The Killer of Pilgrims (2 page)

When the yellow-headed thief reached the Griffin, a large tavern located just beyond the Great Bridge, Matthew Bartholomew
knew he was going to escape. Sure enough, the fellow tore into the stables, and emerged moments later on a prancing stallion.

Bartholomew put on a last, desperate spurt of speed and made a grab for the reins, but the man kicked him away. Bartholomew
fell backwards, landing heavily among the frost-hardened ruts that scarred the road. A cart bore down on him, its driver yelling
for him to move, and he only just managed to roll away from its lumbering wheels. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet,
and watched his quarry disappear along the track that led to the nearby village of Chesterton.

Bartholomew was a physician, who taught medicine at the College of Michaelhouse. Thanks to his unorthodox ideas, he was not
one of the University’s most respected scholars, but even so, he knew he should not have been haring after thieves at an hour
when he should have been in church. It was hardly dignified.

He had been summoned before dawn by one of his patients, a fierce old lady named Emma de Colvyll. As she had been describing
her symptoms to him, they had heard noises coming from her parlour – a burglar was in her house, and instinct had led Bartholomew
to obey her
screeched command to give chase. As he rested his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath, he recoiled at the
notion of telling her he had failed. Despite her advanced years, she was a force to be reckoned with, and even the Sheriff
– one of the bravest men in the shire – freely admitted that she terrified him.

He waited until his breathing returned to normal, then began to retrace his steps. There was always a market on Mondays, and
despite the early hour, the streets were already crowded with carts bearing fish, grain, pottery, candles, wool, baskets and
vegetables. There were also animals, herded in hissing, honking, lowing and bleating packs towards Butchery Row, and he ducked
smartly behind a water-butt when a feisty bull decided it had no intention of being taken anywhere and made a determined bid
for escape.

When he arrived at Emma’s High Street mansion, he paused for a moment to admire it. It was unquestionably one of the finest
buildings in Cambridge, boasting three spacious chambers on the ground floor, and a number of smaller ones above that provided
sleeping quarters for her family and sizeable retinue. The window shutters were new and strong – a wise precaution, given
that disagreements between town and University were frequent and often turned nasty – and there was a very sturdy front door.

Of course, Bartholomew thought acidly, Emma had other reasons for being conscious of her security. She had grown rich on the
back of the plague, a ruthless opportunist who had made her fortune by buying up properties left vacant after the deaths of
their owners. She had paid the grieving heirs a pittance, and was now reaping the benefits of a sellers’ market.

Her ever-expanding empire had recently required her to move into the town centre so that she could better
monitor her myriad affairs. This had been greeted with mixed emotions by Cambridge’s residents. On the one hand, she was
generous to worthy causes, but on the other, most people were rather frightened of her and did not like her being in their
midst.

Bartholomew was about to knock on her door when a movement farther down the street caught his eye. It was the scholars of
Michaelhouse, leaving church after their morning devotions. The College’s Master, Ralph de Langelee, headed the procession,
and behind him were his six Fellows – they totalled seven with Bartholomew – and sixty or so students, commoners and servants.

Langelee nodded approvingly when he saw what Bartholomew was doing. Emma had offered to fund the repair of Michaelhouse’s
notoriously leaky roofs, although her bounty had not come without a price: in return, she wanted masses for her late husband’s
soul, and free medical treatment for herself. Langelee was delighted with the arrangement, but Bartholomew was not: Emma was
a demanding client, and tending her meant less time for his teaching and other patients.

One of the Fellows detached himself from the line, and walked towards the physician. Brother Michael, a portly Benedictine,
was a theologian and Bartholomew’s closest friend. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, which meant he was in charge
of maintaining law and order among Cambridge’s several hundred scholars. Over the years, he had contrived to expand and enhance
his authority to the point where he now ran the entire University, and its Chancellor was little more than a figurehead –
someone to take the blame in times of trouble.

‘Has Emma demanded yet
another
consultation?’ he asked, pulling Bartholomew away from the door so they could talk. ‘You spend half your life with her these
days.’

‘She summoned me before dawn,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But we were interrupted by a burglar. When he ran away, she ordered
me to give chase.’

‘Lord!’ murmured Michael, round eyed. ‘It is a rash fellow who dares set thieving feet in
her
domain – she will have him hanged for certain. Did you catch him?’

‘No.’ Michael’s words made Bartholomew glad he had not. ‘And I am about to tell her so.’

Michael frowned. ‘Then perhaps I should accompany you, lest she is seized by the urge to run you through. The presence of
the Senior Proctor
may
serve to curtail her more murderous instincts.’

Bartholomew was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘Thank you. Personally, I would rather have leaking roofs than be obliged
to deal with her. It may sound feeble, but I find her rather sinister.’

‘So do I. Unfortunately, Langelee drew up the contract when I was away in Clare, and by the time I returned, all was signed
and settled. I was disgusted – not with him, but with the rest of you Fellows for letting him go ahead with it.’

‘We did not
let
him go ahead, Brother,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just went. Ever since last autumn, when one of his scholars transpired
to be corrupt, he has insisted on making all the important decisions alone. We argued against accepting Emma’s charity, but
he overrode us.’

‘He would not have overridden me,’ declared Michael, a hard, determined glint glowing in his baggy green eyes.

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we should not judge him too harshly. We lost a lot of money on reckless financial ventures
last year, and this hard winter means food prices are unusually high. He is only trying to keep us solvent.’

‘Then he should have found another way – I dislike the
fact that you are at Emma’s beck and call all hours of the day and night. It is not right.’ Michael grimaced as he glanced
at their benefactress’s handsome house. ‘I suppose we had better go and break the news that you were less than successful
with her thief. But I cannot face her on an empty stomach. We shall eat first.’

‘I cannot return to Michaelhouse for breakfast,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, not liking to think what Emma would say if he
did. Meals at College could be lengthy, and she would be waiting.

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall visit the Brazen George instead. That will not take long, and I do not see why
everything
we do should revolve around that wretched woman’s convenience.’

They began to walk the short distance to Michael’s favourite tavern. Trading had started in the Market Square and labourers
were at their daily grind, so the cacophony of commerce and industry was well under way – yells, clangs and the rumble of
iron-shod wheels on cobbles. The High Street thronged with people. There were scholars in the uniforms of their Colleges or
hostels, merchants in furlined cloaks, apprentices in leather aprons or grimy tunics, and even a quartet of pilgrims heading
for the Carmelite Priory. The pilgrims were identifiable by the wooden staffs they carried, and by the badges pinned on their
clothes that told people which holy places they had visited

‘The Carmelites are doing well these days,’ remarked Michael, watching the little party pass. ‘St Simon Stock’s shrine attracts
a lot of visitors, and is an important source of revenue for them.’

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, not very interested. He grinned suddenly when mention of the Carmelites reminded him of another
of the religious Orders. ‘Have
you identified the pranksters who put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ chapel roof yet?’

‘No,’ replied the monk tightly. ‘I have not.’

‘It was a skilful trick,’ Bartholomew went on, full of admiration for the perpetrators’ ingenuity. ‘I cannot imagine how they
lifted a bull, a cart and thirty sacks of sand on to a roof of that height.’

‘It was stupid,’ countered Michael, whose duty it was to catch the culprits and fine them. ‘Could they not have applied their
wits to something less disruptive? It took me two days to assemble the winches needed to lower them all down again.’

‘Do not be such a misery!’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, students playing tricks is better than students fighting.
Do you have any suspects?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And I shall list them all for you once we are out of this biting cold.’

Bartholomew followed him inside the Brazen George. Taverns were off-limits to scholars, on the grounds that they sold strong
drink and contained townsmen, a combin ation likely to lead to trouble. But Michael had decided that such rules did not apply
to him, and, as Senior Proctor, he was in a position to do as he pleased. Given that he fined others for enjoying what taverns
had to offer, it made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.

The Brazen George was a pleasant place, and Michael was so well known to its owner that there was a room at the back reserved
for his exclusive use. The chamber had real glass in its windows and overlooked a pretty courtyard. A fire blazed merrily
and welcomingly in the hearth.

‘I am concerned about this thief,’ said Michael, lowering his substantial bulk on to a stool and stretching his booted feet
towards the flames. ‘If he is reckless enough to chance
his hand against Emma, then no one is safe. He may try his luck on the University, and invade one of the wealthy Colleges.’

‘He will not choose Michaelhouse then,’ said Bartholomew, standing as close to the fire as it was possible to get without
setting himself alight. Even his high-speed chase had failed to dispel the chill that morning – he had woken shivering and
with icy feet, and had remained frozen ever since. Because the College was going through one of its lean phases, fires in
the Fellows’ rooms were an unthinkable luxury – unless they could pay for one themselves, which he could not.

‘No,’ agreed Michael gloomily. ‘We have nothing to interest a thief, more is the pity.’

‘Who are your suspects for the ox and cart trick?’ asked Bartholomew, to change the subject. Michaelhouse’s ongoing destitution
was a depressing topic for both of them.

‘The Dominicans are partial to practical jokes,’ Michael began. ‘While Principal Kendale of Chestre Hostel is famous for his
understanding of complex mechanics. They all deny it of course, presumably so they can add outwitting the Senior Proctor to
their list of achievements.’

‘Kendale?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘I doubt
he
took part in a jape. He seems too …’

‘Surly?’ suggested Michael when his friend hesitated, looking for the right word. ‘Malicious?’

‘Humourless,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘I doubt he has a sense of fun.’

When the taverner appeared, Michael ordered his ‘usual’ – a substantial repast that involved a lot more than he would have
been given at Michaelhouse.

‘Kendale
does
have a sense of fun,’ he said, when they were alone again. ‘Unfortunately, it is one that finds amusement
in the misfortune of others. When that King’s Hall student was injured in the trick involving the bull last week, he and
his students laughed so hard that I was obliged to spend the rest of the day making sure they were not lynched for their heartlessness.’

‘I cannot imagine what started this current wave of antipathy between Colleges and hostels,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know there
has always been some jealousy and resentment, but it was never this strong.’

Cambridge’s eight Colleges had endowments, which meant they tended to be larger and richer than the hostels, and occupied
nicer buildings – although Michaelhouse was currently an exception to the rule. They were also more permanent; hostels came
and went with bewildering rapidity, and Bartholomew was never sure how many were in existence at any one time. Some Colleges
were arrogant and condescending to their less fortunate colleagues, which inevitably resulted in spats, but it was unusual
for the ill feeling to simmer in quite so many foundations simultaneously.

‘It is Kendale’s doing,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He is busily fanning the flames of discord as hard as he can, for no reason
other than that it amuses him to see two factions quarrel.’

‘The rivalry is mostly innocent, though,’ said Bartholomew, watching the landlord bring a platter of assorted meat, bread,
custard and a bowl of apples. ‘No one has been hurt – except the student with the bull, and that was largely his own fault.’

‘It is mostly innocent
so far
,’ corrected Michael. ‘But I have a bad feeling it will escalate. It is a pity, because we have been strife-free for weeks
now. Relations between town and University have warmed, and the last squabble I quelled was back in October. Damn Kendale
for putting an end
to the harmony! I really thought we might be heading towards a lasting peace this time.’

Bartholomew doubted that would ever happen. Even when the town was not at loggerheads with the
studium generale
it had not wanted within its walls in the first place, academics were a turbulent crowd. The different religious Orders were
always fighting among themselves, and there were more feuds within and between foundations than he could count. The concord
they had enjoyed since October was an aberration, and he had known it was only ever a matter of time before Cambridge reverted
to its usual state of conflict.