[ro-ranf]

Well, perhaps they will make fine bishops one day, remarked Bartholomew dryly.
Michael chuckled. I will go to Davids Hostel later today, he said, and see their Principal about those rowdy Scots. Then I will complain to the Principal of Godwinsson Hostel about those inflammatory friars.
Bartholomew nodded absently, walking briskly so that Michael had to slow him down again, so that they or rather the overweight Michael would not arrive too sweat-soaked at the Hall of Valence Marie.
As they approached the forbidding walls of the new College, Michael turned to Bartholomew and grimaced at the sudden stench from where the Kings Ditch was being dredged. Years of silt, sewage, kitchen compost, offal, and an unwholesome range of other items hauled from the dank depths of the Ditch lay in steaming grey-black piles along the banks. The smell had attracted a host of cats and dogs, which rifled through the parts not already claimed by farmers to enrich their soil. Among them, spiteful-eyed gulls squabbled and cawed over blackened strips of decaying offal and the small fish that flapped helplessly in the dredged mud.
Bartholomew and Michael turned left off the High Street, and made their way along an uneven path that wound between the towering banks of the Kings Ditch and the high wall that surrounded Valence Marie. Because Cambridge lay at the edge of the low-lying Fens, the level of the water in the Ditch was occasionally higher than the surrounding land; to prevent flooding, the Ditchs banks were levied, and rose above the ground to the height of a mans head.


Away from the High Street, the noise of the town faded, and, were it not for the stench and the incessant buzz of flies around his head, Bartholomew would have enjoyed walking across the strip of scrubby pastureland, pleasantly shaded by a line of mature oak trees.
You have been a long time, Brother, said Robert Thorpe, Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, as he stood up from where he had been sitting under a tree.
There was a hint of censure in his tone, and Bartholomew sensed Thorpe was a man whose authority as head of a powerful young college was too recently acquired for it to sit easily on his shoulders. I expected you sooner than this.
The beginnings of a street brawl claimed my attention, said Michael, making no attempt to apologise. Scots versus the friars this time.
Thorpe raised dark grey eyebrows. The friars again? I do not understand what is happening, Brother. We have always had problems with warring factions and nationalities in the University, but seldom so frequent and with such intensity as over the last two or three weeks.
Perhaps it is the heat, suggested Bartholomew. It is known that tempers are higher and more frayed when the weather is hot. The Sheriff told me that there has been more fighting among the townspeople this last month, too.

Perhaps so, said Thorpe, looking coolly at Bartholomew in his threadbare gown and dusty shoes. As a physician, Bartholomew could have made a rich living from attending wealthy patients. Instead, he chose to teach at the University, and to treat an ever-growing number of the towns poor, preferring to invest his energies in combating genuine diseases rather than in dispensing placebos and calculating astrological charts for the healthy. His superiors at the University tolerated this peculiar behaviour, because having a scholar prepared to provide such a service to the poor made for good relations between the town and its scholars. Bartholomew was popular with his patients, especially when his absent-mindedness led him to forget to charge them.
But tolerance by the University did not mean acceptance by its members, and Bartholomew was regarded as something of an oddity by his colleagues. Many scholars disapproved of his dealings with the townspeople, and some of the friars and monks believed that his teaching verged on heresy because it was unorthodox.
Bartholomew had been taught medicine by an Arab physician at the University of Paris, but even his higher success rate with many illnesses and injuries did not protect him from accusations that his methods were anathema.
Thorpe turned to the obese Benedictine. What word is there from the Chancellor about our discovery? he asked.
Master de Wetherset wants Doctor Bartholomew to inspect the bones you have found to ensure their authenticity, said Michael carefully. What the Chancellor had actually said was that he wanted Bartholomew to use his medical expertise to crush, once and for all, the rumours that the bones of a local martyr had been discovered.


He did not want the University to become a venue for relic-sellers and idle gawpers, especially since term was about to start and the students were restless. Gatherings of townspeople near University property might well lead to a fight. The Sheriff, for once, was in complete agreement: relics that might prove contentious must not be found. Both, however, suspected that this might be easier said than done.
The Hall of Valence Marie had been founded five years previously by Marie de Valence, the Countess of Pembroke and the Chancellor and Sheriff were only too aware of the desire of its Master to make the young Hall famous. The bones of a local martyr would be perfect for such a purpose: pilgrims would flock to pray at the shrine Thorpe would build, and would not only spread word of the miraculous find at Valence Marie across the country, but also shower the College with gifts.
The Chancellor had charged Michael to handle Thorpe with care.
Thorpe inclined his silver head to Bartholomew, to acknowledge the role foisted on him by the Chancellor, and walked to where a piece of rough sacking lay on the ground. With a flourish, Thorpe removed it to reveal a pile of muddy bones that had been laid reverently on the grass.
Bartholomew knelt next to them, inspecting each one carefully, although he knew from a glance what they were. Michael, too, had devoured enough roasts at high table in Michaelhouse to know sheep bones when he saw them. But Bartholomew did not want to give the appearance of being flippant, and was meticulous in his examination.
I believe these to be the leg bones of a sheep, he said, standing again and addressing Thorpe. They are too short to be human.

***
Strange business today, Michael interrupted. He laughed softly. I felt almost sorry for that greedy dog Thorpe when you told him his precious bones could not belong to that martyr he seems so intent on finding. He looked like a child who had been cheated of a visit to the fair: disappointed, angry, bitter and resentful, all at the same time.
Bartholomew sighed, regretful, but not surprised, that Michael was declining the opportunity to engage in what promised to be an intriguing medical debate. I suppose Thorpe wants to make money from dAmbreys bones as saintly relics, he said.
Michael nodded. There is money aplenty to be made from pilgrims these days. People are so afraid that the Death will return and claim everyone who escaped the first time, that they cling to anything that offers hope of deliverance. The pardoners and relic-sellers businesses are blossoming, and shrines and holy places all over Europe have never been so busy.
Bartholomew made an impatient sound. People are fools! Relics and shrines did not save them the last time. Why should they save them in the future?
Michael eyed his friend in monkish disapproval. No wonder you are said to be a heretic, Matt! he admonished, half-joking, half-serious. You should be careful to whom you make such wild assertions. Our beloved colleague Father William, for example, would have you hauled away to be burned as a warlock in an instant if he thought you harboured such irreligious notions.