quickly.’
Bartholomew felt a sudden, unreasonable anger
towards the friar whose death was about to cause such upheaval in his life. What was the man doing in the tower anyway? He could only have been there to steal or to spy. Bartholomew watched de Wetherset issue instructions to Gilbert to test the lock on a rat, and gestured to Michael that they should go.
‘Wait!’ the Chancellor commanded, standing as they made to leave. “I must ask that you observe utmost discretion over this business. That a man has died in the University chest cannot be denied, but I do not wish anyone to know about the University history that was being written.’
Michael nodded acquiescence, bowed, and walked out, while Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling dejected. He was going to become entangled in the unsavoury world of University politics a second time, and be forced to question the motives of his friends and family.
Outside, Michael rubbed his hands together and
beamed. ‘What shall we do first?’ he asked, and
Bartholomew realised that the fat monk was relishing their enforced duties. Michael had always loved University affairs, and thrived on the petty politics and plots that were a part of College life. He saw Bartholomew’s doleful expression and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come, Matt,’ he said reassuringly. ‘This is not like the other business. There are no threats to those we love, and your Philippa is safely away visiting her brother. This has nothing to do with Michaelhouse. It is just some minor intrigue that has gone wrong.’
Bartholomew was unconvinced. “I should have gone with Philippa,’ he said bitterly, ‘or followed her brother’s lead and moved away from this vile pit of lies and deception to London.’
‘You would hate London,’ Michael laughed. ‘You make enough fuss about the filth and dirt here. In London it would be ten times worse, and they say that the River Thames is the dirtiest river in England. You would hate it,’ he said again, drawing his morose friend away from the shadows of the church and into the bright sunlight to where Cynric waited for them.
They began to walk down the High Street towards
King’s Hall to visit Master Buckley. The streets were busier than usual because of the Fair, and houses that had stood empty since the plague were bursting at the seams with travellers. A baker passed them, his tray brimming with pies and pastries, while two beggars watched him with hungry eyes.
With an effort, Bartholomew brought his mind
back to what Michael was saying about the dead
friar. Michael, strolling next to him, began to run through the possibilities surrounding the friar’s death, for Cynric’s benefit. They turned suddenly as they heard a wail. A woman tore towards them, her long, fair hair streaming behind her like a banner. Bartholomew
recognised her as Sybilla, the ditcher’s daughter, and one of the town’s prostitutes. Her mother, brothers, and sisters had died in the plague, and her father had allowed her to follow any path she chose, while he took his own comfort from the bottles of wine she brought him. Bartholomew caught her as she made to run past.
‘What has happened?’ he said, alarmed by her tear streaked face and wild, frightened eyes.
Tsobel!’ she sobbed. Tsobel!’
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, looking down the street.
‘Has she been hurt?’
He exchanged glances with Brother Michael. They
were both aware of the murder of two of the town’s prostitutes during the last few weeks. Bartholomew had seen the body of one of them, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky and her throat cut.
Sybilla was unable to answer and Bartholomew let her go, watching as she fled up the High Street, her wailing drawing people from their houses to see what was happening. Bartholomew and Michael, concerned for Isobel, continued in the direction from which Sybilla had come, until they saw people gathering in St Botolph’s churchyard.
Two women bent