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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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seemed to be heavily one-sided, with Clippesby doing most of the talking. How the saints managed to make him shut up long
enough to pass any kind of message to him was entirely beyond Bartholomew’s understanding.
‘He will come to no harm,’ said Walcote reassuringly, seeing Bartholomew’s concern. ‘Everyone knows he is touched, and so
will leave him alone. If the truth be known, I think he frightens people. They do not understand the things he says and does,
and they are afraid of him.’
‘They have good reason to be,’ announced Michael. ‘I am afraid of him myself.’
Still glancing uneasily behind him at Clippesby, who sauntered along Hadstock Way as if he had not a care in the world, Bartholomew
followed Michael and Walcote across the Dominicans’ courtyard to the Prior’s lodging. They were hurriedly intercepted by a
man with heavy brow-ridge, like an ape, who introduced himself as Thomas Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary. He instructed them
to wait until Prior Morden had been informed that he had visitors – something that invariably annoyed Michael, who liked to
burst in on people unawares to see if he could catch them doing something he could use to his advantage.
After a chilly wait in the courtyard, where a sharp wind blew dead leaves from the previous autumn around in desolate little
eddies, Ringstead came to tell them the great man was ready. Michael elbowed him aside and made his way to the Prior’s comfortable
office on the first floor, pushing open the door so hard that it flew back and crashed against the wall. The tiny man who
sat writing at a table near the window almost jumped out of his skin.
‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ he complained in a high-pitched voice, almost like a child’s. ‘You do it every time
you visit, and I keep telling you that the hinges are delicate.’
Ringstead inspected the wall behind the door, and cluckedsoftly at the plaster flakes that lay on the floor. Judging from the small cracks that radiated from a circular indentation
at the level of the latch, either Michael had visited Prior Morden with some frequency, or the fat monk was not the only one
who liked to enter the solar with a bang.
‘Very sorry,’ said Michael, not sounding in the least contrite as he strode across the room and placed himself in front of
a blazing fire, depriving everyone else of the heat by blocking it with his bulk.
Prior Morden sighed irritably and put down his pen. If Lincolne of the Carmelites was a giant, then Morden of the Dominicans
was an elf. His head did not reach Bartholomew’s shoulder, and the physician noticed that when the Prior sat in the chair
his feet did not touch the floor. He was dressed in an immaculate habit of fine black wool, and a delicate silver cross hung
around his neck.
‘I expected you yesterday,’ said Morden, picking up a sheaf of parchments and shuffling them fussily. ‘I heard what happened
with that Carmelite, and I suspected you would come to try to blame his death on us Dominicans.’
‘I am here to discover who killed Faricius of Abington, not to blame the innocent,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Do you have any
idea what happened yesterday?’
‘What happened is that the Carmelites challenged my student-friars to a fight, but then ran away like cowards to skulk within
their walls when we responded,’ stated the little man uncompromisingly.
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘The gathering of Dominicans in Milne Street, who threw stones – not only at the Carmelite Friary but
at the houses of the merchants who live nearby – was the Carmelites’ responsibility, was it?’
‘Essentially,’ said Morden, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Prior Lincolne wrote a proclamation saying that anyone who followed
the theory of nominalism should be burned in the Market Square for heresy, and then had the audacity to pin it up at St Mary’s
Church. But it is the
seemed to be heavily one-sided, with Clippesby doing most of the talking. How the saints managed to make him shut up long
enough to pass any kind of message to him was entirely beyond Bartholomew’s understanding.
‘He will come to no harm,’ said Walcote reassuringly, seeing Bartholomew’s concern. ‘Everyone knows he is touched, and so
will leave him alone. If the truth be known, I think he frightens people. They do not understand the things he says and does,
and they are afraid of him.’
‘They have good reason to be,’ announced Michael. ‘I am afraid of him myself.’
Still glancing uneasily behind him at Clippesby, who sauntered along Hadstock Way as if he had not a care in the world, Bartholomew
followed Michael and Walcote across the Dominicans’ courtyard to the Prior’s lodging. They were hurriedly intercepted by a
man with heavy brow-ridge, like an ape, who introduced himself as Thomas Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary. He instructed them
to wait until Prior Morden had been informed that he had visitors – something that invariably annoyed Michael, who liked to
burst in on people unawares to see if he could catch them doing something he could use to his advantage.
After a chilly wait in the courtyard, where a sharp wind blew dead leaves from the previous autumn around in desolate little
eddies, Ringstead came to tell them the great man was ready. Michael elbowed him aside and made his way to the Prior’s comfortable
office on the first floor, pushing open the door so hard that it flew back and crashed against the wall. The tiny man who
sat writing at a table near the window almost jumped out of his skin.
‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ he complained in a high-pitched voice, almost like a child’s. ‘You do it every time
you visit, and I keep telling you that the hinges are delicate.’
Ringstead inspected the wall behind the door, and cluckedsoftly at the plaster flakes that lay on the floor. Judging from the small cracks that radiated from a circular indentation
at the level of the latch, either Michael had visited Prior Morden with some frequency, or the fat monk was not the only one
who liked to enter the solar with a bang.
‘Very sorry,’ said Michael, not sounding in the least contrite as he strode across the room and placed himself in front of
a blazing fire, depriving everyone else of the heat by blocking it with his bulk.
Prior Morden sighed irritably and put down his pen. If Lincolne of the Carmelites was a giant, then Morden of the Dominicans
was an elf. His head did not reach Bartholomew’s shoulder, and the physician noticed that when the Prior sat in the chair
his feet did not touch the floor. He was dressed in an immaculate habit of fine black wool, and a delicate silver cross hung
around his neck.
‘I expected you yesterday,’ said Morden, picking up a sheaf of parchments and shuffling them fussily. ‘I heard what happened
with that Carmelite, and I suspected you would come to try to blame his death on us Dominicans.’
‘I am here to discover who killed Faricius of Abington, not to blame the innocent,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Do you have any
idea what happened yesterday?’
‘What happened is that the Carmelites challenged my student-friars to a fight, but then ran away like cowards to skulk within
their walls when we responded,’ stated the little man uncompromisingly.
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘The gathering of Dominicans in Milne Street, who threw stones – not only at the Carmelite Friary but
at the houses of the merchants who live nearby – was the Carmelites’ responsibility, was it?’
‘Essentially,’ said Morden, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Prior Lincolne wrote a proclamation saying that anyone who followed
the theory of nominalism should be burned in the Market Square for heresy, and then had the audacity to pin it up at St Mary’s
Church. But it is the
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