‘Your College cheated us!’ he declared furiously, advancing on the physician. ‘You let us sing today, knowing that we would not be given our bread and ale.’
Bartholomew thought that was possibly true as far as Runham was concerned, although the choir had done themselves no favours with the diabolical quality of their singing. He did not know how to answer.
Isnard strode forward and grabbed him by the front of his tabard, while his angry friends gathered around in a tight circle. Too late, Bartholomew realised he should not have stayed in the church and that the choir would not care whether he condoned the Master’s actions or not. He would be battered to a pulp because he wore a black tabard, and only later, when tempers had cooled, would the singers question whether he had really been party to Runham’s decision. He struggled, but the press of people was too great, and Isnard’s grip too tight. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the first blow to fall.
‘Leave him be, Isnard,’ came Dunstan’s reedy voice, miraculously cutting in over the others’. ‘That is no cur of Runham’s. That is Doctor Bartholomew, who set your leg for you last year.’
Isnard hauled Bartholomew to one side, so that he could see his face in the pale light that filtered in through the east window. ‘So it is!’ the bargeman exclaimed, releasing the physician so abruptly that he stumbled. Helpful hands stretched out to steady him. ‘Sorry, Doctor, but all you scholars look the same in those black uniforms – especially in the gloom of this godforsaken place.’
‘I have never liked this church,’ agreed Aethelbald, Dunstan’s equally ancient brother, looking around him in distaste. ‘It is cold and dark and sinister – as though devils lurk in its shadows.’
‘Especially now that one is buried here,’ said Dunstan, pointing with a wizened finger at the glittering monstrosity of Wilson’s tomb.
As one, the choir crossed themselves vigorously and gazed around, as if they imagined Wilson himself might emerge from his grave and drag them all down to the depths of Hell.
‘Wilson was a sinful, wicked man,’ said Aethelbald. ‘During the plague, he lurked in his room by day to avoid contamination, but at night he slipped out to meet his lover.’
‘Did he?’ asked Isnard, interested in this piece of gossip. ‘Was she a whore, then?’
‘She was,’ said Aethelbald with conviction. ‘She was also Prioress of St Radegund’s Convent, God rot her black soul.’
‘And he stole from people,’ added Dunstan, not wanting Aethelbald to have all the attention.
‘Really?’ asked Isnard, fascinated to hear that a man with as fine a tomb as Wilson’s had been so unscrupulous in life. ‘What kind of things did he take?’
‘Anything, really,’ hedged Dunstan. ‘Money, jewels, clothes. Am I not right, Doctor?’
Bartholomew swallowed. He was not aware that Wilson had been dishonest, but he had been secretive, and while Bartholomew could not see him climbing up guttering in the dead of night to burgle a house, he could certainly envisage him cheating someone, or indulging in a little creativity while doing the College accounts.
‘I have not … I do not …’ he began falteringly.
‘He does not know,’ said Aethelbald, waving a dismissive hand in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘He was out physicking the sick during the plague, and had no idea what the Master of Michaelhouse did in the privacy of his rooms. But it is common knowledge in the town that Wilson had great piles of stolen gold and silver there when he died.’
Then common knowledge was mistaken, Bartholomew thought to himself. He had been in the room when Wilson had died, and there had been no gold and silver – stolen or otherwise – that he had seen. Like many stories about the plague, telling and retelling had resulted in ever more flagrant digressions from the truth.
‘I have never heard about any of this,’ said Isnard dubiously. ‘If it is common knowledge, then how come I did not know?’
Dunstan shrugged. ‘You obviously frequent the wrong taverns. If you want to hear stories about the University, you need to be in the Brazen George, not the King’s Head.’
‘I shall remember that,’ said Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew and returned to his original grievance. ‘But your College cheated us. It might not be your doing, but someone will pay for it.’
‘Here,’ said Bartholomew, taking his purse from his side and handing it to Isnard. ‘You are right, and I am sorry. It is not much, but it is all I have, and should buy enough bread for everyone.’
‘But not ale,’ said Isnard, regarding the meagre contents of Bartholomew’s purse with disappointment. ‘We do not want your money, Doctor. We want to see that fat, pompous ass strung up on the walls of his own College, so that we can watch the life slowly choking out of him.’
‘That is dangerous talk,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the chorus of vehement agreement that rose around him. ‘I know you are angry, but perhaps Michael will be able to persuade Runham to reinstate you. Do not do anything that might jeopardise that.’
‘He is right,’ said Dunstan reluctantly. ‘We should all go home and meet again tomorrow, when we are better able to think clearly. If we march on Michaelhouse now and drag Runham from his breakfast trough to execute him, we might never be employed as choristers again.’
With relief, Bartholomew saw the choir accept this cold logic, and they began to disperse. One or two of the smaller children were crying, and Bartholomew suspected that Dunstan would not be the only one going hungry that day.
‘But we will never accept that mad-looking Clippesby as our leader,’ Aethelbald called over his shoulder as he left. ‘We will only have Brother Michael.’
‘I will tell him,’ promised Bartholomew.
‘Do not tell Michael – he knows that already – tell that pig Runham,’ said Isnard. ‘It is he who needs to know.’
Bartholomew leaned against a pillar when the door closed behind the last of them. Despite the coldness of the day, he was sweating and the back of his shirt was sodden. He took a deep breath, wondering what other evils Runham would perpetrate in his time as Master – if the man managed to survive that long.
Bartholomew had not been sitting alone in St Michael’s Church for more than a few moments when a familiar voice spoke softly at his side. He looked up to see Master Kenyngham standing over him, his face white in the gloom. He was puzzled to see that the gentle Gilbertine was shaking, and that tears glistened on his cheeks.
‘Thank the Lord you are all right,’ Kenyngham whispered unsteadily. ‘I thought they were going to kill you where you stood – in God’s holy church!’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, standing to take the friar’s arm and lead him to a bench at the back of the nave, so that the old Master might sit and compose himself.
‘I came to find you,’ said Kenyngham in a voice that was dull with shock. ‘I had just entered the church when I saw that mob close in on you and – God forgive me – I was too afraid for my own safety to come to your assistance. I was so paralysed with fear that I could not even find the voice to cry out to make them stop.’
‘But you are not well,’ said Bartholomew kindly, recalling that Kenyngham had been as pallid and unhealthy as the rest of the scholars in the church that morning. Kenyngham was also unused to the violent effects of the infamous Widow’s Wine. ‘You are pale.’
‘That was our choir, Matthew!’ cried the friar, distraught. ‘They were men and boys who have enjoyed our hospitality for years, and who have joined their voices with ours to rejoice in the glory of God.’
‘They joined their voices with ours in order to earn their bread and ale,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘And it was fury at the injustice of losing it that led them to contemplate violence. These are hungry people for whom the College provides a valued service – not the other way around.’