‘There has been an incident,’ he said tersely. ‘In the hall.’
‘Another fight?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘I thought I had made my views clear about that: if someone cannot win his point with words, then he must go outside to throw his punches. We are scholars, not louts, to be brawling in our own hall.’
‘No one was fighting,’ said Cynric. He was subdued, and Bartholomew was assailed with the conviction that something was very wrong. ‘And everyone was so intent on listening to Clippesby explain why goats make good wives that no one realised what was happening until it was too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ demanded Bartholomew, coils of unease writhing in the pit of his stomach.
‘For Wynewyk,’ said Cynric. He looked down at his boots, reluctant to continue.
‘Wynewyk?’ echoed Bartholomew, unable to avoid shooting Langelee an anxious glance.
‘He is dead,’ explained Cynric softly. ‘I think he died laughing.’
That wintry afternoon, a fire had been lit in the hall, but Bartholomew’s breath still plumed in front of him as he hurried towards the dais, where a tight knot of Fellows and students had clustered around their stricken colleague. When he saw the physician and the Master enter, Thelnetham detached himself from the throng and hurried towards them, white-faced and shaking.
‘It has been a horrible week,’ he blurted, ‘what with bad weather, poor food and the loss of the Stanton Cups, so I chose a silly subject to cheer us up. But I never meant for…’ He trailed off.
Langelee regarded him warily. ‘Never meant for what?’
‘Never meant for Wynewyk to laugh so hard that he died,’ finished Thelnetham in an appalled whisper. ‘I did not even know such a thing was possible.’
Wynewyk was sitting at the high table, although he had slumped across it, as if he had grown bored with the debate and had fallen asleep. Bartholomew wondered if he was playing a prank, albeit one in poor taste, for his colleagues were distressed. All around, voices were raised, some in horror and others in disbelief; the babble quietened as he and Langelee approached.
‘Clippesby was postulating the merits of goat wives,’ explained Michael, as the physician bent to examine the fallen Fellow. The monk’s face was very pale. ‘And I was opposing him. But if I had thought for a moment that our ridiculous banter would lead to…’
Despite Wynewyk’s restful pose, Bartholomew could see he was dead even before he felt the absence of a life-beat in the great veins of the neck. The lawyer’s face was an unnatural shade of blue, and his eyes were half closed, staring at nothing.
Premature death was no stranger to members of the University – besides fatal brawls, there were accidents, suicides and a whole gamut of diseases – but it was still rare for it to occur quite so unexpectedly. Wynewyk was no more than thirty, and had been in good health. Bartholomew turned to his book-bearer.
‘Fetch a bier, Cynric. And escort the students from the hall – they do not need to see this.’
‘You mean he is dead?’ Langelee looked appalled. ‘But he was all right when I saw him earlier this afternoon.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think he died because of … you know?’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and for a moment could do no more than stare at the man who had been his friend. He recalled the times he and Wynewyk had sat reading in companionable silence in the conclave after the others had gone to bed. And the times they had filched an illicit jug of wine from the kitchens, while Wynewyk had confided his concerns for his elderly father or waxed lyrical about whichever rough soldier had most recently captured his fancy.
‘In August, he went to visit family in Winwick,’ said Suttone. The Carmelite was near tears. ‘We all missed him, even though he was only gone for a week. What shall we do now he is gone for ever?’
Bartholomew had no reply, and watched numbly as Cynric ushered the students from the hall. They were reluctant to go, not because they were ghoulish, but because they did not want to leave the reassuring presence of the senior scholars. Tesdale was crying, and Valence was trying to comfort him. By contrast, Risleye was excited, arguing that he should be allowed to stay so that he could learn from the case. Bartholomew appreciated the young man’s desire to expand his medical knowledge, but his behaviour was inappropriate. He glared at him, and Risleye slunk out without another word.
‘What happened?’ he asked, when they had gone. ‘Did Wynewyk say he felt unwell?’
‘Not that I heard,’ replied Michael, still ashen. ‘I was just refuting Clippesby’s contention that goats like a year’s betrothal before committing themselves to wedlock, when Suttone began to yell.’
‘The sudden clamour frightened us,’ added Clippesby, his peculiar eyes wide and intense. ‘We all leapt to our feet, to find him staring at Wynewyk as though he were a ghost.’
Suttone crossed himself. ‘What happened, Matthew? Is it the plague? I have been saying for years that it will return, but I did not expect it to manifest itself in Wynewyk. There are far more sinful–’
‘He was laughing,’ said Michael, curtly cutting across him. ‘Thelnetham’s chosen topic was absurd, and Wynewyk found it very amusing. He chortled all afternoon.’
‘He did,’ confirmed Hemmysby quietly. He dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his habit. ‘In fact, I thought he was drunk, because his hilarity seemed out of proportion to the humour of the situation.’
‘He did not seem drunk,’ said Thelnetham. He hesitated. ‘Or did he?’
‘What did he drink – and eat – at the noonday meal?’ asked Bartholomew.
Everyone looked at Hemmysby, with whom he usually shared dishes. The theologian shrugged and wiped his eyes again. ‘He drank watered ale. And he ate pea pottage, like the rest of us.’
‘And at the debate, he had wine and Edith’s cake,’ added Michael. He grimaced. ‘In fact, I think he ate mine, too, because when I came for a bite it had gone, and I do not recall finishing it.’
‘He would not have taken cake,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had an aversion to almonds, and knew to avoid them. Where is the wine?’
Michael handed him the empty jug. ‘But there cannot be anything wrong with it, because it came from the barrel that served the whole College. It was not the best brew I have ever sampled, and some of the students said it tasted bitter, but none of us are dead.’
Bartholomew inspected Wynewyk again, looking in his mouth and at his neck, and wondering whether his excessive giggles had been a response to Langelee discovering the inconsistencies in the accounts. Had he guessed what the Master had found, and an attack of fright or conscience had led to the strange laughter and then his death? But the physician had never heard of such a thing happening before, at least, not outside popular stories.
He wondered what Langelee would do now. His choices were to make Wynewyk’s activities public, or allow them to die with their perpetrator. Either way, Michaelhouse would lose thirty marks. Absently, he picked up the goblet from which Wynewyk had been drinking. It was empty, but there was nothing to suggest foul play – no odd aromas or residues in the bottom.
‘He was not poisoned,’ said Michael quietly, seeing the line Bartholomew’s thoughts had taken. ‘No one has any reason to harm Wynewyk.’
Bartholomew was careful not to look at Langelee. ‘Who poured the wine?’
‘Tesdale,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘It should have been me, because I am the most junior Fellow, but I was presiding over the debate, so I paid Tesdale to do it in my stead.’