A Bone Of Contention

Book 3: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Medieval; Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers; Medical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

For the twentieth anniversary of the Matthew Bartholomew series, Sphere is delighted to reissue the first three books with beautiful new series-style covers.

Cambridge in 1352 is rife with terrible clashes between the fledgling University and the townspeople. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and teacher at Michaelhouse college, is trying to keep the peace when a student is murdered and the town plunges into chaos.

At the same time a skeleton is discovered that is rumoured to belong to a local martyr, and Bartholomew has his hands full investigating both deaths while the rioting intensifies...

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 408

Sample

Cambridge, 1327

BREATH COMING IN PAINFUL GASPS, D’AMBREY ran even harder. His lungs felt as though they would explode, and his legs burned with the agony of running. He reached an oak tree, and clutched at its thick trunk as he fought to catch his breath. A yell, not too far away, indicated that the soldiers had found his trail, and were chasing him once again. Weariness gave way to panic, and he forced himself to move on.

But how long could he continue to run before he dropped? And where could he go? He pushed such questions from his mind, and plunged on into the growing shadows of dusk. His cloak caught on a branch, and, for a few terrifying seconds, he could not untangle it. But the cloak tore, and he continued his mindless running.

He burst out from the line of trees and came on to the High Street, skidding to a halt. At sunset the road was busy with people returning home after a day of trading in the Market Square. People stopped as they saw him. His green cloak with the gold crusader’s cross emblazoned on the back was distinctive, and everyone knew him.

He elbowed his way through them towards the town gate, but saw soldiers there. He could not go back the way he had come, so the only option was to make his way along the raised banks of the King’s Ditch. The King’s Ditch was part fortification and part sewer. It swung in a great arc around the eastern side of the town, a foul, slow-moving strip of water, crammed with the town’s waste and a thick, sucking mud washed from the Fens. There had been heavy rains with the onset of autumn, and the Ditch was a swirling torrent of brown water that lapped dangerously close to its levied banks.

D’Ambrey scrambled up the bank, mud clinging to his hands and knees and spoiling his fine cloak. He saw the soldiers break through the trees on to the road, pushing through the people towards him, and turned to race away from them along the top of the bank. But it was slippery, and moving quickly was difficult. The soldiers spotted him, and were coming across the strip of grass below, beginning to overtake him.

It was hopeless. He stopped running, and stood still. His cloak billowed around him in the evening breeze, blowing his copper-coloured hair around his face. The soldiers, grinning now that their quarry was run to a halt, began to climb up the bank towards him. Knowing he was going to die, he drew his short dagger in a final, desperate attempt to protect himself.

He heard a singing noise, and something hit him hard in the throat. He dropped the dagger and raised his hands to his neck. He felt no pain, but could not breathe. His fingers grasped at the arrow shaft that was lodged at the base of his throat. The world began to darken, and he felt himself begin to fall backwards. The last thing he knew was the cold waters of the Ditch closing over him as he died.

September 1352

'WHAT, AGAIN?’ asked Matthew Bartholomew incredulously, watching Brother Michael for some sign of a practical joke.

Michael rubbed his fat, white hands together with a cheery grin. ‘I am afraid so, Doctor. The Chancellor requests that you come to examine the bones that were found in the King’s Ditch by the Hall of Valence Marie this morning. He wants you to make an official statement that they do not belong to Simon d’Ambrey.’

Bartholomew sighed heavily, picked up his medical bag from the table and followed Michael into the bright September sunshine. It was mid-morning and term was due to start in three days. Students were pouring into the small town of Cambridge, trying to secure lodgings that were not too expensive or shabby, and conducting noisy reunions in the streets. Although Bartholomew did not yet have classes to teach, there was much to be done by way of preparation, and he did not relish being dragged from his cool room at Michaelhouse, into the sweltering heat, on some wild-goose chase for the third time that week.

As he and Brother Michael emerged from the College, Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in disgust at the powerful aroma wafted on the breeze from the direction of the river. Cambridge was near the Fens, and lay on flat, low land that was criss-crossed by a myriad of waterways. To the people who lived there these were convenient places to dispose of rubbish, and many of the smaller ditches were continually blocked because of it.

The summer had been long, hot and dry, and the waterways had been reduced to trickles. People had made no attempt to find other places to rid themselves of their rubbish, and huge blockages had occurred, growing worse as summer had progressed. The first autumn rains had seen the choked waterways bursting their banks, flooding houses and farms with filthy, evil-smelling water. The situation could not continue, and, for once, the town and the University had joined forces, and a major ditch-clearing operation was underway. The University was responsible for dredging the part of the King’s Ditch that ran alongside the recently
founded Hall of Valence Marie.

Michael headed for the shady side of the road, and began to walk slowly towards Valence Marie. The High Street was busy that Saturday, with traders hurrying to and from the Market Square with their wares. A ponderous brewery cart was stuck in one of the deep ruts that was gouged into the bone-dry street, and chaos ensued when other carts tried to squeeze past it. A juggler sat in the stocks outside St Mary’s Church, and entertained a crowd of children with tricks involving three wizened apples and a hard, green turnip. His display came to an abrupt end when a one-eyed, yellow dog made off with the turnip between its drooling jaws.

‘Have you seen these bones that have been dredged up?’ Bartholomew asked, striding next to the Benedictine monk.

Michael nodded, plucking at Bartholomew’s tabard to make him slow down. Bartholomew glanced at him. Already there were small beads of perspiration on the large monk’s pallid face, and he pulled uncomfortably at his heavy habit.

‘Yes. I am no physician, Matt, but I am certain they are not human.’

Bartholomew slowed his pace to match Michael’s ambling shuffle. ‘So why bother me?’ he asked, a little testily. ‘I am trying to finish a treatise on fevers before the beginning of term, and there is a constant stream of students wanting me to teach them.’

Michael patted his arm consolingly. ‘We are all busy, Matt – myself included with these new duties as Senior Proctor. But you know how the townspeople are. The Chancellor insisted that you come and pronounce that these wretched bones are from an animal to quell any rumours that they belong to Simon d’Ambrey.’

‘Those rumours are already abroad, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, impatiently. ‘If the townspeople are to be believed, d’Ambrey’s bones have been uncovered in at least six different locations.’ He laughed suddenly, his ill-temper at being disturbed evaporating as he considered the ludicrous nature of their mission. ‘As a physician, I can tell you that d’Ambrey had about twenty legs, variously shaped like those of sheep and cows; four heads, one of which sprouted horns; and a ribcage that would put Goliath to shame!’

Michael laughed with him. ‘Well, his leg-count is likely to go up again today,’ he said. ‘You may even find he had a tail!’

They walked in companionable silence until Michael stopped to buy a pastry from a baker who balanced a tray of wares on his head. Bartholomew was dissuaded by the sight of the dead flies that formed a dark crust around the edge of the tray, trapped in the little rivers of syrup that had leaked from the cakes. Voices raised in anger and indignation attracted their attention away from the baker to a group of young men standing outside St Bene’t’s Church. The youths wore brightly coloured clothes under their dark students’ tabards, and in the midst of them were two black-garbed friars who were being pushed and jostled.

‘Stop that!’

Before Bartholomew could advise caution, or at least the summoning of the University beadles – the law-keepers who were under the orders of Brother Michael as Proctor – the monk had surged forward, and seized one of the young men by the scruff of his neck. Michael gave him a shake, as a terrier would a rat.

Immediately, there was a collective scraping sound as daggers were drawn and waved menacingly. Passers-by stopped to watch, and, with a groan, Bartholomew went to the aid of his friend, rummaging surreptitiously in his medicine bag for the sharpsurgical knife he always kept there. Two scholars had already been killed in street brawls over the last month, and it would take very little to spark off a similar incident. Bartholomew, although he abhorred violence, had no intention of being summarily
dispatched by unruly students over some silly dispute, the cause of which was probably already forgotten. His fingers closed over the knife, and he drew it out, careful to keep it concealed in the long sleeve of his scholar’s gown.

‘Put those away!’ Michael ordered imperiously, looking in disdain at the students’ arsenal of naked steel. He gestured at the growing crowd. ‘It would be most unwise to attack the University’s Senior Proctor within sight of half the town. What hostel are you from?’

The young men, realising that while student friars might be an easy target for their boisterous teasing, a proctor was not, shuffled their feet uneasily, favouring each other with covert glances. Michael gave the man he held another shake, and Bartholomew heard him mutter that they were from David’s Hostel.

‘And what were you doing?’ Michael demanded, still gripping the young man’s collar.

The student glowered venomously at the two friars and said nothing. One of his friends, a burly youth with skin that bore recent scars from adolescent spots, spoke up.

‘They called us cattle thieves!’ he said, blood rising to his face at the mere thought of that injustice. Bartholomew suppressed a smile, hearing the thick accent which told that its owner was a Scot. He glanced at the friars, standing together, and looking smug at their timely rescue.

‘Cattle thieves?’ queried Michael, nonplussed. ‘Why? Have you been stealing cows?’

The burly student bristled, incensed further by an unpleasant snigger from one of the friars. Michael silenced the friar with a glare, but although his laughter stopped, Michael’s admonition did little to quell the superior arrogance that oozed from the man.

‘It is a term the English use to describe the Scots,’ muttered the student that Michael held. ‘It is intended to be offensive and spoken to provoke.’

Bartholomew watched the friars. The arrogant one stared back at him through hooded lids, although his companion blushed and began to contemplate his sandalled feet so he would not have to meet Bartholomew’s eyes.

Michael sighed, and released the Scot. ‘Give your names to my colleague,’ he said peremptorily, waving a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. He scowled at the friars. ‘You two, come with me.’

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at Michael’s retreating back. Being Fellows of the same college did not give Michael the right to commandeer him into service as some kind of deputy proctor. He had no wish to interfere in the petty quarrels that broke out daily among University members between northerners and southerners; friars and secular scholars; Welsh, Scots, Irish and English; and innumerable other combinations.

The Scots gathered around him, subdued but clearly resentful. Bartholomew gestured for them to put away their daggers, although he kept his own to hand, still concealed in his sleeve. He waited until all signs of glittering steel had gone, and raised his eyebrows at the burly student to give his name.

‘Stuart Grahame,’ said the student in a low voice. He gestured to a smaller youth next to him. ‘This is my cousin, Davy Grahame.’

‘My name is Malcolm Fyvie,’ said the student Michael had grabbed, a dark-haired man with a scar running in a thin, white line down one cheek. ‘And these two are Alistair Ruthven and James Kenzie. We are all from David’s Hostel. That is on Shoemaker Row, one of the poorer sections of the town. You would not want Scotsmen in Cambridge’s more affluent areas, would you?’

Ruthven shot Fyvie an agonised glance, and hastened to make amends for his friend’s rudeness.

‘He means no offence,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on the resentful Fyvie. ‘David’s is a very comfortable house comparedto many. We are very pleased to be there.’

He looked hard at Fyvie, compelling him not to speak again. Bartholomew regarded the students more closely. Their clothes and tabards were made of cheap cloth, and had been darned and patched. Ruthven knew that antagonising the Proctor and his colleagues would only serve to increase the fine they would doubtless have to pay for their rowdy behaviour that afternoon. They were probably already being charged a greatly inflated price for their lodgings, and did not look as though they would be able to afford to have the fine doubled for being offensive to the University’s law-keepers. Ruthven’s desire to be conciliatory was clearly pragmatic, as well as an attempt to present himself and his fellows as scholars grateful for the opportunity to study.

‘Is David’s a new hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, choosing to ignore Fyvie’s outburst. There were many hostels in Cambridge, and, because the renting of a house suitable for use as a hall of residence was largely dependent on the goodwill of a landlord, they tended to come and go with bewildering rapidity. New ones sprung up like mushrooms as townspeople saw an opportunity to make money out of the University – a bitterly resented presence in the small Fen-edge town. Many of the hostels did not survive for more than a term – some buildings were reclaimed by landlords who found they were unable to control their tenants, while others were so decrepit that they, quite literally, tumbled down around their occupants’ ears.

‘It was founded last year,’ said Ruthven helpfully, seizing on the opening in the conversation to try to curry favour. ‘There are ten students, all from Scotland. The five of us came last September to study, and we hope to stay another year.’

‘Then you should avoid street brawls, or you will not stay another week,’ said Bartholomew tartly.

‘We will,’ said young Davy Grahame with feeling. His cousin gave him a shove one way and James Kenzie the other, and Bartholomew immediately saw which of the five were in Cambridge to study and which were hoping to enjoy the other attractions the town had to offer: brawling, for instance.

‘Have you arranged masters and lectures?’ asked Bartholomew. Ruthven and Davy Grahame nodded vigorously, while the others looked away.

‘Is there anything you wish me to tell the Proctor?’ Bartholomew asked, knowing who would answer.

Ruthven nodded, his freckled face serious. ‘Please tell him that it was not us who started the brawl. It was those friars.
They think that their habits will protect them from any insults they care to hurl.’

‘But it takes two parties to create a brawl,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘If you had not responded, there would have been no incident.’

Ruthven opened his mouth to answer, but none came.

‘We don’t have to listen to such insults from those half-men!’ said Kenzie with quiet intensity.

‘You do if you want to remain in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Look, if you have complaints about other students, take them to your hostel principal; if he cannot help, see the proctors; if they cannot assist you, there are the Chancellor and the Bishop. But if you fight in the streets, no matter who started it, you will be sent home.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Kenzie loudly. The others regarded him uncomfortably. He glanced round at them before continuing in more moderate tones. ‘It would not be fair. We did not start it – they did.’

‘People in this town do not like the Scots,’ agreed Fyvie vigorously. ‘Is it our fault that they choose to fight us?’

‘Oh, come now,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘The Scots are not singled out for any special ill-treatment. That honour probably falls to the French at the moment, with the Irish not far behind. Go back to David’s and study. After all, that is the reason you are here.’

Before Fyvie could respond, Ruthven gave Bartholomew a hasty bow, and bundled his friends away towards Shoemaker Row. Bartholomew watched them walk back along the High Street, hearing Ruthven’s calming tones over Kenzie’s protestations of innocence, and Fyvie’s angry voice. Ruthven would have his work cut out to keep those fiery lads out of trouble, Bartholomew reflected. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and felt trickles of sweat course down his back. The sun was fierce, and he felt as though
he were being cooked under his dark scholar’s gown.

On the opposite side of the street, Michael dismissed the student friars with a contemptuous flick of his fingers, and sauntered over to join Bartholomew. The friars, apparently subdued by whatever Michael had said to them, slunk off towards St Bene’t’s Church. The plague, four years before, had claimed many friars and monks among its tens of thousands of victims in England, and the University was working hard to train new clerics to replace them. The would-be brawlers were merely two of many such priests passing through Cambridge for their education before going about their vocations in the community.

The large number of clerics – especially friars – at the University was a continuing source of antagonism between scholars and townspeople. Much of the antipathy stemmed from the fact that clerics – whether monks and friars in
major orders like Brother Michael, or those in minor orders like Bartholomew – came under canon law, which was notably more lenient than secular law. Only a month before, two apprentices had been hanged by the Sheriff for killing a student in a brawl; less than a day later three scholars had been fined ten marks each by the Bishop for murdering a baker. Such disparity in justice did not go unremarked in a community already seething with resentment at the arrogant, superior attitudes of many scholars towards the people of the town.

‘I suppose the friars said the Scots started it,’ said Bartholomew with a grin at Michael, as they resumed their walk up the High Street.

Michael nodded and smiled back. ‘Of course. Unruly savages trying to start a fight, while our poor Dominicans were simply trying to go to mass.’ He pointed a finger at the friars as they disappeared into the church. ‘Remember their names, Matt. Brothers Werbergh and Edred. An unholy pair if ever I saw one, especially Edred. I am surprised the Dominican Order supports such blatant displays of condescension and aggression.’

‘Well, perhaps they will make fine bishops one day,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly.

Michael chuckled. ‘I will go to David’s Hostel later today,’ he said, ‘and see their Principal about those rowdy Scots. Then I will complain to the Principal of Godwinsson Hostel about those inflammatory friars.’

Bartholomew nodded absently, walking briskly so that Michael had to slow him down again, so that they – or rather the overweight Michael – would not arrive too sweat-soaked at the Hall of Valence Marie.

As they approached the forbidding walls of the new College, Michael turned to Bartholomew and grimaced at the sudden stench from where the King’s Ditch was being dredged. Years of silt, sewage, kitchen compost, offal, and an unwholesome range of other items hauled from the dank depths of the Ditch lay in steaming grey-black piles along the banks. The smell had attracted a host of cats and dogs, which rifled through the parts not already claimed by farmers to enrich their soil. Among them, spiteful-eyed gulls squabbled and cawed over blackened strips of decaying offal and the small fish that flapped helplessly in the dredged mud.

Bartholomew and Michael turned left off the High Street, and made their way along an uneven path that wound between the towering banks of the King’s Ditch and the high wall that surrounded Valence Marie. Because Cambridge lay at the edge of the low-lying Fens, the level of the water in the Ditch was occasionally higher than the surrounding land; to prevent flooding, the Ditch’s banks were levied, and rose above the ground to the height of a man’s head.

Away from the High Street, the noise of the town faded, and, were it not for the stench and the incessant buzz of flies around his head, Bartholomew would have enjoyed walking across the strip of scrubby pasture-land, pleasantly shaded by a line of mature oak trees.

‘You have been a long time, Brother,’ said Robert Thorpe, Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, as he stood up from where he had been sitting under a tree. There was a hint of censure in his tone, and Bartholomew sensed Thorpe was a man whose authority as head of a powerful young college was too recently acquired for it to sit easily on his shoulders. ‘I expected you sooner than this.’

‘The beginnings of a street brawl claimed my attention,’ said Michael, making no attempt to apologise. ‘Scots versus the friars this time.’

Thorpe raised dark grey eyebrows. ‘The friars again? I do not understand what is happening, Brother. We have always had problems with warring factions and nationalities in the University, but seldom so frequent and with such intensity as over the last two or three weeks.’

‘Perhaps it is the heat,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is known that tempers are higher and more frayed when the weather is
hot. The Sheriff told me that there has been more fighting among the townspeople this last month, too.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Thorpe, looking coolly at Bartholomew in his threadbare gown and dusty shoes. As a physician, Bartholomew could have made a rich living from attending wealthy patients. Instead, he chose to teach at the University, and to treat an ever-growing number of the town’s poor, preferring to invest his energies in combating genuine diseases rather than in dispensing placebos and calculating astrological charts for the healthy. His superiors at the University tolerated this peculiar behaviour, because having a scholar prepared to provide such a service to the poor made for good relations between the town and its scholars. Bartholomew was popular with his patients, especially when his absent-mindedness led him to forget to charge them.

But tolerance by the University did not mean acceptance by its members, and Bartholomew was regarded as something of an oddity by his colleagues. Many scholars disapproved of his dealings with the townspeople, and some of the friars and monks believed that his teaching verged on heresy because it was unorthodox. Bartholomew had been taught medicine by an Arab physician at the University of Paris, but even his higher success rate with many illnesses and injuries did not protect him from accusations that his methods were anathema.

Thorpe turned to the obese Benedictine. ‘What word is there from the Chancellor about our discovery?’ he asked.

‘Master de Wetherset wants Doctor Bartholomew to inspect the bones you have found to ensure their authenticity,’ said Michael carefully. What the Chancellor had actually said was that he wanted Bartholomew to use his medical expertise to crush, once and for all, the rumours that the bones of a local martyr had been discovered. He did not want the University to become a venue for relic-sellers and idle gawpers, especially since term was about to start and the students were restless. Gatherings of townspeople near University property might well lead to a fight. The Sheriff, for once, was in complete agreement: relics that might prove contentious must not be found. Both, however, suspected that this might be easier said than done.

The Hall of Valence Marie had been founded five years previously – by Marie de Valence, the Countess of Pembroke – and the Chancellor and Sheriff were only too aware of the desire of its Master to make the young Hall famous. The bones of a local martyr would be perfect for such a purpose: pilgrims would flock to pray at the shrine Thorpe would build, and would not only spread word of the miraculous find at Valence Marie across the country, but also shower the College with gifts. The Chancellor had charged Michael to handle Thorpe with care.

Thorpe inclined his silver head to Bartholomew, to acknowledge the role foisted on him by the Chancellor, and walked to where a piece of rough sacking lay on the ground. Witha flourish, Thorpe removed it to reveal a pile of muddy bones that had been laid reverently on the grass.

Bartholomew knelt next to them, inspecting each one carefully, although he knew from a glance what they were. Michael, too, had devoured enough roasts at high table in Michaelhouse to know sheep bones when he saw them. But Bartholomew did not want to give the appearance of being flippant, and was meticulous in his examination.

‘I believe these to be the leg bones of a sheep,’ he said, standing again and addressing Thorpe. ‘They are too short to be human.’

‘But the martyr Simon d’Ambrey is said to have been short,’ countered Thorpe.

Michael intervened smoothly. ‘D’Ambrey was not that small, Master Thorpe,’ he said. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Am I right? You must remember him since you lived in Cambridge when he was active.’

‘You?’ asked Thorpe, looking Bartholomew up and down dubiously. ‘You are not old enough. He died a quarter of a century ago.’

‘I am old enough to remember him quite vividly, actually,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled apologetically at Thorpe. ‘He was of
average height – and certainly not short. These bones cannot be his.’

‘We have found more of him!’ came a breathless exclamation from Bartholomew’s elbow. The physician glanced down, and saw ascruffy college servant standing there, his clothes and hands deeply grimed with mud from the Ditch. He smelt like the Ditch too, thought Bartholomew, moving away. The servant’s beady eyes glittered fanatically, and Bartholomew saw that Master Thorpe was not the only person at Valence Marie desperate to provide it with a relic.

‘Tell us, Will,’ said Thorpe, hope lighting up his face before he mastered himself and made his expression impassive. ‘What have you found this time?’

They followed Will across the swathe of poorly kept pasture to the Ditch beyond. A swarm of flies hovered around its mud-encrustedsides, and even Bartholomew, used to unpleasant smells, was forced to cover his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his gown. The servant slithered down the bank to the trickle of water at the bottom, and prodded about.

‘Here!’ he called out triumphantly.

‘Bring it out, Will,’ commanded Thorpe, putting a huge pomander over his lower face.

Will hauled at something, which yielded itself reluctantly from the mud with a slurping plop. Holding it carefully in his arms, he carried it back up the bank and laid it at Thorpe’s feet. His somewhat unpleasant, fawning manner reminded Bartholomew of a dog he had once owned, which had persisted in presenting him with partially eaten rats as a means to ingratiate itself.

Holding his sleeve over his nose, Bartholomew knelt and peered closely at Will’s bundle.

‘Still too small?’ asked Michael hopefully.

‘Too small to belong to a man,’ said Bartholomew, stretching out a hand to turn the bones over. He glanced up at Thorpe and Michael, squinting up into the bright sun. ‘But it is human.’