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He rang the bell for the daily procession to church, not caring that it was rather earlier than usual. Yet even though he tried to be his usual gruff and boisterous self as his colleagues emerged from their rooms and hurried to fuss over him and ask him questions, there was a reserve in his replies that was out of character. Michael noticed it, too.

‘What is wrong with him?’ he asked of Bartholomew. ‘He pretends nothing is amiss, but I am the Senior Proctor and I know the difference between lies and truth.’

‘Perhaps he is embarrassed,’ suggested the physician. ‘A camp-ball hero, knocked to the ground and almost stabbed by a fellow everyone agrees was petite. It must be humiliating.’

‘Wine,’ said Thelnetham, shaking his head disparagingly as he and the other Fellows came to join them. ‘It turns grown men into weaklings. Of course, that is just the way I like them–’

‘Hush!’ urged Wynewyk reprovingly. He also looked better that morning, finally recovered from his malady. ‘That is not the sort of remark that should be bawled at volume.’

‘Is it not?’ drawled Thelnetham. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes that said he was teasing. ‘I do not see why. It lets us all know where we stand. Or lie.’

‘Yes, but we are about to go to mass,’ objected Wynewyk prudishly. ‘We should not be thinking about venal matters – at least, not until after breakfast.’

Thelnetham laughed, and flung a comradely arm around the lawyer’s shoulders. ‘Very well. Then we shall resume our discussion immediately after we have devoured our coddled eggs.’

Wynewyk recoiled at his touch, and struggled free. ‘Please! Not here!’

‘Where then?’ asked Thelnetham mischievously. ‘The hall? Or do you have a particular tavern you frequent? I know they are forbidden to scholars, but I am sure you do not always obey the rules.’

‘Leave him, Thelnetham,’ warned Bartholomew, taking pity on his friend. ‘He has not been well.’

‘I apologise,’ said Thelnetham, effecting a gracious bow, although amusement still lingered in his eyes. ‘I shall leave my friendly jousting until he is ready for it, then.’

‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Wynewyk weakly, when Thelnetham had gone. ‘I am not in the mood for his banter today. Almost losing Langelee was distressing, and I had bad dreams all night.’

‘So did Tesdale,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘He howled like a Fury, and it took Valence ages to settle him down. I thought he was going to wake the Pope in Avignon, he yelled so loud.’

‘Poor Tesdale,’ said Wynewyk worriedly. ‘Something is bothering him, and I wish you would find out what, Matthew. It is probably money, because he owes Michaelhouse rather a lot of it.’

‘I will ask him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But he always denies there is anything amiss, and I cannot force him to confide.’

‘Well, please try,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Kelyng suffered from night-terrors, too, and now he has disappeared. I would not like to think we have failed a second unhappy student.’

‘Kelyng has not disappeared,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He has decided to abscond. It is not the first time a lad has elected to run away rather than pay what he owes, and I doubt it will be the last. If I had incurred Kelyng’s level of expenditure, I might flee, too.’

They processed to the church, where Suttone officiated at the morning mass, and Bartholomew assisted. It was over in record time, because Suttone was eager to hear details of the Master’s brush with death. Flattered by the Carmelite’s demands for the full story, Langelee declared that talking was permitted at breakfast that day – meals were normally eaten to the sole sound of the Bible Scholar’s droning voice, although Kelyng’s absence made this difficult – then treated the entire College to a lively and improbably colourful account of his adventures. It was rather different to the version related by Tobias and Powys, and failed to mention the amount of wine he had swallowed or the drunken slumber that had followed, but his audience sat in spellbound silence until he had finished, anyway.

‘Well, we are glad you survived,’ said Suttone warmly, rubbing his hands together as the servants began to put bowls of food on the table. ‘None of us want the post of Master.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Michael, poking in distaste at something that appeared to be a mixture of scrambled eggs and parsnips. ‘But only if Wynewyk continues to manage the finances, which is the tedious part. The rest would be fun.’

‘I might resign and let you do it,’ said Langelee heavily. ‘God knows, it is a thankless task.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had never heard the Master talk about stepping down before, and could see that Michael was alarmed by the notion that his flippant remark might have been taken seriously. The monk might have harboured ambitions in that direction once, but since then he had carved himself a niche as the University’s most influential scholar – the man who told the Chancellor what to do, and who made all the important decisions. Accepting the Mastership of Michaelhouse would represent a considerable demotion, and Bartholomew doubted the monk would do it – especially as he had once confided that his next post would be either abbot or bishop.

‘Do not make any hasty decisions, Master,’ advised Michael quickly. ‘Especially as you are probably still shocked after last night’s episode. Give yourself time to recover before–’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Last night’s episode was nothing. I have experienced far worse in games of camp-ball – and not just on the field, either. Why do you think I have taken to wearing a boiled-leather jerkin? Because some teams will do anything to win, and good players like me are never safe from sly attacks in the street. But I had better say a final grace, because I have a great deal to do today, and I am sure you do, too.’

He had intoned no more than two lines before he faltered, having apparently forgotten the words. As it was a prayer he used regularly, Bartholomew peered around Michael’s bulk to regard him in alarm, wondering whether he had bumped his head when he had fallen and was not in his right wits. Langelee made a vague gesture to indicate that his scholars were dismissed, then left the hall.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Suttone, when he had gone. ‘He is not himself today.’

‘Do you think it is malnutrition, from the terrible food we have been given over the last few weeks?’ asked Michael. ‘He is a large man, and will not thrive on this sort of muck for long.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering if he was making a joke. Langelee was a large man, but Michael was considerably bigger.

‘It might be,’ agreed Suttone, who also boasted an impressive girth. ‘I know I am wasting away.’

‘I am exhausted,’ declared Michael, flopping into a fireside chair in the conclave that evening. All the Fellows were there. Bartholomew, Suttone and Wynewyk were at the table, preparing lessons for the following day, Thelnetham and Hemmysby were reading a Book of Hours together, and Langelee was sitting by the window. He was gazing into the courtyard below, although it was dark outside and he would not be able to see anything. Clippesby was at his feet, playing with the College cat.

‘Why are you exhausted, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk courteously, when no one else seemed interested and the monk was beginning to look annoyed by the lack of response. Bartholomew forced his thoughts away from his work when he realised he was being rude.

‘For several reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘I spent all morning teaching, and all afternoon questioning Gosse about the attack on our Master last night. Then I visited the apothecaries and asked whether they had sold any pennyroyal recently.’

Bartholomew regarded him guiltily. He had meant to make that enquiry himself, but too many patients had demanded his services that day, and he had had no time. ‘And had they?’