‘But that is impossible!’ exclaimed Tobias, the first to find his voice. ‘He has no heartbeat.’
‘He does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you probably could not feel it because he is wearing a leather jerkin under his tabard. There is a deep gash in it, though, which suggests someone meant him harm.’
Michael peered at the slash. ‘So, he was attacked?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I imagine the impact knocked him off his feet, and once he was down, the wine took over. He does tend to drink a lot when he is in other Colleges.’
‘He certainly indulged himself this evening,’ averred Powys, after crossing himself, and breathing a brief prayer of thanksgiving. ‘Far more than usual. In fact, it appeared as though he was trying to drink himself into oblivion. I suppose I should have stopped him, but it goes against the grain to deprive a guest of hospitality.’
‘So he is in a drunken slumber?’ asked Cynric, to be sure. ‘We have been upset for nothing?’
Michael pointed to the damage on Langelee’s jerkin. ‘It is not nothing, Cynric. Someone intended him to die, and would have succeeded, were it not for his armour. However, just because the attempt failed does not mean it will be forgotten. I will have this villain under lock and key!’
‘Do you think it has anything to do with Langelee’s work for the Archbishop?’ asked Powys, glancing around uneasily. ‘He made a lot of enemies then, if his stories are to be believed.’
‘I suspect those enemies know the difference between a blade catching on hard leather, and a blade sliding into flesh,’ said Michael wryly. ‘So I doubt this has anything to do with his past.’
‘His purse is missing,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to where it had been cut from Langelee’s belt. ‘Perhaps it is just a case of theft.’
‘Gosse is a thief,’ pounced Tobias. ‘He must be the culprit. The man I saw was small and wiry, and Gosse is small and wiry. Of course he is the villain! How can you even think otherwise?’
But Bartholomew was reluctant for conclusions to be drawn without proper evidence; attempted murder was a capital offence, and it would not be the first time an innocent man had hanged just because he owned a dubious reputation. And Tobias’s testimony was weak, to say the least.
‘But if Gosse is such an experienced thief, then why did he attack Langelee?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Our Master is a formidable opponent, even when drunk, so why not wait for an easier victim?’
‘That is a good point – one I shall address when Gosse and I enjoy an informal chat tomorrow,’ said Michael. He shivered as the wind blew a flurry of raindrops into his eyes. ‘Meanwhile, we had better carry poor Langelee home, before he drowns.’
Bartholomew had witnessed Langelee drunk on many occasions, but never to the point where he was quite so deeply insensible. It was worrying, so he decided to monitor him through the night, sending his own students off to sleep in the hall. He wrapped Langelee in blankets, and placed a bucket near his head. Then he sat at his desk and began to read the essays his students had written – all except Risleye, who still claimed his had been stolen. When the night-watch announced it was three o’clock, Langelee woke with a start.
‘Where am I?’ he demanded, looking around blearily. ‘Am I ill? I feel sick.’
‘An excess of wine can do that to a man,’ replied Bartholomew dryly, watching him reach for the pail. ‘Do you remember anything of what happened?’
‘I recall Warden Powys giving me cheaper brews once he thought I was too inebriated to notice.’
‘He said you made a concerted effort to drink yourself stupid. Why? Has something upset you?’
‘I am Master of a College,’ replied Langelee flatly. ‘Of course something has upset me: money. We do not have any, and I have nigh on a hundred mouths to feed – students, Fellows, commoners, servants. I was a fool to have taken on those new pupils last Easter, because they have transpired to be more of an expense than a source of revenue.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘But you have been concerned about funding for years. What is different now?’
‘I cannot talk about it,’ said Langelee miserably, turning away. ‘Not to you, and not to anyone. The burden is mine alone to bear.’
Bartholomew would have been content to leave it at that, because he had no wish to become acquainted with the sort of business that could drive a resilient, insensitive man like Langelee to drink. But friendship compelled him to persist.
‘You do not have to worry alone. All the Fellows will help, especially if it concerns the College.’
‘It does concern the College,’ whispered Langelee, his expression agonised. ‘But I cannot…’
‘Perhaps we should talk tomorrow,’ suggested Bartholomew gently, when Langelee closed his eyes and seemed unable to continue. ‘When you are less overwrought.’
‘Overwrought,’ echoed Langelee bitterly. ‘That is a kinder word than drunk. And you are right: I did set out to drown my sorrows this evening, although it was a waste of time. They still plague me, only now I have a raging headache to go with them.’
Bartholomew handed him a dose of the tonic he often dispensed to those who had overindulged. ‘We were appalled when we heard you had been attacked,’ he said. ‘We thought you were dead.’
‘Attacked?’ Langelee frowned, cup halfway to his lips, then understanding dawned in his eyes. ‘God’s blood! You are right! Someone emerged from the shadows and tried to stab me! Christ! I might have forgotten, if you had not jogged my memory.’
‘If whatever is worrying you is going to lead to murderous ambushes, then you should not keep it to yourself,’ said Bartholomew, concerned for him. ‘Some of us may be able to help, especially Michael.’
Langelee gazed at him in confusion. ‘You think the assault on me is connected to my problem?’
‘Without knowing the problem, it is impossible to say,’ replied Bartholomew, supposing the Master’s wits must still be muddled, for the question was an inane one. ‘Did you see anything that might allow us to catch the culprit?’
Langelee’s face creased into a scowl as memories began to resurface. ‘I saw someone – a skinny devil – lurking in a doorway, and when I walked past, he cowered away. I thought that was the end of it, but then I heard footsteps and the scoundrel was on me before I could act. I saw the flash of a knife and managed to turn, so the blade caught my armour. Then I heard him running away.’
‘Did you see his face?’
Langelee shook his head. ‘I thought it was Osa Gosse at first, but he has a distinctive odour, and I have been trained to notice that sort of thing. It was not him. I think it was a scholar.’
Bartholomew eyed him warily. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No, I am not sure,’ snapped Langelee testily. ‘I shall have to think about it. However, my purse seems to be missing, and as I am sure you did not steal it, it seems I was the victim of a robbery. Forget I mentioned scholars. I am unwell, and fever is making me spout nonsense.’ He raised the cup and downed the tonic, evidently aiming to emphasise the current fragile state of his health.
‘Rest now and talk to Michael in the morning,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘The Senior Proctor does not like it when masters are stabbed. Especially his own.’
In a demonstration of his extraordinary capacity for recuperation, Langelee sat up the following morning and announced that he felt fighting fit. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed otherwise unscathed, either by the attack or by the amount of wine he had swallowed. There was not even a bruise where the knife had hammered home.