The Mark of a Murderer by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

immaculate grooming and he was perfectly attired now. His hair was fashionably cut, his
     gipon – a padded, above-the-knee tunic – fitted snugly around his waist, and he wore a sword-belt that aped the recent fashion
     among knights. The cloth of his cloak was expensive, while his soft-leather shoes were modelled into impractical points in
     the style popular among those who were not obliged to walk very far. In his patched and faded garments, still rumpled from
     his time with Matilde, Bartholomew felt grubby and impoverished. But for all his finery, Polmorva was unable to disguise the
     fact that his hair was thinning and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. By contrast, Bartholomew’s complexion was unblemished,
     resulting from plenty of exercise and the fact that his College rarely provided him with enough wine to allow debauchery.
     His hair was still mostly black, and he lacked the paunch that Polmorva’s expensive clothes could not disguise. He stood a
     little taller under the scrutiny, feeling that the years had been kinder to him than they had to his rival, and that he cut
     a finer figure, despite the disparity in the quality of their costumes.
    ‘Well,’ drawled Polmorva, reverting to spoken insults. ‘I see you have not used your education to earn your fortune. How have
     you managed to fall on such hard times?’ Hereached for the pouch that hung at his belt, and his voice dripped with contempt. ‘Perhaps I can oblige with a loan? At least
     you could buy a decent tabard.’
    ‘Who is this cockerel?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew, affronted on his friend’s behalf.
    Polmorva gave one of his infuriating smiles. ‘I see you are a forgetful man, Brother. We were introduced last week, when you
     examined Okehamptone’s corpse.’
    ‘I do not recall you,’ said Michael with calculated insouciance. ‘As Senior Proctor, I meet many important men, and tend to
     dismiss lesser mortals from my mind.’
    Polmorva gave another of his nasty sneers. ‘I am William de Polmorva, formerly Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and
     now Fellow of Queen’s College.’
    Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping. ‘They elected
you
Chancellor?’
    Polmorva preened himself. ‘A two-year appointment.’
    ‘Queen’s College?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You were a Fellow of University College when I knew you – after you had been expelled
     from Exeter.’
    ‘I was not expelled,’ objected Polmorva stiffly, and Bartholomew saw he had annoyed him. ‘I resigned, because University College
     offered me a better room.’
    Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘There were rumours that he was dismissed for embezzling.’
    ‘The rumours were false,’ said Polmorva coolly, while Michael gazed at Bartholomew in astonishment. It was unlike his mild-mannered
     friend to be so brazenly uncivil.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew again. ‘In a house owned by Merton?’
    ‘I was invited,’ replied Polmorva silkily. ‘I expressed a desire to be away from Oxford’s unsettled atmosphere, and Warden
     Duraunt asked if I would like to accompany him here. When I did not see you at the public debates last week, I made the assumption
     – wrongly, it would seem– that you had moved away. I confess I am surprised to see you today: if you have no time to attend compulsory disputations,
     then surely you have no time to satisfy a ghoulish interest in cadavers.’
    ‘He has been busy,’ said Michael, ‘with no time for old acquaintances – not even ones of your evident charm.’
    ‘Warden Duraunt is here?’ asked Bartholomew with eager pleasure. Some of his happiest Oxford memories were associated with
     Duraunt, a mentor who had been acutely intelligent, but also patient and gentle. ‘He is Warden of Merton now?’
    Polmorva inclined his head in a nod, and returned to his own quest for information. ‘Are you some sort of lackey to this monk,
     Bartholomew? Or do you make use of your medical