‘But I do not like you,’ said William baldly. Michael’s snort of spiteful laughter was loud in the otherwise quiet room. ‘I do like Matthew, however – well, most of the time. I do not approve of his dealings with harlots, but he seems to have forsaken them these days.’
‘But I do not want to be Master,’ said Bartholomew, as soon as he could find a gap in the conversation that seemed to be taking place as though he were not present. ‘William was right – my duties as physician claim too much of my time. And if anyone thinks I can leave my patients to the ministrations of students like Rob Deynman, he only need look at Agatha the laundress’s teeth to see that I cannot.’
‘True,’ agreed Kenyngham, shaking his head in compassion. ‘Poor woman.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You have three votes out of a necessary five to make you Master, Matt. Consider very carefully before you decline.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I was given additional students this year, and, since Father Philius’s death last winter, I have had more patients than ever to see. And there is my treatise on fevers – I will never finish it if I take on extra College duties.’
‘I knew you would not agree, but it was worth a try,’ said Michael softly. ‘You would not have been as good as me, but I could have guided you along the right paths.’
‘You mean you could have ruled Michaelhouse by telling Bartholomew what to do,’ said Runham, overhearing. ‘Bartholomew’s election would have made you Master in all but name.’
Michael gave him a contemptuous glare.
‘So,’ said Langelee with satisfaction. ‘To summarise: Michael, Paul and Bartholomew have declined to stand, which leaves William, Runham and me. It is clear which one of us is the outstanding candidate.’
‘Is it?’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Who will you choose, Matt? The bigoted friar who would have us all burned for heresy for holding beliefs that do not directly reflect his own; the cunning lawyer whose most memorable characteristic is his smug pomposity; or the Archbishop of York’s spy-turned-academic, who is more lout than scholar, and who stoops to using cheap tricks to eliminate the best man for the task?’
‘Michaelhouse will not thrive under the Mastership of any of them,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is a case of selecting the least of three evils.’
‘I suggest we make our decision now, and then announce it after the admissions ceremony,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We are all present, and I am sure we all know which candidate we want to elect.’
‘It is not my place to speak when I am not yet a Fellow,’ said Suttone, his red, cheery face serious. ‘But I feel I am not in a position to make a decision of such importance to the College. If you will excuse me, I must abstain.’
‘Well, I will not abstain,’ said Clippesby, glaring at Suttone as though the Carmelite had tried to cheat him of something rightfully his. ‘And it is obvious to me whom we should choose.’
‘Oh, Lord, Matt,’ groaned Michael under his breath. ‘Another opinionated bigot! Why do they all have to come to Michaelhouse?’
‘Suttone seems a decent man,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He does,’ agreed Michael in a whisper. ‘But I do not like Clippesby!’
Clippesby glared around at the assembled Fellows, his oddly intense gaze lingering on the muttering Michael. ‘I do not want a disgusting Franciscan as Master and I do not approve of men who smell of strong drink at breakfast – as Langelee did this morning. So, I choose the lawyer.’
‘Well!’ drawled Michael, as an embarrassed silence greeted Clippesby’s statement. ‘You are a man who does not mince his words.’
‘Are all Fellows’ meetings this acrimonious?’ asked Suttone nervously. ‘Only I was led to believe that the hallowed halls of the University of Cambridge were places of learned debate and enlightenment.’
‘Where on God’s Earth did you hear that?’ asked Langelee. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know! Oxford! Our rival scholars are trying to make us sound tedious and dull! “Learned debate and enlightenment” indeed!’
The Michaelhouse Fellows processed into the hall in order of seniority. Master Kenyngham led the way, followed by Michael and William, and then Bartholomew with Father Paul clinging to his arm. Langelee and Runham walked together, while Clippesby and Suttone brought up the rear. The students were already standing at their places, waiting in tense anticipation to learn which of the Fellows would be their new Master.
The inauguration of new Fellows was a special event, and an extravagant number of candles had been lit, so the hall was filled with a golden glow. The fire blazed and crackled, sending flickering shadows across the painted ceiling. The usually bare wooden tables were covered in cloths – old, yellowed and stained ones, but cloths nevertheless – and the College silver was displayed on the high table. To mark the occasion, some of the students had even washed and donned clean gowns. The atmosphere of tense expectation and muted excitement reminded Bartholomew of Christmas. He wondered whether the students would look quite so cheerful when they learned who had been elected Master. He suspected they would not.
‘We have gathered this evening to witness the swearing in of two new Fellows,’ intoned Kenyngham mechanically, gesturing for everyone to sit. ‘I will read the founder’s statutes and the newcomers will be asked to obey these rules, and to defend zealously the honour and usefulness of the house.’
Michael gave a huge, bored yawn, and reached out to take a handful of nuts from the silver cup that had been placed in front of him. Langelee had somehow contrived to have his goblet filled with wine before anyone else, and was gulping it noisily. Bartholomew saw his students, Gray and Bulbeck, exchange a look of amusement at Langelee’s tavern-style manners, while Deynman had to look away to prevent himself from laughing out loud.
‘The new Fellows must listen carefully to the statutes and ordinances made over time by the Masters and scholars,’ said Kenyngham, reciting the familiar words without much interest.
‘I am sorry Langelee did what he did,’ said Bartholomew softly to Michael.
‘So am I,’ said Michael. ‘I was looking forward to being Master of Michaelhouse. Unfortunately, Kenyngham’s announcement was sudden, and I did not have the opportunity to prepare myself properly. Langelee acted before I could put my own plan into action.’
‘And what plan was that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Michael puffed out his cheeks, noting the uneasiness in his friend’s face. ‘Nothing as underhand as the trick Langelee played on me. I was merely going to suggest the election be postponed for a month, to allow Clippesby and Suttone to make their decisions with the benefit of knowing each of the candidates.’
‘And during the interim, you would have ensured that only one candidate was able to stand?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael nodded, unabashed. ‘It would have been done with discretion and cunning – not like Langelee, who has all the subtlety of a mallet in the groin – and no one would have known that it was I who started the rumours that besmirched the reputations of the others.’
‘Then you made a grave error of judgement, Brother. You assumed that your rivals would be equally subtle in their strategies, but you should have known Langelee and William better than that. Runham did: he is a clever man, but he saw such tactics would not work, and he engaged in the same kind of brazenness employed by Langelee and William.’
‘All right, all right. You do not have to rub it in,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I admit I was ill-prepared. This is all Kenyngham’s fault. He could not have resigned at a worse time, when I have the Bene’t death and Brother Patrick’s murder to investigate. My Junior Proctor is in Ely, and I am overwhelmed with work.’