The Mark of a Murderer

Book 11: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Military Thrillers

Synopsis

February 1355, and Oxford explodes in one of the most serious riots of its turbulent history. Fearing for their lives, the scholars flee the city, and some choose the University at Cambridge as their temporary refuge. But they don't remain safe for long. Within hours of their arrival, the first of their number dies, followed quickly by a second. When Matthew Bartholomew begins to investigate the deaths, he uncovers evidence that the Oxford riot was not a case of random violence, but part of a carefully orchestrated plot...

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

Oxford, 10 February 1355 (St Scholastica’s Day)

The Swindlestock Tavern had been painted a delicate pale gold the previous summer, so it stood handsome and resplendent among
its more shabby neighbours. The inn was noted for the quality of its brewing, its fine spit roasts and the genial hospitality
of its landlord Master Croidon, a squat, cheery-faced man who possessed the kind of belly that indicated he had no small liking
for ale himself. His kind brown eyes invited confidences, and this made him popular among those for whom drinking also required
a ready listener.


The tavern was peaceful when the scholars entered, but the low murmur of amiable conversation and the busy clatter of pots
from the kitchen were not to last. Walter Spryngheuse and his friends walked to a table near the fire, and set about divesting
themselves of their ice-clotted cloaks and hats. The wind rattled the window shutters and sent a frigid blast down the chimney,
scattering ashes and sparks across the flagstone floor as Croidon came to tend the new arrivals, wiping his hands on his apron
and exchanging pleasantries with other patrons as he went.


‘What can I fetch you, sirs?’ he asked, smiling an affable welcome. Drinking in the town’s hostelries was forbidden to members
of the University, and the ones who flouted the rules nearly always caused trouble. But Croidon knew Spryngheuse and his colleagues
to be sober, decent men, who often used his inn as a venue for their lively discussions on philosophy and natural science, and he did not fear bad behaviour from them. He glanced around as pellets of snow pattered
against the window shutters, and did not blame the scholars for choosing his cosy tavern over the cold, draughty halls they
called home.


‘Ale,’ replied Spryngheuse, edging closer to the fire. ‘Warmed, if you please. And what are you cooking today?’

‘Mutton,’ replied Croidon. ‘The poor animal froze to death inside her byre two nights ago. It has been a long and bitter winter,
and I shall be glad to see it end.’


The clerks nodded heartfelt agreement. It had been one of the worst winters anyone could remember, with roads choked by snow
since Christmas, and the river frozen hard, like stone. Life in many University foundations could be dismal even in good weather,
and the atrocious weather had rendered some unbearable. Spryngheuse longed to abandon his studies and escape to the relative
comfort of his family’s manor in the diocese of Hereford, but the roads west were all but impassable, and only a fool undertook
long journeys while violent storms raged.


The scholars finished ordering their meal, then huddled around the table to discuss the latest theories emanating from Merton
College on speed and motion. Spryngheuse was a Merton man himself, and used his association with the foundation’s great philosophers
to impress the others. His good friend Roger de Chesterfelde was a member of Balliol, which also had its share of clever thinkers,
and they began a bantering, light-hearted argument, while the others listened and laughed at the quick-witted insults that
were tossed this way and that.


One did not smile, however. He was a slight, serious-faced man who wore the dark habit of a Benedictine. Croidon had not seen
him before, and was under the impression that he had attached himself to Spryngheuse’s party without an invitation – the taverner
doubted the monk’s tense, dour demeanour would have encouraged the others to befriend him. As soon as Croidon had gone to fetch the ale,
the Benedictine made his first move.


‘Heytesbury of Merton is an ass,’ he declared, so harshly and unexpectedly that even the Balliol scholars were taken aback
by his vehemence. ‘His theories about uniformly accelerated motion are flawed and illogical.’


Spryngheuse stared at him in astonishment. ‘You are mistaken, Brother: Heytesbury is widely acclaimed as the best natural
philosopher Oxford has ever known.’


‘Nonsense,’ retorted the monk aggressively. ‘That honour belongs to Wyclif of Balliol. Is that not true, Chesterfelde?’

‘Of course,’ agreed Chesterfelde, although the tone of his voice was uneasy: it was one thing to assert supremacy with good-natured
raillery, but another altogether to be downright rude about it. He jabbed the bemused Spryngheuse in the ribs in an attempt
to revert to their former levity. ‘Wyclif is still young, but he is already the superior of your bumbling Mertonians. Just
imagine what he will be like when he is the same age as Heytesbury!’


‘Here is your ale, gentlemen,’ boomed Croidon jovially, bearing a tray loaded with jugs. ‘Warmed against the chill of winter.’

‘But you have not heated it as much as you would a townsman’s,’ said the monk, sipping it with distaste. ‘And I asked for
wine, anyway.’


‘You did not!’ declared Croidon indignantly. ‘You all ordered ale, and if it is not as hot as you would like, then you can
blame the weather. I assure you, I treat all my patrons the same.’


‘Bring me wine,’ ordered the monk, thrusting the ale back at the landlord, so hard that some spilled on the man’s apron. ‘I
cannot drink this vile brew.’


Croidon knew better than to argue with bellicose customers. Wordlessly, he took the jug and went to fetch a different drink. The monk’s companions regarded him uncomfortably.


‘That was unmannerly, Brother,’ said Chesterfelde. His face, usually bright with laughter, was flushed, and Spryngheuse was
reminded that his friend had an unfortunate tendency to lose his temper rather more quickly than most men. ‘Croidon is right:
how can he warm his ales when the weather is so bitter? He is only mortal, and cannot magic hot ale from cold casks.’


‘We are breaking University rules by coming here, but Croidon turns a blind eye as long as we are well behaved,’ said Spryngheuse,
resting a hand on Chesterfelde’s arm to calm him. ‘So keep a civil tongue in your head, if you please, Brother. I do not want
to be reduced to drinking my ale at Balliol, for God’s sake!’


The others laughed, easing the tension that had arisen at the prospect of an unpleasant altercation between Chesterfelde and
the Benedictine. Chesterfelde smiled, too, his flare of temper subsiding. He was always ready to enjoy a joke, and was about
to retort with a teasing insult aimed at Merton, when Croidon arrived.


‘Here is your wine,’ the landlord said, placing a goblet in front of his awkward patron, along with several coins that were
the change from Spryngheuse’s groat. ‘It is the best we have, and I warmed it myself with the poker from the fire.’


‘It is filth,’ declared the Benedictine, spitting it on the floor. Croidon gaped in disbelief as the monk turned to his companions.
‘Will you allow this scoundrel to sell poor quality brews to scholars, while he saves the best for the secular scum who infest
the city?’


‘Hey!’ shouted a listening mason indignantly. ‘Watch your mouth! It is scholars who are scum around here, with their uncouth
manners and slovenly ways.’


‘Well?’ demanded the monk, ignoring the mason and fixing Chesterfelde with a challenging glare. ‘Will you sit there and let
this vagabond insult your University?’


‘No harm has been done,’ said Spryngheuse hastily, aware that Chesterfelde was beginning to rise to the bait. ‘I think—’

‘And we have been cheated, too!’ interrupted the monk, pointing at the money Croidon had left on the table. ‘Look how much we have been charged. He
has one price for students and another for the rest of his patrons.’


‘I must have made a mistake,’ said Croidon, bewildered. He was certain the number of coins had been correct.

‘That is not good enough,’ snapped the monk. ‘Frozen ale, filthy wine and now you try to swindle us.’ He appealed to his companions.
‘Will you let this thief treat us like ignorant peasants?’


‘Not I!’ declared Chesterfelde, incensed by the very notion. He snatched up the monk’s goblet and brought it down hard on
Croidon’s head. The landlord dropped to his knees with a howl of pain, and blood dribbled between the fingers he lifted to
his scalp.


Men were rising to their feet all over the tavern. The mason’s friends began to advance menacingly, while a group of hitherto
silent, unobtrusive Franciscans from Exeter College set their sights on an apprentice who had recently jibed them about their
celibacy.


‘He tried to deceive us!’ shouted the Benedictine, jabbing an accusing finger at the bleeding landlord. ‘And in so doing he
insults Balliol – and Exeter and Merton, too! Will you allow this to happen? Or are you soldiers of God, ready to fight for
what is right?’


‘Balliol!’ yelled Chesterfelde, bloated with fury as he struck the hapless landlord a second time.

The mason leapt at him, and they rolled to the floor in an undignified mêlée of arms and legs. The craftsman’s companions surged forward to join in, while the apprentice threw a punch at one of the Franciscans, whose head jerked back
and struck the wall with a soggy crunch. Skirmishes broke out all across the room.


‘Come outside!’ the monk urged Spryngheuse, grabbing his arm. ‘I have bows and arrows. You must protect yourself against these
murderous townsmen, or they will kill you.’


He dragged the reluctant Spryngheuse through the door and out into the street. Their friends followed, leaving Chesterfelde
and the mason embroiled in a scuffle that was becoming deadly: the mason had drawn his dagger, and there was blood on Chesterfelde’s
arm.


‘Murder!’ Chesterfelde screeched, his outraged wail audible in the street as he tried to wriggle away from his furious opponent.
‘He has stabbed me!’


‘The town has slain a scholar!’ bawled the Benedictine to several passers-by, as he thrust bows and arrows into his bemused
companions’ hands. They were too startled by the sudden escalation in violence to ask why he had thought to store such objects
so conveniently close to hand. The situation was spiralling out of control, and there was no time to stop and think logically.


Chesterfelde staggered out of the inn, shrieking from the agony in his wounded arm. The mason followed, and the expression
on his face as he wielded his dagger made it plain that he was intending to finish what he had started. Spryngheuse shot him
dead.


Then the bells in St Mary’s Church started to ring in an urgent, discordant clamour, warning scholars that their University
was under attack. Within moments, the streets were full of students. Word spread that several of their own had been brutally
slain in the Swindlestock Tavern, and it was not long before they had armed themselves with staves, clubs and swords, inflamed
by the jangle of bells and the calls for vengeance. They flocked to the inn like wasps to honey, and within moments several neighbouring houses were ablaze.


Children and women screamed, horses whinnied in terror, and scholars and townsmen alike howled in savage delight at the prospect
of a serious brawl. The University’s Chancellor hurried from his sumptuous lodgings and tried to appeal for calm, but a gang
of apprentices recognised his gorgeous robes and began to pelt him with mud. Some struck his face. The mob surged towards
him, and would have torn him apart, had his clerks not dragged him back inside and barred the door.


Meanwhile, the Mayor, seeing what happened to the Chancellor, decided the only way to resolve the situation was to make sure
the town won the fracas, so he exhorted his people to rise up against the scholars. A group of unarmed friars from University
Hall went down amid a flailing fury of sticks and spades; all six were killed within moments. News of the slaughter spread
like wildfire, and more scholars ran on to the streets with weapons. Croidon watched the unfolding massacre with open-mouthed
horror, while the monk who had started it all hid in a doorway, a smile of satisfaction stamped across his dour features.
Then he slipped away to complete his own business while chaos reigned.


Cambridge, May 1355

Only the merest sliver of moon was visible on the eve of the festival to celebrate Ascension Day. John Clippesby, the Dominican
Master of Music and Astronomy at the College of Michaelhouse, liked this soft, velvety darkness, because it meant he was less
likely to be seen, and he could sit quietly and listen to the sounds of the night without being disturbed.


He was glad to be away from the College, to escape from fat Brother Michael and his tediously fussy preparations for the following
day. Clippesby would not have minded if some of the arrangements had focused on the religious ceremonies, but the gluttonous
monk made no bones about the fact that his chief interest lay in the feast that was to follow the mass. Clippesby was tired
of hearing about the vast quantities of meat and wine that were to be consumed, and the number of Lombard slices that had
already been baked.


The Dominican often left his College at night. He disliked being obliged to spend too much time with his quarrelsome, earthly
minded colleagues, and preferred the more peaceful, honest company of animals. Like Clippesby himself, they were soft-footed
and silent, and together they witnessed all manner of happenings when people did not know the shadows held observant eyes.
Clippesby had already watched Father William sneak into the cellars to raid Michael’s wine, and he had seen a pair of Doctor
Bartholomew’s medical students climb over the College walls to enjoy an illicit assignation with some of the town’s prostitutes.


He walked along the High Street, stopping briefly to greet the University stationer’s mule, and then spent some time near
King’s Hall, admiring the bats. When his neck became stiff from craning to see their intricate aerial ballet, he made his
way towards All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. A cat regularly prowled in the church’s graveyard, and Clippesby enjoyed talking to her.
Sometimes, she talked back, and told him what she had seen as she hunted mice and rats. Clippesby knew his colleagues thought
he was insane because he conversed with animals, but he did not care – his furred and feathered friends invariably made a
lot more sense to him than the diatribes of his human companions.


He passed a row of houses that had been rebuilt after their collapse the previous winter. The largest was occupied by a yellow dog called Edwardus Rex, named for the King; he graciously
shared his home with Yolande de Blaston, her husband Robert and their ten children. The Blastons were so desperate for money
to feed their ever-growing brood that Robert was only too pleased his wife was able to provide extra by selling her body to
other men, and saw nothing odd in her using the family home for such purposes. Clippesby did not hire her: he was a friar,
and he took his vows of chastity seriously. He edged behind the trees opposite the house, thinking it had been some time since
he had seen Edwardus and that he should enquire after his health. Edwardus barked, and Clippesby smiled.


But it was not Clippesby that Edwardus was acknowledging: it was someone else. Intrigued as always by the steady procession
of men who made their way to Yolande’s door during the secret hours of darkness, Clippesby waited to see who had an appointment
with her that night. He grimaced when he recognised a scholar he did not like, who regularly visited Yolande and who was a
hypocrite, because he condemned others for sins he committed himself. However, he knew there was no point in exposing the
man: Clippesby’s penchant for animals meant that most people considered him a lunatic, and few believed anything he said.


The scholar carried a package under his arm, which Clippesby knew from past observations contained marchpanes for Yolande’s
children; he supposed the gift eased the man’s conscience about cavorting with their mother while they and their father slept
upstairs. When Yolande opened the door to her suitor’s soft taps, Edwardus eased past her and began sniffing the parcel. The
scholar tried to kick him, but Edwardus had been hurt by the man before, and was ready to dodge out of the way. Then the dog
stiffened and started to growl.


Clippesby raced forward as fast as he could. He heard Edwardus’s furious yaps and the scholar’s exclamation of annoyance that
he should be disturbed as he was about to enjoy himself. Then Yolande screamed, and blood spurted from a gaping wound in the
scholar’s shoulder.


‘The wolf!’ Clippesby yelled. ‘It is the wolf!’

Cambridge, Pentecost 1355

Dawn was not far off. The half-dark of an early-June night was already fading to the silver greys of morning, and the Fen-edge
town was beginning to wake. Low voices could be heard along some of the streets as scholars and friars left their hostels
to attend prime, and an eager cockerel crowed its warning of impending day. Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine and Fellow
of Michaelhouse, knew he had lingered too long in Matilde’s house and that he needed to be careful if he did not want to be
seen. He opened her door and looked cautiously in both directions, before slipping out and closing it softly behind him. Then
he strode briskly, aiming to put as much distance between him and his friend as possible. He knew exactly what people would
say if they saw him leaving the home of an unmarried woman – some would say a courtesan – at such an unseemly time.


He slowed when he emerged from the jumble of narrow alleys known as the Jewry and turned into the High Street. The elegant
premises of the University’s stationer stood opposite, and Bartholomew detected a flicker of movement behind a window. He
grimaced. If John Weasenham or his wife Alyce had spotted him, he was unlikely to keep his business private for long. Both
were unrepentant gossips, and the reputation of more than one scholar – innocent and otherwise – had been irrevocably tarnished
by their malicious tongues.


Once away from Weasenham’s shop, he began to relax. The High Street was one of the town’s main thoroughfares, and Bartholomew
was a busy physician with plenty of patients. Anyone who saw him now would assume he had been visiting one, and would never
imagine that he had spent the night with the leader of and spokeswoman for the town’s unofficial guild of prostitutes. The
University forbade contact between scholars and women, partly because it followed monastic rules and its Colleges and halls
were the exclusive domain of men, but also because prevention was better than cure: the Chancellor knew what would happen
if his scholars seduced town wives, daughters and sisters, so declaring the entire female population off limits was a sensible
way to suppress trouble before it began. However, rules could be broken, and even the prospect of heavy fines and imprisonment
did not deter some scholars from chancing their hands.


It was not far to Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew lived and worked, and the journey took no time at all when the streets were
quiet. When he reached St Michael’s Lane, he continued past his College’s front gates and aimed for a little-used door farther
along the alley. He had left it ajar the previous evening, intending to slip inside without being obliged to explain to the
night porter where he had been. He was startled and not very amused to find it locked. Puzzled, he gave it a good rattle in
the hope that it was only stuck, but he could see through the gaps in its wooden panels that a stout bar had been placed across
the other side.


He retraced his steps, wondering which of the students – or Fellows, for that matter – had crept out of the college the night
before and secured the door when he had returned. Or had someone simply noticed it unbarred during a nocturnal stroll in the
gardens and done the responsible thing? It was a nuisance: Bartholomew had been using it for ten days now, and did not want to go to the trouble of devising another way to steal inside the College undetected.
He walked past the main gates a second time, and headed for nearby St Michael’s Church. All Michaelhouse men were obliged
to attend daily religious offices, and no one would question a scholar who began his devotions early – particularly at Pentecost,
which was a major festival. He wrestled with the temperamental latch on the porch door, then entered.


Although summer was in the air, it was cold inside St Michael’s. Its stone walls and floors oozed a damp chill that carried
echoes of winter, and Bartholomew shivered. He walked to the chancel and dropped to his knees, knowing he would not have long
to wait before his colleagues appeared. Smothering a yawn, he wondered how much longer he could survive such sleepless nights,
when his days were full of teaching and patients. He had fallen asleep at breakfast the previous morning, a mishap that had
not gone unnoticed by the Master. He was not entirely sure Ralph de Langelee had believed him when he claimed he had been
with a sick patient all night.


The sudden clank of the latch was loud in the otherwise silent church, and Bartholomew felt himself jerk awake. He scrubbed
hard at his eyes and took a deep breath as he stood, hoping he would not drop off during the service. The soft slap of leather
soles on flagstones heralded the arrival of his fellow scholars; they were led by Master Langelee, followed closely by the
Fellows. The students were behind them, while the commoners – men too old or infirm to teach, or visitors from other academic
institutions – brought up the rear. They arranged themselves into rows, and Bartholomew took his usual place between Brother
Michael and Father William.


‘Where have you been?’ demanded William in a low hiss. William was a Franciscan who taught theology, a large, dirty man who had fanatical opinions about virtually everything. ‘You left shortly after dusk and have been gone ever since.’


His voice was indignant, as if Bartholomew’s absence was a personal affront, and the physician wondered whether it was he
who had barred the door. William was narrow minded and intolerant when it came to University rules, despite the fact that
he did not always heed them scrupulously himself.


‘Fever,’ he replied shortly. William had no right to question him: that was the Master’s prerogative – and Langelee was mercifully
accommodating when it came to the activities of a physician with a long list of needy customers. He encouraged Bartholomew
to treat the town’s poor, in the hope that this might induce some of them to spare Michaelhouse during the town’s frequent
and often highly destructive riots.


‘What kind of fever?’ asked William uneasily.

‘A serious one,’ replied Bartholomew pointedly, wishing the Franciscan would begin his prayers. He did not want to elaborate
on his story – and he certainly could not tell the truth.


‘Fatal?’ asked William, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. His voice went from accusing to alarmed. ‘Is it the Death?
There are rumours that it is coming a second time. Not enough folk mended their wicked ways, and God is still angry with them.’


Bartholomew smiled despite his irritation, amused by the way that William did not consider himself one of those with ‘wicked
ways’. ‘It is not the plague.’


‘Then who has this fever? Anyone I know?’

‘A labourer – one of the men hired to clean the town for the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Visitation next week.’ This was true:
he had indeed been summoned to tend one of the hollow-eyed peasants who worked all day for the price of a meal. He had physicked the fellow before visiting Matilde.


‘I do not mingle with such folk,’ said William loftily – and wholly untruthfully, since meeting the poor was unavoidable in
a small town like Cambridge, and William was not a callous man, despite his pretensions of grandeur. ‘They are beneath the
dignity of the Keeper of the University Chest and Cambridge’s best theologian.’ Smugly proud of himself, he turned his attention
to his devotions.


‘That is not how I would describe him,’ muttered Brother Michael, who had been listening. ‘Well, he is the Keeper of the University Chest, but he is no more a theologian than is Matilde.’


Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, and could tell from the sly gleam in the monk’s eyes that more was known about his nocturnal
forays than he would have liked. The obese Benedictine held the post of the University’s Senior Proctor, and was responsible
for maintaining law and order among the scholars and a good deal more besides. He had a legion of beadles who patrolled the
streets, hunting out students who broke the University’s strict rules – and any academic caught in a tavern or fraternising
with women could expect a hefty fine. Bartholomew supposed that one of the beadles had spotted him visiting Matilde, and had
reported the transgression to Michael.


Bartholomew was not only Michael’s closest friend, but also his Corpse Examiner, which meant he was paid a fee to investigate
any sudden or unexpected deaths among members of the University or on University property. These occurred with distressing
frequency, because life in Cambridge – as in any town across the country – was fraught with danger. People were killed in
brawls; they had accidents with carts, horses and unstable buildings; they died from diseases, injuries and vagaries of the
weather; and sometimes they took their own lives. Bartholomew and Michael explored them all, which meant that although any beadle would think twice about arresting Bartholomew for visiting
a woman, he would certainly not hesitate to tell the Senior Proctor about the event.


‘You should be careful, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘Cambridge is a small town and very little happens that someone does not
notice – even when you are being cautious.’


‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes prayerfully to indicate the conversation was over.

Michael was not so easily silenced. ‘I needed you earlier, and you were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered the orchard
door unbarred – for the tenth night in a row.’


Bartholomew opened his eyes and regarded the fat monk accusingly. ‘Did you close it?’


Michael pursed his lips, offended. ‘Knowing you planned to use it later? Of course not! What sort of friend do you think I
am?’


‘I am sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew. He rubbed his eyes again, and wished he felt more alert; Michael was the last man to lock
him out, no matter what rules he was breaking. He changed the subject. ‘Why did you need me? Were you ill?’


‘There was a murder.’

‘How do you know it was murder?’

‘I am told there is a dagger embedded in the corpse’s back,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And even a lowly proctor knows a man
cannot do that to himself.’


Despite the fact that there was a body awaiting Michael’s inspection, and that he and his Corpse Examiner had been summoned
before dawn – almost two hours earlier – the monk refused to attend his duties until he had had his breakfast. Personally,
Bartholomew felt the fat monk could do with missing the occasional repast, and encouraged him to forgo the egg-mess, pickled herrings and rich meat pottage provided as part of the Pentecost celebrations, but his advice
fell on stony ground. Michael intended to make the most of all the meals on offer that day, and no cadaver was going to lie
in his way. When he had first been appointed proctor, Michael had chased recalcitrant students all over the town with considerable
vigour, but he had since trained his beadles to do that sort of thing, and the only exercise now required was the short walk
between College and his office in St Mary