There was a palpable atmosphere of unease and unhappiness in the College, both among those students who were still awake in the hall and the Fellows in the conclave. Michaelhouse had its problems, but Bartholomew had never known it to simmer with the same sense of despair and gloom that seemed to grip Bene’t. Yet again, he realised that Wymundham and others had been right when they had claimed Bene’t was not a happy College.
‘I see you buried my cousin Justus at last,’ said Osmun as he followed Bartholomew through the hall. ‘Not before time, if you ask me. Bene’t does not leave its members’ corpses to fester in the church for days past the time when it is decent.’
‘No; Bene’t buries its scholars with unseemly haste,’ retorted Michael. ‘Wymundham and Raysoun were underground before my appointed representative had had the opportunity to inspect them properly.’
‘We did not think their deaths were any of your business,’ said Osmun, nettled. ‘An accident and a suicide are not matters for the Senior Proctor to poke into.’
‘The Senior Proctor can poke into anything he likes,’ said Michael sharply.
‘You are like that Ralph de Langelee,’ said Osmun in disdain. ‘He is always hanging around Bene’t, trying to ingratiate himself with members of a good College. He thinks he is Simekyn Simeon’s friend, and Simeon is too much a gentleman to send the man packing.’
‘But Bene’t willingly takes our servants – Agatha and Walter,’ snapped Michael, beginning to be angered by the man’s insolence. ‘And you should watch yourself: Agatha will not tolerate your rough manners. She will soon put you in your place.’
‘It is the Michaelhouse men again,’ announced Osmun disapprovingly to the Bene’t Fellows, as he ushered Michael and Bartholomew into the conclave. ‘I do not know what they want, but it will be something that will do us no good, you mark my words.’
He left, slamming the door behind him and making the fire in the hearth gutter and roar. Bartholomew looked at the assembled Fellows. Simekyn Simeon sat near the fire and had apparently been dozing. Under the sober blue of his tabard, he wore his startling striped hose and a bright red shirt, apparently to announce to the world that he was a courtier not a scholar, and that he wore his Fellow’s uniform on sufferance.
Caumpes was reading, folded into a windowseat, where the light was better. When he set the book down, Bartholomew saw it was a text by Plato. Heltisle sat at a table that was covered by scrolls and parchments, and had been writing. Of the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, there was no sign.
‘You come again, Brother,’ said Heltisle coolly to Michael. ‘However, honoured though we are, we would appreciate it if you state your business and then be on your way; we are busy men.’
‘So I see,’ said Michael, glancing meaningfully towards the hall, where it was the Bible Scholar, not the Fellows, who was doing the teaching.
‘What do you want from us?’ snapped Caumpes, nettled.
‘A cup of wine would be pleasant,’ said Michael, sitting uninvited in a chair near the fire. ‘Does Bene’t keep a decent cellar, or will I have to return to Michaelhouse for that?’
Why the Fellows of other Colleges always yielded to Michael’s none-too-subtle ploys to be served their finest victuals, Bartholomew could not imagine. He assumed pride always made them rise to meet the challenge, to prove that their College could afford the best wines, serve the best food, or had the best students. Heltisle glowered, but then nodded to Simeon, who uncoiled himself from his chair to order a servant to fetch Michael his wine.
Moments later it arrived, a light white in which the grapes of southern France could still be tasted. It was served in handsome crystal goblets, which, Bartholomew had to admit, were more pleasant to drink from than Michaelhouse’s pewter.
‘Very good,’ said Michael approvingly, lifting his glass to the light so that the sun caught the pale gold liquid and made it gleam. ‘Almost as good as the brew I was served in the Hall of Valence Marie the other day. Now Master Thorpe of Valence Marie is a man who knows his wines.’
‘Why did you come today, Brother?’ asked Caumpes icily. ‘Other than to insult our cellars, that is?’
‘I have come, as Senior Proctor, to assure you that I will do all I can to protect Bene’t College’s reputation from the vicious rumours that are rife in the town,’ said Michael silkily.
Caumpes stiffened. ‘What rumours? What have people been saying about Bene’t?’
‘Have you not heard?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You surprise me, Master Caumpes. I am referring to the tales that Raysoun and Wymundham were murdered. We have discussed the issue at length on more than one occasion.’
‘So you have come to interrogate us again,’ said Heltisle flatly. ‘I thought we had answered all your questions about the deaths of our unfortunate colleagues.’
‘It is a Michaelhouse plot to discredit us,’ said Caumpes bitterly. He pointed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘His feeble attempt to pretend that Michaelhouse means Bene’t no harm may have convinced the Duke of Lancaster, but it did not fool us. We know Michaelhouse is jealous of the patronage of the Guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi and wants to steal it away.’
‘I can assure you that is not true,’ said Michael, genuinely offended. ‘Michaelhouse wants no town money, thank you very much.’
‘Did Runham know that?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘Your tone suggests that there is something unwholesome about town money, but Runham held no such scruples when he was making a nuisance of himself among all the town’s merchants, demanding money for his new courtyard.’
‘Master Runham is no longer with us,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘as I am sure you are aware. And Bene’t and Michaelhouse have always coexisted peacefully in the past, so I do not see why our relationship should not continue as it was before.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Heltisle. ‘Prove your good intentions by sending us back our workmen.’
‘I will discuss the matter with Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘He is very keen for us to resolve our differences, and I am sure he will agree to your request.’
Bartholomew was as startled as Heltisle. Then it occurred to him that if the workmen could be discharged the following day on the grounds that Bene’t had demanded their return, Michael would have scored a double victory: first, Michaelhouse would not be obliged to pay the workmen the wages Runham had promised; and second, he would ensure that they would hold Bene’t – not Michaelhouse – responsible for losing them their bonus. It was a clever, if somewhat shabby, move, and given Blaston’s warning, it was also well timed.
‘That is very kind of you, Brother,’ said Caumpes quickly, sensing perhaps that Heltisle’s astonishment at Michael’s unexpected capitulation might lead him to say something to disturb the fragile truce. ‘We appreciate – and accept – your gesture of reconciliation.’
‘But that does not mean that we will consider impertinent questions about the unfortunate accidents that killed Raysoun and Wymundham,’ said Heltisle. ‘They are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, and I want them to rest in peace.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘Very well. But I have a favour to ask in return for my generosity in returning your workmen to you. There was a theft at Michaelhouse on Friday. We have the culprit under lock and key, and we are certain of his guilt. He is a pathetic fellow, who is spinning all manner of lies to wriggle off the hook he has impaled himself upon. He even accused Matt of giving him medicine that made him do things he did not want to do.’
‘Do you have any of it left?’ asked Caumpes of Bartholomew dryly. ‘There are one or two students I would not mind dosing with such a substance.’