He glanced up at Thorpe and Michael, squinting up into the bright sun. ‘But it is human.’

  Bartholomew and Michael sat side by side on the ancient trunk of an apple tree that had fallen against the orchard wall behind Michaelhouse. The intense heat of the day had faded, and the evening shade, away from the failing sunlight, was almost chilly. Bats flitted silently through the gnarled branches of the fruit trees, feasting on the vast number of insects that always inhabited Cambridge in the summer, attracted by the dank and smelly waters of the river. That night, however, the sulphurous odours of the river were masked by the sweeter smell of rotting apples, many of which lay in the long, damp grass to be plundered by wasps.

  Bartholomew rubbed tiredly at his eyes, feeling them gritty and sore under his fingers. Michael watched him.

  ‘Have you not been sleeping well?’ he asked, noting the dark smudges under the physician’s eyes.

  ‘My room is hot at night,’ Bartholomew answered. ‘Even with the shutters open, it is like an oven.’

  ‘Then you should try sleeping on the upper floor,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘The heat is stifling, and my room-mates sincerely believe that night air will give them summer ague. Our shutters remain firmly closed, regardless of how hot it is outside. At least you have a flagstone floor on which to lie. We have a wooden floor, which is no use for cooling us down at all.’

  He stretched his long, fat legs out in front of him, and settled more comfortably on the tree trunk. ‘It will soon be too cold to sit here,’ he added hastily, seeing Bartholomew’s interest quicken at the prospect of a discussion about the relationship between summer ague and night air. Fresh air and cleanliness were subjects dear to his friend’s heart, and Michael did not want to spend the remainder of the evening listening to his latest theories on contagion. ‘The nights are drawing in now that the leaves are beginning to turn.’

  Bartholomew flapped at an insistent insect that buzzed around his head. ‘We could try an experiment with your room-mates’ notion about night air,’ he said, oblivious to Michael’s uninterest. ‘You keep your shutters closed, and I will keep mine open…’

  ‘Strange business today,’ Michael interrupted. He laughed softly. ‘I felt almost sorry for that greedy dog Thorpe when you told him his precious bones could not belong to that martyr he seems so intent on finding. He looked like a child who had been cheated of a visit to the fair: disappointed, angry, bitter and resentful, all at the same time.’

  Bartholomew sighed, regretful, but not surprised, that Michael was declining the opportunity to engage in what promised to be an intriguing medical debate. ‘I suppose Thorpe wants to make money from d’Ambrey’s bones as saintly relics,’ he said.

  Michael nodded. ‘There is money aplenty to be made from pilgrims these days. People are so afraid that the Death will return and claim everyone who escaped the first time, that they cling to anything that offers hope of deliverance. The pardoners’ and relic-sellers’ businesses are blossoming, and shrines and holy places all over Europe have never been so busy.’

  Bartholomew made an impatient sound. ‘People are fools! Relics and shrines did not save them the last time. Why should they save them in the future?’

  Michael eyed his friend in monkish disapproval. ‘No wonder you are said to be a heretic, Matt!’ he admonished, half-joking, half-serious. ‘You should be careful to whom you make such wild assertions. Our beloved colleague Father William, for example, would have you hauled away to be burned as a warlock in an instant if he thought you harboured such irreligious notions.’

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, stood abruptly, and began to pace. ‘I have reviewed my notes again and again,’ he said, experiencing the familiar feeling of frustration each time he thought of the plague.

  ‘Until the pestilence, I believed there were patterns to when and whom a disease struck. But now I am uncertain. The plague took rich and poor, priests and criminals, good and bad. Sometimes it killed the young and healthy, but left the weak and old. Some people say it burst from ancient graves during an earthquake in the Orient, and was carried westwards on the wind. But even if that is true, it does not explain why some were taken and some were spared. The more I think about it, the less it makes sense.’

  ‘Then do not think about it, Matt,’ said Michael complacently, squinting to where the last rays of the sun glinted red and gold through the trees. ‘There are some things to which we will never know the answers. Perhaps this is one of them.’

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘It is encouraging to see that Michaelhouse supports a tradition of enquiring minds,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Just because an answer is not immediately obvious does not mean to say that we should not look for it.’

  ‘And sometimes, looking too hard hides the very truth that you seek,’ said Michael, equally firmly. ‘I can even cite you an example. My Junior Proctor, Guy Heppel, lost the keys to our prison cells yesterday.

  I spent the entire period between prime and terce helping him search for them – a task rendered somewhat more urgent by the fact that Heppel, rather rashly, had arrested the Master of Maud’s Hostel for being drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘You mean Thomas Bigod?’ asked Bartholomew, between shock and amusement. ‘I am not surprised you were so keen to find the keys! I cannot see that a man like Bigod would take kindly to being locked up with a crowd of recalcitrant students.’

  ‘You are right – he was almost beside himself with fury once he awoke and discovered where he was. But we digress. I searched high and low for these wretched keys, and even went down on my hands and knees to look for them in the rushes – no mean feat for a man of my girth – and do you know where they were?’

  ‘Round his neck, I should imagine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is where he usually keeps them, tied on a thong of c
atgut or some such thing.’

  Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘He had me going through the same process last week when he came to see me about his cough.’

  ‘Is it genuine, then, this cough of his? I thought he was malingering. The man seems to have a different ache or pain almost every day – some of them in places I would have imagined impossible.’

  ‘The cough is real enough, although the other ailments he lists – and, as you say, it is quite a list – are more imagined than real. Anyway, when I told him he must have lost his keys in the High Street, and not in my room, he almost fainted away from shock. He had to lie down to calm himself, and when I loosened his clothes, there were the keys around his neck. I was surprised when he was appointed your junior. He is not the kind of man the University usually employs as a proctor.’

  ‘All brawn and no brain you mean?’ asked Michael archly, knowing very well how most scholars regarded those men who undertook the arduous and unpopular duties as keepers of law and order in the University.

  ‘Present company excepted, of course. But poor Guy Heppel has neither brawn nor brain as far as I can see.’

  ‘Why was he appointed then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see how he could defend himself in a tavern fight, let alone prevent scholars from killing each other.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael, picking idly at a spot of spilled food on his habit. ‘He was a strange choice, especially given that our Michaelhouse colleague, Father William, wanted the appointment – he has more brawn than most of the University put together, although I remain silent on the issue of brain.’

  ‘That cough of Heppel’s,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as he changed the conversation to matters medical. ‘It reminds me of the chest infection some of the plague victims contracted. It…’

  Michael leapt to his feet in sudden horror, startling a blackbird that had been exploring the long grass under a nearby plum tree. It flapped away quickly, wings slapping at the undergrowth. ‘Not the Death, Matt! Not again! Not so soon!’