‘William! Let him go!’ yelled Bartholomew, struggling to pull the friar away from Clippesby. In the confines of the spiral staircase Bartholomew could not find a good position from which to intervene. ‘For God’s sake, William! You will kill him!’
‘He is the Devil’s spawn!’ howled William in a frenzy, squeezing tighter still. ‘He has been doing Runham’s dirty work for him ever since he set foot in Michaelhouse. He is not fit to tread the same floors as good and honest men.’
‘Then he is not worth hanging for. Let him go.’
Bartholomew managed to insert himself between the struggling men, and used the wall as a brace to lever William away. The Franciscan lost his grip, and Clippesby began to take great rasping breaths as he tottered sideways, holding his bruised neck.
Seeing William’s temper was still far from spent, Bartholomew grabbed his arm to prevent him from renewing the attack. With a howl of frustration and anger, William gave Bartholomew a hefty shove. Unprepared for the sudden move, Bartholomew lost his balance and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to land in a helpless sprawl of arms and legs at the feet of Agatha, who happened to be walking through the porch towards the kitchens.
Agatha gazed at him in astonishment, then stood over him, waving her meaty fists protectively. William, whose anger had dissipated the instant Bartholomew had disappeared down the steps, was horrified. But when he dashed after the physician, he found himself faced with an enraged laundress – a sight at which the bravest of men balked. William took several steps backwards.
‘I am sorry, Matthew,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘I did not mean …’
‘It was you who pushed him, was it?’ demanded Agatha dangerously. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Father! Brawling like some ale-sodden apprentice! And do not hover there thinking you will get a second chance. Come near Matthew, and I will tear you limb from limb.’
No one who knew Agatha doubted that she meant every word, and, not wanting William’s attack on Clippesby to become Agatha’s attack on William, Bartholomew scrambled quickly to his feet, to place himself between them. He heard the furious voice of Runham in the stairs as he tried to squeeze his way past the prostrate Clippesby.
‘William, run!’ said Bartholomew urgently.
‘What?’ The Franciscan, his ponderous mind bewildered by the rapid sequence of events, was slow to understand.
‘Go to your friary and stay there until all the fuss has died down. I will send you word when the time is right for you to make your peace here.’
‘I do not deserve your kindness,’ said William, hoarse with emotion. ‘I did not mean–’
‘He is coming!’ said Bartholomew, hearing footsteps as Clippesby was manoeuvred out of the way. ‘Go, quickly, before it is too late. Runham will not settle for locking you in your room now – he will have you arrested and charged with assault.’
William gave him a hunted look, edged warily past the angry Agatha, and raced across the courtyard. He had just reached the gate when Runham emerged from the stairwell.
‘After him!’ the new Master yelled, his face suffused with red fury. ‘He is escaping! Do not just stand there, Bartholomew! Give chase!’
Frustrated almost beyond words when he saw his quarry haul open the gate and escape into the lane, Runham gave Bartholomew a shove to encourage him to pursue the friar, but backed off quickly when Agatha advanced purposefully.
‘Call her off!’ he screeched in a voice thick with panic. ‘She has the look of madness about her.’
‘I am not some wild animal to be “called off”,’ snarled Agatha, although with her fierce teeth and ferocious glare, even Bartholomew was sceptical. ‘Do not think you can treat me like dirt, as you have everyone else in the College. I am Agatha, one of God’s chosen.’
‘What?’ whispered Runham, scarcely believing his ears.
‘I was chosen by God to survive the Death, because He has plans for me. Only evil men – like your cousin – were taken by the pestilence.’
‘That is heresy!’ howled Runham, using the bewildered Clippesby as a barrier between him and the laundress. Foolishly imagining that the frail body of a Dominican afforded him protection from Agatha, he became rash. ‘I will have you dismissed for saying that!’
‘Will you now,’ said Agatha in a voice that, although low, dripped with menace. She batted Clippesby out of the way as if he were no more than a fly, and began to advance on Runham with an expression of pure loathing on her face.
‘Help me, Bartholomew!’ shrieked Runham, realising that Suttone was standing at the foot of the stairs, blocking his escape. He was trapped, and Agatha clearly meant business. ‘Tell her I was joking! Of course I would not dismiss her.’
Bartholomew was tempted to stand back and let Agatha have her wicked way with the Master, but he did not want to see Agatha in the proctors’ gaol any more than he had William, so he stepped forward and took her gently but firmly by the arm.
‘Leave him, Agatha,’ he said softly. ‘There has been more than enough violence in Michaelhouse for one day.’
‘As long as he lives to walk in our halls and eat our food, there has not been enough violence,’ snapped Agatha, before turning and striding towards the kitchens, her skirts swinging purposefully around her substantial hips.
That evening, the atmosphere in the College was tense. The Fellows gathered in the conclave, where Suttone did his best to keep a conversation going, and the students in the hall were unusually subdued. Runham sat in the conclave’s best chair, with his hands folded over his paunch, and regarded Suttone’s increasingly desperate attempts to initiate a civilised discussion with an amused disdain.
Eventually, no longer able to bear the sneering presence of the Master or Suttone’s painful determination not to sit in morose silence, Bartholomew wished his colleagues goodnight, and escaped with relief into the chill, damp evening air. He stretched and yawned, but it was too early to go to sleep. He wondered what he could do. He had used all his candles, and so could not work on his treatise on fevers or read. He saw Beadle Meadowman walking across the yard, to make his report on the investigation into the Bene’t deaths to Michael, but did not like to interrupt them just because he was at a loose end and wanted someone to talk to.
He turned when he sensed someone else emerging from the hall, having also escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the conclave. It was Suttone.
‘I found I could not take any more of that,’ said the Carmelite friar with a grin. ‘Once you left, I realised that no one else was even listening to me. Langelee has drunk so much that he is sound asleep; Kenyngham is praying; Clippesby is having a conversation with himself in a corner; and Runham was doing nothing but enjoying my discomfort.’
‘Clippesby was talking to himself?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Suttone nodded. ‘He does it a lot. I am surprised you have never noticed. The worrying thing is that he answers himself, too, as if he thinks he is more than one person.’
‘Lots of scholars do that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is the best way to make sure you never lose a disputation.’
Suttone laughed. ‘Can I interest you in a cup of ale in the kitchen? Agatha told me she would have a pan of it mulling for when Runham drove me away with his unpleasant company. I thought she was being unkind, but it seems to me that Agatha is a very astute woman.’
Bartholomew followed the Carmelite into the College kitchens, where Agatha sat in a great wicker chair near the embers of the fire. The room was warm, and smelled of baking bread, wood-smoke and the old fat that had splattered from roasting meat into the hearth. The College cat was curled in her lap, and she stroked it gently with her rough, thick-fingered hands. She smiled when the two scholars entered, and gestured that they were to help themselves to the ale that simmered over the glowing remains of the fire.