A Bone of Contention (15 page)

For a moment, both men stood together staring down at the neat row of sheeted figures that lay on the beaten-earth floor. Then, anxious to complete his task as soon as possible, Bartholomew knelt next to the first one, and drew back the rough cover. Memories surged forward unbidden as he found himself looking into the face of the French student he had fought, and whom Mistress Tyler had stabbed. He made a pretence at searching for other wounds, glad that the clerk's mind was on his writing, but feeling as if guilt must shine from every pore in his body. He muttered that the cause of death was due to a single stab wound in the back, covered the body, and moved on thankfully to the next one.

If anything, this was a worse encounter, for it was the corpse of the friar he had mistaken for Michael. He found his hands were shaking, and blinked the sweat from his eyes. For a moment he thought he might faint, and had to close his eyes tightly before he could regain control of himself.

'Have you identified this friar?' he asked, partly for information, but mainly because he wanted to hear the clerk's voice in this room of death.

'Brother Accra from Godwinsson,' said the clerk, consulting a list.

Godwinsson again! 'How can you be sure?' Bartholomew snapped, rattled. He continued a little more gently. 'His skull is crushed beyond all recognition.'

'He was identified by a scar on his knee,' said the clerk, apparently oblivious to Bartholomew's outburst. 'Principal Lydgate and a Brother Edred were the witnesses. They both claimed there was no doubt.'

Bartholomew covered the friar's mangled head with its blanket, and braced himself for the next one. It was the potter he had tended that morning. He glanced along the row of bodies and saw that there were nine, and not eight after all.

'This man is dead from crushing injuries caused by a cart,' he told the clerk. 'I saw him alive this morning, but did not think much to his chances.'

The fourth body was so badly burned that Bartholomew could not recognise the features. A sudden picture of old Master Burney came into his head as he remembered the tannery workshop collapsing in the High Street. Other visions flitted through his mind too: the Market Square alive with fire, and someone staggering across it as the flames leapt up his body until he fell. Bartholomew peered more closely at the corpse in the dim light, but there was nothing familiar in the hairless, blackened head. He moved on.

Of the next four, one was a student, and the others townsmen. All had died of knife wounds, great gaping red slashes that had splintered the bone beneath. The last was the body of a woman with long fair hair. Bartholomew was appalled to see that she had been much misused. Her face was battered beyond recognition, and she had been raped. He told the clerk who did not write it down.

'Better to write that she died from a head injury, Doctor.

That is what you say killed her?'

Bartholomew frowned at him across the gloomy room.

'The wound to her head was the fatal one,' he said, 'but she has also been raped. What purpose is there in suppressing the truth?'

'The purpose is to prevent grounds for another riot," said a voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned to see Richard Tulyet, the Sheriff, leaning against the door frame.

Tulyet, small, slight and efficient, gazed in distaste into the outbuilding and waited for Bartholomew to come out.

The clerk remained behind to finish making a record of Bartholomew's findings, his pen scratching away in the small circle of light thrown out by the lantern.

'The townspeople might revolt again if we tell them one of their womenfolk was raped before she was murdered,'

Tulyet said, closing the door and turning to look across the bailey. He made a sound of impatience as one of his men dropped a sword. The soldiers were nervous, and one of the sergeants strutted round them, yelling in a vain attempt to boost their courage. 'The town will automatically assume that the crime was committed by students, regardless of the truth.'

'I understand that,' said Bartholomew. 'But when her family comes to claim the body they will see for themselves what has happened. You do not need to be a physician to see how she was misused.'

'We have already considered that,' replied Tulyet. 'And so we are not releasing the dead to their families. The University will bury the students; the town will bury die others. In that way, no one will see the bodies, or attempt to instigate another riot to avenge them.'

'And that woman's attackers will go unpunished,' remarked Bartholomew disapprovingly. 'Perhaps they might commit such a crime again when the fancy takes them. Why not? No one bothered to investigate the first time.'

'Would you have me risk another riot and nine dead to avenge a rape?' asked Tulyet coldly.

'Yes I would,' Bartholomew returned forcefully. 'Because if you do not word will get round that any vile crime can be committed, and you will do nothing about it lest it interfere with the King's peace. Then, Master Tulyet, you will have a riot masking crimes that will make last night's business seem tame.'

Tulyet turned from him with a gesture of impatience.

'You scholars think you can mend the world with philosophy,' he said. 'I am a practical man, and I want to prevent another riot — whatever the cost.'

'And if your cost is too high?' demanded Bartholomew.

'What then?'

Tulyet tipped his head back, looking up at the darkening sky. Some of the anger went out of him and he grimaced. 'Perhaps you are right, Matt. But what would you have us do?'

Bartholomew contemplated. 'Make discreet inquiries.

Find out who last saw her alive and with whom.' He gripped Tulyet's mailed arm, his expression earnest. 'You should at least try, Dick. Supposing some of the townspeople saw her raped and murdered and are expecting at least some attempt to catch the culprit? The last thing the town needs is a retaliation killing.'

'Is that not what last night was about anyway?' asked Tulyet, leaning against the dark grey stone of the curtain wall, and scrubbing at his fair beard. 'Scholars seeking to avenge the death of James Kenzie and townsfolk the poor child in the Ditch?'

'Oswald Stanmore does not think so,' said Bartholomew.

'And neither does Brother Michael. Both believe the riot to be part of some other plot.'

Tulyet's interest quickened. 'Really? Do they know what?'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'No. But both arrived at the same conclusion independently of each other: that the riot was a means, not an end in itself.'

Tulyet took his arm and guided him to his office in the round keep that loomed over the bailey. He glanced around before closing the door, ensuring that they could talk without being overheard. 'I have been thinking along the same lines myself,' he said, his expression intense. 'I cannot understand why the town should have chosen last night to riot-1 do not see Kenzie's death or the discovery of the skeleton as particularly compelling motives to fight.

It has been scratching at the back of my mind all day.'

Bartholomew rubbed at his temples. 'When Brother Michael and I found Kenzie murdered, it went through our minds that the students might riot if they believed he had been killed by a townsperson. We went to some trouble to keep our thoughts on the matter to ourselves.

But neither of us anticipated that the scale of the rioting would be so great. It was terrifying.'

Tulyet puffed out his cheeks, and gave him a rueful smile. 'You were terrified! Imagine what it felt like to be the embodiment of secular law — for scholar and townsperson alike to single out for violence and abuse!

These are dangerous times, Matt. Since the plague, outlaws have flourished and it is difficult to recruit soldiers to replace the ones we lost. Violent crime is more difficult to control and the high price of bread has driven even usually law-abiding people to criminal acts.

But all this does not answer our basic question: what was the real cause of last night's violence?'

'Perhaps the way forward is to investigate the crimes that were perpetrated under its cover: for example the rape of that woman, and the burglary at Deschalers's home,' suggested Bartholomew.

'Those among others!' said Tulyet with resignation. 'I have had reports of three similar lootings — where only what was easily carried and of the highest value was stolen — and there are the nine deaths to consider.'

'Do you think one of those nine is at the heart of all this?' asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet shrugged. 'I think it unlikely. The only one of any standing or influence was the young friar from Godwinsson.'

Bartholomew told him about the visit he and Michael had paid to Godwinsson Hostel and the possible roles of the student friars, Edred and Werbergh, in Kenzie's death.

'Godwinsson,' mused Tulyet. 'Now that I find interesting.'

He went to a wall cupboard and poured two goblets of wine, inviting Bartholomew to sit on one of the hard, functional benches that ran along the walls of his office.

Once his guest was settled as comfortably as possible on the uncompromising wood, Tulyet perched on the edge of the table. He swirled the wine around in his goblet, and regarded Bartholomew thoughtfully.

'We should talk more often,' he said. 'Not only are two of the dead from last night students of Godwinsson — a friar and a Frenchman — but this morning, the Principal of Godwinsson told me that his wife is missing.'

'So, Mistress Lydgate has flown the nest,' mused Michael, leaning back in his chair and smiling maliciously. 'Well, I for one cannot blame her, although I would say the same if it were the other way around, and Lydgate had taken to his heels.'

'A most charitable attitude, Brother,' said Bartholomew mildly. 'It is good to see that compassion is not dead and gone in the Benedictine Order.'

Tulyet was sitting on the chest in Bartholomew's room at Michaelhouse sipping some of the sour wine left from breakfast. Because it was dark, and therefore after the early curfew imposed following the riot, Tulyet had escorted Bartholomew back to Michaelhouse. The streets had been silent and deserted, but Bartholomew had been unnerved to detect a very real atmosphere of unease and anticipation. Doors of houses were not fully closed and voices whispered within.

'This is an unpleasant brew,' said Tulyet, looking in distaste at the deep red wine in his goblet. 'I would have expected better from Michaelhouse.'

'Then you must go to the Senior Fellow's chamber,' said Michael. 'He is the man with the taste, and the purse, for fine wines, not a poor Benedictine and an impoverished physician. But tell us about Mistress Lydgate. What happened at Godwinsson last night?'

Tulyet shrugged. 'Master Lydgate was out all night and discovered his wife was missing when he returned this morning.'

'Why was the Principal of a University hostel abroad on such a night?' demanded Michael. 'Why was he not at home, ensuring his students kept out of mischief, and protecting his hostel? And more to the point, why is he bothering you about his missing wife?'

Tulyet shook his head. Tt just slipped out. He came to the Castle this morning to identify a couple of the people killed last night. He was in quite a temper, and ranted on to me for some time about the audacity of his students to get themselves killed when it was so inconvenient for him. When I asked him what he meant he blustered for a while. Eventually he revealed that his wife had left him.'

'And where did he say he was last night, instead of locking up his wife and students?' asked Michael.

'I was told, begrudgingly — for I was assured his whereabouts were none of the Sheriffs concern — that he had been dining at Maud's Hostel and had remained there when he saw how the streets seethed with violence.'

'Maud's?' asked Bartholomew, pricking up his ears.

'Two of my students claimed they stayed at Maud's last night. I can ask them to verify Lydgate's alibi.'

'Can you indeed?' said Tulyet, fixing bright eyes on Bartholomew. 'Master Lydgate will not be pleased to hear that. It is no secret that the Master of Maud's — Thomas Bigod — is not kindly disposed to secular law, and would never confirm or deny an alibi to help me. Bigod recently lost title to a wealthy manor in the secular courts, and is said to have missed out on a fortune because of it. He holds me, as the embodiment of secular law in the area, responsible for his misfortune.'

'He is none too fond of University law, either,' said Michael gleefully. 'Guy Heppel arrested him the other night for being drunk and disorderly. Unfortunately, he ended up being our guest for longer than necessary because Heppel lost the keys to the cells.'

Tulyet roared with laughter and clapped his hands.

'Excellent! I wish I could have seen that! Heppel, for all his physical frailty, knows how to give a man his just deserts. Bigod has been a thorn in my side for months, using every opportunity to thwart the course of law and justice.'

'And I imagine Lydgate is only too aware of Bigod's antipathy to you,' said Bartholomew, 'which is why Lydgate chose him to provide an alibi.' He went to the door and told a passing student to fetch Gray and Deynman.

Tulyet stroked his fair beard thoughtfully. 'All this is most interesting. I told Lydgate to liaise with the University Proctors regarding his dead students' remains.

He became abusive and said he did not want you near them because he was not convinced of your competence.

I was rather surprised.'

'Well, I am not,' said Michael. 'Master Lydgate and I have had cause to rub shoulders once or twice recently, and the experience was not a pleasant one for either of us. The man is little more than a trained ape in a scholar's gown.'

'What makes you think he is trained?' asked Bartholomew.

'I heard he bought his way through his disputations when he was a student here,' said Tulyet. 'Is that true?'

'I would imagine so,' replied Michael, not in the least surprised by the rumour. 'I doubt he earned his degree by the application of intellect. Perhaps that is another reason why he did not want the Proctors looking too carefully into his affairs. Anyway, we certainly did not part on the most amicable of terms — he probably overheard us discussing the burning of the tithe barn yesterday, and resents his ancient crime being resurrected after so long.'