Death of a Scholar

Another man who considered himself a cut above hefting pails was Potmoor, his mustachioed face wearing a sly look that made Bartholomew wonder whether he was responsible for the blaze. Nearby, his hulking son Hugo stood with Holm, both watching Julitta. Bartholomew could not tell if the surgeon was proud or resentful of his wife’s organisational skills. With a stab of disappointment, he saw Richard was not helping either — he was with Goodwyn and the other new medical students, laughing in a way that suggested he did not care that the town was in danger.

‘You will have trouble with them,’ came a voice at his side. It was Hemmysby. The gentle Michaelhouse theologian was also trying to keep his finery clean for the debate, but that did not stop him from working as hard as anyone. ‘It is a pity Langelee accepted them.’

‘Perhaps they will leave once they realise that reading medicine is hard work,’ said Bartholomew hopefully.

‘It is with you!’ Hemmysby’s smile took the sting from his words. ‘You drive your lads harder than any other master in the University, although it has its rewards. Five of the seven who graduated last year secured excellent posts in noble households.’

This was a sore point. Bartholomew had hoped they would dedicate themselves to doing something more useful than calculating horoscopes for the wealthy, and their appointments made him feel as though he had wasted his time. He called over to their replacements, and ordered them to join the line. They obeyed with ill grace, Richard trailing at their heels.

‘I do not see why I should labour like a peasant,’ grumbled Goodwyn. ‘There are more than enough low types here for that, and I…’

He faltered when he saw the dark expression on his teacher’s face, and promptly turned his attention to his duties. Richard laughed uproariously at the exchange, although there was a brittle quality to his guffaws that made them sound more mocking than amused.

At last the town’s frenzied labours paid off, and someone called out the welcome news that the fire was out. People flexed aching arms and shoulders, congratulating each other on their efforts. But all asked the same question: how had it started?

‘I expect it was that drunken vicar,’ said Eyer. ‘He must have knocked over a candle.’

‘Or Potmoor,’ suggested Goodwyn. ‘Look at him — you can see from here that he is disappointed the church is saved. He is a killer and a thief, and arson is nothing to him.’

‘Potmoor is a thief,’ whispered Hemmysby to Bartholomew. ‘But I doubt he stole our hutch, so I hope Michael does not accuse him of it. It will be someone else. Winwick Hall, perhaps.’

‘You said that earlier,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘But you had no evidence.’

‘And I have none now. Yet I sense that all will turn out well in the end.’ Hemmysby laughed suddenly. ‘Lord! I sound as credulous as Cynric!’

‘Who is that fellow lurking at the back of the church?’ asked Goodwyn, pointing with a bony finger. ‘One of Potmoor’s henchmen? He looks very suspicious.’

‘That is Nicholas Fulbut,’ supplied Richard. ‘He is a mercenary, and he does sell his services to Potmoor on occasion. De Stannell told me that he is wanted for all manner of crimes.’

‘Then have you told de Stannell that he is here?’ asked Hemmysby archly. ‘Or, as I am sure you are a model citizen with a sense of duty and justice, why have you not arrested him yourself?’

‘Oh, he has disappeared now,’ said Richard. ‘What a pity.’

‘A pity indeed,’ murmured Hemmysby coolly.

Rudely, Richard turned his back on the priest and addressed his cronies. ‘I wonder why Knyt did not attend the Guild meeting today. He would not have let the Michaelhouse Choir sing next week. De Stannell was like clay in Potmoor’s hands over the matter.’

‘Colic confines him to bed,’ explained Eyer. ‘His wife told me when she came to collect bryony root to make him a soothing tonic.’

‘I think I shall join Michael’s choir,’ said Goodwyn, grinning impishly at his classmates. ‘I understand a lack of musical talent is no barrier, and there is free ale afterwards.’

‘Then I shall inform him of your interest,’ said Hemmysby sweetly. ‘He is always looking for volunteers to help serve the food and drink, and I am sure you will not mind waiting on paupers.’

When the bell in St Mary the Great chimed to announce that the Cambridge Debate was about to begin, most scholars hurried away. A number of matriculands lingered, though, eyeing a group of apprentices and clearly ready for a brawl. Michael dealt with the would-be students, but de Stannell was no better at exerting authority on unruly youths than he was at fighting fires, and the town lads continued to loiter. Unwilling to go far until they had dispersed, Michael went to inspect the church, picking his way up the aisle carefully, lest water or ashes should soil his best habit.

‘Have you spoken to Heyford?’ asked Bartholomew, following him inside and flapping at the smoke that still swirled. ‘To determine whether this is arson or accident?’