The Mark of a Murderer (13 page)

Paxtone led his guests to a raised dais near the hearth, and gestured that they were to sit on either side of him. Several
men were already there, and nodded amiably to
the newcomers. Bartholomew noticed that they did not seem surprised or discomfited by their unexpected guests; at Michaelhouse
it would have meant a shortage of food.

Bartholomew found himself sitting next to a man called John de Norton, who was something of a scandal, for he had been admitted
to a College despite the fact that he could barely read and knew virtually no Latin. He could, however, pay handsomely for
the privilege of a University education, and made no secret of the fact that he intended to use his sojourn in Cambridge to
further his career at Court. He spent a good deal of time cultivating friendships with men he thought would later become similarly
successful, ready for the time when they would be in a position to trade favours.

Michael’s neighbour was a man named Geoffrey Dodenho, infamous for his unbridled bragging. Short, squat Dodenho was no more
scholarly than Norton, although he considered himself a veritable genius and seldom hesitated to regale folk with his various
theories, most of which were either untenable or poached from more able minds.

‘I gave an excellent lecture last week,’ he announced to the table at large. Several of his colleagues struggled to stifle
sighs of irritation. ‘It was on the notion that the world was created by the self-diffusion of a point of light into a spherical
form. It is complex, of course, but
I
have the kind of mind that can assay these matters.’

‘You concur with Grosseteste, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that Dodenho should lay claim to this particular theory.
He was aware of smirks around the table, although it did not occur to him that his comment to Dodenho was the cause of them.
‘He first explained the Creation in terms of a diffusion of light into a specific form.’

‘Grosseteste did not pre-empt
me
,’ said Dodenho indignantly. Michael sniggered, while Paxtone looked uncomfortable,
and Norton’s blank expression showed he had no idea what they were talking about – that Grosseteste might be a kind of cabbage
for all he knew. ‘He proposed something entirely different. Where is Powys? I am hungry, and we cannot eat until he says grace.’

The Warden was walking slowly towards the dais. He was in earnest conversation with a young, fresh-faced man who sported half
a faint moustache and whose boyishly wispy beard sprouted from odd and inconvenient places, bristles springing from under
his chin rather than on it. Bartholomew supposed that, like many adolescents, he was so pleased to have grown any facial hair
at all that he was loath to shave a single strand. The vague aura of femininity was enhanced by his long-lashed eyes and well-manicured
fingernails.

‘Grosseteste talked about his particular notion in
De luce
,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to Dodenho. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Dodenho to take up the challenge
in time-honoured academic fashion, but when he saw a reasoned answer was not to be forthcoming, he added, ‘We have a copy
at Michaelhouse, if you would like to read it.’

‘I do not need to read it,’ cried Dodenho, offended. ‘The man’s logic will be inferior to mine in every way, and if it is
the same, then he has copied from
me.
’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has been dead for a hundred years.’

‘Well, he still cannot be compared to me,’ declared Dodenho uncompromisingly. ‘
I
am a scholar of great renown, and will be remembered longer than a mere century. My writings are—’

‘Good morning, Warden,’ interrupted Paxtone, as Powys and his companion approached. ‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew
have agreed to join us for our humble refection this morning.’

This was not how Bartholomew thought the invitation had been inveigled, but was grateful to Paxtone for his gracious manners.

‘They are welcome. The good brother is looking particularly undernourished this morning, so we shall have to see what we can
do to put some colour into his cheeks.’ Bartholomew gazed at Powys, trying to assess whether he was making a joke, while Michael
inclined his head with quiet dignity. Then Powys indicated the young scholar at his side. ‘Have you met John Wormynghalle?
He has been with us since the beginning of term, and we are glad to have him. He is an excellent philosopher and is also helping
with the music curriculum.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone warmly. ‘Wormynghalle has already proved himself to be a valuable asset.’ He glanced at Dodenho and
Norton, as though he would not have said the same about them.

‘Wormynghalle?’ asked Bartholomew. The name was familiar, but his sluggish mind refused to tell him why. Then it snapped into
place. ‘There is another Wormynghalle in Cambridge at the moment.’

Wormynghalle nodded with a smile that revealed even but sadly stained teeth. ‘A tanner. I sought him out when I first heard
about him, but we own no common ancestor, despite our shared name. He is from Oxford, while I hail from Buckinghamshire.’

‘You are fortunate,’ said Norton in distaste. ‘It would be dreadful for a decent man to learn he has relatives in the tannery
business. Tanneries reek and so, invariably, do tanners.’

‘This one does not,’ replied Wormynghalle pleasantly. ‘But he said he is a burgess, so I imagine he no longer soils his own
hands with skins. However, although I studied briefly in Oxford, I never came across him or his kin. He must be a relatively
new member of the city’s government.’

‘I do not know him, either,’ said Dodenho, not liking a conversation that did not have him as its focus. ‘I spent last term
at Merton College, but I never encountered any Wormynghalles. They must be inferior businessmen, or they would have been introduced
to me.’

‘I may have run into him, now I think about it,’ said Norton, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘I stayed at Oxford Castle
once, and I vaguely recall a common trader named Wormyngton or Wormeley or some such thing. But I was more interested in the
hounds than in meeting local dignitaries.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ said Dodenho caustically. He turned to Michael and murmured, ‘Norton should never have been
admitted to King’s Hall, given that he has not even attended a grammar school, but the King wanted him to “study” here – and
no one refuses the King. Still, it does little for my reputation to belong to a College that appoints Fellows who can barely
read.’

‘I doubt it makes much difference to a man like you,’ Michael whispered back, leaving Dodenho to ponder exactly what he meant.

‘My first love is philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle, his eyes shining at the mere mention of the subject. ‘But in my spare time
I study music. When I was at Oxford I had the pleasure of visiting Balliol, where there are manuscripts ascribed to the theorist
William Gray.’

‘I know all about Gray,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘I have been obliged to read him of late, in order to pass his wisdom to
Clippesby’s students. His notions about plainsong and metrics are complex.’

‘But they are also logical when you think about them,’ said Wormynghalle. He flushed furiously when he realised he might have
insulted Michael’s intelligence, and hastened to make amends. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to invite your lads to the lecture
I intend to give on Gray next week?’

‘You most certainly may,’ said Michael, transparently relieved to share some of his responsibilities. ‘I shall attend, too,
and perhaps then I will understand what the wretched fellow was getting at with his discant styles and reference pitches.
But meanwhile . . .’ He rubbed his hands and gazed at the servants who were waiting to serve the meal.

‘Wormynghalle is doing well with our College choir,’ said Dodenho, before Powys could open his mouth to say grace. Michael
grimaced. ‘Of course, he is not achieving as much as
I
did, when I was choral master, but that would be too much to ask.’

‘He has made vast improvements,’ said Powys, smiling encouragingly at Wormynghalle. ‘I know a good teacher when I see one.
I spotted him when I was in Oxford, and I am afraid I resorted to poaching: I offered him a Fellowship. I am glad I did, especially
now Hamecotes and Wolf are away.’

‘Richard de Hamecotes is my room-mate,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘We rent a large chamber, and I rattle around like a
pea in a barrel without him. I hope he comes back soon.’

‘Speaking of peas,’ began Michael. ‘I—’

‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Dodenho. ‘Hamecotes is clean and tidy, but I share with Wolf, and he is a slut – clothes strewn
across the floor, ink spots on the desks, parchment in untidy piles . . .’

‘A man with debts,’ said Norton disapprovingly. ‘You can never trust them not to run away without making good on what they
owe.’

‘Wolf will pay,’ said Wormynghalle charitably. ‘His family were tardy in forwarding an inheritance, so he has doubtless gone
to collect it in person. He lives in Suffolk, no great distance. I am sure he will return laden with gold soon, and prove
his doubters wrong.’

‘You should have taught him to sing,’ said Dodenho, a little spitefully. ‘Then he could have earned pennies by warbling in
the Market Square.’

‘I will sing, if it means the food is served,’ offered Michael pointedly.

‘Wormynghalle might know his music, but he knows nothing of horses,’ said Norton. He grinned approvingly at the young man.
‘Still, he is a crack shot with a bow.’

‘My brother taught me,’ said Wormynghalle, to explain what was an odd skill for an academic. ‘He said a scholar, travelling
between far-flung universities, should know how to protect himself.’

‘This learning game is all very well,’ Norton went on, whetting an inappropriately large knife on a stone he had removed from
the pouch at his side: the blade was already sharper than most of Bartholomew’s surgical implements. ‘But it means nothing
if you do not also know how to hunt and ride. If a man cannot mount a horse and canter off to shoot himself a decent supper,
then all the books in the world will not prevent him from starving.’

‘“Learning game”?’ echoed Powys. ‘Is that any way for a Fellow to describe academia?’ He turned to Wormynghalle, and Bartholomew
saw that the Welshman regarded the youth as his best scholar, and one who would be equally affronted by Norton’s description
of their profession.

‘You have a long way to go with our tenors,’ said Dodenho. The golden newcomer was stealing attention usually afforded to
him, and he did not like it. ‘They are too shrill in their upper reaches.’

‘They are supposed to be shrill up there,’ said Michael. ‘Now, the meat is getting cold, and—’

‘I am a tenor, and
I
am not shrill,’ interrupted Dodenho. ‘But enough of my singing. We were discussing my theories about light being the origin
of the universe.’

‘Your theory sounds heretical to me, Dodenho,’ said
Powys. He grinned wickedly. ‘Father William of Michaelhouse has a deep interest in heresy, and considers himself an expert
on the subject. Perhaps you should take your ideas to him, and have them assessed.’

‘God forbid!’ declared Dodenho. ‘The man is a lunatic. Of course, Michaelhouse is famous for that sort of thing.’

‘Famous for what sort of thing?’ demanded Michael coldly.

‘For lunatics,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Everyone knows it. You have Father William, who is so rabidly against anything he considers
anathema that he is wholly beyond reason. And then there is Clippesby, and we all know about
him
.’

‘What do we all know about him?’ asked Michael quietly.

‘I am
very
hungry,’ stated Paxtone, rising quickly to his feet when he saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face. ‘Perhaps you
could say grace, Warden.’

Powys obliged, waiting until all the scholars were standing with their heads bowed before saying the familiar Latin with a
heavy Welsh inflexion that meant not all of it was readily comprehensible. Bartholomew struggled to follow him, while Norton
nodded knowledgeably and muttered ‘amen’ in inappropriate places.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, when Powys finished and they took their seats again. ‘I am not sure your idea of eating here was
a good one, Matt. It is a bizarre experience, to say the least.’

‘I hear a man was killed at Merton Hall on Saturday night,’ said Norton, as servants brought baskets of boiled eggs and dried
fruit. Pats of butter were placed at regular intervals along the table, along with substantial slabs of an oily yellow cheese;
the smoked pork was sliced and placed on platters, one to be shared by two Fellows.

‘News travels fast,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and
says Chesterfelde was murdered with a knife.’

Norton nodded eagerly. ‘I heard a dagger had been planted so hard in his back, that it pinned him to the floor.’

‘Please!’ said Paxtone sharply. ‘Not at the table!’

‘You are a physician,’ said Norton, startled. ‘Surely you are used to a bit of blood and gore?’

‘Not while I am dining,’ replied Paxtone firmly. ‘We can talk about the Archbishop’s Visitation instead. He is going to sleep
in King’s Hall, you know. Wormynghalle has been persuaded to give up his room, since it is huge and Hamecotes has taken himself
off to Oxford.’

‘I hope Hamecotes brings back some books on philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle wistfully. ‘The last time he went, he concentrated
on theology and law.’

‘He has been on book-buying missions before?’ asked Michael, reaching for the meat.

‘Twice,’ said Powys. ‘He is rather good at it, actually, because he has contacts in some of the richer Colleges – Balliol,
Exeter and Queen’s.’

‘I only hope he remembers the discussion we had about spurs,’ said Norton, giving the impression that he thought a journey
solely for books was a waste of time. ‘There is a smith in Oxford who makes excellent spurs. I wish he had told me his plans
to travel in advance, rather than slinking off in the middle of the night. Then I could have reminded him.’