Richard yawned and reached out to take some nuts from a bowl that had been placed near him. ‘If you say so.’ He lost interest in his uncle and turned his languorous gaze on Michael. ‘But what brings you to Trumpington on this cold and windy night, Brother? It would not be the fish-giblet stew that Agatha is simmering at Michaelhouse, would it?’
Michael regarded him coolly, and if he were surprised that Richard had guessed the real reason for his visit he did not show it. ‘The Trumpington road is haunted by outlaws. I merely wanted to ensure that your uncle arrived safely.’
‘So, will you be returning to Cambridge now?’ asked Richard with feigned innocence. ‘You have discharged your duty and he is here in one piece.’
‘I thought I might stay a while – at least until the rain stops,’ said Michael, smiling comfortably. Bartholomew knew that Michael allowed very little between him and a good meal, and it would take far more potent forces than the irritating Richard to make him abandon one. And Michael knew perfectly well that the rain had settled in for the night, and that it was unlikely to abate until the following day. ‘You seem to have had an interesting sojourn at Oxford; I would like to hear more about it.’
‘Perhaps later,’ said Richard, reaching for more nuts. He smiled ingratiatingly at Edith. ‘Is the food ready?’
Edith returned her son’s smile. ‘Almost. I will tell the servants that we have two more guests.’
‘Two?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Who else did you invite?’
‘Not me,’ replied Edith as she left the room. ‘Richard asked a friend to come.’
‘Who?’ asked Stanmore of his son, surprised. ‘You have only been back a few days, and you have spent most of that time in bed, recovering from your “arduous journey”.’
‘It is no one from Cambridge – and certainly no one from Trumpington,’ said Richard, with a contrived shudder. ‘I do not know why you live here, father. It is little more than a few hovels stretched along a muddy track, and it is occupied almost entirely by peasants. If I were you, I would live in the house in Cambridge.’
Bartholomew found he was beginning to dislike his nephew. The manor Stanmore and Edith occupied was luxurious by most standards and certainly by anything Richard was likely to have experienced at Oxford, if Bartholomew’s memories of the place were anything to go by. It was a large hall-house near the church, which looked out across strip fields and orchards. It had red tiles on the roof, and the walls were plastered and painted pale pink. Inside, the house was clean and airy. Wool rugs covered the floor, rather than the more usual rushes, and the walls were decorated with wall hangings. There were plenty of cushioned benches to sit on, and the table at which the Stanmores and their household ate was of polished wood – of the kind that did not puncture the diners’ hands with splinters each time they ate, as at Michaelhouse. But it was the smell of the house that Bartholomew liked best. It was warm and welcoming, a mixture of the herbs Edith tied in the rafters to dry, of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, and of the slightly bitter aroma of burning wood. Bartholomew had spent his childhood at Trumpington, and the house always brought back pleasant memories.
That evening, the main chamber was even more welcoming than usual. Edith had decorated it with early spring flowers, and little vases of snowdrops and violets stood here and there, mingling their sweet fragrance with the scents already in the room. Because it was dark, lamps were lit, filling the room with a warm amber glow. They shuddered and guttered as the wind rattled the window shutters and snaked under the doors, sending eerie yellow patterns flickering over the walls.
Michael poured himself a goblet of wine from a jug that had been placed on the table, and went to sit in the chair opposite Richard. He took a sip, and then stretched his legs towards the fire with an appreciative sigh.
‘It is cold out tonight,’ he said conversationally. ‘It is just as well we rode, Matt. Walking would not have been pleasant in this wind.’
‘You rode?’ asked Stanmore. He handed Bartholomew a goblet of wine and then sat next to him on the bench near the table, since Michael and Richard had already claimed the best places. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Michael with amusement. ‘You anticipated that Matt would ask you to accompany him and took the precaution of hiring horses?’
‘I am a man prepared for every eventuality,’ said Michael silkily. He turned his attention to Richard. ‘But tell me about Oxford. Why did you abandon medicine and embrace law instead?’
‘Law is a nobler profession,’ replied Richard. ‘It is better to make an honest living than to practise medicine.’
‘Law? Honest?’ asked Bartholomew, too astonished to feel offended. ‘Is that what they taught you at Oxford?’
Richard sighed irritably. ‘I was educated just as well at Oxford as I would have been in Cambridge – better, probably.’
‘It was not your allegiance to Oxford that startled him,’ said Michael. ‘It was your claim that law is an honest profession. Where did you learn such nonsense?’
Richard regarded him coolly. ‘It is not nonsense. I decided it would be better than poking around with sores and pustules and suchlike. And then, when the Death comes again, I shall ride away as fast as I can, not linger to lance buboes and watch people die.’
‘Running will not save you,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘There was barely a town or a village in the whole of Europe that escaped unscathed. The plague would just follow you. Or worse, you might carry it with you and spread it to others.’
‘We are supposed to be celebrating,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘We will not spend the evening dwelling on the Death. We all lost people we loved, and I do not want to discuss it.’
‘Quite right,’ said Michael, holding out his goblet for Stanmore to fill. He changed the subject to one that was equally contentious. ‘I have never been to Oxford, but Matt tells me it is an intriguing place. Personally, I have no desire to see it. I imagine its greater size will render it very squalid.’
‘It is not squalid,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Richard look angry. ‘Well, not as squalid as some places I have seen.’
Richard glowered, and was about to make what would doubtless have been a tart reply when Stanmore cleared his throat noisily as Edith walked in.
‘You still have not told us who you invited to dine tonight,’ said the merchant hastily, to change the subject before Edith saw that they were on the verge of a row. ‘When will he arrive?’
‘He is here already,’ said Richard. He gave an amused grin. ‘I met him quite by chance in the town a few days ago. Apparently, he has business in Cambridge, and has been lodging at the King’s Head.’
‘Good choice,’ muttered Michael facetiously. ‘It serves both bad food and a criminal clientele.’
‘We were delighted to run across each other,’ Richard went on, ignoring him. ‘I insisted he stayed with us for at least some of his visit, and I took him to the Laughing Pig when he accepted my offer today. Unfortunately, we both drank rather more than we should have done, and he went upstairs to sleep. He is a friend from Oxford.’
Stanmore pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Oxford. I might have guessed someone from there would not be able to pass a day without availing himself of a drink.’
‘We were only toasting each other’s health,’ objected Richard. He uncoiled himself from his seat as someone entered the room – a courtesy that had not been extended to Bartholomew and Michael – and gave the newcomer a genuine smile of welcome. ‘But here he is.’