Still chilled from his soaking, Bartholomew appreciated the stifling heat in the room, but wondered how long fires would be allowed to burn at Michaelhouse once the new Master was in office. Langelee and William both seemed to delight in conditions most men would consider miserable, while Runham had a streak of miserliness in him that might well lead to some radical economies. Bartholomew’s only hope for a comfortable winter was Michael, who had no patience with the hair-shirt mentality of some of his colleagues. Michael appreciated his creature comforts, and would never deprive anyone else of theirs merely to assert his personal authority.
‘There you are, Matt,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew walked in. The monk had his sleeve pushed up, and was giving the arm that had been stung by the bee an energetic scratch. ‘Where have you been? We are ready to start, and you are the last to arrive.’
‘As usual,’ muttered Runham.
Smiling apologetically, Bartholomew closed the door and looked for somewhere to sit. The chamber was equipped with an eccentric assortment of stools and chairs, most of them cast-offs from wealthy benefactors. Michael, Runham, William and Langelee – the most senior Fellows – had already taken the best places near the hearth, leaving the newcomers Clippesby and Suttone to make do with stools by the windows. Master Kenyngham stood at the door, as though contemplating a quick escape, while blind Brother Paul had been led to his customary seat near the wall.
‘Osmun, the porter at Bene’t, claims to be Justus’s cousin,’ said Bartholomew to Runham, recalling guiltily that he had agreed to pass on the porter’s demands the day before, but had forgotten. ‘He wants his tunic and dagger.’
‘He is welcome to them,’ said Runham. ‘He can collect them whenever he likes – and he can arrange for Justus to be buried, too, since they are related.’
‘Have you not done that yet?’ asked Paul, sounding a little disgusted. ‘Justus died two days ago.’
‘The weather is cold, and the corpse lies in the church porch,’ said Runham dismissively. ‘There is no hurry, and I have been preoccupied with more important matters.’
‘Regardless of Osmun’s kinship, it is still Michaelhouse’s responsibility to bury Justus,’ said Kenyngham. ‘It would not do to have the townsfolk thinking we do not care about our servants.’
‘There are better ways to spend Michaelhouse’s funds than on funerals for suicides,’ said Ralph de Langelee. ‘If Justus has living kin, then let them pay for his burial. If I were Master, I would not throw away College money when it could be used on something more worthy – like improving the wine cellars.’
Bartholomew noted with dismay that it had not taken long for the Fellows to bring the discussion around to the matter currently closest to their own hearts – who was to be the next Master.
‘I do not know why my decision to resign has caused such consternation,’ said Kenyngham in genuine bewilderment. ‘My retirement cannot be a surprise to you. I was present when our College was founded almost thirty years ago, and I am no longer a young man. I long to be free of administrative duties, and want nothing more than to spend my time in prayer and a little teaching.’
‘It would be better if you delayed a while,’ said Paul reasonably. ‘We are not yet ready to choose another Master.’
‘I was hoping that Roger Alcote would succeed me,’ Kenyngham went on, as if he had not heard Paul. He made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer for the soul of the man who had been one of Michaelhouse’s least popular members. ‘But Alcote has gone on to better things, and you must select another.’
Michael paused in his scratching to gesture towards the two newcomers, who sat watching the proceedings with wary interest. ‘How can you expect Clippesby and Suttone to decide who would make the best Master? They do not know us.’
‘But there are only six of you to choose from,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘John Runham, Michael, Matthew, William, Paul, and Ralph de Langelee – although I anticipate that not all of you will want the responsibility of the Mastership.’
‘If you put it like that,’ said Langelee, standing and puffing out his barrel chest as he leaned a brawny arm along the top of the fireplace, ‘I feel morally obliged to offer my services to the College. I am not a man to shirk responsibility.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael under his breath to Bartholomew. ‘I will resign my Fellowship before I allow Michaelhouse to be ruled by that ape in a scholar’s tabard.’
‘Meanwhile, I am keen to continue my saintly cousin’s good work,’ said Runham, leaning back in his chair and inspecting his fingernails casually. ‘You all know that I am a man of my word – when I first arrived here and discovered the paltry tomb that had been provided to hold my noble cousin’s mortal remains, I made a vow that I would not rest until that had been rectified. I am sure you have noticed that my efforts have come to fruition, and that the late Master Wilson now lies in a tomb fit for a king.’
‘We certainly have noticed!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘That vile monstrosity is the talk of the town. People come for miles around just to smirk at the wretched thing. I have never seen such an example of bad taste in all my days.’
‘It is bad taste to erect a tomb for Wilson that outshines the one for our founder,’ Bartholomew replied in an undertone. ‘And all I can say is that Runham cannot have seen his cousin for a long time, if he considers the man to have been saintly and noble. Wilson was a nasty, greedy–’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded William. ‘I was just telling everyone that it is time a Franciscan was elected to the Mastership. And since I am the only Franciscan here – other than Paul, that is – it should be me.’
‘A subtle election speech, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Of course, I might say the same for the Benedictines: we have had friars aplenty in the Mastership since Michaelhouse’s foundation, and it is high time there was a monk at the helm. However, this is not the basis on which I offer my services. You should recall that I have better connections with secular and religious authorities than anyone else here and you know I can make Michaelhouse the richest and most powerful College in the University.’
He threaded his fingers together and placed them over his ample paunch. Bartholomew smiled, considering Michael’s election speech no more subtle than William’s.
‘All this is true,’ said Langelee, sitting down and leaning back in his chair, assuming the pose of a man who knows some secret he is about to enjoy divulging. ‘And I would vote for you myself, all things being equal. However, certain information has come to light that precludes me from supporting you. You, Brother Michael, have been doing things you should not have been, and I have written evidence to prove it.’
In Michaelhouse’s conclave, everyone looked at Michael, whose eyes narrowed as he listened to Langelee’s accusation.
‘What are you talking about?’ the monk snapped testily. ‘I can assure you that there is nothing sinister or shameful in my past.’
‘I was not thinking of your past,’ said Langelee smoothly. ‘I was thinking of your present.’
‘What present?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘Do not speak in riddles, man. If you want to accuse me of something, then say what it is. However, before you make a fool of yourself, I should warn you that I am as untarnished as a sheet of driven snow.’