Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant, worked seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.

She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge and the Thomas Chaloner adventures in Restoration London, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.

Sussex, March 1360

Cambridge, early May 1360

‘Two weeks,’ grumbled Michael the following morning. The scholars had attended Mass, broken their fast and then the Fellows had repaired to the comfortable room adjoining the hall that provided them with a refuge from students. ‘You and I were in Suffolk for two weeks over the Easter vacation, and we returned to find our entire world turned upside down!’

He was talking to Bartholomew, who sat by the fire with him. Three other Fellows were also in the room: William was by the window, practising the lecture he was to give that day; Clippesby was on the floor, conversing with an assortment of poultry; and Aungel was at the table reading an ostentatiously large medical tome, one specifically chosen to show his colleagues that he took his new teaching duties seriously. The last Fellow, Theophilis, had gone to St Mary the Great to spy on the Chancellor for Michael.

Bartholomew cast his mind back to the tumultuous fortnight that he and the monk had spent in Clare, where they had learned that Cambridge was not the only town plagued by murderers and people with grudges. It had only been a month ago, but felt longer, because both had been so busy since – Michael with his new responsibilities as Master, and Bartholomew determined to make the most of his last term in academia.

‘Not all the changes have been bad,’ he said. ‘You have made improvements–’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Michael impatiently. ‘There is no question that I am a fine Master, and if I ousted William we would easily be the best College in the University. However, I was referring to Chancellor Suttone and his inexcusable flight. How could he abandon us without so much as a backward glance?’

‘We should have predicted that his terror of the plague might override his sense of duty. He was obsessed with the possibility of a second outbreak.’

Michael glared into the flames. ‘He still should have spoken to me before resigning. When I think of all the trouble I took to get him in post …’

‘I imagine he went then precisely because you were away – if he had waited, you would have talked him out of it. He never could stand up to you.’

Michael continued to scowl. ‘I shall never forgive him. And it is not as if the Death is poised to return. There have been no rumours of it, like there were the last time.’

‘Actually, there have,’ countered Bartholomew soberly. ‘In the Italian–’

‘No,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I will not allow it to sweep among us. Not again.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘And how will you stop it exactly? Or have you set your ambitions on more lofty roles than mere bishoprics or abbacies, and aim to play God?’

Michael glared at him. ‘I was thinking that you and I have the authority to impose sensible anti-plague measures this time – setting up hospitals, separating the sick from the healthy, and burning infected clothing. Working together, we could defeat it.’

Bartholomew knew it was not that simple. ‘It would be–’

‘Of course, it is Heltisle’s fault that we have de Wetherset as Chancellor,’ interrupted Michael, more interested in University politics than a disease that might never materialise. ‘He was the one who forced an election the moment Suttone slunk away. Everyone else wanted to wait until I got back.’

‘He must have been within his rights to do it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Or you would have contested the result.’

‘Being legal does not make it acceptable,’ sniffed Michael. ‘And as Senior Proctor, I should have been here. I imagine Heltisle wanted the post himself, but when he realised no one would vote for him, he encouraged de Wetherset to stand instead. Then he demanded a reward, so de Wetherset created the post of Vice-Chancellor for him.’

Bartholomew had known Heltisle, who was also the Master of Bene’t College, for years, and had always disliked him. He was arrogant, dangerously ambitious, and made no secret of his disdain for the way Bartholomew practised and taught medicine. Their mutual antipathy meant they avoided each other whenever possible, as encounters invariably ended in a spat. Unfortunately, Heltisle’s new position meant Bartholomew was now obliged to deal with him more often than was pleasant.

‘It is a pity he and de Wetherset are friends,’ he mused. ‘De Wetherset was a lot nicer before poisonous old Heltisle started whispering in his ear.’

‘Heltisle is poisonous,’ agreed Michael. ‘Fortunately, he is not clever enough to be dangerous. The man who is dangerous is Commissary Aynton. Commissary Aynton! Yet another sinecure created without my permission!’

Bartholomew blinked. Calling Aynton dangerous was akin to saying the same about a mouse, and any teeth the new Commissary might possess were far too small to cause trouble. Indeed, Bartholomew was sorry that the bumbling, well-meaning Aynton had allowed himself to be dragged into the perfidious world of University politics in the first place, as strong, confident men like Michael, Heltisle and de Wetherset were sure to mangle him.

‘There is no harm in Aynton,’ he argued. ‘Besides, he has no real power – it is Heltisle who will rule if de Wetherset is ill or absent. All the Commissary does is sign documents.’

‘Quite!’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘Sign documents. And what do these documents entail? Agreements pertaining to money, benefactions or property; the appointment of officials; the giving of degrees; and the granting of licences to travel, preach or establish new hostels. All were matters handled by me until he came along.’

Bartholomew was astonished. ‘You let de Wetherset take those privileges away from you and give them to someone else?’

Michael’s scowl deepened. ‘I did not “let” him do anything – I returned from Suffolk to find it had already happened. I shall take it back, of course, but not yet. I will wait until Aynton makes some catastrophic blunder, then step in and save the day.’

‘If he makes a catastrophic blunder. He is not a fool.’

‘No, which is why I say he is dangerous. I call the three of them – de Wetherset, Heltisle and Aynton – the triumvirate. I am sure their ultimate goal is to oust me completely. Fortunately, I have a secret weapon: Theophilis is an excellent spy and wholly loyal to me. The triumvirate have no idea that he tells me everything they do or say.’

‘I hope you are right about him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Because he makes me uneasy.’

Michael dismissed the physician’s concerns with an impatient wave of a hand. ‘He owes all he has to me – his Fellowship, his appointment as Junior Proctor, and a nice little benefice in York that pays him a handsome stipend for doing nothing.’

‘We have met colleagues who bite the hand that feeds them before,’ warned Bartholomew, thinking there had been rather too many of them over the years.

‘Theophilis is not a viper,’ declared Michael confidently. ‘Besides, I have promised to make him Chancellor in time – which will not be in the too-distant future if de Wetherset continues to heed the dubious advice of Heltisle and Aynton over sensible suggestions from me. But enough of this. Tell me about Bonet. Dick says he was killed by the same culprit as Paris.’

‘Probably, although we cannot say for certain without more evidence. Why? Will you explore his death as well as Paris’s?’

Michael nodded. ‘The town will not approve, of course, just as scholars will resent Dick looking into Paris. All I hope is that one of us finds the killer before there is trouble over it.’

Bartholomew, Michael and the triumvirate hurried into the High Street to gaze at the plume of greasy black smoke that wafted into the air to the south.

‘That is not the Gilbertine Priory,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It is further away.’

‘Some farmer, clearing land, probably,’ said Heltisle dismissively.

‘It is the Spital!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘I have nuns lodged there, too – a score of ladies from Lyminster Priory.’

‘One convent sent twenty delegates?’ asked de Wetherset in surprise. ‘That is a lot.’

‘The largest by a considerable margin,’ acknowledged Michael, his face pale. ‘And one of them is Magistra Katherine de Lisle.’

‘De Lisle?’ mused de Wetherset. ‘Is she any relation to our Bishop Thomas de Lisle?’

‘His older sister,’ replied Michael tautly. ‘She is scheduled to speak at the conloquium today, so hopefully she will have left the Spital already, but–’

‘Then go and make sure,’ gulped de Wetherset. ‘The Bishop will never forgive us if his sister is incinerated at an event organised by an officer of the University.’

Knowing this was true, Michael began to hurry along the High Street. Bartholomew fell in at his side, because everything was tinder-dry after the long spell of warm weather, and he wanted to be sure the blaze represented no danger to the town – only fools were unconcerned about fire when most buildings were made of timber and thatch. Cynric followed, and so did the triumvirate.

‘We cannot have you telling the Bishop that we skulked here while the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner rescued his beloved sister,’ called Heltisle. ‘We know the kind of sly politics you two practise.’

A few years before, Bartholomew had objected to the number of bodies he was required to inspect out of the goodness of his heart, so Michael had established the post of Corpse Examiner. The duties entailed determining an official cause of death for any scholar who passed away, or anyone who died on University property. Bartholomew was paid threepence for each body he assessed, all of which was spent on medicine for the poor. However, he wished Michael had chosen a less sinister-sounding title for the work he did.

‘Speaking of sly politics, Heltisle,’ said the monk coolly, ‘I understand you struck a deal with Clippesby over the sale of his treatise.’

Heltisle smirked. ‘And there is a contract to prove it – signed with one of my own metal pens, in fact – so do not try to renege. And if you claim he is mentally unfit to make such arrangements, then he should not be in the University. You cannot have it both ways.’

‘I cannot wait to see his face when he realises he has been bested by Clippesby,’ murmured Michael, walking more quickly to put some distance between them. ‘I must find a way to depose him, as he is a dreadful man. Even so, I would sooner have him than Aynton – at least Heltisle does not try to disguise his vileness with cloying amiability.’

‘Perhaps I can shoot him while I show scholars how to use a bow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘An arrow in the posterior will teach him a little humility.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, afraid he might actually do it. ‘He would claim you acted on our orders, and we do not want Michaelhouse sued.’

The plume of smoke seemed no closer when they reached the Trumpington Gate, where the sentries were gazing at the smudge of black that stained the sky.

‘It is the Spital,’ said a soldier to his cronies, ‘which is no bad thing. The place is haunted, and I shall not be sorry to see it go up in flames.’

‘He is right,’ Cynric told Bartholomew and Michael, as they hurried through the gate. He considered himself an expert on the supernatural, and was always willing to share his views with the less well informed. ‘It stands on the site of a pagan temple, see, where human sacrifices were made.’

‘It does not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, although he should have known better than to argue with Cynric. The book-bearer’s opinions, once formed, were permanent, and there was no changing his mind.

‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ declared Cynric darkly. ‘Building that Spital woke a lot of evil sprites. Indeed, it may even be them who set the place afire.’

‘Then let us hope Heltisle has the right of it,’ said Michael, ‘and it is just a farmer burning brush in order to plant some crops.’

‘Regardless,’ said Bartholomew, fearing it was not, ‘we should hurry.’

The next morning dawned cool, damp and wet. Bartholomew fancied he could smell burning in the misty drizzle from the still-smouldering Spital shed, although this was impossible as it was too far away. His sleep had teemed with nightmares, so he had risen in the small hours and gone to the hall to read. But even Galen’s elegant prose could not distract him from his thoughts, so he had spent most of the time staring at the candle, thinking about the fire.

By the time it was out, the rubble had been far too hot for retrieving bodies, so Tulyet, whose responsibility it was to investigate, had asked him to return the following day to examine the victims. A roll call had revealed five people missing – the rescued girl’s parents, uncle, aunt and teenaged brother.

The bell rang to wake the scholars for Mass, so he went to the lavatorium – the lean-to structure behind the hall, built for those interested in personal hygiene. Until recently, only cold water had been available, but Michael liked the occasional wash himself, and had ordered the servants to provide hot as well. It was an almost unimaginable luxury.

Bartholomew stank of burning, so he scrubbed his skin and hair vigorously, then doused himself with some perfume that someone had left behind. He wished he had used it more sparingly when it transpired to be powerful and redolent of the stuff popular with prostitutes. He started to rinse it off, but the bell rang again, this time calling scholars to assemble in the yard, ready to process to the church. He left his soiled clothes in the laundress’s basket, and sprinted to his room for fresh ones, wearing nothing but a piece of sacking tied around his waist.

‘You had better not do that when you are married,’ remarked Theophilis, watching disapprovingly. ‘Not with a woman about.’

Bartholomew was tempted to point out that Matilde was unlikely to mind, but held his tongue lest Theophilis thought he was being lewd. Back in his room, he donned a fresh white shirt, black leggings and a clean tabard. Then he forced his feet into shoes that were still wet from fire-drenching water, and hurried into the yard.

Michael was already there, hood up to keep the drizzle from his immaculately barbered tonsure. His Benedictine students stood in a small, sombre cluster behind him, while Bartholomew’s medics formed a much noisier group near the hall. Aungel was with them and they were laughing. When he caught the words ‘chicken’ and ‘debate’, he surmised that they were reviewing William’s attempt to debunk Clippesby’s thesis the previous day.

Clippesby and Theophilis were by the gate, so he went to join them. The Dominican was kneeling, and Bartholomew thought he was praying until he realised he was talking to the College cat. Theophilis listened carefully as Clippesby translated what the animal had said, then rolled his eyes, mocking the Dominican’s eccentricity. Bartholomew bristled, but William strode up before he could take issue with him.

‘I have a bone to pick with you, Matthew,’ the friar said coolly. ‘Your students kept asking questions during my sermon yesterday.’

‘Of course they did,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Theophilis sniggering. ‘They have been trained to challenge statements they deem illogical or erroneous.’

William’s scowl deepened. ‘My exposition was neither, and the next time I give a lecture, they will not be invited.’

Bartholomew was sure they would be delighted to hear it. Then Aungel approached.

‘Yesterday was great fun, Father,’ he declared enthusiastically. ‘I have never laughed so much in all my life. The best part was when you claimed that all robins are nominalists, because they know the names of the worms they eat.’

‘I never did! You tricked me into saying things I did not mean.’

‘We did it because it was so easy,’ said Theophilis in his eerily sibilant voice. ‘And our students learned one extremely valuable lesson: to keep their mouths shut when they do not know what they are talking about.’

‘But I do know what I am talking about!’ cried William, aggrieved. ‘I am a Franciscan theologian, and my understanding of the realism–nominalism debate is far greater than that of Clippesby’s stupid chickens.’

‘In that case, Father,’ said Theophilis slyly, ‘perhaps you should debate with them directly next time. You might find Ma and Gertrude easier to defeat than the students.’

William narrowed his eyes. ‘You want me to appear as mad as Clippesby! Besides, all his hens look the same to me. How will I know which are the right ones?’

Theophilis regarded William warily, not sure if he was serious, while Bartholomew laughed at them both.

‘Audrey has just mentioned something interesting,’ said Clippesby, indicating the cat. Bartholomew was glad he never took umbrage at William’s insults, or the College would have been a perpetual battleground. ‘She was hunting near the Spital just before dawn, and she saw what appeared to be a ghost – a spectre that undulated along the top of the walls.’

The Dominican often went out at night to commune with his animal friends. When he did, he sat so still that he was all but invisible, which meant he frequently witnessed sights not intended for his eyes. Unfortunately, he invariably reported them in a way that made them difficult to interpret.

‘You mean you saw a person on the wall,’ said Aungel. ‘Who was it? A townsman trying to get inside to see the charred bodies? A lunatic trying to escape?’

‘It was a white, shimmering shape, which rippled along until it vanished into thin air,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Audrey has never seen anything like it, and she hopes never to do so again.’

‘Are you sure she was not dreaming?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Clippesby would not mention the tale to Cynric, or they would never hear the end of it.

Clippesby nodded. ‘She recited prayers to ward off evil, and ran home as fast as her legs would carry her.’

‘What was she doing out there in the first place?’ asked Theophilis suspiciously. ‘It is not safe, given the unsettled mood of the town.’

‘She went to make sure that no horses were involved in the fire,’ explained Clippesby. ‘Burning would be a terrible way to die.’

‘It would,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘As five hapless people have discovered.’

There was a bell rope outside the Spital’s main entrance so that visitors could announce their arrival. Michael gave it a tug, and when nothing happened, pulled harder. Then he exchanged a look of astonishment with Bartholomew and Tulyet when, instead of the usual cheery jangle that characterised such arrangements, a bell of considerable size boomed out. It echoed mournfully around them, stilling the merry chatter of sparrows in the nearby bushes.

‘Goodness!’ murmured Bartholomew, when the deep hum had died away. ‘How very sinister! It feels as though we are about to ask for admittance to the Devil’s lair.’

‘Do not jest about such matters,’ admonished Tulyet uneasily. ‘There is something distinctly odd about this place. Perhaps Margery is right about Satan making it his own – and the thing we just watched shimmer over the wall was one of his familiars.’

‘It was a trick,’ said Michael firmly, ‘even if we did find no evidence to prove it. However, we shall use it to our advantage, because if folk believe this place is infested by evil sprites, they will keep their distance. Then if the lunatics do transpire to be French, they are less likely to be discovered.’

‘Alternatively,’ cautioned Bartholomew, ‘local folk may object to such a place on their doorstep, and will raze it to the ground. Then we shall have dozens of victims, not five.’

They were still debating when the massive Eudo opened the gate. He peered out warily, standing so that his bulk prevented them from seeing inside.

‘You cannot come in,’ he stated in a tone designed to brook no argument.

‘Oh, yes, we can,’ countered Tulyet. ‘People died here yesterday, and it is our duty to investigate. So either let us in now or we shall return with soldiers.’

His stern face convinced Eudo to do as he was told. The moment they were inside, the big man closed the gate and secured it with a thick bar.

‘People do not like lunatics,’ he explained. ‘Ergo, we have to protect ours.’

‘So I see,’ remarked Tulyet, looking to where several men were stationed on the walls, clearly standing guard. They were not armed, but sack-covered mounds revealed where weapons were stashed.

The Spital was a very different place than it had been the previous day. The inmates no longer stood in a frightened cluster, but joined the staff in a variety of humdrum activities – sweeping, gardening, laundry. There was not a child in sight. Two inmates moved as though they were not in complete control of their limbs, while three others jabbered self-consciously.

‘Not even madmen do dirty household chores without aprons to protect their clothes,’ Michael murmured as they followed Eudo to the hall. ‘That bell is not to announce visitors, but to warn the inmates to take up pre-agreed roles and positions. All this quiet industry is an act, although not a very convincing one.’

‘I agree,’ whispered Tulyet. ‘But let us go along with the charade, and see what we can learn before we reveal that we know they are Frenchmen in disguise – wealthy Frenchmen, as hiring an entire hospital cannot be cheap.’

‘I suspect they are middling folk – craftsmen and traders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one beating rugs has burns like a blacksmith, while the woman weaving baskets is so dexterous that it must be her profession.’

They turned at a shout, and saw the portly Warden Tangmer waddling towards them, red-faced and breathless in his haste. Eudo’s tiny wife Goda was with him, wearing an elaborately embroidered kirtle that made her look like an exotic doll. Bartholomew wondered if her everyday one had been spoiled fighting the fire.

Tulyet opened his mouth to explain why they were there, but the Warden spoke first.

‘We shall bury our dead behind the chapel,’ he announced. ‘We are digging their graves now, so please leave us to do it in peace.’

‘Not until we have ascertained why a whole family was trapped inside a burning shed,’ said Tulyet sharply.

Tangmer winced. ‘It was an accident. We are bursting at the seams with lunatics, so every building is needed to accommodate them all, even ramshackle ones that go up in flames when candles are knocked over.’

Eudo glared at Michael. ‘Which is your fault for foisting those nuns on us.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I did it because you told me that all your patients are held in secure accommodation inside the hall, and that the guesthouse was never used for that purpose. If you had been honest with me, I would have billeted my sisters elsewhere.’

‘I did not know you were fishing for beds at the time,’ retorted Eudo sullenly. ‘I thought you wanted assurances that your precious University is in no danger from escaped madmen.’

‘So the nuns’ arrival meant that some patients were moved to the shed?’ asked Tulyet. He waited until Eudo and Tangmer nodded before continuing. ‘You are lying again – yesterday, you told me that it was full of tools and building supplies.’

Tangmer gave a pained smile. ‘It is. However, the Girards elected to use it anyway – like a family house.’

‘There were no windows,’ added Eudo, ‘so you had to use candles or a lamp inside. It was also full of dry timber, so if one of the youngsters knocked one over …’

‘The door was open when the alarm was first raised,’ said Tangmer, his heckling defiance replaced by anguish. ‘I ordered it closed, thinking it was the best way to contain the blaze. There had been plenty of time for anyone inside to get out, so I do not understand how this terrible thing could have happened. Goda said the shed was empty.’

‘I was sure it was empty,’ put in Goda, shaking her head unhappily. ‘I could not believe it when voices …’

‘Did you search it?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Properly?’

Goda grimaced. ‘I went in as far as I dared, but no one was there. All I can think is that they were hiding behind the logs at the very back.’

Tulyet frowned. ‘Why would they hide?’

‘Because we had a visitor, and they were terrified of those,’ explained Goda. ‘I see now that I should have looked harder, but it never occurred to me that they would be more frightened of strangers than a fire.’

‘What visitor?’

‘Sister Alice, who came to see the nuns. I do not know why, as they loathe each other.’

‘Alice did not mention that to us just now,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Curious.’

‘She came today as well,’ Goda went on, ‘even though it was early and we were not really ready for …’

She trailed off, chagrined, when she realised she had almost let slip something that was meant to be kept quiet. Eudo blundered to her rescue.

‘Ready for the day’s chores,’ he blustered. ‘Some patients were not even dressed, and we were afraid that Alice would go away thinking we are all as lazy as … as Frenchmen. That race is worthless, and we hate them.’

‘We do,’ agreed Tangmer with a sickly smile. ‘After what happened at Winchelsea, I shall kill any Frenchman on sight. We all would – every last soul among us.’

‘Does that include your wife?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Or is she exempt?’

‘Amphelisa?’ gulped Tangmer, eyes wide in his panicky face. ‘She is not French!’

Tulyet indicated Bartholomew. ‘I have brought the University’s Corpse Examiner to look at the bodies, because I find it very strange that an entire family would rather roast alive than meet a nun.’

‘Do you?’ Tangmer exchanged an agitated glance with Eudo. ‘Well, I suppose there is no harm in it, but I have a condition – that none of you speak to our patients. They are in a very fragile state after yesterday, and we cannot have them distressed further.’

‘Where are the bodies?’ asked Tulyet briskly. ‘Still in the shed?’

‘We retrieved them and put them in the chapel,’ replied Tangmer. ‘Poor souls.’

Bartholomew did not want to investigate seven murders, especially as it was his last term as a scholar, so every day was precious. He tried to slip away, but Michael blocked his path and demanded to know where he thought he was going.

‘You cannot need me when you have Dick,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, I have no jurisdiction here. It is not University property and no scholar has died.’

‘Paris the Plagiarist was a scholar,’ said Michael soberly. ‘And as I am sure all seven deaths are connected, you do have jurisdiction here. Moreover, the Girards were hired as proxies by our Chancellor and his deputy, which is worrisome. You must help me find out what is going on.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘I should tell you now that de Wetherset and Heltisle are on my list of suspects. It is possible that they found out the Girards had no intention of honouring the arrangement and killed them for it.’

‘Much as I dislike Heltisle, I do not see him dispatching children,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if de Wetherset cared about the money, he would not have given it all to Hélène.’

‘We should not lump the two of them together in this,’ said Michael. ‘De Wetherset is unlikely to soil his hands with murder – he is an intelligent man, and would devise other ways to punish a deceitful proxy. Heltisle, however, is cold, hard and ambitious. I would not put any low deed past him.’

‘I can see why he dispatched the plagiarist – a man who brought our University into disrepute – but why kill the spicer?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

‘Bonet supplied the University with goods,’ shrugged Michael. ‘Perhaps there was a disagreement over prices. I know for a fact that Heltisle wants to renegotiate some of our trade deals when the current ones expire.’

‘I shall leave de Wetherset and Heltisle to you,’ said Tulyet. ‘But first, we should speak to the people here – staff, Frenchmen and nuns.’

He marched away to organise it, while Bartholomew grumbled about losing valuable teaching time. The monk was unsympathetic.

‘You may have no University to resign from unless we find our culprit. It is possible that these murders are a sly blow against us – Paris was a scholar; Bonet sold us spices; and now we have our Chancellor and his deputy’s proxies murdered.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, but there was no time to argue, as Tulyet was waving for them to join him in the hall. Once inside, all three gazed around in admiration. It was a high-ceilinged room with enormous windows that allowed the sunlight to flood in. The tables and benches were crafted from pale wood, while the floor comprised creamy white flagstones, a combination that rendered it bright, airy and cheerful.

‘This is wasted on lepers and lunatics,’ muttered Michael. ‘Indeed, I could live here myself. It is much nicer than Michaelhouse.’

Tulyet wanted to question the peregrini first. They shuffled forward uneasily. All hailed from the wealthier end of village life – craftsmen and merchants who earned comfortable livings, and who had been respected members of the community before war and rebellion had shattered their lives. There were nine children including Hélène, seven women of various ages, five very old men and the four Jacques.

Most questions were answered by Father Julien, with occasional help from a stout woman named Madame Vipond – the weaver Bartholomew had seen outside. While the two of them spoke, Delacroix and his companions snarled and scowled, so it soon became apparent that the Jacques resented the priest’s authority and itched to wrest it from him.

‘We had no choice but to leave France,’ Julien told Tulyet. ‘The barons burned every house in our village, and as I have already said, they murdered all but thirty of our people. None of the dead were Jacques.’

‘Because we were away when the barons came,’ objected Delacroix, detecting censure. ‘How could we defend our village when we were not there?’

‘My point exactly,’ murmured Julien acidly.

‘We chose to resettle in Winchelsea because my husband and I had sold baskets there for years,’ said Madame Vipond after a short, uncomfortable silence. ‘I knew it well and thought we could rebuild our lives among good and kindly people. We gave money to charitable causes and adopted their ways. We tried to become part of the town.’

‘And when the Dauphin’s raiders came, my brothers died trying to defend it,’ spat Delacroix. ‘Then what did those good and kindly people do? Accuse us of being spies! So we ran a second time, abandoning all we had built there. We have virtually no money, so it will be difficult to leave here and settle somewhere else. Perhaps you will give us funds, Sheriff.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘I have my own poor to look after.’

‘Because we could stir up trouble if you refuse,’ flashed Delacroix. ‘You want to stay on our good side, believe me. We–’

‘Delacroix, stop!’ cried Julien. ‘We are not beggars, and we do not make threats.’

‘Well, I suppose we have this,’ said Delacroix, brandishing a fat purse. ‘The money earned by the Girards for being proxies. It will keep the wolf from the door for a while.’

‘How does it come to be in your possession?’ demanded Michael immediately.

Delacroix regarded him evenly. ‘I took it from their bodies when we removed them from the shed – for safekeeping.’

‘Give it to Michael,’ ordered Julien. ‘He will return it to its rightful owners.’

‘It is Hélène’s now,’ said Michael, before Delacroix could refuse and there was more sparring for power. ‘Chancellor de Wetherset wants her to have it.’

Unexpectedly, Delacroix’s eyes filled with tears at the kindness, while a murmur of appreciation rippled through the others.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Julien warily. ‘He will receive nothing in return except our gratitude.’

‘He knows,’ said Michael. ‘However, the offer was made when he thought Hélène was the child of lunatics. He may reconsider if he learns the truth, so I recommend you stay well away from the town.’ He looked hard at the Jacques. ‘Especially you.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Tensions are running unusually high at the moment, so you must leave as soon as possible. How soon can it be arranged?’

‘We will go today,’ sniffed Delacroix. ‘We know where we are not wanted.’

‘It takes time to prepare twenty-five people for travel when most are either very old or very young,’ countered Julien. ‘We shall aim for Friday – the day after tomorrow.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet. ‘Now tell us about the Girard family. Did you like them?’

‘We did,’ replied Madame Vipond, although she did not look at the Jacques. ‘They were strong and wise, and our lives here will be harder without them.’

‘Did you see anything that might help us catch their killer?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Or did any of you visit them in the shed yesterday?’

‘It was their private place,’ explained Julien, ‘where they went for time together as a family. They disliked being disturbed.’

‘So what happened when the fire began? Who first noticed it?’

‘Delacroix saw smoke when he went to the kitchen for bread,’ replied Julien. ‘He sent Goda to raise the alarm, while he went to see about putting it out. The rest of us stayed well back, so we would not get in the way.’

‘Did it cross your minds that the Girards might still be inside?’

‘Of course not!’ snarled Delacroix. ‘The door was open, so we naturally assumed they had left.’

‘And Goda seemed certain that it was empty,’ elaborated Julien. ‘Then Tangmer ordered it shut to contain the blaze – at that point, he still thought we could put it out.’

‘Goda,’ mused Michael. ‘Are you on good terms with her?’

‘You think she is the killer?’ Delacroix laughed derisively. ‘The Girards knew how to look after themselves – they would never have been bested by a tiny little woman.’

‘Besides, Goda has no reason to harm us,’ added Julien, shooting him a glance that warned him to guard his tongue. ‘No one here does.’

‘What about the dagger?’ asked Tulyet, laying it on the table. ‘I have scrubbed the soot off it, so examine it again now it is clean. Do you recognise it?’

There was a moment when Bartholomew thought he was playing tricks – that Tulyet had substituted the murder weapon for another in the hope of catching the culprit out – but then he saw the wide blade and the jewelled hilt, both of which gleamed expensively. It was a world apart from the greasy black item he had plucked from the rubble.

‘No,’ said Julien, peering at it. ‘But it is ugly – a thing specifically designed for the taking of life. You should throw it in a midden, Sheriff, where it belongs.’

‘I think it is handsome,’ stated Delacroix, a predictable response from a warlike man. ‘But I have never seen its like before.’

One by one, the other peregrini approached to look, but all shook their heads.

‘So none of you noticed anything unusual about the shed before the fire?’ pressed Michael when they had finished. ‘No strangers loitering? No visitors you did not know?’

‘Just the ones we have already mentioned,’ replied Julien. ‘The miller, the ditcher and the two knights from the castle.’

‘Plus all those Benedictine nuns,’ put in Delacroix, glaring at Michael.

By the following morning, everyone knew that Satan had moved into the Spital, and would not welcome uninvited guests. However, while the news encouraged superstitious townsfolk to stay away, it had the opposite effect on those in holy orders.

‘The Devil will not tell me what I can and cannot do in my own town,’ declared Father William indignantly, as he and the other Fellows sat in the conclave after breakfast. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘That tale is a lot of nonsense started by Cynric,’ said Theophilis in the sinister whisper that Bartholomew was coming to detest. ‘I shall be glad when you leave the University and take that heretic with you, Bartholomew. I dislike the fact that he – and you, for that matter – has befriended a witch.’

‘Cynric is not a heretic,’ objected Bartholomew, although he was aware that the book-bearer was not exactly a true son of the Church either. ‘And I am no friend of Margery Starre.’

‘Really?’ asked Aungel guilelessly. ‘Because she always speaks very highly of you. When I collect the cure she makes for my spots, she always says–’

He stopped abruptly, aware that he had not only dropped his former teacher in the mire, but had done himself no favours either. Theophilis was quick to pounce.

‘You will not buy her wares again, Aungel,’ he ordered sharply. ‘And I shall put Bartholomew’s association with that woman in my weekly report to the Chancellor.’

‘Come to the Spital with me, Theophilis,’ said William, eyes blazing fanatically. ‘You and I will send Lucifer packing together.’

‘Good idea,’ said Theophilis, and turned to Michael. ‘And while we are there, I shall investigate the murdered lunatics. I am your Junior Proctor, so if anyone helps you solve the mystery, it should be me.’ He glared pointedly at Bartholomew.

‘It is kind of you to offer,’ said Michael. ‘But I need you to monitor the triumvirate. I say this not for my benefit, but for your own – you will never rise in the University hierarchy if the Chancellor regains too much power, as he will prevent me from promoting you.’

‘Of course,’ said Theophilis, paling at the awful prospect of political stagnation. ‘I shall go to St Mary the Great at once. Meadowman told me that a letter arrived for de Wetherset at dawn, so I should find out who sent it.’

‘You should,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is the time of year when nominations for lucrative sinecures arrive, and it would be a shame if you lose out to someone less deserving.’

Theophilis made for the door at such a lick that he startled the hens that Clippesby was feeding under the table. They scattered in alarm.

‘Keep those things away from me,’ he snarled, flapping his hands at them. ‘They should not be in here anyway – unless they are roasted in butter.’

‘You would eat Gertrude?’ breathed Clippesby, shocked. ‘The nominalist?’

Theophilis forced a smile. ‘Of course I would not eat her, Clippesby. I am too fervent an admirer of her philosophy. Forgive me, Gertrude. I spoke out of turn.’

He bowed to the bird and left, leaving Clippesby to smooth ruffled feathers. William watched him go, then went to recruit Aungel for a holy assault on the Spital.

‘I do not understand why you trust Theophilis,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone. ‘He is only interested in furthering his own career, and cares nothing for yours.’

‘Almost certainly. However, he also knows that the only way he will succeed is with my support, so he will do anything to keep my approval.’ Michael stood and stretched. ‘We should go to meet Dick. We have a lot to do today.’

‘Have we?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm.

Michael nodded. ‘Once we have discussed our findings with him, we must speak to Leger and Norbert about their conversation with the Girards. I want to know why they kept an encounter with two murder victims to themselves.’

‘It might be wiser to let Dick do that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that while the ruffianly pair might not assault a monk, the same could not be said about a physician. He was no coward, but there was no point in deliberately courting danger.

‘You may be right. Next, we shall go to St Mary the Great, where I will show you the blade that killed Paris the Plagiarist. You never saw it, because it got kicked under a stone and Theophilis did not find it until the following day.’

‘Theophilis found it? And it was missed during the initial search?’

‘Yes, but when he showed me where it had fallen, I was not surprised that no one had spotted it sooner. I want you to compare it to the weapon that killed the Girards.’

‘The wounds on them and Paris were not the same size,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I told you that yesterday. Theirs were more akin to Bonet’s, but he is buried, so we will never know if he was killed with the weapon we found at the Spital. Incidentally, have you asked where Theophilis was when the fire started?’

Michael’s eyes were round with disbelief. ‘Lord, Matt! What is it about my poor Junior Proctor that you so dislike? He never says anything nasty about you.’

‘Spying is distasteful, but he happily rushed to do it, which says nothing good about him. He spends a lot of time with de Wetherset and Heltisle, and he is ambitious. If they offer him a better deal, he will take it – then it will be you who is the subject of his snooping.’

‘I shall bear it in mind, although I am sure you are wrong.’

‘So did you ask where he was when the fire started?’

Michael was growing exasperated. ‘Why would Theophilis, a Fellow of Michaelhouse, renowned canon lawyer and possible future Chancellor, stab a few frightened Frenchmen? I have discussed the war with him in the past, and he is of the same opinion as you and me – that the leaders of both sides should bring about a truce before any more blood is spilled.’

‘So you have not asked him,’ surmised Bartholomew in disgust.

‘You know where he was – here, in the hall, keeping the peace while William revealed his ignorance of the nominalism–realism dispute.’

Bartholomew raised a triumphant finger. ‘No, he was not! Aungel said he left shortly after it started, and did not return for some time – which is why my students were able to savage William so ruthlessly. Theophilis was not here to keep them in line.’

‘I forgot – he did mention going out,’ said Michael. ‘Heltisle had a meeting, and refused to reveal who with, so Theophilis followed him. Unfortunately, he lost him by King’s Hall, so he returned to his duties here.’

‘It is not a very convincing alibi, is it?’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘No one can really verify what he was doing.’

‘I suspect that is true for half the town, which is why this case will not be easy to solve. But solve it we must, because we cannot rest until this killer is caught. So if you are ready …’

Bartholomew nodded to where William was still badgering Aungel to join him in a righteous assault on Satan. ‘What about him? We cannot let him go anywhere near the Spital, because if he learns who is inside …’

‘I shall ask him to visit his fellow Franciscans and find out what they know about Wyse. He will enjoy that, as he is always clamouring to be a proctor. By the time he has finished, he will have forgotten all about his holy mission against the Devil.’

Bartholomew hoped Michael was right.

Although Bartholomew and Michael spent the rest of the day quizzing and re-questioning witnesses, they learned nothing new. As evening approached, Michael went to watch Heltisle’s new beadles embark on their first patrol, while Bartholomew dismayed his students by informing them that they were going to study – it was rare that classes continued after the six o’clock meal, and they had been looking forward to relaxing.

They grumbled even more when it became clear that they were going to work in the orchard, as it was chilly there once the sun had set. But Bartholomew’s room was too small to hold everyone, and Theophilis had bagged the hall for Clippesby, who had agreed to present a preview of his next treatise. This would feature the philosophising hens again, and was a more in-depth look at some of the issues raised in his first exposition.

The Dominican’s lecture sparked a vigorous debate, and Theophilis in particular asked a great many questions. It ended late, although not as late as Bartholomew, who lost track of time entirely and only stopped when his lamp ran out of oil, plunging the orchard into darkness. As a result, there were yawns and heavy eyes aplenty when the bell rang for church the following morning.

After their devotions, Michael led everyone back to the College for breakfast. With the resilience of youth, the students quickly rallied, and the hall soon rang with lively conversation, most of it about Clippesby’s latest hypotheses. Michael summarised them for Bartholomew and his medics, then made some astute observations of his own. Theophilis jotted everything down on a scrap of parchment.

‘For Clippesby to incorporate in his final draft,’ he explained as he scribbled. ‘What was that last point again, Brother?’

‘There is no need to make notes for me, Theophilis,’ said Clippesby politely. ‘I can remember all these suggestions without them.’

‘What, all of them?’ asked William, astonished and disbelieving in equal measure.

‘I have help.’ Clippesby indicated the two hens that he had brought with him, which hunted among the rushes for scraps of dropped food. ‘Ma and Gertrude act as amanuenses.’

‘Can they write, then?’ asked Theophilis with a smirk to let everyone know he was having fun at the Dominican’s expense.

‘Of course not!’ said Clippesby, regarding him askance. ‘They are chickens.’

The students laughed harder and longer than the rejoinder really warranted, which told Bartholomew that he was not the only one who disliked the Junior Proctor. Or perhaps it was just that they were protective of Clippesby, who had always been a great favourite of theirs. Thus snubbed, Theophilis fell silent, although he continued to record all that was said about Ma’s new and intriguing definition of hermeneutic nominalism.

Bored with theology, Aungel began to whisper to Bartholomew. ‘I hope Brother Michael will not win a bishopric or an abbacy very soon, because if he leaves the University, Theophilis will become Senior Proctor, and he will not be very good at it. He is too deceitful. For a start, we do not even know his real name.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Aungel shrugged. ‘No one calls their child Theophilis, so he must have chosen it for himself. “Loved by God” indeed! He should let us be the judge of that. Incidentally, Chancellor de Wetherset has been going around saying that Michael is no longer allowed to investigate murders. I hope he is wrong, or Paris will never have justice.’

‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have killed Paris?’

‘Oh, plenty,’ replied Aungel, ‘including one that claims de Wetherset, Heltisle and Aynton did it, because his plagiarism brought disgrace to the University. Which it did, of course. They do not do that sort of thing at Oxford.’

‘We do not do that sort of thing here,’ averred Bartholomew. ‘Paris was an aberration.’

‘A dead aberration,’ said Aungel, ‘although even he deserves vengeance.’

A short while later, Bartholomew and Michael discussed their plans for the day, which did not include training Heltisle’s new beadles, as Michael’s time with them the previous evening led him to declare them a lost cause.

‘They are useless,’ he spat. ‘Not worthy to be called beadles, so I shall refer to them as “Heltisle’s Horde” from now on. Worse, monitoring them took my attention away from my real duties, and there was nearly a skirmish because of it.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was the town’s turn to practise at the butts, but some of our scholars tried to join in. Dick managed to keep the peace, but only just. But to business. We shall go to the castle first, as he sent word that Leger and Norbert are home and available for questioning. Perhaps they will recognise the daggers.’

‘I wish someone would,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I thought Joan might, and I was disappointed when her memory failed her.’

‘Perhaps she will remember today. I hope so, as there will be serious trouble unless we can present some answers soon. Last night, the town again accused the University of killing Wyse. I managed to avert trouble, but it was not easy.’

‘How are the peregrini?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Still safe?’

‘For now, although they must leave tomorrow, because there will be a bloodbath if they are caught here. Of course, if it transpires that the Jacques murdered Paris, Bonet and the Girards, we shall have to hunt them down and bring them back.’

‘But only the Jacques,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not the old men, women and children.’

‘So perhaps we had better speak to them again before they go,’ Michael went on. ‘And tonight, we shall both have to make an appearance at the butts.’

‘Not you – as a monk, you are exempt from wasting your time there.’

‘Exempt from training, but not from supporting the efforts of my colleagues,’ sighed Michael. ‘If I stay away, the triumvirate will accuse me of being unpatriotic.’

‘Not the triumvirate,’ growled Bartholomew. ‘Heltisle. He is the poisonous one, aided and abetted by the insidious Theophilis.’

‘Aided and abetted by Aynton,’ countered Michael. ‘De Wetherset must be sorry he appointed them, because they are losing him support hand over fist.’

‘They are losing you support, too,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Their antics reflect badly on all the University’s officers, not just the Chancellor.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But to win a war, you must make some sacrifices, so I shall let them continue for now. Do not look so worried! I know what I am doing.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right, and that overconfidence would not see the downfall of a man who really did have the University’s best interests at heart.

Cynric was waiting for Bartholomew by the Barnwell Gate, because the town was growing increasingly restive and he was protective of the physician. Together they walked past the butts, where one or two archers were already honing their skills, taking advantage of the fact that most folk would arrive later, once the day’s work was done.

‘There will be trouble tonight, boy,’ predicted Cynric. ‘It is the town’s turn to practise, but de Wetherset plans to turn up as well. He wants everyone to think he is brave for not buying another proxy, although the truth is that there is no one left for him to hire.’

‘Warn Michael and Theophilis,’ instructed Bartholomew. ‘One of them must convince him to wait until tomorrow before flaunting his courage.’

‘I am not speaking to Theophilis,’ said Cynric, pursing his lips. ‘I cannot abide him. He spent all morning humouring Clippesby by the henhouse, then told Father William that Clippesby is a lunatic who should be locked away.’

‘What do you mean by “humouring” him?’

‘Making a show of asking the chickens their opinions, then pretending to appreciate their replies. I tried to draw Clippesby away, but Theophilis sent me to de Wetherset with a letter, which he said was urgent. But it was not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I read it,’ replied Cynric unrepentantly. ‘All it said was that Brother Michael had gone to St Radegund’s to talk to the nuns. It was a ruse to get me out of the way.’

Bartholomew had taught Cynric to read, although he had since wondered if it had been a wise thing to do. He pondered the question afresh on hearing that the book-bearer had invaded the Chancellor’s private correspondence, and yet it was interesting to learn that Theophilis reported Michael’s movements to de Wetherset. It confirmed his suspicion that the Junior Proctor was not to be trusted.

‘You can tell Michael that as well,’ he said. ‘Although you should make sure Theophilis never finds out what you did.’

Cynric turned to what he considered a much more interesting subject. ‘Margery says the Devil is already very comfortably settled in the Spital.’

‘Stay away from that place,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid Cynric would go to see the sight for himself – he did not want his militant book-bearer to encounter like-minded Jacques.

‘I shall,’ promised Cynric fervently. ‘I have no desire to meet the Lord of Darkness, although Margery tells me that he is not as bad as everyone thinks. But even before Satan moved in, the Spital had a sinister aura. I want nothing to do with it.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But advise Margery to keep her heretical opinions to herself. The University’s priests will not turn a blind eye to those sorts of remarks for ever, and we shall have a riot for certain if they execute a popular witch.’

The bells were chiming for the night office by the time Bartholomew and his helpers had carried all the wounded to the Franciscan Priory. Despite their best efforts, another three men died, bringing the death toll to eleven – four scholars and seven townsfolk. Their bodies were taken to the chapel, where the friars recited prayers for their souls.

Rougham and Meryfeld, physicians who only ever tended paying customers, quickly bagged the wealthy victims, leaving Bartholomew with the rest. This did not bother him, as he had always been more interested in saving lives than making money. However, he was pleasantly surprised to learn that Amphelisa felt the same way – she not only donated her pain-dulling herbs for free, but stayed to help him saw and stitch. She was a constant presence at his side, always ready with what was required and enveloping him in the sweet scent of the distilled oils that had soaked into her burgundy work-robe.

‘It is a good thing I sent Eudo and Goda to replenish my stocks today,’ she murmured, helping Foxlee to sip a poppy juice cordial. ‘Or we would have run out by now.’

‘For Hélène.’ Bartholomew spoke absently, because he was removing the arrowhead from Foxlee’s leg, and it was perilously close to an artery. ‘To help her sleep.’

Amphelisa shot him a startled look. ‘Hélène will have camomile and honey. I am not in the habit of dosing small children with henbane and mandrake.’

Bartholomew glanced up at her. ‘Then why did Eudo and Goda tell me–’

‘I cannot control what they say when I am not there to correct them,’ she interrupted shortly. ‘Goda is a fey soul who probably misheard, while Eudo is slow in the wits.’

‘He is not too stupid to convince the town’s favourite witch that he was Satan.’

Amphelisa scowled. ‘That was your fault! Until then, we had kept the curious away by jigging bits of gauze around on twine. But did you run away screaming? Oh, no! You had to poke about in the bushes for evidence of trickery. We had to devise another ruse, and claiming that Satan had moved in was the best we could manage in a hurry.’

‘What will you do now that Margery is telling everyone the truth? Ask for your money back? I understand that “Satan” paid a handsome fee to ensure her cooperation.’

‘It no longer matters, because the peregrini have gone,’ said Amphelisa. ‘Someone started a rumour about French spies, so they decided to leave at once.’

‘All of them? Delacroix was ill the last I heard.’

‘I gave him nettle root to stop his bowels, and he was first through the gate.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Then I started a tale of my own – that our patients went to London for specialist treatment. London is south, but the peregrini went north, so if anyone gives chase …’

‘So the Spital no longer has “inmates”?’

‘None, and anyone may come to check our hall. Indeed, I hope they do. Then they will see it is a good place, and will give us some real lunatics to look after.’

‘And you need fee-paying patients,’ said Bartholomew, dropping the arrowhead into a basin, and pressing a clean cloth to the wound.

‘How do you …’ She trailed off, then shook her head in disgust. ‘Mallett! I thought I saw him sneaking about with one of the nuns, and he is your pupil. He told you!’

Bartholomew glanced to where Mallett was arguing with two tailors over payment for services rendered. He had no doubt that the student would win. He turned back to his own patient. Foxlee barely flinched as he began to sew, which was testament to Amphelisa’s skill – she had administered enough medicine to blunt the pain, but not enough to send their patient into too deep a sleep.

‘If Eudo and your husband were pretending to be denizens of Hell when the Girards were murdered, we can cross them off our list of suspects,’ said Bartholomew, his eyes on his stitching. ‘While the rest of the staff have alibis in each other …’

‘But I was alone,’ finished Amphelisa, guessing exactly where he was heading. ‘I am not your culprit, though. I was the one who offered them sanctuary.’

Tulyet had said the same, Bartholomew recalled, and had claimed that she would not have taken such loving care of Hélène if she had murdered the girl’s family. He said nothing, and Amphelisa grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her.

‘Henry and I founded the Spital – a place of comfort and healing – because we wanted to do some good, as well as to make amends for the wrongs of the past. Do you really think we would undo all that by committing murder?’

It was a good point, but hardly the time to discuss it. Bartholomew left her to bandage Foxlee’s leg and moved to his next patient, who had suffered a serious gash across the chest. After that there were more wounds to clean and sew shut, so many that he began to wonder if anyone had escaped the mêlée unscathed. He finished eventually and slumped on a bench, flexing shoulders that were cramped from bending. By then, all his helpmeets had gone except two of his senior students.

‘Go home now,’ he told them tiredly. ‘You did well tonight.’

‘No, you go home sir,’ said Mallett, whose purse looked a lot fuller than it had been before the skirmish. ‘It will be light in a couple of hours, at which point you will have to examine this lot again. So snatch a bit of sleep, while Islaye and I mind things here.’

‘Everyone is resting peacefully now anyway,’ put in Islaye, who had wept every time a patient had died, and had been unable to look at some of the wounds Bartholomew had been obliged to repair. ‘Except Norbert, who is in too much pain.’

‘Serves him right,’ muttered Mallett, who had not uttered a word of comfort to anyone. ‘He called me a Frenchman yesterday.’

Bartholomew was too exhausted to point out that such an ‘insult’ hardly warranted being fatally stabbed through the bowels. He went to tend Norbert himself, thinking that neither student was suitable company for a man on the verge of death. The knight opened pain-filled eyes as Bartholomew knelt next to his pallet.

‘Give me medicine to ease the agony,’ he whispered. ‘And stay with me awhile.’

Bartholomew set about preparing a potion so strong that Norbert would be unlikely to wake once he had swallowed it. It would not kill him – the wound would – but Norbert would sleep until he breathed his last. He cradled the dark, greasy head in his arm, and helped him drink until every drop was gone. Norbert lay back, his face sheened in sweat.

‘And now I shall confess my crimes.’

‘Not to me,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to rise. ‘You need a priest.’

Norbert gripped his arm. ‘I said crimes, not sins. The Franciscans have already given me absolution, so I do not fear for my soul. But I want to tell you what happened tonight, because it was me who called the order to ready bows. However, I did not call the order to shoot.’

Bartholomew reflected on what he could remember of the sequence of events. ‘Yes – the voice of whoever shouted the first order was different from whoever bellowed the second. But both came from the town’s side of the butts.’

‘It was someone behind me. I looked around, but it was too dark to see, and there were so many people … It was some fool mouthing off without considering the consequences.’

‘Even fools know that if you shoot at people you might hit them.’

Norbert winced. ‘I wanted to give those arrogant King’s Hall bastards a fright by making them think they were about to be shot. I never meant for it to actually happen.’

‘Close your eyes,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what to think. ‘Sleep is not far off now.’

‘I have not finished. You should also be aware that the Spital’s secret is out. By morning, everyone will know the place is full of Frenchmen. A nun told me last Monday.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Which nun?’

‘She spoke through a half-closed door, so I never saw her face. She said it was an abomination that French scum were hiding in our town, and she wanted me to kill them.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand the implications of what he was being told. ‘If this nun spoke to you on Monday, it means that you knew there were Frenchmen in the Spital when the fire broke out on Wednesday.’

‘Yes, I did. Leger and I were pleased that some were roasted, but we did not do it. I swear on my immortal soul that neither of us went anywhere near the Spital that morning.’

‘Why did you not tell Dick all this?’

‘Because Leger wants to be Sheriff, so it is in our interests to see Tulyet’s investigation fail. But now my end is near … well, his ambitions are less important than my conscience.’

Bartholomew was still grappling to understand what Norbert had done. ‘But some of the Spital’s fugitives were Jacques – rebels. You should not have kept that to yourselves.’

‘We didn’t – we have been spreading the word slowly and carefully through the town. Leger says that instant rumours can be dismissed as falsehoods, but measured hints and whispers are far less easy to ignore. We watched the tale take hold more strongly tonight, and by morning, everyone will know who is in the Spital.’

Bartholomew was glad the peregrini had gone, although he hoped the generous souls who had taken pity on them would not suffer in their stead. ‘Where did you meet this nun?’

‘At St Radegund’s, when I was delivering messages from the King to various abbesses.’

‘What else can you tell me about her?’

‘Just that I could hear her scratching as she spoke. It is not a nice habit in a woman.’

Alice, thought Bartholomew. The Lyminster nuns had guessed the truth about the Spital’s lunatics, so it was no surprise that Alice had done so, too. Yet confiding in Norbert was akin to arranging a massacre. Was she so twisted by hatred that she would bring about the deaths of harmless women and children?

Norbert seemed to sense his thoughts. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘She is evil. I could hear the malevolence in her voice as she spoke to me.’

Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards St Mary the Great, both aware that the atmosphere on the streets had deteriorated badly since they had last been out. Townsmen blamed the University for the riot, while scholars accused the town. The situation was exacerbated by wild and unfounded rumours – that King’s Hall had installed French spies in the Spital, that the Dauphin was poised to march on Cambridge at any day, and that the Mayor intended to poison the University’s water supply.

‘I know hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but you should never have let the triumvirate take so much power. The next time someone tells me that the Senior Proctor has too much authority, I shall say that I wish you had more of it.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said Michael. ‘I admit I hoped that Heltisle and Aynton would make a mess of things so de Wetherset would have to dismiss them, but I did not anticipate that they would create this much havoc in so short a space of time.’

They arrived at the church, where scholars had gathered to mutter and plot against the town. Most were armed, even the priests. Bartholomew paused to gaze around in alarm, but Michael pulled him on, whispering that time was too short for gawping.

They reached de Wetherset’s poky office, although it was Heltisle, not the Chancellor, who sat behind its desk. The floor was covered with Michael’s personal possessions, which had been unceremoniously dumped there. The monk’s eyes narrowed.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded dangerously. ‘And why are you reading my private correspondence with the Bishop? Those letters were locked in a chest.’

Heltisle was unable to prevent a triumphant grin. ‘I know – we had to smash it to get inside. De Wetherset did not want your rubbish cluttering up his new quarters, and as we had no key, we had to resort to other means of clearing the decks. Where have you been?’

‘Tending to urgent University business,’ replied Michael tightly. ‘Such as the scholars who died in last night’s brawl, along with Paris the–’

‘Paris!’ spat Heltisle. ‘The town did us a favour when they dispatched him. He should have been hanged the moment his crime was discovered.’

Michael eyed him coolly. ‘Should he, indeed? Perhaps I have been looking in the wrong place for his killer. I doubt townsmen feel strongly about plagiarism, whereas scholars …’

Heltisle sneered. ‘Do not accuse me of fouling my hands with his filthy blood. And before you ask, I did not kill the spicer or that drunken nobody on the Chesterton road either.’

‘Wyse was not a nobody,’ said Bartholomew, amazed to discover that he was capable of disliking the arrogant Master of Bene’t even more than he did already. ‘The Franciscans were fond of him, he was one of my patients, and he was a member of the Michaelhouse Choir.’

‘The Marian Singers,’ corrected Michael.

‘Clippesby’s treatise is selling very well, by the way,’ said Heltisle, moving to another matter in which he felt victorious. ‘What a pity your College will not reap the profits.’

Michael thought it best to stay off that subject, lest he or Bartholomew inadvertently said something to make Heltisle smell a rat. ‘You have not answered my first question. Why are you so busily nosing through my private correspondence?’

‘And what is it doing in here anyway?’ put in Bartholomew.

Heltisle leaned back in the chair, his expression so gloating that Bartholomew did not know how Michael refrained from punching him.

‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he drawled. ‘I was just passing the time until you deigned to appear. This is now your office. It was inappropriate for the Senior Proctor to have a grander realm than the Chancellor, so I told de Wetherset to put matters right.’

‘So that is why lights burned in the church all night,’ mused Michael. ‘While I was busy preventing our University from going up in flames, you two were playing power games.’

Heltisle’s smirk slipped. ‘We were setting all to rights after your farce of a reign.’

‘If the room was so important, why did you not just ask for it?’ Michael was all bemused innocence. ‘I would have moved. There was no need for you to demean yourselves with this sort of pettiness.’

‘You would have refused,’ said Heltisle, wrong-footed by the monk’s response.

‘I assure you, Heltisle, I have far more important matters to occupy my mind than offices. But you still have not explained why you see fit to paw through my correspondence.’

Heltisle glared at him. ‘It is not your correspondence – it is the University’s. And of course the Chancellor’s deputy should know what it contains.’

Michael stepped forward and swept all the documents into a box. ‘Then take it. I am glad to be rid of it, to be frank. It represents a lot of very tedious work, which I now willingly hand to you, Vice-Chancellor.’

‘Now wait a moment,’ objected Heltisle. ‘I cannot waste my time with–’

‘No, no,’ said Michael, pulling him to his feet, shoving the box into his hands and propelling him towards the door. ‘You wanted it, so it is yours. I shall tell the Bishop to correspond with you about these matters in future. However, a word of warning – he does not tolerate incompetence, so learn fast. It would be a pity to see a promising career in ruins.’

‘But none of these missives make sense to me,’ snapped Heltisle, peering angrily over the top of the teetering pile. ‘You will need to explain the background behind–’

‘I am sure you can work it out.’ Michael smiled serenely. ‘A clever man like you.’

‘No! I am too busy for this sort of nonsense. I am–’

‘I suggest you make a start immediately. Some of it is urgent, and you do not want the Bishop vexed with you for tardiness. Perhaps you can do it instead of spreading silly lies about the Mayor. Oh, yes, I know where those tales originated, and I am shocked that you should stoop so low.’

Heltisle’s face was a combination of dismay, anger and chagrin. ‘You cannot berate me like an errant schoolboy. I am–’

‘Go, go,’ said Michael, pushing him through the door. ‘I am needed to save the University from the crisis your puerile capers has triggered. I cannot stand here bandying words with you all day.’

‘You might dismiss me, but you had better make time for de Wetherset,’ said Heltisle in a final attempt to save face. ‘He wants to see you at once.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘I would have been there already, but I trod in something nasty on my way. I shall attend him as soon as I have scraped the ordure from my boot.’

When Heltisle had gone, Michael looked thoughtfully around the tiny space that was now his, while Bartholomew waited in silence, waiting for the explosion. It did not come.

Michael saw what he was thinking and laughed. ‘Do not look dismayed on my account, Matt. I shall be back in my own quarters within a week.’

‘Then what about the documents? Do you really not mind him nosing through them?’

Michael laughed again. ‘I would have been vexed if he had not, given all the time I spent picking out the ones that would cause him the greatest problems.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘So you predicted this would happen and prepared for it?’

Michael raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

The next day was Sunday, when bells all over the town rang to advertise their morning services. Scholars in academic or priestly robes hurried to and from their Colleges and hostels, while townsfolk donned their best clothes – if they had any – and stood in naves to listen to the sacred words that were sang, mumbled or bellowed, depending on the preference of the presiding priest.

Bartholomew had been summoned before dawn to tend one of the wounded at the Franciscan Priory. When he had finished, he went to St Edward’s, where Orwel’s body had been taken. This church celebrated Mass later than everyone else, so was empty, other than its ancient vicar, who was fast asleep on a tomb.

Bartholomew examined Orwel carefully, this time without the distraction of Michael and Tulyet clamouring questions at him. But there was no more to be learned in the cold light of day than there had been the previous night: Orwel had been struck, very hard, with a stone. Assailed by the uncomfortable sense that he was being watched – something he often experienced when he examined corpses on his own – Bartholomew put all back as he had found it, and hurried out into the warm spring sunshine with relief.

As he walked along the High Street, he saw the Marian Singers assembling outside St Mary the Great, ready to bawl the Jubilate they had been practising. As Michael was late, Isnard assumed command, assisted by Sauvage. At first, the still-hoarse bargeman tried to impose order by whispering, and when that did not work, told Sauvage to relay his orders in a bellow. When he was satisfied with the way they looked, Isnard began to lead the choir inside – only to find his way barred by Aynton and some of Heltisle’s Horde.

‘Not today, Isnard,’ said Aynton apologetically. ‘Vice-Chancellor Heltisle is conducting the service, and he has opted for a spoken Mass – one without musical interludes.’

‘There is no music involved with the Michaelhouse Choir,’ quipped one of the Horde, a rough, gap-toothed individual whose name was Perkyn. ‘Just a lot of tuneless hollering. Master Heltisle plans to disband them soon, on the grounds that they bring the University into disrepute.’

‘The Michaelhouse Choir no longer exists,’ croaked Isnard loftily. ‘We are the Marian Singers. Moreover, we have nothing to do with the University, for which we thank God, because we would not want to belong to an organisation that is full of Frenchmen.’

‘And none of us is foreign,’ declared Pierre Sauvage. ‘Unlike you lot – we know you turned a blind eye when all them French spies escaped from the Spital.’

‘What are you saying, Sauvage?’ sneered Perkyn, giving the name a distinctly foreign inflection. ‘That we should have made war on women and children?’

‘The French do,’ stated Isnard. ‘They slaughtered them by the hundred in Winchelsea. Besides, unless you hate the whole race, it means you love them all, and you are therefore a traitor. Chancellor Suttone said so in a sermon.’

Bartholomew was sure Suttone had said nothing of the kind – the ex-Chancellor had had his flaws, but making that sort of remark was certainly not among them.

‘Suttone!’ spat Perkyn. ‘A rogue from Michaelhouse, who left Cambridge not because he was afraid of the plague, but because he wanted to get married.’

There was a startled silence.

‘You are mistaken, Perkyn,’ said Aynton, the first to find his voice. ‘Suttone is a Carmelite, a priest who has sworn vows of celibacy.’

‘He ran off with a woman,’ repeated Perkyn firmly. ‘I was there when de Wetherset and Heltisle discussed it.’

‘They would never have held such a conversation in front of you,’ said Aynton sternly. ‘Not that Suttone is guilty of such a charge, of course.’

Perkyn glared at him. ‘I was listening from behind a pillar, if you must know. They tried to keep their voices low, but I have good ears. And I am happy to spread the tale around, because I hate Michaelhouse – it is full of lunatics, lechers and fanatics.’

‘Not lechers,’ objected Isnard, which Bartholomew supposed was loyalty of sorts.

‘You cannot keep us out, Perkyn,’ said Sauvage, aware that he might not get his free victuals if the choir failed to fulfil its obligations. ‘St Mary the Great belongs to everyone.’

‘It is the University Church,’ argued Perkyn. ‘Not yours. Now piss off.’

‘It will not be the University’s for much longer,’ rasped Isnard. ‘It was ours before you lot came along and stole it, and the only reason we have not kicked you out before is because Brother Michael works here. However, now de Wetherset has ousted him, we are free to eject your scrawny arses any time we please.’

‘De Wetherset did not oust Michael,’ squawked Aynton, cowering as the choir surged forward threateningly. ‘They agreed to exchange rooms.’

Bartholomew could bear it no longer, so went to intervene. He was too late. Isnard shoved past the Commissary, and entered the church with the rest of the Marian Singers streaming at his heels. Aynton followed like a demented sheepdog, frantically struggling to herd them in the opposite direction.

Inside, Heltisle had already started the office, confidently assuming that Aynton was equal to excluding those he had decided to bar. He faltered when he heard the patter of many feet on the stone floor.

Moments later, a terrific noise filled the building – the Marian Singers had decided to perform anyway, regardless of the fact that they had no conductor. They plunged into the Jubilate, gaining confidence and volume with every note. Bartholomew put his hands over his ears, and imagined Heltisle was doing the same. Certainly, the Mass could not continue, because the president would be unable to make himself heard.

The music reached a crescendo, after which there was a sudden, blessed silence. Delighted by their achievement, Isnard indicated that the singers were to go for an encore. After three more turns, he declared that they had done their duty, and led the way outside. When they had gone, Michael stepped out of the shadows by the door.

‘Do not tell me you were there all along,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael grinned. ‘Just long enough to know that my choristers did themselves proud today, and annoyed Heltisle into the bargain.’

The next day saw a change in the weather. Blue skies were replaced by flat grey ones, and a biting north wind scythed in from the Fens. Bartholomew rose while it was still dark, woke Aungel with instructions for the day’s teaching, then joined Michael for a hurried breakfast in the kitchen with Agatha the laundress, who had a great many things to say about the fact that the town and the University were teetering on the brink of yet another major confrontation.

‘And it is not just each other they hate,’ she declared, pursing her lips. ‘There are divisions in both that mean the strife will be all but impossible to quell. I would not be in your shoes for a kingdom, Brother. Or the Sheriff’s, for that matter.’

‘She is right,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew hurried to Margery’s home in Shoemaker Row. ‘Dick managed to stamp out some trouble last night, but all it did was give the would-be rioters more cause to resent him – and us.’

‘Have you arranged an escape for the peregrini yet?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael grimaced. ‘I need to be careful, because if I confide in the wrong nun … well, I do not need to explain to you that the matter is delicate.’

Although it was only just growing light, the streets were busy as folk took advantage of the curfew’s end to see what was happening outside. They included both townsmen and scholars, the latter making no effort to pretend they were going to church. On the High Street, some of Heltisle’s Horde were engaged in a fracas with students from King’s Hall, while there was a quarrel in the market square between those who wanted to fight the French spies at the Spital and those who thought it was better to lynch them.

‘Vengeance is for God to dispense, not you,’ declared Prior Pechem of the Franciscans as he passed – a remark that meant there were then three factions yelling at each other.

An angry bellow from Michael was enough to make them disperse, although Bartholomew sensed it was only a matter of time before they were at it again. He suspected most cared nothing about the issues they supported, and their real objective was just a brawl.

He and Michael reached Shoemaker Row, where Margery’s cottage looked pretty in the daylight – painted a cheerful yellow, with an array of potted plants on the doorstep. It was not how most folk would picture the lair of a witch.

‘You will have to go in alone,’ said Michael, who had been walking ever more slowly towards it. ‘I cannot be seen dropping in on her – our students might interpret it as licence to do the same, and enough of them beat a track to her door as it is. Besides, I have my reputation to think of.’

‘What about my reputation?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly.

‘Already compromised – it is common knowledge that she likes you. Now hurry up! We cannot afford to waste time. If Margery confirms that Abbess Isabel was indeed out and about when Orwel was murdered, we will have to go to St Radegund’s and demand an explanation.’

Bartholomew entered Margery’s home with the same fear that always assailed him when he stepped across her threshold – that he would find her having a cosy chat with her good friend Lucifer. Or worse, brewing some concoction that contained human body parts. Instead, it was to discover Cynric there, the two of them sitting companionably at the hearth, drinking cups of her dangerously strong ale.

‘I am here for Dusty,’ explained the book-bearer, not at all sheepish at being caught in such a place. ‘He has a sore hoof, and Margery makes an excellent onion poultice for those.’

‘She probably got the recipe from Satan,’ muttered Bartholomew to himself, ‘who uses it on his cloven feet.’

‘No, it is my own formula,’ said Margery pleasantly, startling him with her unusually acute hearing. ‘So what brings you here, Doctor? And openly, too! The last time you came, you skulked outside with your ear to my window shutter.’

Bartholomew felt himself blush. ‘I was following Sister Alice. She was walking along so furtively that I thought I should see what she was up to.’

‘She wanted a cursing spell,’ recalled Margery. ‘But I did not give her one. I decided she was unworthy, so I fobbed her off with a pot of coloured water.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how ‘unworthy’ one had to be not to pass muster with one of the Devil’s disciples. ‘Did she say what she intended to do with it?’

‘Wreak revenge on her enemies, who seem to include everyone she meets. I did not take to her at all, which is why I do not mind disclosing her secrets. I am more discreet with folk I like, such as yourself.’

‘How about Abbess Isabel?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking quickly to mask his discomfiture. ‘Do you like her?’

Margery nodded. ‘She is a little over-passionate about Christianity, but that happens when you spend all your life in a convent, and she cannot help it, poor soul. However, my fondness for her means I will not break her confidence.’

‘No?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how to convince her that it was important she did. Fortunately, he did not have to ponder for long.

‘Unless you make it worth my while,’ Margery went on. ‘Do I detect the scent of cedarwood oil about you? Amphelisa’s perhaps? That is excellent stuff – always useful.’

Bartholomew fished it from his bag and handed it over, marvelling that her sense of smell should be as sensitive as her hearing. ‘She said it kills fleas.’

‘I imagine it does, but it is also good for dissolving unwanted flesh.’

Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘Unwanted by whom?’ But then he decided he did not want to know the answer, so changed the subject. ‘Tell me about the Abbess.’

‘She came to me on Saturday evening, shortly after you and Brother Michael went to the Brazen George – I saw you slip through its back door while I was walking home.’

‘How did she seem to you?’

‘You mean did she race out afterwards and brain Orwel?’ asked Margery shrewdly. ‘If she did, it had nothing to do with her discussion with me – which was all about a nun she aims to defrock. She is too tactful to mention names, but I knew she meant Alice.’

‘How?’

‘By her description of a discontented lady with a penchant for stinking candles. She wanted a list of all those Alice intends to hurt, so she could warn them to be on their guard. I obliged her, and in return she gave me a lock of her hair, which she says will be worth a lot of money after she is canonised.’

Bartholomew decided not to tell Margery that it took years for such matters to be decided, and that those arrogant enough to believe they were in the running would probably be rejected on principle.

‘Is Isabel herself on Alice’s list?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes, along with the Bishop and a hundred others. I told her to watch herself, because while I am the best wise-woman in Cambridge, I am not the only one, and others are not as scrupulous as me. When Alice realises my coloured water is not having the desired effect, she will take her custom elsewhere.’

‘Did Isabel heed the warning?’

‘She promised she would. However, she said one thing that bemused me. She said that finding Paris the Plagiarist’s body still haunts her dreams. But why would it? He cannot have been her first corpse, and I am told that his stabbing was not particularly bloody.’

‘No more than any other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And less than some.’

‘There is more to her distress about him than she lets on,’ finished Margery. ‘It puzzles me, and if you aim to solve his murder, it should puzzle you, too.’

Michael paid a passing carter to take Abbess Isabel to St Radegund’s, where she was received with grief, shock and dismay. Important heads of houses came to demand an explanation, so it was some time before he and Bartholomew managed to extricate themselves – although it would have been longer still if Prioress Joan had not intervened. Sensing their rising agitation at the delay, she ordered her colleagues to silence.

‘They will tell us when there is more news,’ she informed them briskly. ‘Until then, I would rather they hunted Isabel’s killer than stood around here chatting to us.’ She turned to the scholars. ‘So go – do your duty while we pray for this saintly lady’s soul.’

Michael gave her a grateful nod, and he and Bartholomew hurried back to the town. Both were appalled by how many troublemakers from the villages were flooding in, eager to fight a foundation they had always resented, and the monk began to drag his heels.

‘You do realise that someone may be manipulating us,’ he said. ‘That the killer wants me to accuse the Vice-Chancellor of a serious crime, so that we will be weak and divided when the crisis comes?’

‘Then do not accuse him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Just ask what he did after we said we were going to talk to Isabel. If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear.’

‘It is not his fear that worries me,’ muttered Michael. ‘It is his indignation.’

They avoided the market square, which was almost certain to be thronged with angry tradesmen, and threaded through the maze of alleys opposite the butts instead. They were just walking up Shoemaker Row when they were hailed by Clippesby.

‘There you are!’ he cried in relief. ‘Ethel told me that I would find you if I looked long enough, but I was beginning to think she was wrong.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. He had seen that wild-eyed, frantic expression before, and it meant Clippesby was in possession of some troubling fact.

‘Last week, Ethel – the College’s top hen – heard Heltisle claim that Suttone had run off to get married. In other words, it was not fear of the plague that made him resign, but lust. Ethel did not believe it, so she wrote to Suttone, begging the truth. His reply arrived an hour ago. It is–’

‘Not now!’ snapped Michael, trying to push past him.

‘Wait, Brother! Listen! Suttone explains everything. It was not the plague or a woman that made him go. He went because Heltisle forced him to. Here. See for yourself.’

Michael snatched the letter and read it, his face turning angrier with every word. Clippesby summarised it for Bartholomew.

‘Heltisle threatened to destroy our College with lies unless Suttone did as he was told, and as Michael was away, Suttone had nowhere to turn for help. He bowed to the pressure, because he felt it was the best way to protect the rest of us.’

‘Mallett overheard Suttone and Heltisle arguing the night before Suttone resigned,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what the student had told him while they had tended the riot-wounded together. ‘He thought Suttone was close to tears …’

‘What in God’s name did Heltisle threaten to do?’ breathed Michael, staring at the letter. ‘Suttone does not say.’

‘Something very nasty,’ said Clippesby, ‘or he would have held his ground. But he crumbled, and Heltisle arranged for de Wetherset to be elected in his place.’

‘So there we are,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Yet more evidence that Heltisle is less than scrupulous. We must stop him before he does anything else to further his ambitions.’

‘He is at St Mary the Great,’ supplied Clippesby. ‘He was in his College, but a pigeon heard him tell a student that he wanted to keep an eye on de Wetherset.’

‘We shall corner him there,’ said Michael grimly, ‘but let me do the talking, Matt. If you charge in and accuse him of murder, and it transpires that we are mistaken–’

‘We are not mistaken,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

Bartholomew’s insistence on stealth meant that he and Michael had several moments when they could see de Wetherset, but the Chancellor was unaware of them. He was muttering to himself, and the savage expression on his portly features told them all they needed to know about the identity of the killer. He had donned his armour, suggesting that he aimed to be in the thick of whatever happened that night, making sure it did not fizzle out before it had achieved what he intended.

‘I cannot believe it,’ breathed Michael. He was ashen, partly from shock that de Wetherset should be guilty, but mostly from knowledge of the harm it would do the University when the truth emerged. ‘How could he?’

De Wetherset crouched next to Heltisle, peered at the wound he had inflicted, and raised the rock for a final, skull-crushing blow.

‘Stop!’ howled Bartholomew, not about to stand by while it happened, even if the victim was the detestable Heltisle. ‘No more, de Wetherset. It is over.’

The Chancellor whipped around in alarm. ‘Thank God you are here!’ he cried in feigned relief. ‘It transpires that Heltisle is a false friend. I asked why he had sent all the beadles away from our church, and his response was to race forward and stab me.’

Bartholomew was amazed that de Wetherset should expect them to believe it. ‘The wound is to the back of his head, which means he cannot have been rushing at you. I suspect he was sitting at the desk when you hit him. Besides, you have no injury.’

‘He missed,’ said de Wetherset, eyeing him with dislike. ‘Although not from want of trying – his metal pen was aimed right at my heart. Of course I defended myself.’

‘With a stone that just happened to be to hand?’

‘One I brought here to prevent documents from blowing around,’ replied de Wetherset. He smiled at Michael. ‘I forgot how draughty this chamber is. You may have it back, Brother, because I prefer the smaller one. I wish Heltisle had not insisted on uprooting you.’

‘Do you,’ said Michael expressionlessly.

De Wetherset shrugged. ‘I made a mistake in appointing him Vice-Chancellor – his judgement is very poor. But I am sure you and I can work together to rectify all the harm he has done with his ambition and greed.’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew. ‘You had better see if you can help Heltisle.’

Bartholomew stepped forward, but de Wetherset blocked his path.

‘Stay back for your own safety,’ he urged. ‘He is a very dangerous man.’

‘Let me see him,’ ordered Bartholomew, trying to peer around de Wetherset’s bulk. ‘He may still be alive, and you do not want another death on your conscience.’

‘I have nothing on my conscience,’ objected de Wetherset indignantly. ‘I cannot be condemned for defending myself against a lethal attack, especially from Heltisle. No one likes him, and it is common knowledge that his policies have done much damage.’

Bartholomew was disgusted that the Chancellor aimed to blame a friend for his own misdeeds, but supposed he should not be surprised. De Wetherset had always been ruthless.

‘Then how do you explain your pilgrim badge clutched in the hand of a murdered abbess?’ he demanded, and brandished the brooch aloft.

‘You found it?’ cried de Wetherset. ‘Thanks be to God! It was stolen last night, and I thought it had gone for ever. Heltisle was the thief, of course, and you have just told me why – to see me accused of a crime I did not commit.’

He had an answer for everything, thought Bartholomew angrily, wishing Michael would just arrest the man so they could leave. He did not want to be in St Mary the Great when the inevitable mob marched in. Seeing Bartholomew did not believe him, the Chancellor turned to Michael.

‘You know I am telling the truth, Brother. I heard a letter arrived from Suttone today. I imagine it revealed Heltisle as a bully who forced him to resign against his will. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Heltisle is no innocent. However, nor is he the mastermind behind the scheme to oust me and take control of the University. You are.’

‘Can you prove it?’ asked de Wetherset earnestly. ‘No? Then I suggest you desist with these accusations and–’

‘Why did you turn against Heltisle?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Were you afraid he would tire of being your henchman and claim the throne for himself?’

‘I have already told you what happened,’ snapped de Wetherset, growing exasperated. ‘But we cannot stay in here quarrelling while the town seethes with unrest. We should leave. Then we shall say that Heltisle was killed by the rabble that will descend on this church at any moment–’

‘Which is what you intended from the start,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘That is why you sent the beadles away – so no one could ever testify that you were in here alone with him. But your accusation will ignite a brawl that–’

‘Better a brawl than exposing our Vice-Chancellor as a criminal,’ snapped de Wetherset. He addressed Michael again. ‘You know I am right, Brother. Do not let Bartholomew’s asinine obsession with the truth destroy the University that you have nurtured so lovingly these last few–’

‘There is blood on your boots,’ interrupted Bartholomew.

‘Of course there is – I have just been obliged to hit Heltisle in self-defence. There is blood on my tabard, too. See?’

‘No – that is fresh. The spots on your boots are brown and dry. It is Orwel’s blood. Or Wyse’s. Not Isabel’s – she is too recent as well. Now, let me examine Heltisle. He may be–’

‘Stay where you are,’ came a sharp voice from behind him.

Bartholomew whipped around and felt his jaw drop in dismay. It was Aynton and he carried a loaded crossbow.

Bartholomew was glad when Heltisle’s Horde was augmented by half a dozen Gilbertines, led by Prior John. The canons carried no weapons, so would be of scant use in a fight, but there was always the chance that the presence of priests would make a mob think twice about what it was doing. He glanced behind him, and noted that the six beadles were now down to five, as one had slunk away rather than face what lay ahead.

The glow from the Spital was brighter now, and he realised with despair that there were hundreds of torches – which meant hundreds of folk baying for ‘enemy’ blood. What could he, Michael, Cynric, five reluctant beadles and a handful of unarmed canons do against so many? Tulyet had been right: the Spital was already lost, and they should have stayed in the town, where they might have done some good.

‘I still do not believe it,’ Michael gasped as they hurried along. ‘The culprit cannot be Joan. She is too bluff and honest for so sly a scheme. It seems to me that someone has gone to a lot of trouble to see her accused.’

‘Katherine?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘She is the Bishop’s sister, and we all know how devious and ruthless he can be. Perhaps it runs in the family.’

As far as Michael was concerned, that was a worse solution than Joan. ‘We only have Isabel’s word that a comb was by Paris’s body, and she was deceitful, as evidenced by her questionable dealings with Alice. Besides, there was no time for Joan – or anyone else – to reclaim the thing while Isabel lay insensible.’

‘There was,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘When Isabel swooned a second time – at the disturbing sight of a wantonly low-cut bodice – she was out for several minutes. If it was a repeat of her first episode, there would have been ample time for the killer to act.’

‘I still do not believe–’

‘And there is something else. We crossed Joan off our list of suspects because Goda said she could see Joan in the stables while she herself was in the kitchen. But did you check that is actually possible? I did not.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Cynric, who had been listening with unabashed interest. ‘But I know the answer: you cannot see one from the other, because the chapel is in the way.’

‘Goda lied,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘She did not mention seeing Joan when we first spoke to her – she only “remembered” during a second interview, by which time Joan had realised that she needed help.’

‘There is a flaw in your argument,’ pounced Michael. ‘Goda claimed she could see the shed from the kitchen, too – which is possible, because I have a vivid recollection of a tray of cakes being carried from the kitchen when I was examining the burnt shed. But Goda made no mention of Joan slinking inside with a fancy French dagger – and remember that this was before anyone would have had a chance to bribe her.’

‘Goda cannot have been gazing out of the door every moment that morning,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘At some point she would have looked away to put bread in the oven or fetch ingredients from the pantry. Or perhaps Goda did see Joan, but did not know it – she said the Girards “popped in and out”. Well, one “Girard” may have been Joan in disguise.’

Michael remained unconvinced. ‘But why would Goda lie? She cannot have known Joan well enough to warrant that sort of devotion.’

‘She did not do it for friendship, she did it for money. We know she was greedy – she coveted the dagger that killed the Girards, and she asked to be paid for answering questions. Joan capitalised on that avarice and bought herself an alibi.’

‘He may be right, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘Ever since the Spital murders, Goda has been flush with cash – new clothes, new shoes, new hair-frets. And that is suspicious, because the Tangmers are broke. She did not get her windfall from them.’

‘No, she got it from the oils she stole from Amphelisa,’ countered Michael.

‘Not even the best oils would fetch the kind of money Goda has been laying out,’ stated Cynric with great conviction. ‘They–’

‘But Goda began to sport these new purchases before Joan knew she needed an alibi,’ Michael pointed out irritably. ‘I repeat: Matt’s logic is flawed.’

‘Not so,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘Hélène’s milk was dosed with a soporific, and as I seriously doubt that Joan thought to pack some when she left Lyminster, it means she got it here – from someone with access to Amphelisa’s supplies. I imagine Goda charged her a small fortune.’

‘And may have blackmailed her about it after,’ put in Cynric.

‘Which means Joan knew that Goda would do anything for money,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘while Goda knew that Joan had deep pockets. A deal was made and we looked no further at either suspect.’

‘Moreover, Goda hated the French,’ said Cynric. ‘I heard her say so several times. She would have had no problem looking the other way while Joan dispatched a few.’

‘But people like Goda can never be trusted to keep their mouths shut,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘So Joan killed her, too. She is tying up loose ends, ready to return to her priory and her life as a servant of God.’

‘What about Delacroix and his friends?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Are they to be forgotten in all this? I thought we had agreed that they were our most likely suspects.’

But Bartholomew was still thinking about Joan, and something else became clear to him. ‘We have assumed it was Alice who told Norbert about the peregrini – that she guessed what they were on one of her visits to the Spital. But Joan and her Lyminster sisters also recognised them as displaced Frenchmen.’

‘It was Alice!’ snapped Michael. ‘She betrayed herself by scratching.’

‘Precisely! Joan knew that if she clawed at herself as she dispensed her treacherous news, everyone would assume that Alice was the guilty party. And we did.’

‘Then what about the Rouen daggers?’ pressed Michael. ‘Joan said they were familiar. Why would she do that if she had been the one to wield them?’

‘And has her testimony led us to the killer? No, it has not! What it has done, however, is make us think she is on our side, valiantly striving to dig solutions from her memory.’

‘But why?’ cried Michael. ‘There has been no hint of Joan doing anything like this before. I would have heard if there were lots of unsolved murders around her priory.’

Bartholomew knew the answer to that, too. ‘Because of Winchelsea. She was appalled by what she saw there, and Katherine said she is building a chantry chapel for the victims – a massive undertaking that reveals how deeply she was affected by the experience.’

‘She was distressed by it,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘She mentioned it several times when we rode to the Austin Priory together. But–’

‘She is avenging the victims by killing Frenchmen: Paris, Bonet, the Girards, Bruges and Sauvage. Although she made an erroneous assumption with the last two.’

‘And tonight will see the remaining peregrini slaughtered,’ finished Cynric. ‘She will not even have to bloody her own hands, because our town will do it for her.’

There was silence in the chapel, then Bartholomew leapt at Leger, in the hope that a swift assault would give him a vital advantage. It was a mistake. With indolent ease, Leger twisted away, and Bartholomew went flying from a casual blow with the crossbow. It did him no harm, but he landed in a place where the smoke was much thicker, simultaneously blinding him and rendering him helpless from lack of air.

‘Put them with the others,’ he heard Joan order. ‘Quickly now.’

‘Why?’ demanded Leger. ‘I can shoot them down here.’

‘It is a chapel,’ snapped Joan. ‘A holy place. Now do as I say. Hurry!’

Bartholomew tried to scramble away when the knights came, but they knew how to handle awkward prisoners. He and Michael were bundled through Amphelisa’s smouldering workshop and up the steps to the balcony. As the door was opened, an almighty racket broke out. Children sobbed, women screamed for mercy, and old men wailed in terror. Bartholomew and Michael were shoved inside so roughly that both fell. The clamour intensified.

‘Silence!’ roared Joan. ‘Or you will be sorry.’

‘This is a holy place, too,’ Michael reminded her as the din petered out. ‘Part of the chapel. If you spill blood up here, you will be damned for all eternity.’

‘Who said anything about spilling blood?’ asked Joan shortly.

Bartholomew sat up, acutely aware of the snap and crackle of the fire below. Smoke oozed through the floorboards. He blinked tears from his stinging eyes, and saw the peregrini and staff huddled at the far end. So were the Jacques.

‘You think burning people alive is acceptable, but shooting them is not?’ breathed Michael. ‘Please, Joan! Think of your immortal soul!’

‘I am thinking of it,’ snarled Joan. ‘Which is why I must avenge Winchelsea. It would be a far greater sin to pretend it never happened.’

‘It is not for you to dispense justice!’ cried Michael. ‘It–’

‘Who will, then?’ she demanded tightly. ‘The survivors of Winchelsea? All the fighting men are dead. The King? He is too busy with his war. Mother Church? She brays her horror, but her priests lack the courage to act.’

‘Not them – God,’ said Michael. ‘He will punish the guilty.’

‘Quite,’ said Joan. ‘And I am His instrument, doing His will.’

‘He does not want this!’ Michael was shocked. ‘And your actions will only compound the atrocity. Murdering more people will not make it better.’

‘On the contrary, those whose loved ones were butchered by French raiders will take comfort from it. They said so as I helped them bury their innocent dead.’

Michael indicated the peregrini. ‘They also lost loved ones that day. Delacroix’s brothers were killed defending Winchelsea.’

‘They are spies,’ stated Joan uncompromisingly. ‘They wrote to the French, advising them when best to attack Winchelsea. The Mayor told me personally. It is their fault the slaughter was so terrible and they will pay for their treachery today.’

Her eyes blazed, and Bartholomew knew Michael was wasting his time trying to reason with her. Meanwhile, the smoke grew denser with every passing moment, and her prisoners were already struggling to breathe.

‘You cannot be party to this, Leger,’ shouted Michael, snatching at straws in his desperation. ‘You are a knight – your duty is to protect the weak.’

‘My duty is to protect England from the French,’ countered Leger. ‘Which is what I am doing. Besides, you may have forgotten Norbert, but I never shall.’

‘Norbert?’ blurted Michael. ‘What does he have to do with it?’

‘He was murdered in that skirmish by foreign scholars. And since Tulyet refuses to take a stand against them, I have joined ranks with someone who will.’

He nodded to his fellows and they prepared to leave. Bartholomew was in an agony of tension. He had to stop them! Once the door was locked – and he was sure Joan would have the only key – their victims’ fate was sealed. There would be no escape from the flames.

‘Joan used Norbert,’ he yelled, hoping Leger would turn against her if he knew the truth. ‘Deceived him. It was not Alice who told him that the Spital harboured French spies – it was Joan. She deliberately misled him by aping Alice’s scratching.’

‘But French spies are hiding here,’ shrugged Leger. ‘And Norbert would not have cared which nun the information came from – just that she was right.’

‘You will not live long once you leave,’ warned Bartholomew, opting for another strategy. ‘Like Goda, you will be stabbed to tie up loose ends. And if you want proof, look at Joan’s shoes – stained with the oil that spilled as she chased Goda around this–’

Eudo tore at Joan, bellowing his rage and grief. Leger shot him. The big man thudded to the floor and lay still.

‘I did chase her,’ admitted Joan, regarding the dead man with a chilling lack of emotion. ‘But I did not kill her – she had grabbed a knife from the kitchen and she fell on it as we raced around. Her blood is not on my hands.’

‘Paris,’ said Michael, declining to argue semantics with her. ‘You killed him for–’

‘For being French,’ spat Joan. ‘And his death is your fault – I would not have known he even existed if you lot had not made such a fuss about him stealing someone else’s work. And as for that spicer – well, he had to die after he had the audacity to inform me that the Dauphin only did in Winchelsea what English soldiers do in France.’

Most of the prisoners were on their knees or lying down, gasping for air. Only Delacroix remained stubbornly upright, glaring defiance through streaming eyes.

‘And the Girard family?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you could not bring yourself to knife the little girl, so you put a soporific in her milk.’

Joan winced. ‘It was cowardly of me.’

‘Yet you helped to rescue Hélène. Were you not afraid she would identify you?’

‘One nun looks much like another to children. And as for pulling her from the shed … well, suffice to say that I was caught up in the moment.’

‘How did you stab four adults with such ease?’ asked Michael, casting an agonised glance at Bartholomew, begging him to act while he kept her talking. ‘Two were Jacques – experienced fighters.’

‘Experienced fighters who turned their backs on a nun,’ said Joan shortly. She opened the bag she carried over her shoulder and began to rummage about inside it. ‘Now, enough talking. I am–’

‘Bruges and Sauvage were next, even though neither was French,’ persisted Michael.

‘I pray that God will forgive my mistake.’ Joan pulled two daggers from the bag and dropped them on the floor, where they joined a number of others already lying there. ‘I collected these after Winchelsea, when I vowed that a French life would pay for every English one. Today will see that oath more than fulfilled.’

‘You only found one of the batch she left when she dispatched the Girards,’ put in Leger gloatingly. ‘You might have had answers a lot sooner if you had been more thorough.’

Michael ignored him and continued to address Joan. ‘And when these weapons are found, I suppose you will have a flash of memory, which will “prove” that the peregrini killed Paris and the others.’ His expression was one of deep disgust.

Joan inclined her head. ‘Although your Junior Proctor will have to act on my testimony now, given that you will not be in a position to do it.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Michael desperately, as she turned to leave. ‘You cannot do this!’

Joan paused and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Before I go, answer one question: how did you guess it was me? Not from that stupid comb I dropped when I dispatched Paris? I had a feeling that Abbess Isabel recognised it before I managed to reclaim the thing. Is that why Alice took it from my bag? To give to her, so she could be certain?’

‘Yes, and Isabel has told everyone her suspicions, so you can never return to Lym–’

But Joan was already sweeping out, Amphelisa’s cloak billowing around her. The soldiers followed, and the door slammed shut behind them.

It was surprisingly easy for Michael and Tulyet to restore the peace following the events at the Spital. Word spread fast that Satan had appeared in the form of blazing Death, and most people fled to the churches, where their priests urged them to pray for deliverance.

Once they had begged the Almighty for mercy, few felt like risking His wrath by indulging in another skirmish. They emerged subdued when dawn broke the following morning, and most went about their business quietly, lest they attracted the wrong kind of attention. A few hotheads declined to give up, but Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers quickly rounded them up and locked them away until their tempers cooled.

As soon as it was light enough to see, Bartholomew and Michael went to look for Joan, to retrieve her body before anyone guessed the truth and decided to resume the assault on the Spital. They found her by the side of the road, still smouldering, but identifiable by her size and the Lyminster ring-seal on her finger. They also found Dusty. The horse had managed to throw his rider before she had done him any serious harm, after which he found a quiet woodland glade and began to denude it of grass.

Joan’s nuns collected her charred remains, and arranged to take them home. Michael could not imagine how they would explain what had happened to her in their official report – he was not sure what to say in his own. Magistra Katherine assumed command, and seemed much more comfortable in the role than Joan had ever been.

Leger and his two cronies did not get far either. Their plan had been to ride straight to the King and denounce Tulyet as a traitor, but the road south was so badly rutted that they were forced to dismount and walk. The call to arms meant the whole country was alert for suspicious activities, and three warriors slinking along in the dark shocked the villagers of nearby Trumpington into action. The next day, they presented a trio of arrow-studded corpses to Tulyet, and informed him that the French army was now minus three of its spies.

Bartholomew returned to his teaching, determined his lads would learn all they could humanly absorb in the last few weeks of term. At the end of one busy day, he went to the orchard to read his lecture notes ready for the following morning. An apple tree had fallen years before, and provided a comfortable bench for anyone wanting peace and quiet. The sun was low in the sky, sending a warm orange glow over the town, and the air smelled of scythed grass and summer herbs. Michael joined him there.

‘I am keeping Dusty,’ the monk announced. ‘He should have a rider worthy of him.’

‘I suppose he deserves some reward for carrying “Satan” away from the Spital,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Cynric adores him for it, so he will certainly be well looked after here.’

‘Yelling that Joan was the Devil was impressively quick thinking on his part,’ said Michael. ‘Such a ruse would never have occurred to me. It saved our lives.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘It was not a ruse – he believed it. Thank God for superstition!’

‘I had a letter from Father Julien today,’ said Michael, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to feel the setting sun on his cheeks. ‘The nuns of Ickleton were delighted to accommodate him and his flock in exchange for me ridding them of Alice. The peregrini are safe now.’

‘But for how long?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Perhaps another mob, buoyed up by ignorance and misguided patriotism, will assemble, and they will be forced to run again.’

‘Ickleton is well off the beaten track, and no one ever goes there. They will live dull but peaceful lives eking a living from the land. Julien says they are all grateful and very happy.’

‘Even Delacroix? I cannot see him being content to wield a spade for long.’

Michael smiled. ‘He also mistook Joan for Satan and plans to take the cowl – to make amends for all the vile things he did in the Jacquerie. Incidentally, it was conscience that brought him and his friends back to the Spital that night – they realised it was wrong to leave the others alone, so they returned to help them.’

‘The Spital,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘What will happen to it now? It is only a question of time before someone decides to punish Tangmer and his family for hiding Frenchmen.’

‘The Tangmers have made their peace with a public apology and an offer of free treatment for all local lunatics. As no one knows when such a boon might come in useful, both the town and the University have promised to leave them unmolested.’

‘A public apology?’ echoed Bartholomew in disgust. ‘For offering sanctuary to people fleeing persecution? We should commend their compassion, not force them to say sorry.’

‘It was an expedient solution, Matt. Besides, Tangmer’s motives were not entirely altruistic. It transpired that he charged the peregrini a fortune for the privilege of hiding with him, although Amphelisa still labours under the illusion that they paid a pittance.’

They were silent for a while, thinking about Joan and the havoc she had wrought with her warped pursuit of vengeance. Eventually, Bartholomew spoke.

‘So she stabbed Paris, Bonet, the Girard family, Bruges and Sauvage with blades left behind after the raid on Winchelsea, although Bruges was from Flanders and Sauvage just happened to have an unlucky name. Then she dispatched Goda to ensure her silence, and aimed to murder the peregrini and the entire Tangmer clan in the chapel.’

‘And de Wetherset brained Wyse to “prove” that I am incapable of keeping the peace. Orwel guessed it was him from what he learned in the Griffin, so de Wetherset murdered him as well. And I sealed poor Abbess Isabel’s fate by claiming that she could identify the culprit.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘His actions beggar belief! What will happen to him?’

‘I sent him to Ely, to face an ecclesiastical court. Unfortunately, he hit Meadowman over the head with a stone and escaped en route.’

Bartholomew regarded him in dismay. ‘Meadowman is dead?’

‘No, thank God – just very embarrassed. I imagine de Wetherset will flee the country now. It is unfortunate, but at least his exploits will never become public, as they would with a trial. The town would go to war with us in a second if they ever learned the full extent of what he did.’

‘And Heltisle is dead, of course. He bled to death after de Wetherset slashed his arm. I could have saved him, but he refused to let me.’

‘You were right about Aynton, much as it irks me to admit it. Since the crisis, he has worked tirelessly for peace, and has done much to soothe ragged tempers.’

‘Will you summon Suttone back now? His resignation must be invalid, given that Heltisle forced him out by sly means.’

‘I offered to reinstate him, but he wrote to say that he is happier away from the turbulent world of University politics. He told me the nature of Heltisle’s threat, by the way: a promise to fabricate evidence “proving” that Michaelhouse is full of heretics.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why did either of them think people would believe such an outrageous claim?’

‘Because Heltisle intended to base his allegations on your controversial approach to medicine, Clippesby’s mad relationship with animals, William’s worrisome fanaticism, and my association with a bishop of dubious morality. It would have been extremely difficult for us to refute his charges, given how cunningly he aimed to weave truth with lies.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘I see.’

‘But as regards a new Chancellor, Aynton has agreed to take advice from me, so I have arranged for him to be elected next week. I think he and I will do well together.’

Bartholomew was torn between amusement and despair. They had been through hell because some scholars felt Michael had accrued too much power, and now there was to be yet another of his puppets on the throne. Nothing had changed except some new graves in the churchyards. It all seemed so futile.

‘Will you appoint a new Junior Proctor to replace Theophilis?’ he asked.

‘Eventually. I suppose I should have been suspicious of someone with such a glorious name. “Loved by God” indeed!’

‘Aungel thinks he chose it himself,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a conversation held when the Junior Proctor had been writing down other scholars’ opinions about Clippesby’s thesis, almost certainly with a view to passing them off as his own.

‘Aungel is right – Theophilis’ real name is John Clippesby, and – irony of ironies – he changed it because he did not want to be confused with a lunatic. But in his defence, he did not steal the letter you wrote to me outlining Norbert’s confession, and he was innocent of betraying me to the triumvirate.’

‘So who did take the letter?’

‘No one – it had fallen behind my desk. But trying to filch Clippesby’s ideas was a low thing to have done, like snatching sweetmeats from a baby.’

‘Not entirely. It transpires that Theophilis is the one who was taken advantage of – every time Clippesby mentioned a text that he thought might be relevant, Theophilis raced off to read it. Then he reported back on what he had learned, thus saving Clippesby the trouble of ploughing through it himself.’

Michael laughed. ‘And Clippesby certainly bested Heltisle over selling his treatise. Bene’t College insists on honouring the contract, in the hope that we will overlook the fact that their erstwhile Master tried to cheat the University’s favourite genius.’

They were silent for a while, each thinking about the events that had so very nearly destroyed the University and the town that housed it. Then Bartholomew brightened.

‘I had a letter today. Matilde and my sister are coming home tomorrow. I have missed them both.’

Michael smiled contentedly. ‘So all is well at last. You are to be reunited with your loved ones, I shall soon have another malleable Chancellor, all the nuns have gone home, I now own a magnificent horse, and Michaelhouse prospers beyond its wildest dreams.’

‘It does?’

‘The Pope has given the Chicken Debate his seal of approval, so the demand for copies will soar. Not only will we be paid every time one is sold, but we are on the verge of international fame. It is high time – our College is a good place, and I am glad its future is assured. You may be leaving us, but we will survive.’

Bartholomew was delighted to hear it.

* * *

De Wetherset was not really equipped for life as a fugitive in the Fens. He had grown soft and fat from easy living in the University, and hated sleeping in the open like a beggar. But it was better than being paraded as a criminal, as he was sure that Michael had amassed more than enough evidence to see him convicted by the Bishop’s court.

He grimaced. He had been right to try to claw power back from the monk, although he realised now that he should have done it gradually, rather than racing at the problem like a bull at a fence. But he had been impatient for change, and ever since his pilgrimage to Walsingham, he had been imbued with great energy and ambition.

Now all his plans lay in ashes, and he was not sure what to do. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to avenge himself, but he had no idea how to go about it. Should he slip back to reignite the trouble between University and town that he had so carefully stoked up? Or go to Avignon, to give the Pope his own version of events?

He winced as he moved the foot that his so-called friend Heltisle had stabbed. He had refused to let Bartholomew examine it again, preferring instead to hire Doctor Rougham. Bartholomew had warned Rougham that slivers of the pen might still be in the wound, but Rougham had scoffed his disagreement. Unfortunately, Bartholomew had been right, because the wound was festering and it hurt like the Devil.

That night, de Wetherset fell into a fever, and when a Fenland fisherman found him two days later, he was gibbering in delirium. The fisherman had heard that the Spital took local lunatics in for free, so he carried him there on his boat. Tangmer and Amphelisa accepted the new arrival politely, and rewarded the good Samaritan with a bowl of stew and a penny. The fisherman went away, happy in the belief that he had done the right thing.

‘Well?’ asked Tangmer, staring down at the writhing, gabbling ex-Chancellor. ‘Here lies the author of all our troubles. Should we help him or let him die?’

‘We should help him,’ said Amphelisa. ‘But he will never fully recover from the madness that afflicts him now, so we shall instal him in our most secure cell. Later, when his fever abates, he will doubtless claim that he is sane, but all lunatics do that, do they not?’

Tangmer blinked. ‘You mean we should keep him here for ever? Locked up like a dangerous madman?’

‘He is a dangerous madman. Why else would he have killed Wyse, Orwel and Abbess Isabel, or stirred up hatred between his University and the town – hatred that almost saw us destroyed? This is the best place for him, husband, and we shall keep everyone safe from his wicked machinations for as long as he breathes.’

‘Well, then,’ said Tangmer softly. ‘Let us hope he lives for a very long time.’

The Hundred Years War was an uncertain time for England and France. The Battle of Poitiers in 1356 had dealt the French a serious blow – their king was captured and carried back to England as a prisoner – but the resulting peace was uneasy. To show England that France was not yet ready to concede defeat, part of the Dauphin’s army staged lightning raids on the English coast. Two of these targeted Winchelsea, which was much easier to reach from the sea in the fourteenth century, although it is inland now.

The first attack was in 1359, while townsfolk were at their Sunday devotions. The church door was locked and the building set alight, an act of savagery that became known as the St Giles’ Massacre. The second incursion came a year later, when some two thousand men, according to some sources, slaughtered the port’s inhabitants, and looted and burned its buildings. Robert Arnold was Mayor of Winchelsea at about this time, and Valentine Dover was a burgess.

This second raid sent alarm rippling through England. There was an immediate call to arms, where every male aged between sixteen and sixty was ordered to prepare himself for war. Meanwhile, the regular English army marched south to Paris, leaving a trail of death and destruction in its wake. This campaign ended with the Treaty of Brétigny in July 1360, although that was by no means the end of hostilities, which rumbled on for the rest of that century and half of the next one.

The war with England was not France’s only problem. In 1358, there was a popular uprising known as the Jacquerie. It was disorganised and chaotic, and fell to pieces when its leader was captured and executed. After his death, the aristocracy embarked on a programme of vicious reprisals that displaced a huge number of people, many of them hapless innocents. Some doubtless did try to find safety across the Channel.

Thomas de Lisle, Bishop of Ely, was in self-imposed exile at the time. He had been accused of several criminal acts, including murder, kidnapping, theft and extortion, and rather than risk conviction in a court of law, he had legged it to Avignon, where he threw himself on the Pope’s mercy. There was a Katherine de Lisle who became Prioress of Lyminster some time before 1370, but her relationship with the Bishop is uncertain. Her predecessor was Joan de Ferraris, who last appears in the records in April 1360.

The Bishop’s incumbency was marked by a number of unsavoury disputes. One was with Alice Lacy, Prioress of Ickleton, and followed a visitation by Isabel of Swaffham Bulbeck (Isabel was actually a Prioress, but I promoted her to Abbess to avoid too many nuns holding the same title; similarly, Katherine de Lisle was never Magistra).

Isabel discovered ‘various enormous defects’ and evidence of loose morals at Ickleton, and her report to the Bishop saw Alice immediately deposed. However, Alice did not go quietly. She returned to her priory in a terrible rage, breaking down its doors and helping herself to its treasure. When the Bishop’s agents tried to stop her, she threatened to cut off their heads. She was eventually excommunicated.

There was no conloquium of nuns in Cambridge in 1360, although there was a Benedictine convent called St Radegund’s on the road known then as the Barnwell Causeway. Remnants of the foundation can still be seen in Jesus College today.

Other people in The Sanctuary Murders were also real. Richard de Wetherset did return for a third term as Chancellor in 1360. He was succeeded by Michael de Aynton (or Haynton). The Master of Bene’t College was Thomas Heltisle, and other scholars in the University at this time included Baldwin de Paris, Jean de Bruges, Walter Foxlee, John Smith and William of Koln (Cologne). William Shropham was Warden of King’s Hall, and William Pechem was Prior of the Franciscan convent.

By 1360, Ralph de Langelee had stopped being Master of Michaelhouse. Evidence is sketchy, but it seems Michael (de Causton) took his place. Other Michaelhouse Fellows in the mid-fourteenth century included William (de Gotham), John Clippesby and Thomas Suttone. There was also a William Theophilis, who had arrived by 1369, when he also became a proctor. John Aungel, Thomas Mallett and John Islaye were later members of the College.

There were three hospitals in the Cambridge vicinity. One was the Hospital of St John the Evangelist, which later became St John’s College. Another was the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene of Stourbridge, the chapel of which still stands today. And the third was the Hospital of St Anthony and St Eloy, or Eligius, which stood on the corner of Trumpington Road and what is now Lensfield Road. It was founded in 1361 by Henry Tangmer (who had a kinswoman named Amphelisa), and although it was technically a ‘lazar house’, leprosy was in decline by the fourteenth century, so the likelihood is that it was for people with a variety of skin conditions, or perhaps even those with mental health problems. Regardless, its relatively isolated position suggests that the residents were kept apart from the general populace. It was often referred to as the Spetylehouse or Spital. It later became an almshouse, and was only demolished in 1837.