‘Before coming to Michaelhouse, I was an agent for the Archbishop of York,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘I have maintained the connections I made in his service – including several at the University of Oxford. I have irrefutable evidence that you have been engaging in clandestine dealings with scholars from Oxford with the express purpose of causing damage to Cambridge.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Michael is the Senior Proctor, and would never do anything to harm the University.’
But his sister had mentioned Michael’s alleged dealings with their rival university only the previous day, he recalled with an uncomfortable feeling. He wondered what shady dealings the monk was involved in this time.
‘I said I have evidence,’ said Langelee, drawing a sheaf of parchments from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. ‘Here are letters from Michael to William Heytesbury of Merton College, Oxford.’
‘William Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, impressed. ‘I have heard of him. He is a nominalist who wrote Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. It is mostly a lot of tedious logic, but the last chapter is devoted to physical motion, and is a fascinating–’
‘It is entirely predictable that you should find the natural philosophy more interesting than the logic, Bartholomew,’ said Runham nastily. ‘You have an inferior mind that is unable to grasp the finer points of the arts so clings to the physical universe.’
‘There is no need for rudeness,’ said Paul curtly. ‘I, too, found the last chapter of Heytesbury’s work the most engaging.’
‘None of you should have been reading it,’ said William frostily. ‘It is pure heresy.’
‘We were discussing Michael’s disloyal relations with Merton,’ said Langelee, seeing Paul preparing to engage William in what might prove to be a lengthy disputation. He waved his documents aloft triumphantly. ‘Now is not the time to debate nominalism. But now is the time to learn what Michael wrote to Heytesbury of Merton.’
‘How did you get those?’ demanded Michael, gazing at the documents aghast and evidently recognising their authenticity.
Langelee gave a pained smile, although his eyes were victorious. ‘A friend discovered them in the possession of a messenger bound for Oxford. He was actually looking for something relating to my Archbishop, but he passed these to me when he saw they were from a scholar at Michaelhouse.’
‘I am sure there is nothing in them to prevent Michael from standing as Master,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘Put them away, Ralph. We do not want to pry into Michael’s personal affairs.’
‘Then you should,’ said Langelee. ‘They discuss giving our University’s property to Oxford.’
‘But not Michaelhouse property,’ objected Michael. His face was pale, and Bartholomew saw that Langelee’s revelation had badly shaken him. Michael was usually able to bluff his way out of uncomfortable situations with bluster and sheer force of personality, but the physician could sense that his friend had already lost this battle.
‘Will you not deny Langelee’s accusations, Brother?’ asked Paul, astonished. ‘I did not believe him. I thought he had fabricated the story to discredit you.’
Langelee thrust the documents at him with a gloating smile. ‘Look for yourself, Father. Michael’s writing is unmistakable.’
‘Paul is blind, you oaf,’ snapped Runham impatiently, leaning forward to snatch the scrolls from Langelee. ‘Give them to me.’ His eyebrows went up as he inspected the parchments. ‘Well, well. This is indeed Brother Michael’s distinctive roundhand.’
‘This is not how it seems …’ began Michael, although his voice lacked conviction.
Langelee raised a thick, heavy hand. ‘No excuses. It is here – in ink – that you plot with Oxford men to deprive Cambridge of valuable assets. You are not the kind of man we want as Master of Michaelhouse, Brother.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if you withdrew your name, in the light of these discoveries,’ suggested Kenyngham warily, gazing at the offending documents Runham passed to him. ‘I am sure you will prove your innocence in time, and there will be other opportunities for the Mastership in the future.’
Michael said nothing, and assumed a nonchalant pose, although Bartholomew could see the anger that seethed in him. He wondered why the monk had not made a convincing denial, or at least had tried to vindicate himself. Despite Langelee’s ‘evidence’, Bartholomew was certain Michael would do nothing to harm the University he so loved.
Kenyngham passed the documents to Bartholomew. They were unquestionably written by Michael, and offered the Oxford nominalist several properties that belonged to Cambridge in exchange for certain information that was carefully unspecified, although the letter made it clear that both parties knew exactly what was on offer.
Bartholomew gazed at Michael uncertainly. Michael refused to meet his eyes, something that almost certainly indicated guilt. Sulkily, Michael snatched the missives from Bartholomew and thrust them into the fire. Langelee gasped, and tried to retrieve them, but the flames were already turning creamy parchment to black, and there was nothing he could do but watch them turn to cinders. But, as far as Michael was concerned, the damage had been done.
‘So, we have Langelee, Runham and William who have offered to stand for the Mastership,’ said Kenyngham in the silence that followed. ‘Michael is disqualified. What about you others? Paul?’
‘I do not wish to be considered,’ said Paul, his opaque blue eyes gazing sightlessly around the room. ‘Not because I could not do it – my blindness gives me an advantage over the rest of you in that I hear and notice things you do not – but because I have decided to return to my Franciscan brethren in the Friary.’
‘You cannot do that!’ shouted William, leaping to his feet in outrage. ‘That will leave me as the only Franciscan here. I will be outvoted in everything, and the College will become a pit of debauchery and vice!’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ breathed Langelee.
Paul smiled at William. ‘I doubt that will happen, Father. But I, like Master Kenyngham, am old, and I long to spend my days in contemplation and prayer – not teaching bored youngsters about grammar and rhetoric when they would rather be doing something else. So, at the end of term, I shall vacate my room and leave you.’
‘Eight Fellows plus a Master was too many anyway,’ said Langelee breezily. ‘Seven is better.’
‘That man has all the charm of a pile of cow dung,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, eyeing Langelee with intense dislike. ‘Paul is the best of us. The College will be a poorer place without him, and the students will miss his kindly patience.’
‘I expect Matthew’s duties as a physician will preclude him from standing for the Mastership,’ said William hopefully.
Bartholomew was about to agree, when Michael spoke.
‘Nonsense. Matt has students who are now sufficiently trained to relieve him of some of his work, and he has been at Michaelhouse for ten years. He knows the College and is all a Master should be. We will have him, if I cannot stand.’
Bartholomew was too astonished to object.
‘I agree,’ said Kenyngham, smiling at the physician. ‘Matthew would make an excellent Master – firm, but not inflexible, and his dedication to his teaching and his writing will ensure that Michaelhouse continues its tradition of academic excellence. He would be my choice, certainly.’
‘It is true he would be a fair and thoughtful Master,’ said William reluctantly. ‘And I would rather have him than someone from a rival Order. Matthew is my choice, too.’
‘I am not from a rival Order,’ Langelee pointed out, a little angrily. He was red-faced, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drinking, preparing with false courage for the meeting that might make him a powerful man. ‘What about me?’