‘You have not been at Death’s door, Brother. Did you know that Runham believes I am responsible for your illness?’
Michael regarded him incredulously and then started to laugh. ‘You? Not the bee that stung me?’
‘He said I used a poisonous salve – secretly in St Michael’s Lane – and he claims I refused to allow Robin of Grantchester to amputate your arm because I was afraid it would save your life.’
‘My God, Matt! That is venomous stuff! I suppose it was my bantering accusations a couple of days ago that put that notion in his silly head. That man has a nasty mind!’
‘It was his accusations that started the row with William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor William. He might be a fanatic, but he stood up for me. Runham has effectively removed him, Paul has already gone, and he aims to be rid of me tomorrow. I wonder who will be next.’
Michael shifted restlessly. ‘This is dreadful. My College is tumbling about my ears even as I lie here – quite literally, at times. A lump of ceiling became detached by the banging of the workmen this morning and narrowly missed my chair.’
‘Teaching has all but stopped,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘It is too noisy, and it is difficult to keep the students’ attention when there are workmen tramping through the hall every few moments, whistling and singing. I took my classes in St Michael’s Church this morning – until Runham found out and told me to leave.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘He said it was sacrilegious to teach medicine in a church. A little later, I saw that he had moved his own class there and was teaching it civil law.’
‘Civil law is far more sacrilegious than medicine,’ observed Michael. ‘One aims to promote health and the other to promote wealth – for the lawyers. But did William make good his escape from Runham’s wrath?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I visited Father Paul last night, to tend his eyes, and he told me the Franciscan brethren have William secreted away somewhere, and will only reveal his whereabouts when they are sure Runham will not persecute him.’
‘Now William will know how those poor so-called heretics felt when he chased them all over southern France,’ said Michael grimly.
‘At least he will not be able to begin the investigation he threatened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was going to look into the death of that Franciscan, Brother Patrick.’
‘Was he?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘On whose authority?’
‘Yours. Since you were incapacitated, he decided to act as unofficial Proctor. I think he planned to present you with the killer as a gift to aid your recovery, and then solve your other cases, too – Raysoun and Wymundham.’
‘Thank God he did not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘The circumstances surrounding the deaths of Raysoun and Wymundham are complicated – far more so than the likes of William could appreciate; while poor Patrick’s case seems hopeless. My beadles are having no luck with their enquiries in the taverns, and I am beginning to fear that none of us will find whoever is responsible for that. Any suspects William produces will almost certainly be innocent.’
‘He is rather good at frightening people into making false confessions,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And he will concentrate on the Dominicans.’
‘I am told the foundations are already dug for our new kitchen courtyard,’ said Michael as an especially violent clatter from outside reminded him of the presence of the builders.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are not as deep as they should be, and Runham is forcing a pace for the work that is too rapid for safety. Did you know that he has employed forty labourers? I do not know how he raised the money so quickly. I only hope he does have it, and we do not find ourselves with forty enraged workmen demanding payment when they have finished. It would be like the choir all over again, only these would be armed with hammers and saws and not a few scraps of music.’
‘The choir?’ asked Michael, sitting up abruptly. ‘What are you talking about?’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Has no one told you? I thought you would have heard by now.’
‘Heard what?’ demanded Michael dangerously, his voice hard and cold. ‘I do not appreciate being kept in the dark about matters that involve my choir.’
‘Runham disbanded it.’ Seeing the anger that immediately clouded the monk’s face, Bartholomew understood exactly why none of his colleagues had accepted responsibility for breaking that particular piece of news. ‘He put the Michaelhouse singers under the control of Clippesby, but he dismissed the rest.’
‘He what?’ howled Michael, outrage mounting by the moment. ‘He disbanded my choir?’ He scrambled to his feet, his face white with rage. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
‘I thought someone else would have told you,’ said Bartholomew, trying to wrestle him away from the door. ‘But do not confront Runham while you are in a rage. Anyway, the damage is already done; it is too late to do anything now.’
‘Let me go, Matt!’ warned Michael, his green eyes flashing with a fury that Bartholomew had seldom seen before. ‘I am going to kill that miserable snake! And then I am going to teach my choir how to sing his requiem mass – and I hope he hears it from hell!’
‘Wait until tomorrow, Brother,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, not surprised to find that the monk was as strong as ever. But just because Michael was fit did not mean that Bartholomew should allow him to storm into Runham’s room and choke the life out of him.
‘I will not wait!’ shouted Michael furiously. ‘Do you not realise what that man has done? There are children in my choir who need their free bread and ale; there are adults who take it home where it serves as a meal for a whole family. That Devil-in-a-tabard cannot dismiss them just like that. My choir needs Michaelhouse, and Michaelhouse will need my choir, if the riots ever start again and we do not want to be ransacked and pillaged.’
‘What happened to the subtle revenge you promised when Paul was dismissed?’ gasped Bartholomew, struggling in vain to prevent the monk from reaching the stairs. ‘What happened to the plan that would strike at Runham’s reputation and leave yours intact?’
Michael stopped his relentless advance. ‘You are right. Two black eyes to go with his bleeding nose would be no kind of punishment for the likes of him. I must consider something else – something more permanent.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew wearily, leaning against the wall and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Just be discreet about it.’
Michael frowned. ‘You seem very frail these days, Matt. First you allow Father William to push you down the stairs, and now you are unable to prevent a sick man rising from his bed.’
‘You are not sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are fitter than I am. All this rest and good food has made you one of the healthiest men in Cambridge.’
‘I do feel well,’ admitted Michael. ‘And it has been pleasant to be the centre of so much loving attention over the past few days. Still, I suppose all good things must come to an end. But what about you? Are you ill?’
‘Just tired,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I think the effects of that powerful wine we had at the feast still linger on.’
Michael’s frown deepened. ‘Really? Bulbeck and Gray claimed the same thing. Agatha sent me some of it yesterday – left over from Saturday’s débâcle – and Bulbeck advised me not to drink it.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Langelee is in charge of laying in the College wine. For all his pretensions to being courtly and well-connected, he does not know a decent vintage from a bad one.’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I have been thinking about that feast. Most members of the College – including me – are used to sampling the nectar of the gods in considerable quantities, and yet virtually everyone I have spoken to claims to have been the worse for drink that night. Even you – abstemious to the point of being tedious – were reeling and lurching like a drunkard.’