‘What do you mean?’ asked Langelee, puzzled.
‘I mean lustful behaviour,’ elaborated Runham.
‘But there are no women in here,’ said Langelee, frowning in bemusement. He suddenly realised what Runham was implying and his jaw dropped in shock. Bartholomew looked from the gaping philosopher to the stern, prissy features of the new Master, and began to laugh.
The following day, the College was filled with the sounds of frantic activity. Scaffolding was being erected around the north wing, and foundations were being dug for the buildings that would form the new court. Hammers pounded on wood and nails, saws scratched, metal clinked and rang, and workmen called and yelled in casually jovial voices. It was almost impossible to teach in the hall – not only was the noise distracting, but the students were far more interested in what was happening outside than in their lessons.
Bartholomew persisted until mid-morning, but when Langelee, Kenyngham and Runham gave up, and their students’ delighted voices joined the racket outside, he was forced to concede defeat. Even William, whose stentorian tones usually rose energetically to such a challenge, threw up his hands in resignation and allowed his small group of novices to escape with the others. Only Michael’s Benedictines persisted, retreating to the abandoned servants’ chambers to discuss St Augustine’s Sermones in low, reverent voices. Although Bartholomew had recommended that his own students study specific sections of Galen’s De Regimine Acutorum, he knew very well that none of them had the slightest intention of doing so.
Runham had made his presence felt in other aspects of College life, besides disrupting the teaching routine. He had decided that fires in the hall and conclave were a sinful waste of money, and had decreed that scholars could only light them if they were prepared to buy the fuel themselves. Since Runham himself was virtually the only one able to afford such an extravagance, Bartholomew and his colleagues found themselves teaching rows of unhappy faces bundled inside blankets, rugs, and even wall hangings as the students tried to keep themselves warm. Bartholomew’s own hands and feet were so cold that he could barely feel them, and he was not looking forward to the rest of the winter, when wet clothes would take days to dry and there would be nowhere to go to escape the chill. He decided he might have to visit his sister and Matilde more often – both were wealthy enough to have a cheerful fire in the hearth.
‘How is Michael?’ asked William pleasantly, as they watched the activity in the yard together from the window in the conclave.
‘Better.’
‘But he keeps to his bed,’ observed William. ‘Is he malingering, then?’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely truthfully, given that there was no reason at all why the monk should still be in bed. But since Bartholomew had also taken advantage of Michael’s illness to avoid meals in College, he felt he was not in a position to be critical. ‘It is best that he recovers completely before resuming his duties.’
‘His duties,’ mused William, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘I was planning to discuss those with you.’ Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘Now that Brother Michael is incapacitated, I wondered whether I should act as Senior Proctor in his stead. I–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘Michael has beadles doing that.’
‘But there are a number of suspicious deaths that need to be investigated,’ pressed William. ‘There are those deaths at Bene’t College – Raysoun and Wymundham. At least one of them was murdered, and the case needs a man like me to get to the bottom of the matter.’
‘Michael has already started his own enquiries,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not initiate an investigation of your own, because you might interfere with his.’
‘Then I will concentrate on the brutal slaying of that blameless Franciscan novice – Brother Patrick from Ovyng Hostel,’ said William. ‘It seems no one has the courage to admit to being a witness, and I know Michael has no idea how to begin to solve that crime. I will do it for him.’
Bartholomew sensed that Michael would have to prise himself from his sickbed if he did not want William agitating the uneasy relationship between the Franciscans and the Dominicans. There was nothing Bartholomew could say that would encourage the friar to leave well alone, and he hoped he would not be obliged to accompany William on Michael’s behalf, to ensure the friar did not cause too much trouble.
William gestured to the building work in the yard below with a sweep of one of his powerful arms. ‘I do not like this,’ he boomed in a confidential bellow. ‘It is all happening too fast.’
‘You must have been at the meetings that have been held over the past couple of days to discuss it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should have made your point then.’
‘Meetings!’ spat William in disgust. ‘That is what Runham calls them, is it? To me, “meetings” implies an exchange of views, where people listen to each other. These were not meetings: they were sessions where Runham told us what would happen. And it is not good to plunge the College into this kind of disorder so abruptly. In my experience, it is better to go more slowly.’
‘It is better to act quickly, while we have the money to hand,’ said Runham, suddenly appearing behind them and making them both jump. ‘Why wait months for the work to be completed when we can have a splendid new College finished within weeks?’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair and turned away. Personally, he felt William was right, and that time should be allowed for foundations to settle and for timbers to weather. The speed at which the building work was to be completed seemed an ostentatious and unnecessary display of Runham’s new authority.
‘This morning I noticed that Justus’s body is still in the porch,’ he said, partly because the fact that the book-bearer’s continued presence in the church was beginning to be a problem, and partly to prevent William from arguing with Runham. ‘When do you intend to have his requiem?’
‘Justus was a suicide,’ replied Runham. ‘He will not have a requiem.’
Bartholomew was not surprised that Runham had followed the traditional line of the Church, although he felt the judgement was overly harsh. ‘But regardless, he needs to be buried. We cannot keep him in the church indefinitely. It will not be much longer before he poses a threat to the health and well-being of St Michael’s parishioners.’
‘A threat to health!’ spat Runham in disdain. ‘The dead cannot harm us. All that nonsense about dangerous miasmas rising from corpses is just an excuse for physicians to demand high fees for remedies and consultations.’
‘But Justus is beginning to reek,’ declared William. ‘And I, for one, would rather pray without a festering corpse for company. Is that why you have those powerfully scented flowers on Wilson’s grave – to disguise the stench emanating from the dead who cry out to be placed in the ground?’
‘It is his kinsmen’s responsibility to bury him,’ hedged Runham. ‘Osmun and Ulfo of Bene’t.’
‘It is ours,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘He was Michaelhouse’s servant, and Michaelhouse is morally bound to deal with his corpse.’
‘Brother Michael is asking for you, Bartholomew,’ said Runham, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice as he changed a subject that was becoming uncomfortable. ‘I cannot imagine why, after you almost killed him with your dangerous ministrations. The man must be weak in his wits.’
‘Matthew would never harm another Michaelhouse man,’ announced William, not at all truthfully; Bartholomew was feeling very much like harming Runham at that precise moment. ‘He takes his oath of allegiance to the College seriously – as do I.’