The Lost Prophecies (28 page)

‘Your Junior Proctor ordered me to stand here,’ he said resentfully. ‘He expects me to prevent any Peterhouse man from leaving to cause trouble.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, knocking at the door. ‘Yet you do not seem happy. What is the matter?’

March’s pig-like face was angry. ‘I was scheduled for tavern patrol today, not standing about in the rain. I do not want to be here all night, when I could be—’

‘Drinking?’ finished Michael, knowing exactly why the beadle was dissatisfied with his lot. ‘I am sorry your duties are interfering with your pleasures, but these things happen.’

‘Will he stay at his post?’ asked Bartholomew, watching March stamp off to check a back gate.

‘Who knows?’ said Michael. ‘I have never trusted him – I think it was he who started the poisonous rumour that set the friars against each other last month, and I cannot help but wonder whether he has been doing the same with Peterhouse and King’s Hall. Perhaps the tales about him are true, and he
was
a criminal before he settled in Cambridge seven years ago.’

A porter conducted the visitors to the hall, where Wittleseye was presiding over a disputation. Bartholomew did not know whether to be alarmed or amused when he learned that the topic under discussion was ‘Let us enquire whether sacred books should be in the hands of warriors’. Wittleseye asked a colleague to take over the debate and took Bartholomew and Michael to a solar, where they could talk undisturbed.

‘Our Master is in Ely, at a synod with the heads of the other colleges,’ said Wittleseye, sitting on a bench. ‘He left me in charge – naturally, given that I am the archbishop’s nephew.’

‘I had forgotten the Masters were away,’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘But it makes sense: the real heads of Peterhouse and King’s Hall would have stamped out this feud the moment it began.’

‘Have you arrested the Bardolfs?’ asked Wittleseye, trying without success to hear what the physician was saying. ‘They killed five of our students today.’

‘And they will kill no more,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Neither will you. Hugh was mostly responsible, and he is dead himself, so let that mark the end of this unedifying business.’

‘It is unedifying,’ agreed Wittleseye. ‘But the Bardolfs started it by gloating over the fact that they have the Black Book of Brân. They are not suitable custodians for such a dangerous tome. I urge you to take it from them and place it in the hands of priests.’

‘How they come to own the book is a curious tale,’ said Michael, ignoring the demand. ‘They say it was waiting for them on the altar, just as they were making one of their rare appearances in church.’

‘They are liars,’ replied Wittleseye bitterly. ‘One of them put it there, and they only pretended to find it. How dare they expect intelligent men to believe such nonsense!’

‘What do
you
think happened, then?’ asked Michael.

‘I think they stole it seven years ago and could not think of another way to justify it suddenly being in their possession.’

‘If you think they stole the book, then you must think they killed Drayton too,’ said Michael. ‘Murder is a serious crime, and such allegations should not be made lightly.’

‘Their guilt is obvious. They also wanted to buy the book and were furious when Drayton accepted my offer rather than theirs. Of course they killed Drayton – to get the book
and
to avenge themselves on him.’

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘If the tome had reappeared a few weeks later, then I might be inclined to believe you. But the Bardolfs are not patient men – they would not have been able to wait so many years.’

‘Especially with a book of prophecies,’ added Bartholomew dryly. ‘Delaying its “discovery” might mean missing a few.’

Wittleseye ignored him. ‘Well, someone put that book on the altar, and if it was not the Bardolfs, then who was it?’

‘Someone who wanted them to give it to their father?’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘And who might that be?’ demanded Wittleseye. ‘Lord Bardolf is
said
to be honourable – although I deplore the number of French witches he seems to have impregnated – but he is a warrior. The book should belong to the Church. I was going to give it to my uncle, the archbishop.’

‘It is all nonsense anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How can a monk writing eight hundred years ago know what is going to happen tomorrow?’

Wittleseye shot him a sour look. ‘The same way you physicians use astrological charts to devise more effective courses of treatment for patients, I imagine.’

Michael raised a hand when Bartholomew started to argue. ‘We did not come for a debate. We came to hear what you had to say about the Market Square incident, and to warn you against more scandalous behaviour. Where is Neuton? He did nothing to calm troubled waters, and we should speak to him too.’

‘He is probably in the kitchen, filling his wineskin,’ replied Wittleseye sulkily, resenting the reprimand. ‘He usually is at this time of day. I will take you there.’

But the kitchen was deserted, and the door that allowed the unloading of supplies direct from the street stood ajar. Wittleseye slammed it shut with a bad-tempered kick.

‘I have told the cooks a dozen times to be more careful. Do they want King’s Hall to sneak in and slit our throats while we sleep? They say the latch sticks, and they leave it open for convenience, but we cannot afford to be lax—’

‘Neuton is not here,’ said Michael, interrupting what promised to become a tirade.

‘No, but there are his wine flasks.’ Wittleseye pointed to a shelf that contained several identical containers. He took one down and shook it. ‘And they are full, so he
was
here not long ago. You cannot accuse me of trying to mislead you.’

‘It had not entered my mind,’ said Michael, forcing himself to be patient. ‘But I still need to speak to him. Where else might he be?’

‘In the church.’ Wittleseye looked defensive. ‘Not to drink without being bothered by students, naturally, but to pray at a time when the place is quiet.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Take us to him, then.’

Wittleseye led the way across a cobbled yard to where a tiny priests’ door allowed access to the church from the college grounds. It was cool inside the chapel, and the noise of the street was muted through its thick walls. It was growing late, and the light was beginning to fade, dulling the colourful brilliance of the new stained-glass windows.

Neuton was sitting on a bench, provided for ageing scholars whose legs would not support them through the lengthy sermons preached by wordy men like Wittleseye. His eyes were closed, and one fist was wrapped around his flask. At first, Bartholomew thought he had slipped into a tipsy doze, but when his cousin tapped him on the shoulder he listed to one side. Bartholomew caught him before he fell, staggering under the weight.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Michael. ‘Is he drunk?’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew, lowering the body to the floor. He inspected it briefly, then glanced up at the monk. ‘I think he has been poisoned.’

It was a long time before Bartholomew and Michael were able to leave Peterhouse. Wittleseye was convinced that his cousin had been murdered by King’s Hall, and his students were all for marching on the Bardolfs and demanding a fight that night. Michael was obliged to send for more beadles to ensure that they stayed in until tempers had cooled, aware that March could not do it single-handed. Even then, it was almost midnight before he felt it was safe for him and his Corpse Examiner to go home. Wearily, they made their way along the High Street towards Michaelhouse.

‘That wretched book has precipitated all this trouble,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘And I will not be able to sleep without knowing it is safe. The last thing we need is for it to be stolen – there will be a blood-bath for certain.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘It is locked in a church with a full-time guardian. How could anyone steal it?’

‘I am probably overreacting, but I cannot help it. There is too much at stake.’

It was not far out of the way, so Bartholomew went with him. All Saints’ was a dark mass against the sky, although a faint light could be seen under the west door. While Michael began the protracted process of explaining to Shirford why he wanted access at such an hour, Bartholomew did a circuit of the building, checking the windows and the back door. All were locked, and he returned to the front thinking the Black Book of Brân had chosen the right place in which to make its miraculous appearance, if security was what it was after.

‘It is very late,’ said Shirford, opening the door a crack and peering out suspiciously. ‘I was asleep. What do you want?’

‘To make sure you and the book are safe,’ replied Michael, pushing past him and indicating that he was to re-bar the door once they were inside. ‘There was a murder tonight.’

‘I know,’ said Shirford. ‘Junior Proctor St Philibert told King’s Hall there may be trouble, and warned them to take extra precautions. Roger was all for storming Peterhouse immediately, to strike a pre-emptive blow, but your deputy said anyone who leaves the college will spend the next month in prison. He has posted beadles on all their gates to make sure no one escapes.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pleased by John’s initiative. ‘Perhaps we shall avert trouble yet.’

‘I am beginning to have second thoughts about this job,’ said Shirford unhappily. ‘William underplayed the dangers, and I am a priest, not a warrior. It is all very well for him to issue orders that say no one can come in, but
he
does not have to bear the consequences. Agatha the laundress was livid earlier, when I told her she could not see the book.’

‘You mean Michaelhouse’s Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You refused her? Then you are a braver man than me! She has a long memory, so you had better hope the Bardolfs find you a parish as soon as your duties here are done. You will not be safe in Cambridge now.’

Shirford swallowed hard. Michaelhouse’s laundress was one of the most formidable characters in the county, and even the sheriff was wary of her.

‘We shall just ensure that the book is still nailed down, and then we will go,’ said Michael tiredly. He walked to the chancel and approached the altar. The book was open, and Shirford explained that he had been studying it before he fell asleep.

‘The verse about Tartarus’ hordes worries me deeply,’ he said. ‘The current ruler of Scotland is named Alexander, and England might be one of the six Christian kingdoms to be defiled.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘The current King of Scotland is called David.’

Shirford brightened. ‘Really? That is a relief! I did not like the notion of being assailed by Latin traders with long spoons. I had a feeling Roger was wrong when he said that would be the next verse to come true – after the ones about Peterhouse and King’s Hall.’

‘You discuss the contents of the book with Roger?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Although enrolled at a college and so technically an academic, Roger had never made any pretence at scholarship, and it was rumoured that he was barely literate.

‘He is the only person I ever see,’ explained Shirford. ‘He brings me food each night and usually stays to chat. We have nothing in common but the book, so we invariably talk about that. He often holds forth on current affairs, so I am disappointed to learn that his grasp of world politics is dubious.’

‘So is yours, apparently,’ said Michael. ‘But what do you know about events that took place seven years ago? We did not discuss Drayton’s murder when we were here earlier, and I would be grateful for any insights you have to offer.’

Shirford frowned as he struggled with ancient memories. ‘I know there was a rumour that Drayton acquired the book by burning down Hemel Hempstead’s priory. I also recall that Wittleseye was expecting to buy it the night Drayton died, but Drayton had brought Aristotle’s
On Dreams
to Peterhouse instead.’

‘No one told us about the Black Book of Brân,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘We were left to assume that there was nothing odd about the presence of the Aristotle. If people had been honest with us, we might have solved that murder years ago.’

Shirford shot him a crooked smile. ‘Can you blame them, when anyone admitting such knowledge would have found himself on your list of murder suspects? I met Drayton once. He was a vile creature, full of lies and craven words, and I recall thinking he was exactly the kind of fellow to burn down a priory for personal gain. No one mourned his passing, so perhaps his killer did the world a favour.’

Michael eyed him coolly. ‘I have heard that argument before, but murder is murder, no matter how unpopular the victim. You are not withholding information, are you? Because you approved of what the killer did?’

‘Of course not!’ The priest was shocked by the notion that he might be implicated in a crime. ‘I am just saying that Drayton was no innocent. Surely, you talked to witnesses who confirmed that? He was unpleasant to everyone.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Michael grudgingly. ‘I did come away with the impression that he had not a single redeeming quality.’

They left Shirford, ensuring he barred the door behind them, and began to walk home. They passed John, who was directing the beadles to patrol the areas in which he expected most trouble. He complained that they were spread too thinly, given that so many were tied up at Peterhouse and King’s Hall. Meanwhile, Beadle March grumbled that he was being forced to work too hard.

‘He made me stop Agatha the laundress just now,’ March whined. ‘I thought she was going to tear my head off and eat it. What man would not need a drink after that experience?’

John was sheepish. ‘We did not know it was Agatha until she removed her hood. To be honest, I thought she was Roger – she is the right height and build. Besides, she should not have been out at this time of night – the curfew bell sounded hours ago.’

‘Agatha goes out when she feels like it,’ said March. ‘And we do not get paid enough to discuss curfew bells with her. When we saw who it was, we let her pass unmolested.’

‘Not before you had treated her to the most grovelling apology I have ever heard,’ said John, disgusted. ‘She was breaking the law and you should have ordered her home.’