‘A sabbatical?’ asked de Wetherset, while Michael frowned unhappily. Suttone was not the first to remark on the abrupt cessation of murders after Rougham had been hired to determine whether or not a death was due to natural causes. ‘I hope you did not visit Paris – I recall you studied there before you accepted the post at Cambridge – but we are at war with the French now.’
‘We have been at war with the French for as long as I can remember,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And that includes when I did my postgraduate training in Paris. But no one cares about the quarrel – in France or England – except nobles, kings and mercenaries.’
‘You sail remarkably close to treason, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset with an expression that was impossible to interpret. Bartholomew recalled that he was a dangerous man, who had not been elected to the exalted rank of Chancellor for nothing, and supposed he had better watch his tongue. ‘And I think you are wrong. A few months ago, you might have been right, but everything changed after the Battle of Poitiers. The French are angry in defeat and the English gloat in victory, even here, in a place where most people have barely heard of a place called France.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Suttone. ‘The battle has certainly given new life to the conflict.’
‘Which foreign universities did you visit?’ asked de Wetherset. He held up an imperious hand. ‘No, do not tell me – I shall guess. Padua, Montpellier and Bologna, because they are the schools that are most lax about what constitutes heresy. I have been told by more than one Italian medicus that anatomy is an intellectually profitable pursuit, and you always did chafe at the boundaries we set you.’
‘You were cutting up corpses with your foreign colleagues?’ asked Suttone in horror. ‘Anatomy is forbidden, Matthew – by the Lateran Council itself. You are a fool to dabble in the dark arts!’
‘I did not anatomise anyone,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I may have witnessed an examination or two, but I was only one of a dozen physicians and surgeons present. And what I learned allowed me to devise a way to alleviate the pain you suffered with the stone last week.’
‘Did it?’ asked Suttone warily. He reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose might be justifiable under certain circumstances, but please do not do it in Lincoln. Michael and I have our reputations to consider, and they will not be enhanced if you do that sort of thing in front of the general populace.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the man in the shadows. ‘I imagine anatomy would go down rather well with the general populace. The average man has a fascination for the horrible – until one of his number declares it witchcraft, in which case he will hang you without demur, driven by his innate bigotry.’
‘Allow me to introduce Father Simon,’ said de Wetherset. Simon stepped forward with the kind of smirk that suggested he had already decided the Cambridge men were fools. ‘He has been parish priest at Holy Cross, Wigford for the past twenty years – you will have passed it, if you have been to the city – although he has just resigned those duties for something more worthy of his talents. I hear you are to be made a canon, Brother. Well, Simon and I will be joining you in the prebendal stalls.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Michael, genuinely pleased for de Wetherset. ‘Suttone and I knew there were to be five installations, but no one told us the names of the other three candidates.’
‘Lincoln wants to honour the University at Cambridge with its nominations this time,’ explained Simon. ‘Three canonical appointments will go to scholars: you two and de Wetherset.’
‘You are not a scholar,’ said Bartholomew to the ex-Chancellor. ‘You left Cambridge years ago.’
‘But not before Brother Michael inveigled me the title of Emeritus Fellow,’ replied de Wetherset comfortably. ‘So technically, I am still a scholar. And, although I spent a few months with my family in the Fens, Bishop Gynewell then offered me the freedom of his cathedral library, and I have been studying theology in Lincoln ever since. People have come to regard me as local.’
‘I suppose I can be considered local, too,’ said Suttone. ‘One branch of my family has lived in the city for years, and my grandfather was bishop. I have cousins in service at the cathedral and-’
‘But you do not live here,’ interrupted Simon coolly. ‘That is what is meant by local. Your life is in Cambridge. Mine, however, is here. I have been vicar at Holy Cross for more than two decades, and now I shall serve the cathedral. That is what constitutes a local man, not distant kin.’
Suttone bristled, and Michael hastened to change the subject. ‘You said three scholars were to be made canons, plus Father Simon. Who is the fifth and last lucky candidate?’
Simon’s expressive face darkened. ‘A merchant. He is not a particularly good choice, although at least he is in holy orders – unlike some prebendaries I could name.’
