Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) Read online

  “And this young gentleman here should apologize as well,” I said, my jaw tight, as I sank my fingers into the flesh of Donald’s arm. “For spilling the ale all over this poor man’s tunic.”

  “I shan’t apologize,” Donald hissed to me in Gaelic. “He tripped me. It was ill done.”

  “Perhaps,” I hissed back, restraining my urge to give the boy a proper clout, “but you’ll solve nothing by starting a war with the English your first night in Oxford.”

  “It was ill done, indeed,” the older man assented, almost as if he read our thoughts. “But perhaps we can buy you a glass of wine to atone for it. We are poor students. I am Phillip Woode, from Balliol Hall, and these two are called Anthony and Crispin. They are but bejants still and lodge nearby.”

  “Balliol, you say? That is fortuitous, as my young lord here has a letter of introduction to the master there. We will be visiting there tomorrow. Donald MacDonald is my lord’s name. He is also a bejant, I believe, as it will be his first year of study. I am Muirteach MacPhee, and this woman is my wife, Mariota. We accompany him here from our home in the islands of Scotland.”

  Anthony and Crispin sullenly made room for Donald on the bench while Phillip seated Mariota and myself on his side of the table. The younger boys continued glaring at each other while Mariota and I conversed with Phillip awhile. He proved a pleasant enough man, a senior student, soon to take his final examinations. We shared a glass of wine, then took our leave and returned to our inn.

  The innkeeper had provided the three of us with a private chamber. Donald took the bed while Mariota and I slept on a pallet on the floor. Still, it was passably clean and both Mariota and I were tired, my bad leg aching from the exertions of the day.

  “How he expects to study for his examinations there at The Green Man, I do not know,” said Mariota tartly as we spread our blankets on the pallet.

  “Och, white love, I’ve done a fair share of similar preparation in my day. Don’t be hard on the lad.”

  “Aye, well, it looked to me that he was studying Jonetta, and not the Quadrivium,” Mariota whispered to me.

  “Perhaps he was just admiring her necklace,” I whispered back. “It was an unusual one.”

  “Oh, so you admired it too?” Mariota asked with a little laugh in her voice.

  “Those two boys are great louts,” Donald muttered rebelliously from his bed. “And they will be my classmates. What a mischance.”

  And so, amid such ponderings, we slept.

  The next day dawned sunny, with blue sky. We rose with the sun and breakfasted at the inn, on porridge, cheese, apples and small ale. The innkeeper’s wife served us with a smile that put Donald in a better mood, and we then set out on foot through the town of Oxford.

  Balliol College had been founded over one hundred years earlier. The Scottish heiress Devorgilla, wife of John Balliol the Englishman and mother of John Balliol, the past king of Scotland, had herself endowed the school for poor scholars, all graduate students working on advanced degrees. But we had a letter of introduction to the master of the college and it was there that the son of the Lord of the Isles and grandson of the present king of Scotland would seek his tutor.

  The college where the masters and a few senior students resided was located in some three houses just outside the northern wall of the town, near the old Jewish quarter, we were told. Most undergraduate students rented beds in student tenements unconnected with the college. However, Donald was not to lodge there, nor did he necessarily need to attend all the lectures required of the students. He would have a tutor, his father had instructed, and we were to find other lodgings nearby, more suited to his station. But first we went to see the college.

  We arrived, still early in the day. The tenements that lodged the fellows and masters had been procured one hundred years earlier when Devorgilla originally endowed the college. It looked as though little had been done to the original buildings since, although there was a newly built chapel and all the buildings seemed in fair enough repair.

  It seemed that one tenement housed the majority of the fellows, and was called the New Hall. There was a great room there where the fellows took their meals. Another hall was known as Old Balliol Hall, where the masters and a few senior students resided. The college also owned several lecture halls within the town walls, on School Street, where many of the masters gave lectures, and another tenement nearby, which rented rooms to undergraduates. It was there that Anthony and Crispin lodged.

  The gatekeeper, an old man bent nearly double, demanded our identities, glared a moment and then refused Mariota entrance. Women, it seems, were not allowed in the school, for all that a Scottish princess had founded it. The gatekeeper bade her wait in the back garden while Donald and I were ushered inside one of the three houses that made up the lodgings of the college.

  The fellows already had finished their first lecture of the day and were now at breakfast. We waited until the master of the college could receive us. I glimpsed Phillip Woode at a table with the other scholars.

  “I am Master Thomas Clarkson, master of the college,” came a voice in Latin. I looked up to see a tall man, well built, of about forty. He had a resolute face and dark hair with a few streaks of gray showing in his tonsure.

  “I am Donald MacDonald, filius of John MacDonald, dominus insularium, the Lord of the Isles, and grandson to Robert Steward, the king of Scotland. My noble grandfather and father have required that I study here in Oxford, and I beg you to take me as a student. This is my letter of introduction,” Donald replied, pleasantly in fair enough Latin. He handed Master Clarkson the folded parchment, sealed with his father’s great seal. Apparently the lad had learned some manners during his years as a hostage at Dumbarton, after all.

  Master Clarkson read the letter impassively, although I thought I sensed some pleasure as he read. It could only be good for him to have such a noble student. Finally, he finished reading and smiled an unctuous smile at Donald. “We will be honored. I shall be pleased to guide your studies. You will lodge elsewhere?”

  I nodded. “We will find suitable lodging today and Donald can start his studies in the morning.”

  “This is Muirteach,” Donald said, introducing me. “He and his wife have accompanied me here.”

  “You might speak with the widow Tanner. She has a fine house, rents lodgings, and lives nearby. Her house is just down Canditch, that broad street that runs along the town walls.” I got the direction while the master continued speaking to Donald. “We have several other masters here, associated with the college. Master Delacey, Master Berwyk, and Brother Eusebius. All give lectures for undergraduates at our hall on School Street, inside the city walls. The first lecture starts before dawn, in the hall. These are the ordinary lectures, on the Trivium. Then there is breakfast, and then the extraordinary lectures are later in the morning. You are welcome to attend them if you wish, although I will be your tutor. I can instruct you individually should that be preferable.”

  A tall, gangly man approached. He had yellow hair going gray, somewhat curly, and walked with the stooped posture of one who spent much time reading. He wore a much-patched Franciscan habit of gray.

  “This is Brother Eusebius. You have wax tablets? And books? Phillip Woode, here, will show you where the stationer is located. And he can show you the widow’s house as well.”

  I greeted Phillip again, while Donald respectfully took leave of Master Clarkson, saying he would look forward to his instruction the next day. They made an appointment to meet after breakfast. Then we left.

  Phillip seemed happy enough to leave the college for the morning. We found Mariota, examining some herbs in the garden next door to the houses, and set out.

  The Widow Tanner’s house was a commodious one, down a bit from the buildings that housed Balliol and facing the town’s wall. It had a large central hall and two stories on either side. She had a stable to house the horses we had brought, although it seemed we’d have little use for horses here in the t
own. In the back near the stable was a fine garden, and somewhat further down the street was the tannery from which her husband had taken his name. She was pleased to let us have two rooms on the second floor of her house, although the rent was outrageous. The rooms were small, and only the front one had a window. But that may have been just as well, for scents from the nearby tannery, as well as the ditch on the other side of the street, wafted unpleasantly in through the shutters.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Widow Tanner assured us. I thought longingly of my farm in Islay, and even my little cottage in Scalasaig, mean as it was, swept by the clean sea breezes.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the barks of a small furry reddish-brown dog. It had followed Widow Tanner up the stairs and now yapped excitedly as we looked at our rooms.

  “Eh, this is Rufous,” said the widow, as she scooped the dog up into her arms. “Do not worry, sirs, he is quite friendly.”

  Mariota reached out to pet the beast, which licked her wrist and squirmed out of the widow’s arms.

  “He’s taken a fancy to you, Mistress. He doesn’t always take to everyone.”

  As if he understood her words, Rufous growled a bit at Donald, who was loudly tromping around the rooms.

  “Behave yourself, pup,” the widow admonished the dog, which quickly trotted downstairs with her.

  We settled on our terms for the lodgings and sent a servant to the inn, with the message to bring our belongings and horses to the widow’s house. We were just leaving for the stationers when I heard loud voices hailing Phillip. Looking down the street, I saw the two young students Phillip had been with the evening before, Anthony and Crispin, approaching. They saw us and stopped, glaring. Donald rolled his eyes and groaned when Phillip greeted the boys. Then Phillip led the way to the booksellers through the Smithgate, while the boys continued down Canditch to their tenement.

  “Will I never escape those louts?” Donald muttered to me when we were out of earshot.

  Adam Bookman had a small shop on High Street. At least they did not forbid women in the bookshops, and Mariota was elated as she viewed the volumes. Donald had brought a copy of Aristotle with him, but needed a copy of The Sentences and other volumes, as well as wax tablets, pen, and some used parchment that could be washed clean and reused. The smell of the parchment and the ink minded me of my days at the Priory on Oronsay. Of course his father had provided ample funds and Donald would not need to copy his books, sentence by sentence, from the lectures of his teacher.

  Mariota looked longingly at a copy of Galen in Greek, oblivious to the scowls of Master Bookman. I had a feeling she would be back to purchase it soon. As we left the stationer’s and returned to the widow’s, Phillip Woode departed, leaving us to set up housekeeping in our new rooms.

  The rooms were well enough appointed, and it took little time to unpack our belongings, which had arrived promptly from the inn. Donald’s room had a small desk with a chair, for study, and a bed with hangings. Our room also had a bed with hangings, a chest, and a table and chair. The widow fussed in and out, accompanied by her little dog, bringing blankets and bedding, and airing the rooms. She seemed impressed enough with Donald’s lineage and called him “my young lordship,” which he seemed to enjoy. While the good widow dithered and my wife arranged our belongings, I wondered at what had brought us here.

  It had been that July that I’d heard the first of it. We’d been at Finlaggan, on Islay. John MacDonald, Lord of the Isles, had completed signing a treaty I’d recorded, and then he drew me aside. “Muirteach,” he had said, “I’m needing to get Donald out of the Isles. He’s running wild here, and the latest is that he’s been making sheep’s eyes at that daughter of the MacLean, for all that the lass is betrothed to a MacKenzie, and her father is aye upset about it all.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Now I’m thinking that the MacLean had better send his daughter off to the nuns on Iona, if he cannot be controlling her better. But then she is a flirt, there’s no doubt of that. And at the feast a few days ago, Donald was drinking and challenged that MacKenzie in the hall, and it came to blows. The lad—the MacKenzie it is that I’m speaking of—was knocked down and hit his head on a pillar. Your own wife’s father is saying the lad may not survive the blow. He’s lying senseless the now. You can see it was not Donald’s fault, but the MacKenzie is in a high rage—that boy was the apple of his eye. But, just to calm the MacKenzie down a wee bit, I’m wanting to send Donald down to Oxford. It will get him away from here for a time, until things blow over. And it will be a good thing for him as well.”

  “How so?”

  “He’ll need more education than he can get here, and it would give him some polish, and experience with the English as well. He’s of an age to go, just turned thirteen this spring. Let him make sheep’s eyes at the English girls and knock some sense into the students there in the south.”

  “Yes, my lord?” I had repeated, feeling an uncomfortable sinking in my gut and a tightening in my chest.

  “I’m not wanting to send him down there by himself. And, since he’s spent so much time as a hostage at Dumbarton, there’s no servant I’d altogether trust with him. He needs a firm hand.”

  “Yes?” I replied, carefully keeping my voice neutral.

  “Well, you are close enough to him in age, but still a grown man. You can remember what it’s like to be young. I’m not wanting to be sending him down there with a gray-beard.”

  “You want me to go with him?”

  “Wasn’t I just saying that?”

  “But, sir, I’ve no desire to go. What of my wife?”

  “Och, she can go with you. She’s of a serious bent; no doubt she’ll like to see the schools. She’s a healer, is she not? There are doctors, and many learned men there. She’ll enjoy it, Muirteach.”

  I tried one last time, hopelessly. “But I’ve no experience with children.”

  “He’s not a child, Muirteach, the lad’s thirteen. And close to making horns on the head of the MacKenzie’s son. You’re the man I’m wanting for this task, so go and tell your wife and pack your bags.”

  “But how long are we to stay with him?” I had protested. “Surely not for years. Won’t you be needing me here?” It did not do to refuse a direct command of my overlord, but I had no wish to leave Islay. And I did not think at that time that Mariota would like to go, but in that I was proved wrong.

  “I’ve clerks who can write up a treaty, so do not fash yourself over that. I’m not thinking he’ll stay that long, there at Oxford, but perhaps the lad will surprise me. Perhaps he’ll show talent for learned disputations. Och, perhaps you can both stay just a few months, you and your wife. Until the spring, that should be long enough. To make sure he’s settling into his studies and all. Then, if all is going well, I’ll send Fergus or someone down to stay with him. Although he is not an overly studious lad.”

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  In that, Donald’s father had spoken truly. Perhaps the boy had hidden academic prowess, but on the long journey down to Oxford he had seemed much more interested in the game we spotted along the road and in racing his horse at top speed than in practicing his Latin.

  So that was how Mariota and I came to be in Oxford. Mariota had been eager to come along, excited by the great learning that such a town must exude. I’d been less impressed, and much less eager. We’d left Somerled, my dog, in Islay, but as we’d traveled I’d increasingly felt Somerled’s four-footed company would have been preferable to the young lordling I was supervising. I was not sure how Mariota felt about it all, as we’d had precious little privacy on our journey. I found myself looking forward, at least, to our private room that night.

  By now the afternoon was somewhat advanced, and Donald raced into our room.

  “Now,” he declared, “that’s taken care of. We must go into town and see the sights.”

  So we set off. Although they say Oxford is not as crowded now as it was before the Plague days, it seem
ed busy enough to me. We walked through the walls at Smith Gate and down to High Street, then worked our way down to the cathedral of St. Frideswyde’s. St Frideswyde was a Saxon princess, martyred for her faith. Her relics were displayed there in a rich golden casket. There was also a fine bell tower in the town dedicated to St. Martin. We then headed back toward our lodgings, intending to walk down School Street. But on our way there we passed the sign of The Green Man and, it being a hot afternoon for September, stopped in for some refreshment.

  Master Jakeson was wiping off the tables in the hall, and greeted us, although he seemed subdued. He professed to be glad when he heard of our new lodgings. His daughter was nowhere to be seen, much to Donald’s dismay. I’m sure it was on the tip of his tongue to ask of her, but his pride would not let him.

  We drank our ale and left, walking up School Street, then over through Market Street and back toward Northgate again. It was market day, and the streets of town were crowded.

  The market stalls were beginning to close for the day, but still the variety of goods surprised me and delighted Mariota. There were cloth merchants, with all manner of materials—fine velvets and brocades, as well as linen and wool. Mariota bought some linen and some other fabric while I idly examined some silver pins at a nearby stall.

  Shoemakers and tailors were just closing their awnings, as were the apothecaries, but the cries of street vendors still mingled with the chatter of the townsfolk. Spices from the east, the smells of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg, mingled with the less fragrant odors of butchered meat, offal, and the liquids running down the drains in the center of the streets. Despite the smell from the tannery, I was glad our lodgings were outside the town walls.

  The town was crowded and noisy, elbow to elbow full of people, and I felt a sharp pang of homesickness for my islands. At least outside the walls of the city were green meadows and trees, even if our rooms stunk some from the tannery. Inside the town the first and second stories of the houses jutted over the street, nearly shutting out the daylight. It was altogether new to me, raised in the northern islands, and to Mariota as well; although we’d seen some cities as we traveled south, we had not tarried there or walked the streets.