Then Wilson’s cousin had come to Michaelhouse. John Runham had been appalled to discover his kinsman housed in something so stark, and immediately set about rectifying the matter. The elegant black slab was now topped by a life-sized golden effigy, and the plain stone rectangle that formed the body of the tomb was hidden by painted panels that blazed with gilt, reds, greens and blues. Unusually, Wilson’s statue was not lying on its back gazing longingly heavenward, as was the current fashion, but had been sculpted propped up on one elbow, looking towards where the scholars stood for prayers. Either Runham had modelled for it, or he had given very clear instructions to the mason, because the likeness of the carving to the dead Master Wilson was disconcertingly accurate, and more than once Bartholomew had experienced the uncomfortable sensation that Wilson was actually watching him.
In front of the tomb was a small but sumptuous altar, so that the scholars could kneel to pray for Wilson’s soul – although it was not used by anyone except Runham. Bartholomew walked past it, hoping Runham would be too engrossed in his cleaning to notice him. He had almost reached the high altar at the eastern end of the church, when the new Master spoke.
‘You are late.’
‘I know.’ There was nothing more Bartholomew could say. He had no excuse to offer, and he was not prepared to apologise to Runham – he did not want to start the day with a lie.
‘You will pay the customary fine of fourpence to me after breakfast,’ Runham went on. ‘And next time you are late, the fine will be a shilling. You have sacred duties to perform, and I will not permit idleness and irresponsibility to interfere with them.’
Bartholomew saw he would have to ask his colleagues to wake him in the future. He was a heavy sleeper, and usually only stirred when something disturbed him. He would be in desperate financial straits if he were obliged to pay Runham a shilling three times a week.
‘It will not happen again,’ said Runham softly.
His voice was vaguely threatening, and again Bartholomew did not reply. He noticed that Runham had already lit the candles, found the right place in the Bible for the daily reading, changed the holy water in the stoop, set out the psalters, and arranged the sacred vessels that were required for the mass. In fact, Runham had already done all that Bartholomew was supposed to do in his capacity as priest’s assistant.
Bartholomew glanced out of the window. It was still not fully light, and he knew he was not more than a few moments late. He could only suppose that Runham had deliberately arrived early enough to perform all Bartholomew’s chores, to drive home his point. It seemed petty, and the anger that Bartholomew had been fighting since he had first seen Runham beautifying Wilson’s tasteless little altar began to claw its way to the surface again.
‘You took advantage of my leniency last night,’ said Runham, laying down his cleaning rod and assuming a mien of religious contemplation. ‘You were told to return immediately after delivering Father Paul to his Friary, but you remained out much longer, and came back reeling and stinking of wine.’
‘I drank nothing after I left the feast,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I had two patients to attend – one with an injured foot and the other with swollen gums.’
‘I trust you did no harm by treating them when you were barely able to stand,’ said Runham unpleasantly. ‘It would not be the first time a physician left a patient dead because of an over-fondness for wine.’
‘They both survived my ministrations,’ said Bartholomew, determined not to allow Runham to provoke him. ‘But speaking of the dead, when do you plan to bury your book-bearer? I see poor Justus’s body still lies in the porch. It has been there since Thursday.’
‘I expect I will find a few moments to tend to that this week,’ replied Runham, patently uninterested in his book-bearer’s mortal remains. He moved to one side so that there was room for the physician to kneel next to him, and changed the subject. ‘Perhaps you would join me in a prayer for my cousin’s soul.’
Bartholomew could hardly decline – no matter what he thought about Runham’s kinsman – so he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in front of him, hoping that a prayerful attitude would serve to convince Runham to leave him alone. He felt the other man watching him, so he closed his eyes and pretended to be lost in his meditations.
There was a powerful, sickly-sweet scent around the tomb that made Bartholomew want to avoid inhaling too deeply. He had noticed it before, and Michael claimed that proximity to Wilson’s private altar always made him sneeze. Runham often placed flowers nearby, and Bartholomew could only assume that the new Master invariably chose the ones with the strongest scents.
‘You did not like my cousin, did you,’ said Runham, so quietly that Bartholomew thought he might have misheard. He opened his eyes to look at the Master in surprise.
‘I built his tomb,’ he said levelly.
‘That is what I mean. The tomb you raised was a disgrace, and unfit for a man of my cousin’s mettle. He would have liked the one I provided much more.’
‘I am sure you are right,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that the hideous structure Runham designed would certainly have appealed more to Wilson’s inflated sense of self-importance. He closed his eyes. ‘And now that you have rectified matters, there is nothing more to be said.’
‘Have you made your decision?’ asked Runham, still in the same soft voice.
Bartholomew opened his eyes again. ‘What decision?’
‘About whether to become a full-time physician for the town. I am sure that life as a layman will suit you much better than life as a scholar. And anyway, I find medicine sits oddly with the other subjects we teach – law, philosophy and theology.’
‘But a good deal of medicine is natural philosophy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it also overlaps with astrology, mathematics and geometry.’
‘But you do not teach your students astrology, do you?’ pounced Runham. ‘You claim that reading your patients’ stars is a waste of time, and your students would do better to tell their clients to wash their hands before eating, and not to drink water from the river.’
‘I did once,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have learned that if a physician provides what his patients expect from him, they are more likely to be cured. I suppose the mind has a powerful influence over the body in some people, and belief in a remedy’s efficacy will aid recovery.’
‘That sounds like heresy to me,’ said Runham, eyes narrowing. ‘Notions like that do Michaelhouse no good at all. I do not want you in my College, Bartholomew, and I do not want you near my saintly cousin’s tomb.’
‘You asked me to kneel here,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. He fought down the urge to retort that he did not want to be near Wilson’s revolting tomb, but contented himself with nodding curtly to the new Master and heading for the high altar, to try to expunge some of the murderous impulses he felt towards Runham. When he had gone, Clippesby emerged from behind a pillar.
‘You see, Clippesby?’ asked Runham, looking up at the wild-eyed Dominican. ‘Bartholomew is a dangerous man, and his heretical ideas will pollute the minds of our more impressionable students.’
Clippesby nodded quickly, his gaze darting here and there as though he suspected he were not the only one skulking in the shadows and eavesdropping.