‘Does he now?’ asked Runham, regarding Bartholomew through his hooded eyes with an expression that Bartholomew could not fathom. ‘We will see about that when he makes his choice whether to continue to grace the College with his unseemly presence, or whether to do the honourable thing and leave us.’
‘You cannot force him to resign,’ came an unfamiliar voice. They turned in surprise to see that the cheery Suttone had been listening to their conversation from across the room. He came to stand with them at the window. ‘I paid attention to the statutes that were read to Clippesby and me the other night. The Master cannot make a Fellow leave, if he does not want to go.’
‘He can if that Fellow brings the College into disrepute,’ snapped Runham, not pleased to be lectured about the statutes by the College’s most recent member. ‘And how I deal with my senior Fellows is none of your concern.’
‘But Matthew has not brought the College into disrepute,’ objected William.
‘He has!’ snarled Runham. ‘He attempted to kill Brother Michael with his poisonous salves.’
‘What?’ cried Bartholomew, scarcely believing his ears. ‘How did you–’
‘How did I know?’ interrupted Runham furiously. ‘Because Michael told me himself. It happened the night of my election, when you defied my wishes and stayed out in the town after I had expressly ordered you to return to the College as soon as you had escorted Father Paul to the Friary.’
‘And that was another evil deed,’ muttered William. ‘Paul’s treatment.’
Runham ignored him, his attention still on Bartholomew. ‘When you did deign to return to Michaelhouse that night, you immediately slunk off to your bed, but Michael talked to me for a while.’
Runham and Michael had been arguing, Bartholomew recalled, remembering their angry voices in the hall outside his room as he had been undressing for bed. Runham had tried to tell Michael that he could no longer leave the College for his proctorial duties, and Michael had informed Runham exactly what he had thought about such a preposterous suggestion.
‘Michael told me then that you had put a salve on his injured arm to prevent itching – not in the comfort of the College, but outside in the street, where no one would see you.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Suttone, regarding Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Did you treat Brother Michael’s arm in the street, rather than in your room?’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew. ‘I mean, yes, but it was not–’
‘And this salve contained a poison that all but took the poor man’s life,’ Runham forged on. ‘And then Bartholomew tried to kill Michael by refusing to allow Robin of Grantchester to amputate his arm. Deynman told me so.’
‘I neither have the time nor the inclination to listen to such nonsense,’ said William haughtily. ‘You have taken leave of your senses! Matthew is not the type to commit murder. I have a feel for these things.’
He made to leave, considering the conversation over, but Runham caught his arm. Angrily, the friar pulled away. William was a strong man, and righteous indignation made him careless. As he tried to haul his arm from the Master’s fingers and the Master suddenly released it, William’s hand shot up and caught Runham a blow under the nose.
With a yowl of pain, Runham danced backward, his eyes streaming with tears and blood flowing freely from his nose. His new henchman, the Dominican Clippesby, heard his cry and raced into the conclave to see what was happening. When he saw Runham’s blood-splattered face, he stopped dead and glared accusingly at the others.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded, his wild eyes boring into each of them in turn. ‘Which one of you struck the Master of your College?’
‘William! And he did it deliberately!’ raged Runham.
‘It was an accident,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for a piece of cloth to hold to Runham’s nose. ‘Sit down and put your head between your knees. William will fetch some water.’
‘It was no accident!’ stormed Runham, his voice muffled by the cloth Bartholomew pressed against his face to stem the bleeding. ‘William deliberately struck me.’
‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew soothingly, noting the deep redness that suffused the man’s face. ‘You will give yourself a seizure if you do not calm down.’
‘You will give me a seizure, you mean,’ stormed Runham, snatching the cloth from him and flinging it to the floor. ‘What is that? A rag infused with poison, so that I will die when it is put to my face?’
‘Do not be ridiculous!’ snapped William irritably. ‘Do you think Matthew carries poisoned cloths around with him, waiting for an opportunity like this? Quite frankly, I do not think you worth the effort.’
‘Insolence on top of assault,’ screeched Runham, verging on the hysterical. The great veins in his neck and face were thick with tension and rage, and his colour was far from healthy. ‘That is it! That is it!’
‘That is what?’ asked Clippesby, clearly itching to do something to rectify the great wrong that had been inflicted on the Master, but not sure what.
‘That is the last straw. William is suspended!’
‘Suspended from what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even the Master of a College cannot prevent a friar from carrying out his religious duties. Only his prior can do that.’
‘He is suspended from his Fellowship,’ howled Runham, small flecks of spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘Look at me! I am marred for life, because he struck me with murder in his heart. I will not have him loose in my College. Clippesby, Bartholomew, Suttone – I order you to escort him to his room and lock him in.’
‘You cannot do that,’ said William furiously, fending off Clippesby as the Dominican rashly surged forward to do his Master’s bidding. ‘The statutes say–’
‘You personally signed a new set of statutes two days ago which stipulated that the Master has the final say in disciplinary matters,’ shouted Runham. His eyes glittered with smug satisfaction when he saw William blanch. ‘Hah! You see? You do remember!’
‘I did not sign any new statutes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When was this?’
William’s mouth was working stupidly, although no sound came out. Suttone regarded Runham nervously, clearly uncomfortable at having witnessed the scene that had been played out in the conclave. But Clippesby, like Runham, wore an expression of grim satisfaction.
‘Your signature on these new statutes was not required, Bartholomew,’ said Runham, wiping his nose with his hand and leaving a vivid smear of red across one cheek. ‘You were trying to dispatch Brother Michael at the time, and declined to attend a meeting of the Fellows. There are eight of us, and I needed five signatures for a majority – me, William, Clippesby, Suttone and Langelee.’
‘But what did these statutes say?’ asked Bartholomew, looking from Runham to William with the distinct impression that he would not like what he was about to hear.
‘For a start, they give me the authority to lock that dangerous fanatic where he will do no harm,’ said Runham, eyeing William with naked hatred. ‘So, you had better do as I say, or you will be joining him.’
‘There is no need for them to accompany me,’ said William coldly, sensing defeat and deciding to leave with dignity. ‘I will take myself to my room, thank you.’
He turned on his heel and stalked out. Runham nodded to Clippesby, who ran after the friar. With a sense of foreboding, Bartholomew started after them, certain that if anything could rekindle the Franciscan’s fiery temper, it would be the thought of a Dominican checking to see if he kept his word. He was not mistaken.
William became aware that he was being followed down the stairs, and that it was Clippesby who dared to question his honour. He gave a roar of anger. Clippesby shrieked in horror as the Franciscan’s powerful hands fastened around his throat; the noise quickly became a strangled gurgling as William’s fingers began to tighten.