‘I will send Bulbeck to you,’ said Runham. ‘Bartholomew should leave you alone, before he does you any more harm.’
‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Michael nastily, flexing his arm and plucking at the bandage that covered it. ‘I am ravenous. Tell Bulbeck to bring me something nice – a piece of chicken perhaps, or a tender sliver of beef. No vegetables, though. Green things are not good for the sick.’
With Michael well on the road to recovery, and even on the road to gluttony, Bartholomew instructed Bulbeck that on no account should he yield to the monk’s demand for wine that day and that the food was confined to a broth, and walked slowly down the stairs into the cool, drizzly grey of a late November morning. Runham followed him.
‘Deynman tells me you should have summoned Robin of Grantchester to amputate Brother Michael’s arm,’ he said.
At first Bartholomew thought he was joking, but the challenging expression on Runham’s face suggested otherwise. ‘Deynman is scarcely a reliable judge of such matters,’ he said, refraining from adding that anyone who listened to the opinions of a boy like Deynman should be locked away for their own safety. ‘And, as you can see, Michael has recovered perfectly well without my resorting to chopping parts of him off.’
‘That is more due to luck than anything you did,’ said Runham unpleasantly. ‘I suggest you stay away from Michael until he has fully recovered and is better able to fend off your murderous intentions.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, shock making him dull-witted.
‘You heard,’ snapped Runham, striding away across the courtyard to his newly occupied Master’s rooms. As he left, he called over his shoulder: ‘And I will station Clippesby by Michael’s door to ensure that you do not disobey my orders.’
Bartholomew was too stunned to reply. The spy-turned-philosopher, Ralph de Langelee, came to stand next to him.
‘Well, well,’ he said, grimly amused. ‘Is there any truth in Runham’s accusations? Have you really been trying to do away with our favourite Benedictine while pretending to save his life?’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone is talking as though Michael was at Death’s door. He was not: he had a mild fever from an infected arm that put him off his food for two days.’
Langelee raised his eyebrows. ‘Two days is a long time for a man of Michael’s girth. But are you telling me that it has not been necessary for you to be at his bedside all this time?’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘I went out once or twice yesterday, but which would you prefer – the hall with Runham, or Michael’s peaceful chamber?’
Langelee smiled back. ‘I take your point.’
‘I met Simekyn Simeon yesterday, from Bene’t,’ said Bartholomew conversationally. ‘I understand he is an acquaintance of yours.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Langelee proudly. ‘Simeon and I are close friends.’
‘What is he like?’ asked Bartholomew, seizing the opportunity to learn a little about the man who had imposed himself in Michael’s sickroom to ensure that the death of a colleague was properly investigated. ‘Is he honest?’
‘He is a courtier,’ replied Langelee matter-of-factly. ‘So, no. He is not honest. But he has good connections and is distantly related to the Earl of Suffolk.’
‘What has that to do with anything? I want to know whether he is truthful and whether what he says can be trusted.’
‘Sometimes, I imagine,’ said Langelee unhelpfully. ‘Has he been after Michael to investigate Wymundham’s death? He told me he would, because his lord, the Duke of Lancaster, will not want an unsolved murder besmirching the reputation of the College he has chosen to patronise.’
Bartholomew sighed, seeing Langelee was going to be of no use as a source of reliable information. ‘Michael has his beadles investigating the deaths of Wymundham and Raysoun.’
‘Raysoun, too?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Everyone believes he fell from the scaffolding, because he was a less than limber man who should not have been sipping from his wineskin while scaling the College walls.’
‘Perhaps that is true,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But his friend Wymundham claimed he was pushed.’
‘Wymundham!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘He once tried to put his hand on my knee in St Bene’t’s Church. I would not believe anything he said!’
Bartholomew gazed up at the dripping eaves, not feeling energetic enough to point out that Wymundham’s penchant for other men’s legs was irrelevant to his honesty. ‘At least this rain is keeping the students from making a racket in the yard. I will be able to do some writing this afternoon.’
‘Then you should make the most of it,’ said Langelee. ‘Nowhere will be peaceful after tomorrow, because Master Runham’s building work is due to begin then.’
‘His what?’
‘His building work. I tried to tell you yesterday, but you declined to talk to me. He plans to reface the north wing – where you and Michael live – and to build a new courtyard behind the hall.’
‘But where will the money come from?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We are always being told how desperate the College finances are.’
‘So they were,’ said Langelee. ‘But all that has changed since you have been closeted with that ungrateful monk. Runham has begged and borrowed – but I hope not stolen – enough cash for the work to start in the morning.’
‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew, his tired mind trying to come to grips with what Langelee was telling him. ‘But surely there are architects’ plans to be drawn up, and estimates of costs to be worked out before any work can begin?’
‘All done,’ said Langelee. ‘Runham is not a man to dally, it seems, and he says he wants his College to look its best. While you have been nursing your fat friend, the rest of the Fellows have had meeting after meeting, and it is all decided.’
‘But how could Runham raise the kind of money in two days needed to build a new court?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded. ‘It is not possible.’
‘It is, apparently,’ said Langelee. ‘He has taken out loans from the guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi, and he has inveigled donations from a number of wealthy townsmen – including your brother-in-law. Oswald Stanmore gave us five marks.’
‘Oswald gave Michaelhouse five marks?’ asked Bartholomew, staggered.
Langelee nodded. ‘Plus there is the money Runham is saving from the servants’ wages now that he has dismissed them all. So, work will commence on two fronts. First, scaffolding will be erected on your building so that the stone can be renewed and a new roof put on. And second, foundations will be dug to the north of the hall for the new courtyard buildings.’
‘But–’
‘But nothing, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. ‘The Master has spoken, and we must jump to obey his commands. Have you made your decision yet, by the way?’
‘What decision?’
‘Come on, man! You are like my undergraduates today, repeating everything I say like a baby learning its first words. The decision on whether you stay in Michaelhouse or whether you leave us.’
‘Runham cannot force me to make that choice,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against the door jamb and turning his face to the sky, feeling the rain patter on to it.
‘No, but he can make life very difficult for you if you do not,’ said Langelee. He gave a vindictive grin, and poked Bartholomew hard in the ribs with one of his powerful elbows. ‘I imagine you are already regretting not voting for me as Master, eh?’
‘I am regretting not voting for the Devil as Master,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not have brought up that business about Michael being in league with Oxford, you know. He would have made a much better Master than Runham.’