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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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might spread, so you start putting it out while I fetch help.’
Bartholomew seized a long-handled hoe and began to knock the little building to the ground. Fires were taken seriously in a town with lots of wooden houses and thatched roofs, so he was surprised when the onlookers did nothing but jeer and hoot. He glanced at them as he worked. The men were sullen and the women snide, united in their hatred of the University and its perceived affluence. One went so far as to lob a stone at him.
‘I love a good conflagration,’ taunted the furrier named Lenne, whose wife Isabel was at his side. ‘With luck, it will take their damned church as well.’
He coughed, the deep, painful hack of a man who had spent too many years inhaling hairs from the pelts he sold. Sadly, much of his antagonism towards the studium generale resulted from the fact that its physicians were powerless to cure him.
‘I have never liked St Michael’s,’ declared Isabel. ‘It stinks of scholars.’
‘Help me!’ shouted Bartholomew, bellowing to make himself heard over the mocking laughter that followed. ‘If the church ignites, your houses might be next.’
‘Not with this wind,’ countered Shirwynk. Bartholomew was surprised to see the brewer out and about so soon after losing his wife, and could only suppose that he had been unable to resist the temptation of joining the mischief. ‘The sparks are flying towards Gonville Hall and Michaelhouse, both places we should love to see incinerated.’
Bartholomew abandoned his efforts to persuade and concentrated on the shed. Just when he thought his efforts were in vain – that the church would burn anyway – Michael, Langelee and some of their students arrived. Once they did, the lean-to was quickly flattened and the flames stamped out.
‘I told you this would happen, Lenne,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘You promised to be careful.’
Lenne coughed again, then shrugged. ‘So I misjudged – just like Wayt of King’s Hall misjudged when he decided to sue Frenge for trespass. And now Frenge is dead.’
‘Murdered,’ hissed Isabel. ‘By a scholar.’
There was a growl of agreement from the crowd, but Michael drew himself up to his full and impressive height and it gradually died away.
‘We do not know the identity of the culprit yet, so I suggest you keep your accusations to yourselves. And before you indulge in any more shameful antics, you might want to remember that we cannot repair damaged buildings and buy bread and ale for the poor – your fellow citizens – after choir practices.’
‘Nor free care from the University’s Senior Physician,’ added Langelee tartly. ‘So bear that in mind the next time you leave us to burn.’
There were more mocking jeers, but they lacked conviction, and it was not long before the crowd began to disperse, especially when the wind changed course and blew smoke towards them. It made Lenne cough so violently that he had no breath to argue and limped away on Isabel’s arm. Soon, only the Michaelhouse men remained.
‘Can we leave you to finish here, Master?’ asked the monk wearily. ‘Matt needs to examine Letia Shirwynk, whom we believe might have died in suspicious circumstances.’
‘We cannot visit the brewery, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirwynk was among the onlookers just now, so he will not be at home to give us his permission.’
Michael smiled sweetly. ‘Then we shall just have to get it from Peyn instead – which I anticipate will be a lot easier than dealing with his sire.’
Once again, they hurried through the dark streets, Michael more fleet-footed than usual as he aimed to be home in time for the feast. They trotted down Water Lane, grimacing at the rank smell that seeped from the dyeworks even though they were closed, and were about to approach the brewery when Peyn emerged with some friends. He was so intent on bragging about his imminent move to Westminster that he did not notice the door pop open again
Bartholomew seized a long-handled hoe and began to knock the little building to the ground. Fires were taken seriously in a town with lots of wooden houses and thatched roofs, so he was surprised when the onlookers did nothing but jeer and hoot. He glanced at them as he worked. The men were sullen and the women snide, united in their hatred of the University and its perceived affluence. One went so far as to lob a stone at him.
‘I love a good conflagration,’ taunted the furrier named Lenne, whose wife Isabel was at his side. ‘With luck, it will take their damned church as well.’
He coughed, the deep, painful hack of a man who had spent too many years inhaling hairs from the pelts he sold. Sadly, much of his antagonism towards the studium generale resulted from the fact that its physicians were powerless to cure him.
‘I have never liked St Michael’s,’ declared Isabel. ‘It stinks of scholars.’
‘Help me!’ shouted Bartholomew, bellowing to make himself heard over the mocking laughter that followed. ‘If the church ignites, your houses might be next.’
‘Not with this wind,’ countered Shirwynk. Bartholomew was surprised to see the brewer out and about so soon after losing his wife, and could only suppose that he had been unable to resist the temptation of joining the mischief. ‘The sparks are flying towards Gonville Hall and Michaelhouse, both places we should love to see incinerated.’
Bartholomew abandoned his efforts to persuade and concentrated on the shed. Just when he thought his efforts were in vain – that the church would burn anyway – Michael, Langelee and some of their students arrived. Once they did, the lean-to was quickly flattened and the flames stamped out.
‘I told you this would happen, Lenne,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘You promised to be careful.’
Lenne coughed again, then shrugged. ‘So I misjudged – just like Wayt of King’s Hall misjudged when he decided to sue Frenge for trespass. And now Frenge is dead.’
‘Murdered,’ hissed Isabel. ‘By a scholar.’
There was a growl of agreement from the crowd, but Michael drew himself up to his full and impressive height and it gradually died away.
‘We do not know the identity of the culprit yet, so I suggest you keep your accusations to yourselves. And before you indulge in any more shameful antics, you might want to remember that we cannot repair damaged buildings and buy bread and ale for the poor – your fellow citizens – after choir practices.’
‘Nor free care from the University’s Senior Physician,’ added Langelee tartly. ‘So bear that in mind the next time you leave us to burn.’
There were more mocking jeers, but they lacked conviction, and it was not long before the crowd began to disperse, especially when the wind changed course and blew smoke towards them. It made Lenne cough so violently that he had no breath to argue and limped away on Isabel’s arm. Soon, only the Michaelhouse men remained.
‘Can we leave you to finish here, Master?’ asked the monk wearily. ‘Matt needs to examine Letia Shirwynk, whom we believe might have died in suspicious circumstances.’
‘We cannot visit the brewery, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirwynk was among the onlookers just now, so he will not be at home to give us his permission.’
Michael smiled sweetly. ‘Then we shall just have to get it from Peyn instead – which I anticipate will be a lot easier than dealing with his sire.’
Once again, they hurried through the dark streets, Michael more fleet-footed than usual as he aimed to be home in time for the feast. They trotted down Water Lane, grimacing at the rank smell that seeped from the dyeworks even though they were closed, and were about to approach the brewery when Peyn emerged with some friends. He was so intent on bragging about his imminent move to Westminster that he did not notice the door pop open again
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