‘I know,’ said William. ‘So, did you tell the Chancellor about me? I hope you said I would make a splendid Junior Proctor. I know a vacancy will arise soon, and I would like to be considered.’
‘I told him everything,’ said Michael, favouring the friar with an ambiguous wink.
‘Did you?’ asked William, not certain whether this was a good thing or a bad. ‘But of course, if you do not need me to assist you with this affair at Bene’t, perhaps I can look into the terrible crime that was perpetrated at Ovyng yesterday – the vicious, wicked murder of an innocent Franciscan by Dominican devils.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Leave that well alone, please. I do not want you charging into the Dominican Friary and accusing people of murder.’
‘But I would be justified in doing so,’ argued William hotly.
‘Very possibly, but we have no evidence to support such a claim, and I do not want any more friars murdered in tit-for-tat killings – including you, Father.’
William grumbled to himself as Michael turned his back on the friar and gave his attention to Bartholomew. ‘So what else did Wymundham say to you?’
‘Just that Raysoun whispered with his dying breath that someone had stabbed him with an awl and then pushed him from the scaffolding, and that Bene’t’s Fellows fight among themselves.’
‘Really?’ mused Michael. He tapped his knife thoughtfully on the table, drawing an irritable glance from Runham. ‘I will speak to Wymundham first thing tomorrow morning – it is too late to go tonight. And I will want you to look at Raysoun’s body for me, too. Now that you have raised suspicions about the nature of his death, we need to know whether Raysoun fell on this metal spike as Lynton claimed, or whether he was stabbed, as Wymundham believes.’
‘I will not be able to tell you that,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘How can I? A stab wound looks the same whether it was inflicted by a person or whether it was the result of falling on a sharp implement.’
‘You will find a way,’ said Michael complacently.
Chapter 3
‘AND EACH NEW FELLOW SHALL PAY DUE RESPECT to every senior, and by senior is understood to mean any Fellow admitted before him,’ concluded Kenyngham, reading the last of the statutes with a sigh of relief.
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Michael, banging on the table with the handle of his knife, and waking at least one bored scholar that Bartholomew could see. He wondered if it had in fact been the monk’s intention to waken Langelee, who jumped and gazed around him blearily.
‘Do you swear to observe all these rules, in the sight of God and the Holy Spirit?’ asked Kenyngham of Clippesby and Suttone, who were now standing in front of him.
The two swore, and then watched as Kenyngham took a quill and wrote their names in the great book of the Fellows of the Society of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St Michael. When he had finished, and the wet ink had been sprinkled with sand to dry it, Clippesby and Suttone each bent to kiss its red leather cover.
‘Now comes the unpleasant part of the ceremony,’ muttered Michael, as all the Fellows stood, and prepared to receive the kiss of peace from the newcomers. ‘The only people I will kiss all day transpire to be a red-faced Carmelite with whiskers like a donkey, and a Dominican fanatic with the eyes of a madman. It would be a good deal more enjoyable if they were women.’
‘Women will never be admitted to a Cambridge college,’ announced Father William, exercising his annoying habit of overhearing certain parts of conversations not intended for his ears. ‘It would open the door to the Devil – the sort of thing they would do at Oxford.’
‘Perhaps that is why Michael is soliciting the good graces of the Oxford men,’ suggested Runham. ‘I cannot imagine why else he should deign to associate himself with that rabble.’
‘I can see I will never be allowed to forget this,’ muttered Michael bitterly.
‘It would be nice to have women in the College,’ said Bartholomew absently, leaning forward to kiss Clippesby, who favoured him with an odd look at the comment. ‘Some of the midwives I have met are highly intelligent, and–’
‘You meet altogether too many women,’ interrupted Father William sanctimoniously. ‘And your obsession with them exceeds the bounds of normality.’
He grabbed Clippesby roughly by the front of his habit and jerked him forward to plant a heavy kiss on either cheek. Scrubbing his face in distaste, Clippesby moved on to Michael, who favoured him with the most perfunctory of welcomes before sitting down again.
‘Let the feast begin,’ announced Kenyngham, clapping his hands to attract the attention of the servants who hovered at the back of the hall.
‘Why not tell us who is to be the new Master first?’ asked Gray. His comment had been intended only for Deynman and Bulbeck, but his voice was loud enough to carry, and other students nodded their agreement. Bartholomew strongly suspected that Kenyngham had chosen to delay his announcement so that everyone could have the opportunity to enjoy themselves before the axe fell.
The out-going Master pretended not to have heard Gray, and the feast commenced, accompanied by some hastily learned songs from a reduced version of the College choir. The feast’s short notice meant that only the best singers were invited to perform, which therefore excluded most of them.
The cooks had not managed too badly, considering the lack of preparation time. First, there was a dish of hare cooked with white grease. Michael mopped up the warm lard remaining in the serving bowl with generous helpings of the soft bread baked specially for the occasion, making Bartholomew feel queasy. When he remarked that too much of the fat would make the monk sick, Michael merely replied that it was to make up for the fact that he would not be eating any of the leeks and sops in wine, on the grounds that they were green and that he did not allow green foods to pass his lips.
It was a familiar refrain, and one that Bartholomew no longer tried to argue against. When Michael had retrieved the last globules of grease from under the rim of the dish, the next course arrived, comprising whole pikes poached in ale, parsley, cinnamon and vinegar: these looked impressive, but were difficult to eat because of the bones. William, who had a penchant for fish giblets, was presented with a large dish of the pikes’ steamed entrails from a cook who believed the Franciscan would be Michaelhouse’s next Master, and was keen to curry favour. With Michael scoffing his grease-impregnated bread on the one side, and William gorging fish intestines on the other, Bartholomew began to wish he were somewhere else.
Finally, there were fried fig pastries – small rolls of light pastry filled with a mixture of minced figs, saffron, eggs, ginger and cloves cooked in a hot skillet that spat with yet more white grease. Michael ate four and then complained that his innards hurt. Bartholomew ate one, and found it heavy, sticky and overly rich.
The College’s wine cellar had been broached to ensure there was plenty of liquid with which to wash the food down. Most of it was a dark, tarry brew that Bartholomew thought tasted more like medicine than wine. The first sip made him wince, and when he had finished the whole cup his head spun and his stomach felt acidic. But the oily meal had made him thirsty, and he did not object when Cynric refilled his goblet.
The powerful drink had its customary impact on the Fellows. Kenyngham’s head began to nod as he listened to some dull monologue by Runham, and Bartholomew saw it would not be long before the gentle Gilbertine fell asleep. Michael, red-faced and sweaty, was sharing detailed knowledge of the town’s whores with a startled Suttone. To Bartholomew’s right, Father William was slapping Clippesby on the shoulders in a comradely manner and regaling him with tales of his happy days in the Inquisition. Clippesby’s expression turned from indignant to appalled, and then to hunted. Bartholomew studied the Dominican, who sat twitching uneasily under William’s heavy arm, and wondered yet again whether he was wholly in control of his wits.