Free An Order for Death by Susanna Gregory Page B

received
     a boiled leek in the chest.
    Morden gaped in horror for a few moments, before striding to the nearest table, snatching up a pewter cup and banging it against
     the wall. The din gradually faded to silence, and the student-friars, who had been standing to hurl their edible missiles,
     quickly took their places on the benches that ran the length of the room. Some had the grace to appear shamefaced as their
     Prior ran admonishing eyes over their ranks, but many made no secret of their amusement at having been caught.
    ‘Where is Kyrkeby?’ Morden demanded. ‘He is supposed to be overseeing your meals today.’
    ‘He is not here,’ replied one of the student-friars, a smooth-faced, arrogant youth who Bartholomew immediately recognised
     as one of the mob that had been near Faricius.
    Morden sighed. ‘I can see that, Bulmer. But where is he?’
    ‘We do not know,’ answered another student. A green smear on the front of his habit and crumbs in his hair indicated that
     he had been in the thick of the mischief. ‘Probably working on his lecture. He does little else these days.’
    Bulmer walked to the door and then turned, pointing across the courtyard to a room on the far side. The distinctive bristle-head
     of Kyrkeby could be seen in the window, bent over a book. ‘Yes, there he is. Working on his lecture, as usual.’
    Morden glowered at the assembled students. ‘I would have hoped that you would not require a nursemaid, and that you could
     be trusted to behave yourselves in a manner suited to men who have chosen to become friars. But I can see my faith in you
     was misplaced.’
    ‘It certainly was,’ mumbled Michael to Bartholomew, gazing around him in disdain. ‘I have never seen such a deplorable spectacle
     among men of the cloth.’
    Although a food fight was not something usually associated with friaries, the physician was aware that most of the religious
     community in Cambridge comprised young men – some only fifteen or sixteen – who had been sent to acquirean education of sorts before they were dispatched to parishes all across the country. Young men in large groups, even clerics,
     would inevitably display some degree of high spirits, and the scene in the refectory had been exactly that. Still, he thought,
     hardening his heart, six of the faces that were turned towards their Prior had been responsible for more than a bit of horseplay
     involving a few vegetables.
    ‘The proctors want to speak to those of you who were present when the Carmelite was killed yesterday,’ announced Morden in
     his childish voice. ‘I have been telling them that you are law-abiding men, but now I wonder whether I was wrong.’
    ‘You are not wrong, Father,’ said Bulmer. ‘I was there, although I swear before God that we did not harm him.’
    He met Michael’s eyes steadily, and Bartholomew could not decide whether the young man’s confidence was convincing bluster
     or genuine truthfulness.
    ‘Thank you, Bulmer,’ said Morden. ‘And who was with you?’
    Five others stood. Bartholomew recognised them all.
    ‘What Bulmer says is true,’ said a pink-faced boy with tightly curled fair hair. ‘We admit we went to the Carmelite Friary
     after Horneby and Simon Lynne taunted us about the fact that Lincolne had written that proclamation and pinned it on the church
     door for all to see, but all the White Friars had fled inside their walls long before we could reach them.’
    ‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘He had not fled inside.’
    Bulmer and his cronies exchanged a nervous glance. ‘We were on our way home, when we saw a Carmelite lying in a doorway, so
     we went to see what he was doing. We saw he had blood on the front of his habit.’
    ‘Because you had stabbed him,’ said Michael flatly.
    ‘No!’ objected Bulmer. ‘He was already bleeding when we found him. We were edging closer, to see what had happened, when your
     colleague arrived and took him away.I am