Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) by Susan McDuffie Read Free Book Online Page A

tablet to Delacey. The master opened the tablets, and his face also reddened. The boys sitting on the benches began a rumble of excited whispering, and I saw Crispin nudge Anthony, both of their smirks wider now.
    “So this is what you think of the art of grammar.”
    Donald said, “I am sorry, sir.”
    “I will speak with the Master. He will decide your punishment.”
    I groaned. Whatever had been on that tablet, it did not seem it was an explanation of the attributes of a noun.
    “The lecture is ended,” Delacey announced and exited the room, carrying the tablets and leading Donald by the ear, followed by an excited crowd of students and myself.
    Master Clarkson was at the lecture hall in a private office. Delacey went in with Donald and closed the door behind them. In short order, all three returned.
    “This young student has not attended well,” said Master Clarkson in stentorian tones. “He has made a mockery of the art of grammar.”
    “Let me see,” I asked, “as I am responsible for his behavior here.”
    Master Clarkson thrust the tablets at me. There was a crude picture of a woman with very large bare breasts, and someone had jotted down the attributes of a noun with arrows such as “size—large, gender—female, form—round, comparison—softer.”
    “Are you sure these are his tablets?” I asked. “I thought I saw someone pass them his way.”
    “He does not deny that they are his,” the Master retorted. “And he must be punished. He will be thrashed in front of the other students. I will be lenient on account of his new arrival here and his parentage.”
    It did not sound lenient to me. But Donald imperceptibly shook his head at me and I did not intervene.
    The students were assembled and Master Clarkson vigorously thrashed Donald’s backside ten times with a blackthorn stick. My own body shuddered as I listened to the blows, almost as if I myself was being beaten, but Donald bore it like a man and did not cry out.
    After it was over, Donald walked stiffly away, his hands fisted, but the other first-year students followed him, exclaiming and talking. The look he gave Anthony and Crispin spoke volumes. I saw him say something to Anthony but I did not catch the words. I could guess, however, and hoped Donald would have the good sense not to fight with him right away.
    “I’m leaving,” said Donald hotly to me in Gaelic when I caught up with him. “I’ll not be staying this afternoon for the stupid disputations.”
    Given the situation, I felt it best not to argue. “Why don’t we go to The Green Man and have some ale? Or go back to our lodgings? No doubt Mariota can fix something that will make your back feel somewhat better.”
    “I hate them. They are great louts. I will get them for this,” Donald swore as we left the lecture hall and walked to an alehouse. We ordered some ale and two meat pastries.
    “It didn’t hurt,” Donald insisted, although I did not for one second believe him. I had heard the sound of the stick. “But they’ll pay for this, just see if they don’t. Master Clarkson too. And that Delacey. They’ll all pay.”
    “Your father would have been proud of you.”
    “I could not tattle on them, like a babe,” Donald retorted. “But I’ll have it out of them later.” Just then our ale arrived and we drank awhile in silence.
    The door of the tavern opened. “Oh no,” Donald groaned, and I silently echoed his sentiments. Anthony and Crispin entered the tavern and sauntered up to us.
    “I’m sorry—” Anthony started to say, but Donald did not let him finish. He punched him and Anthony struck back, knocking Donald to the ground. Then Crispin entered the fray. Within an instant the three boys were at each other, pummeling and rolling in the grimy rushes on the floor, while the tavern keeper shouted he would loose the dogs on them if they did not stop, and I strove to pull them apart. There was a pitcher of ale on the trestle table and I grabbed it, threw