‘But–’
‘Enough!’ snapped Runham. ‘From now on, I will have no debates at high table and no one will question my decisions. What I say is final. You have a week to make up your mind whether you will choose College or your external interests – and the same choice is available to anyone else who does not like the way I plan to rule Michaelhouse.’
‘But Matthew’s treatment of the poor is good for relations with the town,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘That is why I have allowed him to continue. The townsfolk appreciate the fact that we can help them in this way, and are more inclined to view the University in a positive light.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Runham dismissively. ‘The town rabble hate and envy us, and Bartholomew’s sordid obsession with their diseases makes no difference one way or the other.’
‘That is not true!’ cried Father Paul, as angry as Bartholomew had ever seen him. ‘And in these times of need following the Death, we must do all we can to help the poor, not deprive them of the one man who provides them with free treatment for their ailments.’
‘Then he should follow his conscience and leave Michaelhouse,’ snapped Runham. ‘At least then he will be able to pursue all the town whores who take his fancy without fear of recrimination.’
‘That is unfair,’ argued Paul, his expressive face dark with fury. ‘Matthew has been–’
‘Since you see fit to question me within moments of my appointment, perhaps you might care to resign your Fellowship now, rather than wait until the end of term,’ said Runham icily. ‘I will have your personal effects sent to the Franciscan Friary first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Now just a moment–’ began William, outraged that a fellow Franciscan was under attack.
‘And that goes for you, too,’ said Runham, rounding on him. ‘You are a stupid, belligerent fanatic, who has no place in a University.’
‘Even as Master, you have no authority to deprive people of their Fellowships,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It is against the statutes, because Fellows are elected in perpetuity.’
But he could make their lives so unpleasant that they would not want to stay, thought Bartholomew, eyeing the new Master with dislike.
‘I have no wish to remain in Michaelhouse, if its new Master wishes us to ignore the town’s poor and selfishly concentrate on ourselves,’ said Paul coldly. ‘I will leave tonight.’
His chair scraped on the floor as he stood and made his way towards the staircase; the other Fellows and students watched him aghast. The hall had never been so silent; even the customary rustle of rushes around the scholars’ feet was stilled. Bartholomew started to rise to protest, but Michael seized his arm and dragged him back down. The movement did not escape the attention of Runham, who glared at them with his heavily lidded eyes. Bartholomew clenched his fists. He was not normally a man moved to violence, but the sight of the smug expression on Runham’s amply jowled face made his blood boil, and he felt an almost irresistible urge to leap across the table and wrap his hands around the man’s throat.
‘What did my beadle want?’ asked Michael of Cynric in the tense silence that followed. He glanced up at Runham challengingly. ‘I assume you do not object if urgent University business occasionally encroaches on a College meal? Or shall I inform the University’s Chancellor and the Bishop of Ely that I have been forbidden to fulfil my obligations to them as long as you are eating?’
Runham glowered at him with undisguised loathing, and made no reply. While he could bully some of his Fellows, he was scarcely in a position to take on one with the backing of such powerful men as the Chancellor and the Bishop – at least, not yet.
‘The beadle has come from Mayor Horwoode’s house,’ said Cynric in a whisper, intimidated by the fact that everyone in the hall was listening to what he had to say. ‘Apparently, Horwoode has found the body of a scholar from Bene’t College in his garden.’
‘A student?’ asked Michael.
Cynric shook his head. ‘It is said to be a Fellow by the name of John Wymundham.’
The golden aura of the beadle’s lamp formed a hazy halo as Bartholomew, Michael and Paul followed it up St Michael’s Lane and turned left along the High Street. Mayor Horwoode lived near Sheriff Tulyet, and his home was a large, stone-built house set attractively between the Round Church – built to resemble the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem – and the Franciscan Friary.
Michael strode next to his beadle, scratching his stung arm in silent agitation as he considered the events of the evening. Bartholomew walked behind, with Father Paul clinging to him; a bundle of the friar’s belongings swung over his shoulder. Normally, Cynric would have been with them, too, scouting behind in the shadows of the night and enjoying the nocturnal foray. But Cynric was now a married man with other commitments, and he had returned to his own home on Milne Street as soon as his duties at the feast were over. Bartholomew felt vulnerable without the book-bearer’s comforting presence.
Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision. At least part of it was due to the strong wine but some was the speculative scrutiny of petty thieves and vagabonds, and Bartholomew was glad of the presence of the beadle and his sword. He sensed that at least one would-be robber had melted away into the shadows when he saw the glint of unsheathed metal.
Bartholomew stumbled over one of the many potholes that pitted the street, almost dragging Paul down with him. Somewhere in the silence a dog howled mournfully, answered by another in the distance. The night was cold, and a dank mist had rolled in from the Fens, filling the town with a dirty whiteness that carried in it the scent of the sea and the rich, rotting odour of the marshes.
‘You do not have to leave Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew to Paul. He knew his words were slightly slurred from the wine. ‘Runham does not have the authority to force you to go before you are ready.’
Paul pursed his lips. ‘I want no place in a College run by a man like Runham. To be frank, I knew that if he won the election, I would not want to remain at Michaelhouse. That was why I said I would resign before we voted – so as not to look churlish.’
‘But William might have won.’
‘He might,’ said Paul. ‘But William is not the kind of man who would rule the College with wisdom and understanding, either. The least of the three evils was Langelee – at least he can be manipulated.’
‘He can?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.
Paul nodded. ‘All you need to do is to make sure he believes that any suggestions you put forward originated with him – if he feels something is his own idea, he will be more than happy to see it through. But Runham is too clever for such tactics. He is vicious, arrogant and mean-spirited, and life is too short for me to want to spend any of it in his company.’
Bartholomew was surprised. He did not like Runham, but was astonished that a gentle man like Father Paul had taken against him so strongly.
‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ he said. ‘I am sorry it ended the way it did.’
‘I am not,’ said Paul. ‘I do not want to see the College I love disintegrating under the filthy claws of that lawyer. I will be happier in the Friary.’
‘We are here,’ said Bartholomew, gazing up at the substantial walls that kept the Franciscan friars in and the town – and the Dominicans – out.
Paul hammered on the gate and then turned his milky eyes towards Bartholomew. ‘You will visit me here? You will continue to ease the pain in my eyes with that lotion you devised for me?’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming the Emperor lets me out, that is.’