Cynric gave a reluctant grin. ‘I suppose he is.’ He became serious. ‘That business you dragged me into in Suffolk this summer was a nasty experience, and my Rachel has been urging me to leave you in case something similar happens again. You do seem to attract that kind of trouble.’
‘Cynric, I am so sorry,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that the events in a remote country village should have had such a traumatic effect on his book-bearer and immediately feeling responsible.
‘It was not your fault I fell under that curse, and you did risk your life to have it lifted. But Rachel is right: it is time I settled down and got a real job.’
‘But how will we manage without you?’
Cynric smiled again. ‘It is for the best, lad. I did not relish the prospect of working for Runham. None of the servants like him – especially after what he did to Father Paul last night. Even Agatha the laundress is thinking of taking a position she was offered at Bene’t College.’
‘Not Agatha!’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘But wait, Cynric, you cannot just leave like this …’
‘I am only going around the corner,’ said Cynric, squeezing his arm in a rare gesture of affection. ‘And I will come if you need me – remember that if Runham plagues you too much.’
Bartholomew was torn. On the one hand, Rachel had a point, and it was unfair of Bartholomew to oblige Cynric to take part in some of the adventures Michael foisted upon him, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that Cynric had enjoyed them. On the other hand, Bartholomew could not imagine life without Cynric’s loyal, comforting presence.
‘I will visit you,’ he promised the book-bearer, taking his hand and clasping it warmly.
Cynric gave a lopsided smile. ‘You will not. Mistress Matilde and your sister both claim you are an unreliable and infrequent guest. But I will seek you out and we will spend time in each other’s company. I will see to that.’
With another brief smile, Cynric was gone, making his way up the lane to Milne Street, where Bartholomew’s brother-in-law had his substantial cloth business. With a heavy heart, Bartholomew climbed the stairs next to his room, which led to the chamber Michael shared with two Benedictine students. The door was ajar, and he walked in after tapping gently.
Michael was pale and sweat beaded his face. The root of the problem was the sting in his arm, which had been scratched raw by the monk’s ragged, dirty fingernails. Pale red lines ran from the wound to his shoulder, showing where the infection had spread.
‘You took your time,’ said Michael feebly, as Bartholomew knelt next to him and felt the monk’s forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I asked Kenyngham to fetch you hours ago.’
‘There was trouble at the church,’ said Bartholomew vaguely. Michael looked curious, but Bartholomew started to ask questions about his illness, not wanting to tell him about the choir’s revolt or that his services as music master had been dispensed with by the odious Runham while he was unwell.
He was surprised by the speed at which the infection had taken hold of Michael; the wound had not seemed so serious the night before. He sincerely hoped his drunkenness had not prevented him from making an accurate diagnosis.
He clattered down the stairs to his storeroom, to gather the necessary potions and salves. He reached for the water that Cynric always left for him, but the jug was empty and Cynric was no longer in the College. Cursing, he walked across the courtyard to collect some of the near-boiling water from the great cauldron that always steamed over the kitchen fire. Agatha the laundress levered her bulk from her wicker chair by the hearth and came to help him.
‘I will bring this,’ she said, hoisting the heavy bucket in one meaty hand, as if it contained nothing but air. ‘You cannot manage it with all you are already carrying, and anyway, it is weighty.’
‘Let me take it, then,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘You carry the medicines.’
Agatha eyed him up and down critically, and apparently decided that she was the stronger of the two. Without a word, she set off across the courtyard at a cracking pace that had him concerned that she would slip in the mud and scald herself. But they arrived at Michael’s chamber unscathed, and she lingered in the doorway, watching him work.
‘That Runham has dismissed virtually all the College staff except for me,’ she said, folding her formidable arms across her equally formidable chest. ‘He dares not get rid of me, because he values his manhood.’
‘Pity,’ said Michael from the bed. ‘I would like to see him lose it.’
Agatha gave a screech of raucous laughter that echoed across the yard and that Bartholomew was certain would be audible in the hall, where the scholars would be sitting in silence as they ate their breakfast.
‘He has ordered Kenyngham out of the Master’s chambers this morning, so that he can move in,’ she said, sobering slightly.
‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified. ‘He is not wasting any time, is he!’
‘You both need to be careful of Runham,’ Agatha advised. ‘He is a dangerous man. He wants to dismiss all the old Fellows, then fill the vacancies with his own lickspittle – like that Clippesby.’
‘Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew, quickly making a small incision in Michael’s arm to drain away the infection while the monk’s attention was on Agatha. Michael yelped in pain, and shot Bartholomew an accusing look.
‘He has become Runham’s henchman,’ said Agatha in disapproval. ‘Personally, I do not believe the man is sane, which is why he thinks Runham is some kind of god, I suppose. Clippesby follows Runham everywhere, and runs all his errands.’
‘That is because Justus, his own book-bearer, died,’ said Michael. ‘Runham is too mean to pay for a servant, so he is using the pathetic, ingratiating Clippesby as his menial. Serves him right!’
‘Yes!’ said Agatha viciously. ‘The pair of them deserve each other.’
‘Have you done anything about Wymundham?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.
‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘What should I have done?’
Michael sighed irritably. ‘I am lying here helpless, and there are deaths that need to be investigated. There are Wymundham’s and Brother Patrick’s – and Raysoun’s, according to what you heard Wymundham claim.’
‘But it is not my place to look into such matters. I am not your Junior Proctor.’
‘Do not be so pompous, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘With me indisposed and my Junior Proctor in Ely, there is no one else I can trust. And anyway, it is Sunday and you have nothing else to do. Just go to Bene’t and ask to speak to Simekyn Simeon, who is one of the Fellows. I arrested him for drinking in taverns a few weeks back but then let him go, so he owes me a favour. He will tell you the secrets behind Bene’t College’s façade of friendship and harmony.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew weakly.
‘And then slip across to Ovyng Hostel to enquire if anyone has more information about the death of Brother Patrick.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly, deciding to take a stand before Michael’s demands took too much of his time. ‘I cannot take on all your work as well as my own.’
‘Shame on you,’ said Agatha disapprovingly. ‘These poor scholars lie murdered, and you are more interested in writing that over-long book and teaching the likes of that Rob Deynman than in seeing justice done.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Michael immediately. ‘So prove otherwise and do as I ask. Visit Ovyng, and see whether the Principal has any more to tell you about Brother Patrick.’
‘But you have your beadles,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Send one of them.’
Michael raised his eyes heavenward and exchanged a weary grimace with Agatha. ‘I cannot send any of those ruffians to deal with the likes of Fellows and Principals. You know that. I doubt the Principal of Ovyng or the scholars of Bene’t would even allow my rough beadles into their presence. I need another scholar – a man of standing in the University, like you.’