An Unholy Alliance by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

sent six Franciscans from Lincoln, which must be a welcome boost to your numbers.’
    Bartholomew smiled politely, although he was not so certain that the arrival of the Franciscans was welcome.
    So far, all they had done was to try to get the other scholars into debates about heresy and to criticise the Master’s tolerant rule.
    The Warden led them up some stairs at the rear of the Hall and knocked on a door on the upper floor.
    There was no answer.
    ‘Poor Master Buckley was most unwell last night,’
    said the Warden in a whisper. “I thought it might be wise to allow him to sleep this morning and recover his strength.’
    ‘What was wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew,
    exchanging a quick glance of concern with Michael.
    The Warden shrugged. ‘You know him, Doctor. He is never very healthy and the summer heat has made him worse. Last night, we had eels for supper, and he always eats far more than his share, despite your warnings about his diet. None of us were surprised when he said he felt ill.’ He knocked on the door again, a little louder.
    With a growing fear of what he might find, Bartholomew grasped the handle of the door and pushed it open. The three men stood staring in astonishment. The room was completely bare. Not a stick of furniture, a wall hanging, or a scrap of parchment remained. And there was certainly no sign of Master Buckley.
    AFTER THEY TOOK THEIR LEAVE OF THE bewildered
    warden, Bartholomew and Michael
    walked back to Michaelhouse together.
    ‘We still need to talk to the man who locked up the church,’ said Bartholomew.
    Michael pulled a face. ‘Not until I have had something to eat,’ he said. ‘What a morning! We are dragged out of mass to look at a corpse in the University chest, we discover a nasty poisoning device, we see a murdered harlot, and we find that the Vice-Chancellor has run away carrying all his worldly goods and some of King’s Hall’s. And all before breakfast.’
    “I am supposed to be teaching now,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at the sun, already high in the sky. ‘These students will face their disputations soon and need all the teaching they can get, especially Robert Deynman/
    ‘They will have to wait a little longer,’ said Michael, pointing across the yard to where the porter stood talking with a young woman. ‘You have a patient.’
    Seeing Bartholomew and Michael walk through the
    gate, the woman began to walk towards them, the
    porter’s attentions forgotten. Bartholomew recognised her as Frances de Belem, the daughter of one of
    the wealthy merchants on Milne Street, who owned a house next to that of his brotherin-law Sir Oswald Stanmore. Years before, Stanmore and de Belem had started negotiations to marry Frances to Bartholomew, so that Stanmore’s cloth trade could be linked to de Belem’s dyeing business. At fourteen years of age, Bartholomew had no intentions of being married to a baby, nor of becoming a tradesman, and he had
    fled to study at Oxford. De Belem had promptly found another merchant’s son, and Stanmore, fortunately for Bartholomew, was not a man to bear grudges when his errant kinsman returned fifteen years later to take up a position as Fellow of Medicine at Michaelhouse.
    The rift between Stanmore and de Belem caused by Bartholomew’s flight, however, had never completely healed, and Bartholomew was still occasionally subjected to doleful looks from his brotherin-law when
    de Belem overcharged him for dyes. But Frances bore Bartholomew no ill will and always seemed pleased to see him. Her marriage ended, as did many, when the plague took her husband the previous year.
    As Bartholomew walked towards her, he noticed that her face was white and stained with tears. She almost broke into a run as he drew close, and was unable to prevent a huge sob as she clutched at his arm.
    ‘Frances?’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Whatever is the matter? Is your father ill?’
    She shook her head miserably. “I must talk to you, Doctor,’