The Lost Prophecies (26 page)

Bartholomew returned to the wounded, but there were a number of them and it was afternoon by the time he had finished. He was on his way home, disgusted by the whole affair, when he met March. The beadle informed him that the dead had been taken to Holy Trinity and, as Corpse Examiner, Bartholomew was required to inspect them and give an official cause of death. The proctors did not want bodies to act as rallying points for further bloodshed, and the quicker they were in the ground, the better. Bartholomew was in no mood for viewing more victims of violence, but went to do his duty.

Brother Michael was waiting for him. Besides being Senior Proctor, Michael was a Benedictine monk and taught theology at Michaelhouse. He was also the physician’s closest friend. His face was grim, and it was clear he was both unsettled by and angry about the trouble afflicting his town.

Beadle March pointed to where the bodies lay in a row, his porcine features alight with ghoulish malice. ‘Do you need help? I am excellent at identifying killers from wounds.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that March intended to settle a few scores by naming men he did not like as the culprits. ‘John will be here in a moment. He will help me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ replied March disagreeably. ‘I will just stand here and watch, then.’

‘He is not a performing ape,’ said Michael curtly. ‘And you have your own work to do.’

Just then, John approached with parchment and pen, ready to marry the name of each victim with the official cause of death. March slouched away, but it was clear he resented being omitted from the proceedings and did not go far. Bartholomew began his examination. There were seven bodies, including Hugh’s. All were young, and Bartholomew did not find it easy to kneel next to them and inspect their wounds. John was oddly quiet, and when Bartholomew glanced up to make sure he was paying attention, he saw the Junior Proctor’s cheeks were wet with tears.

‘It is so senseless!’ he blurted when Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I know bloodshed was predicted in the Black Book of Brân, but I was not expecting this . . .’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew kindly. He had no idea what John was talking about, but he understood his distress. ‘Go outside for some fresh air. I can finish on my own.’

John did not need to be told again. He left as fast as his legs would carry him, calling out to Michael as he went that he would organize the beadles for the next patrol. March watched him go with an amused grin, but the expression faded when Michael glared at him. The beadle muttered something about joining his colleagues and made himself scarce.

‘If I were not so short-handed, I would dismiss March,’ said the monk, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. ‘But I need every man I can get at the moment – at least until King’s Hall and Peterhouse come to their senses. What can you tell me about these foolish young men?’

‘I saw Hugh kill three, including the boy from his own college.’ Bartholomew pointed them out. ‘And the rest have sword cuts that make me suspect they were his victims too.’

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘I watched you grab a blade and challenge him. What were you thinking? I was sure he was going to kill you – and then who would have inspected corpses for me? Thank God John was able to come to your rescue. Did you hear how it all started? A rumour that Michaelhouse plans to side
with
Peterhouse and
against
King’s Hall. It is untrue, of course.’

‘Do you think the gossip was a deliberate attempt to cause trouble?’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I wish I knew. I came as soon as I heard the two factions were yelling accusations at each other, but Hugh attacked Peterhouse before I could stop him.’

‘Hugh started this fight?’

Michael nodded. ‘Although I saw someone standing beside him, murmuring in his ear. I suspect one of his clan was determined to have a spat and used him as a means to start one. Hugh’s temper was notoriously volatile.’

‘Did you see who it was? He bears some responsibility for what happened – for Hugh’s death, as well as these others.’

‘It was raining, and he wore a hood that conveniently masked his face. However, I shall find him. No one disturbs the peace in my town and evades justice.’

‘In the verbal squabble that followed the riot, when you were chasing those lads from Peterhouse, the ringleaders accused each other of stealing some tome – the Black Book of Brân. What is that about?’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you jesting with me? The question of who owns the thing has been the talk of the town for the last two weeks. Surely you have heard of it? It lies at the heart of the Peterhouse–King’s Hall dispute.’

‘I have been busy. There are student disputations to organize and I have patients to see.’

‘Where have you been doing all this? The moon?’ Michael waved away the physician’s objections and began to explain. ‘The Black Book of Brân is said to be eight hundred years old and was written by a monk who either went mad or vanished – the explanatory notes are difficult to decipher, apparently. It comprises poetry that predicts the future.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘No one with a modicum of sense believes in that sort of nonsense.’

‘And therein lies the problem: the scholars of King’s Hall and Peterhouse do
not
have a modicum of sense. They are convinced that the book is a powerful tool for predicting future calamities, and each group maintains it is the rightful owner.’

‘What sort of future calamities?’

‘Well, the verse that has them all clamouring about the book’s uncanny accuracy mentions strife visiting colleges. Of course, there is an air of horrible inevitability about the whole business – that trouble was predicted, so someone has ensured that trouble we shall have.’

‘Which college has the stronger claim to the text?’

Michael frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘Neither, as far as I am concerned. It came here seven years ago, brought by an unsavoury character called William de Drayton, who said he had rescued it from a burning priory. I doubt he came by it honestly, and there was a suspicion that he had set the inferno himself. Despite this, two colleges expressed an interest in buying the book: Peterhouse and King’s Hall.’

The tale rang a bell in Bartholomew’s memory. ‘I remember Drayton. He was stabbed not long after the plague. We investigated, but we never found his killer.’

Michael nodded. ‘What we were not told then, but seems common knowledge now, is that he probably died because someone wanted the book he had been carrying in his bag.’

That did not fit with what Bartholomew remembered. ‘The book was one of Aristotle’s, although I cannot recall which. We wondered what kind of killer would have left such a valuable tome behind, and it led us to conclude that the culprit was probably not a scholar.’

Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Well, I am told now that Drayton’s bag was
supposed
to contain the Black Book of Brân. He was taking it to Peterhouse, where Wittleseye was ready with seventeen marks. Wittleseye waited in vain for the delivery that night – or so he says.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But I was under the impression, from the quarrel in the Market Square, that King’s Hall has the book. Does that mean someone from King’s Hall murdered Drayton?’

‘Peterhouse certainly thinks so. But King’s Hall says the sale was never made – that Drayton died before Peterhouse could pay for it.’

‘So where has it been these last seven years?’

‘That is what I would like to know, but no one seems able to enlighten me. According to King’s Hall, it simply appeared in their chapel one morning. I am not one to believe such fanciful notions, but no one has stepped forward to offer a more plausible explanation.’

‘Why did no one mention this when Drayton died?’ asked Bartholomew, a little angrily. ‘We might have found his killer, had we known he was peddling crooked goods. We spent days trying to uncover a motive for his murder but were forced to admit defeat in the end.’

Michael nodded, then sighed unhappily. ‘I do not want more bloodshed. Will you come with me to King’s Hall and Peterhouse, to ask questions about this damned book? If we can solve Drayton’s murder and learn where the tome has been these last seven years, then perhaps these two colleges will stop sparring with each other.’

The streets were unusually empty as Bartholomew and Michael walked to King’s Hall. Townsmen and scholars alike were unsettled by the uneasy atmosphere that pervaded the place, and rumours about the bloodiness of the most recent brawl warned sensible folk to stay indoors. Churches were locked, shops were shuttered and colleges and hostels posted extra guards on their doors. The pair had not gone far when they heard the sounds of a violent scuffle. It was coming from St Michael’s churchyard, and a sharp yelp of pain prompted them to go and investigate. When they arrived, the Junior Proctor was lying on the ground, clutching his middle. He pointed with an unsteady finger when Bartholomew and Michael approached.

‘He ran that way,’ he gasped urgently, trying to struggle to his feet. ‘Quickly!’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael, hurrying forward to help him.

‘The man who attacked me,’ shouted John, agitated by the length of time it was taking them to understand. ‘Go after him before he escapes. He has a dagger, so be wary.’

Knowing he would make better time than the fat monk, Bartholomew left Michael to tend the wheezing deputy and began to run in the direction John indicated. A path wound through the undergrowth, used as a short cut between the High Street and the area of tangled alleys known as the Jewry. But by the time Bartholomew emerged in the Jewry, there was nothing to see, and John’s assailant was long gone. He retraced his steps and found the Junior Proctor sitting on a tombstone, holding his stomach, while Michael stood next to him.

‘You did not catch him,’ said the Junior Proctor accusingly. He looked disgusted.

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, taken aback by the irritation in John’s voice. ‘What happened?’

Michael was also furious. ‘Someone tried to kill my deputy. And from John’s description, it sounds as though it was the same hooded man who aggravated the trouble earlier.’

‘He lobbed a knife at me, but it missed – more by the grace of God than any skill on my part,’ continued John. ‘So he punched me instead. He was preparing to clout me over the head with that stone when you arrived.’ He pointed to a rock that would have caused serious damage had it been pitted against a human skull.

‘Why would anyone harm you?’ asked Bartholomew. John was only the Junior Proctor, and it was Michael who carried the real power.

‘Because he is my deputy, of course,’ snapped Michael. ‘The culprit knows I rely on him to help quell this brewing unrest. It is an attack against peace – against the very authority of the University.’

Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Then you should be careful that the same thing does not happen to you. There will be a riot for certain if the Senior Proctor is not here to stop it.’

They escorted John to the proctors’ office, to rest until he felt better, and resumed their walk to King’s Hall. It had been founded with royal money and was the largest and most powerful college in Cambridge. It boasted more than a hundred members, and its buildings were amongst the finest in town. The grandest edifice of all was its gatehouse, designed to protect it from hostile invasion. Bartholomew surveyed its thick, crenellated walls and well-placed arrow-slits and thought it was not surprising that the scholars of King’s Hall were not afraid to antagonize Peterhouse.

‘I like Warden Powys,’ he said while they waited for their knock to be answered. ‘And I am surprised he has allowed his college to be drawn into a war.’

‘Powys is away. King’s Hall would never be in this situation if he were home – or if the current vice-warden were someone other than William Bardolf. Incidentally, he did not see you fighting Hugh, and, although most sane men would applaud your courage, I would advise against your mentioning it.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Do you think me a lunatic, to need to be told?’

Michael chuckled. ‘I am obviously spending too much time with John, who was all for racing here and confessing. I think Beadle March overheard us, and I hope to God he does not gossip.’

The door opened before they could discuss it further, and Michael demanded an audience with the vice-warden. While a porter went to see if William was receiving visitors, Bartholomew thought about what he knew of the Bardolf family.

Its head was Lord Thomas, a baron who had fought bravely in the French wars and whose long string of mistresses had provided him with an equally long string of illegitimate children. He acknowledged them all and did his best to set them on the road to prosperity. He enrolled some at King’s Hall, where he hoped they would make the connections necessary for distinguished careers at court. Unfortunately, he tended to sire louts who preferred fighting to politics. William Bardolf, his sole legitimate son, was the exception and was more intelligent than the others, although that was not to say he did not also appreciate a brawl.

When the porter conducted them to a suite of rooms in the gatehouse, Bartholomew saw that William lived in style. Thick woollen rugs covered the floor, and the furniture was of the highest quality. William was not alone. Four of his kinsmen, including Roger, lounged on benches, all swarthy individuals with bushy beards. They were also heavily armed, despite the fact that it was against University rules to carry weapons. None seemed bothered by the fact that the Senior Proctor possessed the authority to fine them for such an infraction.

‘Brother,’ drawled William with a lazy smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can make sure there is no recurrence of today’s brawl,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘It was reprehensible. Seven men are dead, including two from King’s Hall.’

‘And five from Peterhouse,’ one sibling murmured. ‘It is a fair exchange.’

‘They started it,’ said Roger hotly. ‘They said Michaelhouse had taken their side – a claim we now know to be false – and were gloating. Hugh was right to punish their insolence with his blade.’