‘Thank you, Cynric. But you have a wife to think about now. You should not be offering to embroil yourself in University troubles.’
‘I am not offering because I feel the urge to dabble in scholarly politics,’ said Cynric, a little impatiently. ‘I am offering because I am worried you may come to harm in this den of thieves and murderers without me to protect you.’
‘This is my home,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will be fine.’
Cynric gave Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates a disparaging glance. ‘The University was home to Wymundham, Brother Patrick and Raysoun, too, and look what happened to them. You would be safer with me here to watch your back. Remember that, boy.’
Leading Bartholomew’s horse, he began to ride back to Stanmore’s premises. As Bartholomew turned to squeeze through the wicket gate, Adela leaned down and gripped his shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand.
‘We do need to talk, Matthew,’ she said. ‘Meet me this afternoon, just before sunset, in Holy Trinity Church.’
‘If I can,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, wriggling free of her and ducking through the door. He was uncertain what the day would hold for him, and did not want to commit to assignations with Adela until he had ascertained what was happening at Michaelhouse.
Aware that Adela was still watching, he closed the gate and looked around Michaelhouse’s courtyard. Students stood in small groups, looking up at the shuttered windows of Runham’s room and talking in low voices. Near the hall, the three remaining servants – who now cooked and cleaned as well as dealing with the horses, the laundry and the extensive vegetable gardens – stood wiping their hands on their grimy aprons. They appeared exhausted, and Bartholomew imagined they had probably been threatened with dismissal if they found themselves unable to carry out the workload normally shared by eight or nine people.
All along the north wing the refacing project was continuing apace, and the hammering, thumping and scraping was not in the least muted by the presence of sudden and unexpected death. Apprentices still whistled and sang as they mixed mortar and sawed planks, and their masters still called in cheerfully jaunty voices. It was not their concern that a scholar had died, and they certainly were not prepared to stop their work and risk losing their bonus if they did not complete the project in the allotted time. Bartholomew hoped their confidence that they would still be paid now that Runham was dead was not misplaced.
He walked past the builders to the groups of watching students. The atmosphere among them was more akin to eager anticipation than grieved silence, and Deynman gave him an inappropriately delighted grin as Bartholomew went to stand with his own undergraduates.
‘Runham is dead,’ Deynman announced with great satisfaction, as if he imagined Bartholomew might not know. The physician sensed that the other students were on the verge of giving a heartfelt cheer. ‘He was found in his chamber this morning.’
‘So Cynric told me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you know what happened?’
Deynman shook his head. ‘I expect this means I can stay,’ he said gleefully, thumping Gray and Bulbeck on the shoulders in unrestrained delight. ‘It was only Runham who wanted me to leave. Everyone else wants me to stay and become a physician.’
One would not necessarily lead to the other, Bartholomew thought, as he gazed at the happy smile of his student. While he was sure that Michaelhouse would be relieved to accept Deynman’s fees back into the fold, he knew the lad could study until he was as old as Methuselah, but still would not pass his examinations.
‘We should wait a while before we think about the future,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to begin discussing which of Runham’s many unpopular decisions would be rescinded now that the tyrant was dead.
‘The rumour is that someone killed him,’ said Gray, as ecstatic at the turn of events as was Deynman. ‘And not before time, I say!’
‘Enough, Sam!’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself. If these rumours are true, then the proctors and their beadles will be listening very carefully to people who profess themselves pleased by Runham’s death.’
‘Then they will be doing a lot of listening,’ said Gray, unruffled by his teacher’s reprimand. ‘Not a single person in this College – you included, Doctor – liked the man.’
‘Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment’s thought. ‘Clippesby liked him. And so, probably, did the late Master Wilson.’
‘Wilson is dead,’ said Gray dismissively. ‘And anyway, I happen to know that Wilson did not like his cousin any better than the rest of us did. Father Paul, who knew their family’s house priest, says that Wilson detested Runham, and that Runham was always using Wilson as a means to better himself, because of his own mediocre ability.’
‘Father Paul would never say such things,’ said Bartholomew disbelievingly.
‘I have paraphrased Paul’s words,’ said Gray, waving a hand to indicate that Bartholomew’s objection was a mere quibble. ‘But the meaning is the same.’
‘It is true,’ said Bulbeck quietly. ‘Father Paul did tell us that he failed to understand why Runham built his cousin such a handsome tomb, when they had hated each other in life.’
‘Grief afflicts people in different ways,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Runham did not realise how much he loved Wilson, until after Wilson had died.’
‘More likely he was building a fabulous tomb to prove to Wilson that he was alive and Wilson was dead,’ said Deynman.
The others stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Most people do not feel the need to prove such things to the dead, Rob,’ said Bulbeck.‘Whatever we might think of him, he was not insane.’
Gray addressed Bartholomew. ‘But you are also wrong when you say Clippesby liked Runham. He did not. I heard him weeping in his room last night. Naturally, I listened outside his window to learn what the problem was, and I heard him cursing Runham, and wailing something about his no longer being considered mad.’
‘Sam!’ warned Bartholomew sternly. ‘This kind of talk could cause an innocent man a lot of trouble. Be careful what you say.’
‘There is Brother Michael,’ said Bulbeck, pointing to the fat monk, who was leaning out of Runham’s window. ‘He is beckoning to you.’
Bartholomew acknowledged Michael’s wave and strode across the yard to the north wing. He ducked under some coarse matting that had been draped across the doorway to protect its delicate tracery from falling masonry, squeezed past a huge bucket of mortar that had been left in the porch, and clattered up the wooden staircase to Runham’s room. The door was closed, so he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Michael stood with his back to the window, leaning his bulk against the sill, while he looked at the men who had gathered in the Master’s room. He appeared fit and healthy, and any weight he might have lost during his brief illness had been regained with a vengeance. To his left was Langelee, who seemed tired and dishevelled, as though he had slept badly and had only just woken. Next to him Kenyngham wrung his hands in dismay as he gazed down at the body of Runham, his lips moving quickly as he prayed for the Master’s soul. Clippesby and Suttone stood together near the fireplace, Suttone resting a hand on Clippesby’s shoulder, as though offering comfort. Finally, Father Paul was sitting at the table, turning his head this way and that to try to ascertain by sound who had just entered.
‘It is Matthew,’ said the blind friar, smiling. ‘Only you make so much noise on the stairs, running up them as though the Devil were on your tail.’
‘Except that the Devil is in here,’ muttered Langelee, turning his eyes from Bartholomew to the body on the floor.
Runham was lying on his back, with the smooth arch of his ample stomach rising towards the ceiling. His eyes were half open and his lips were apart, revealing a tongue that was bluish and swollen. To Bartholomew, the body had a stiff look about it, suggesting that Runham had been dead for several hours or more. What really caught his eye, however, was that the corpse lay on a handsome woollen rug that had been purloined from the hall.