‘Were they right?’ Kenyngham asked suddenly. ‘About Master Wilson, I mean. Did he really seduce the Prioress of St Radegund’s?’
‘I do not know if “seduce” is the right word,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but they had an understanding.’
‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, putting his hands over his face. Bartholomew could not help but agree: the notion of the smug Master Wilson pawing any woman, religious or otherwise, was repellent. ‘And the stolen property? Is it true that the whole town knows Wilson was a thief?’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wilson was not a good man, but I never heard anything to suggest that he did anything dishonest – although it would not have surprised me if he had.’
‘Wilson was less than scrupulous with some people,’ said Kenyngham reluctantly. ‘I encountered discrepancies in his accounting when I became Master, and a number of people approached me and asked whether various items had appeared in the College coffers after Wilson had died.’
‘You mean Wilson was a thief?’ asked Bartholomew, vaguely amused.
‘I did not say that,’ said Kenyngham carefully. ‘The accounting inconsistencies were possibly honest mistakes, and he may have had nothing to do with the missing items. It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, especially in a church, where the mortal remains of the man we are maligning lie so close to hand.’
‘I had no idea he stole,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was just unpleasant, vindictive and scheming.’
‘Really, Matthew,’ admonished Kenyngham. ‘The poor man may be in Purgatory at this very moment, repenting his evil deeds so that he may move on to a happier place. Saying such dreadful things about him will not help. And anyway, to speak ill of the dead might encourage their tortured souls to come and haunt us.’
‘Then Wilson would have been rattling his chains in the depths of the night long before this,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Or perhaps the problem is that so many people have spoken ill of him, he does not know whom to haunt first.’
‘Matthew!’ cried Kenyngham, genuinely distressed. ‘Enough! I would never have started this conversation had I known the way it would end. I only wanted to know whether the town was aware of the less saintly aspects of Wilson’s character.’
‘If the townsfolk really believed Wilson was a thief, you would have heard about it long before today,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But now that Runham is Master, he will have less time to spend venerating Wilson’s memory and the malicious rumours will soon die away. Do not worry, Father.’
Kenyngham gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I suppose you are right. But Runham’s incumbency has not started well at all. What will Michael say when he hears the choir is no longer his? I went to break the bad news to him, but I found I could not.’
‘Where did you see him? At breakfast?’
Kenyngham shook his head. ‘He did not appear for breakfast, and I was worried. Have you noticed that Michael seldom misses a meal?’
‘I have noticed, yes,’ said Bartholomew slowly, when Kenyngham paused, obviously expecting an answer to what was hardly an astute observation.
‘So I went to see if he was in his room.’
‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, when Kenyngham paused again.
‘And he is unwell,’ said Kenyngham. ‘That is why I am here. I remembered you had not joined the procession that walked back to the College, and so I assumed you must have stayed here for some private prayer. Then, when I entered, and I saw that our choir had turned from a heavenly throng to a band of would-be killers …’
He faltered, and Bartholomew resisted the urge to laugh. He wondered whether anyone but Kenyngham would be so other-worldly as to see the likes of Dunstan, Aethelbald and Isnard as a heavenly throng.
‘What is wrong with Michael?’ he asked. ‘Was it the Widow’s Wine? I had four glasses, and they made me reel like a drunkard, but he claims to have downed nine. I am surprised he even knew where his feet were, let alone used them to walk to Mayor Horwoode’s house.’
‘It was not the wine,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was complaining that his arm hurt, and he wanted me to fetch you. You had better go to see him. I will stay here for a while, to contemplate on what I have learned from this experience.’
He took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him, his eyes fixed on the Great Bible that sat on the lectern in the sanctuary.
‘Have you learned that you would have done better to vote for Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling in an attempt to lighten the Gilbertine’s gloom. ‘Or better still, that we should have ignored Langelee’s accusations and elected Michael?’
Kenyngham did not smile back. ‘I have learned that I should never have resigned in the first place,’ he said. Tears began to flow again. ‘God forgive me! What have I done?’
When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, Cynric was just leaving, and his face was as black as thunder. Everyone else was at breakfast, summoned by the shrill little bell that hung near the porters’ lodge. Usually, there was someone scurrying late to the hall, but no one dared to take that kind of liberty with Runham in charge, and the courtyard was empty.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, seeing his book-bearer cloaked, gloved and carrying a bundle over his shoulder. ‘I thought you were on breakfast duty today.’
‘I was, boy,’ said Cynric in a muffled voice. ‘But Master Runham has just informed me that he no longer needs my services and I have been dismissed from Michaelhouse.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, aghast. ‘But he cannot do that! He–’
‘Whether he can or cannot, he has, and that is an end to it,’ said Cynric, pushing past the physician and heading for the lane.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Even a Master cannot dismiss a servant without the other Fellows’ consent. You are not dismissed, Cynric.’
‘He had their consent,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘Langelee and Clippesby agreed to support Runham in his “economies”, although at least William tried to prevent me from being thrown out like a dirty rag.’
‘But Langelee and Clippesby alone are not enough,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Runham needs the votes of the majority of Fellows to pass a decision like that.’
‘Father Paul, you, Brother Michael and Master Kenyngham were absent at the breakfast meeting, and that newcomer – Suttone – abstained again on the grounds that he does not know enough of the College to decide such matters, although I could see he was uncomfortable with the notion of throwing loyal men out on to the streets. But with Clippesby and Langelee voting with Runham, your fine new Master had his majority.’
‘But you cannot just go,’ said Bartholomew in horror, grabbing his servant’s arm. ‘Come with me to see Runham now. We will sort this out–’
‘The decision has been made,’ said Cynric, looking away. ‘You are too late, boy.’
‘But you have been here for years – as long as I have,’ protested Bartholomew, still holding Cynric’s arm.
‘Right,’ said Cynric, giving him a rueful smile. ‘It was you who brought me here and got me this position, and I am grateful. It has been a comfortable life, all told, and I came to meet my wife through you. But it is probably time I went on to different things. Rachel wants me at home more, and your brother-in-law – Rachel is his seamstress, as you know – has offered me a position as captain of the mercenaries he hires to protect his goods.’
‘Oswald is trying to steal my book-bearer?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned that Edith’s husband would encourage Cynric to leave him without discussing it first.