Falconer's Crusade by Ian Morson — Read

Thomas de Cantilupe had been chancellor of the university for only two years, but in that time the cases appearing before the chancellor's court had increased to such a point that he was no longer able to deal with them all himself. Today he had settled the case of a Master falsely accused of being a Scotsman, had made a friar swear not to make suspicious visits to a tailor's wife, and now he had to talk to Master Falconer about interfering in a simple case of murder. It was not, after all, a member of the university who had been killed. And he had the aftermath of yesterday's riot to cope with and whether to call down the wrath of the King on the town. If indeed the King was in any position to command anyone in his realm.

The chancellor hurried from the chilly hall where the court was held. He scratched hard at his back. Why was the itch always in a place he could not reach? He eagerly cast off his academical cope, its tear now carefully repaired, and wrapped himself in the brown fur gown left over the back of his favourite chair. He drew himself up to the fire and poured a generous amount of red wine into a pewter tankard. Try as he might he could not imagine his interview with Falconer would go smoothly. He was a stubborn man and an Aristotelian. What was it he was fond of calling himself? A deductive. Well his days of demonstration must be curbed. He felt another itch between his shoulder blades and rubbed his back against his chair. Swallowing the last of the wine, he called his servant. 'Halegod!'