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in the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. Neither was cheered by the sight, though, after their grim work. Wordlessly, they started to walk to Michaelhouse, but stopped when they saw Bartholomew’s book-bearer hurrying towards them.
    ‘Here comes trouble,’ predicted Michael grimly. ‘I can see in his face that something awful has happened.’
    Cynric had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, and the physician had lost count of the times they had saved each other’s lives. The Welshman was an experienced warrior, and also the most superstitious man in Cambridge.
    ‘There has been a death,’ reported Cynric tersely. ‘In Newe Inn’s garden.’
    ‘Newe Inn?’ asked Michael. ‘But we passed it not long ago. Are you sure?’
    ‘Of course,’ replied Cynric. ‘The message comes from Principal Coslaye. He says the fellow is quite dead, so there is no need to hurry, but he would appreciate you arriving before this evening, because he and his scholars want to see a mystery play in the Market Square.’
    ‘I see,’ said Michael, eyebrows raised. ‘Then we had better oblige.’
    Besides teaching medicine and trying to serve a list of patients that was far too long for one man, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for any person breathing his last on University property. Newe Inn fell firmly under his jurisdiction, whether the dead man transpired to bescholar or townsman, so he turned and followed Michael back to Cholles Lane.
    When they arrived, he took a moment to view Newe Inn from the outside, to assess whether the monk was right to say it was unsuitable for a library. He supposed its round-headed windows were on the narrow side, while he could attest from personal experience that stone buildings were chilly in winter – he lived in one himself, and could not recall ever being as cold as he had been in February and March. Yet these seemed minor issues compared to the advantages the place would confer when it was finished.
    He was about to enter, when voices farther up the lane made him glance around – Prior Etone was leading his friars home after a lengthy post-Convocation gripe with the Dominicans. The Carmelites were a powerful force in Cambridge, with about fifty brothers and an army of laymen and servants. Most were regarding Bartholomew rather coolly.
    ‘You were wrong to vote for that library, Matthew,’ called Etone. ‘It is not a good idea to have one of those in our
studium generale
.’
    ‘Especially as it is to be housed in Newe Inn,’ added the skeletal Riborowe. ‘That building was promised to us, and you had no right to support a scheme that saw us dispossessed.’
    ‘I told him all that before the Convocation,’ Michael called back before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he did not listen – thinking about urine and leeches, probably.’
    At that moment, a bell chimed inside the convent to tell the friars that a light meal was available in the refectory, and most of them trooped off to enjoy it, but Prior Etone crossed the lane to continue berating Bartholomew.He was accompanied by Riborowe and a tiny, sparrow-like man named Jorz, with a nose like a stubby beak.
    ‘Wait, Matt,’ ordered Michael, as Bartholomew edged towards Newe Inn’s door, unwilling to be rebuked yet again for doing what he had felt was right. ‘The Carmelites are still seriously piqued over the Common Library, and a few moments smoothing ruffled feathers will not go amiss.’
    ‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You are not the one about to be scolded like an errant schoolboy.’
    ‘That stupid grace passed by three votes,’ said Riborowe, his thin face flushed with irritation. ‘Three! If you and one other Regent had shown a shred of decency, it would have been defeated.’
    ‘Bartholomew is not the only one who betrayed us,’ chirped Jorz. ‘Others voted