‘He is not as frail as everyone seems to think,’ argued Michael. ‘There is a core of steel in that man, which makes me wonder to what depths he would plunge to get himself elected.’
‘I do not see him engaging in tussles on rooftops while pretending to be Satan,’ said Langelee doubtfully. ‘Tynkell was no Hercules, but even he could have bested the likes of Lyng.’
Suttone cleared his throat. ‘I might stand for election myself. I have always had a hankering for the post, and I am good at administration. I will not impose any unreasonable laws – the one about women can go for a start, because God would not have created ladies if He had not wanted us to enjoy them.’
Michael regarded him appraisingly, while Langelee nodded to say he fully agreed with the last part, and Bartholomew wondered if he would be able to marry Matilde and still teach.
‘Would you be willing to listen to advice from a man with experience and skill?’ asked the monk keenly. ‘Namely me?’
Suttone inclined his head. ‘Indeed, I would welcome such counsel.’
‘Well, then,’ said Michael, green eyes gleaming at the prospect of a challenge. ‘We shall have to see what we can do about getting you in.’
‘You are both excused College duties until Suttone is safely in post,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘It is high time we had a chancellor among our Fellows. However, I liked Tynkell, and his killer must be brought to justice. Bartholomew can help you with that, Brother.’
‘I cannot,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I have too many patients, and my students–’
‘It is a good opportunity for me to see if Aungel can step into your shoes when you leave.’ Langelee raised his hand to stop the physician from speaking again. ‘I have made my decision, so do not argue. Well? What are you waiting for? Off you go.’
Disliking the way everyone assumed he would automatically hurl himself into Matilde’s arms, when the truth was that he was hopelessly confused about his feelings towards her, Bartholomew trailed after Michael to meet Tulyet in St Mary the Great. On any other day, he would have suggested deliberating his romantic conundrum in the Brazen George – a tavern where Michael was always made very welcome – but the monk’s face was pale with worry, and Bartholomew did not want to burden him further.
The University Church was busier than usual, partly because it was Candlemas, but also because the battle on the tower had encouraged folk to go there and see what had attracted Satan to the place. It rang with excited voices and the clatter of industry, the latter of which came from Petit and his assistants, who were setting an elaborately carved pinnacle on Dallingridge’s tomb.
‘You promised to work on Oswald today,’ said Bartholomew, approaching them and speaking accusingly.
‘His mortar is still too wet, I am afraid,’ shrugged Petit. His apprentices came to stand behind him in a protective semicircle. ‘It is the cold weather, you see – it slows everything down. Perhaps it will be set by tomorrow.’
Bartholomew knew exactly why Petit had elected to work in St Mary the Great that day – it was an opportunity to advertise his skills to the hordes who flocked there. The physician’s suspicions were borne out when Petit grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him towards the narthex at the western end of the church. The narthex not only contained the Great West Door – the large portal that was only opened for special ceremonial processions – but was also the place where the bells were rung, as the tower was directly above it.
‘Good morning, Nicholas,’ said Michael amiably to the man who was preparing to haul on the ropes. Then he frowned. ‘What are you doing? Mass is over.’
James Nicholas was Secretary to the Chancellor, a quiet, scholarly man who limped from a childhood illness. He had tawny hair and a pleasant smile, and was one of the more able clerks who helped to run the studium generale. It was not his responsibility to chime the bells, but he loved doing it, and Michael was more than happy to let him, because it meant he did not have to pay a verger to oblige.
‘I shall sound them whenever I have a spare moment today,’ explained Nicholas earnestly. ‘It is Candlemas, and people should be reminded of it from dawn until dusk.’
He began to pull, setting first one bell swinging, and then another, until he had all three clanging in a joyful cacophony of noise, moving from rope to rope with impressive skill – most men could only manage one at a time. His face was sombre, but there was a gleam in his eye that revealed his delight in the exercise.
Meanwhile, Petit was forced to shout to make himself heard – the bells were right above their heads. Bartholomew had often wondered if this was why Nicholas loved them: it was an opportunity for a quiet, unassuming man to make a fine old din. Putting his hands over his ears, Michael retreated to the relative peace of the nave. Bartholomew and Petit went with him.
‘The narthex is where Chancellor Tynkell’s monument should be,’ stated Petit authoritatively. ‘Beneath the bells, because he was in charge of seeing them cast and hung. There is plenty of room, even with three ropes whipping about.’
‘You cannot build another monument,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Not until you have finished the five you have already started.’
Petit ignored him. ‘I envisage a canopy with soaring arches, a tomb that will be the envy of all England, and will set a precedent for other high-ranking University men. Such as yourself, Brother. I imagine you would like something handsome, when you go.’
‘If every dead official is provided that sort of monstrosity, there will be no room left in the church for the living,’ remarked Bartholomew caustically. ‘And Tynkell was not an ostentatious man. He would have preferred something modest.’
‘Then I am the fellow you want,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I am Richard Lakenham, and this is my apprentice Reames. We are latteners – engravers of funerary brasses. We can provide something far more suitable than the gaudy affairs created by Petit.’
Lakenham was a small, nondescript man, who looked as though he was in need of a good meal. By contrast, his pupil appeared to be very well fed, and his clothes were of far better quality than his master’s. Indeed, if Bartholomew had been asked, he would have said that Reames was the one in charge, and Lakenham was the assistant.
‘We will craft a nice plain chest with a pretty brass on top,’ said Reames. ‘You will love it, I promise.’
‘We can engrave him wearing his robes of office, if you like,’ added Lakenham eagerly, ‘and there will be room around the edge for an inscription of your own composition.’
‘They do not want your rubbish,’ growled Petit, furious at the brazen attempt to steal ‘his’ business. ‘They want something decent, something in keeping with Tynkell’s elevated status. They only need to inspect the brass shields you made for Dallingridge’s tomb to see that your work is vastly inferior.’
Lakenham did not deign to acknowledge the insult. He turned his back on the mason and continued to address Michael. ‘Hire us, Brother. You will not regret it. Moreover, we do not flit from job to job like butterflies.’
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ snapped Petit, nettled. ‘Or are you saying that it is not necessary for mortar to set or pitch to cool? No wonder all your tombs fall to pieces!’
‘If they do, it is because you steal my supplies,’ flashed Lakenham, whipping around to glare at him at last. ‘You are a thief, and the sooner you are arrested, the better.’
‘A third brass plate disappeared from our shed last night,’ added Reames, brushing an invisible speck from his gipon. ‘And we know exactly who stole it: you and your louts.’