‘I said, it is good to know who one’s friends are these days,’ said Michael, more loudly still. This time, even Kenyngham was among those who looked at him in surprise, startled by the sudden volume in the monk’s voice.
‘Are you addressing me, Brother?’ asked Kenyngham, smiling in his absent-minded way. ‘Are you in need of a friend? Join me after the meal, and we will pray together.’
‘I certainly am in need of friends,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘And I do not count those who attend secret meetings at midnight, where plots to kill me are discussed.’
Kenyngham regarded him sympathetically. ‘Who has done that? You should inform him that he will be bound for hell if he continues, and that to take the life of another is a deadly sin.’
Michael gaped in disbelief. ‘You are a cool fellow, Father. I understand that you attended several such meetings. This plot was discussed at St Radegund’s Convent, when men such as Morden, Pechem and Lincolne – and you, of course – were present.’
‘Not Pechem,’ said William immediately. ‘We Franciscans do not do things like that.’
‘And not me, either,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Really, Brother! Do you imagine that I would allow such a discussion to take place? You know how I abhor violence. I can assure you that the meetings I attended made no mention of any such topic.’
‘Morden says Walcote had uncovered a plot to kill me, and that was on the agenda at these gatherings,’ said Michael angrily.
‘I attended no meeting with Morden,’ said Kenyngham. ‘The only people present, other than Walcote and me, were Pechem and Lincolne. And we certainly did not discuss murder.’
Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘Then tell me what you did talk about.’
‘I have already explained to you that I cannot. Please do not ask me to break my promise again. Come with me to the church after dinner, and we will pray together for God to give you patience.’
‘I am going nowhere with you,’ said Michael, giving the old friar a hostile glare. ‘You are not to be trusted.’
At that moment, Langelee entered the hall, and everyone stood in silence with his hands clasped in front of him waiting for the Master to begin the grace. Clippesby was with Langelee, and Bartholomew noticed that the mad Dominican’s face was flushed and his eyes were bright, which were symptoms the physician associated with episodes of especially odd behaviour. His heart sank, knowing that it would not be long before Langelee would be forced to confine Clippesby to his room until the mood had passed.
Langelee reached the Master’s chair, said a short prayer in his strong, steady voice, and had already seated himself before most of his scholars had completed their responses. He reached for the wine jug and filled his goblet. He then took a deep draught, as though the bitter, acidic drink was something to which he had been looking forward all day. The low hum of conversation restarted in the hall as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in grateful appreciation.
‘Master!’ whispered William in a hoarse voice, loud enough to carry to the far end of the hall. ‘The Bible Scholar!’
‘What?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a halfhearted nod to the student who received a free education in exchange for reading from the Bible at each meal. The practice was intended to give the scholars cause for contemplation while they were eating, and to dispense with the need for frivolous conversation. It was something of which the austere Father William very much approved, but which the rest of the Fellows preferred to do without, especially in the evenings when they were tired.
The student stood on the dais next to the high table, and began to read from the Book of Isaiah in a droning, bored voice. His phrasing was automatic, and Bartholomew suspected that his thoughts were as far away as those of most of his listeners. Michael turned his attention to the pale grey broth that was slopped into the bowl in front of him. He took a piece of bread, and dipped it in the mixture without much enthusiasm, chewing it as though it were wood chippings.
Bartholomew did not blame him. He did not like fishy soup either, especially since his knowledge of anatomy allowed him to identify particular organs and their functions. The fact that the entrails had not been fresh when they were purchased, and tasted strong and slightly gamy, did not induce many scholars to finish what they had been given. Bartholomew took one mouthful and decided he would rather go without, wondering absently whether the seed cake his sister had given him was still in his room, or whether Michael had already found it.
‘God’s teeth! This is a vile concoction!’ exclaimed Langelee, pushing away his bowl in disgust. He stood abruptly, and rattled off a closing grace, even though some of the students had still not been served. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen. I hope your supper does not give you nightmares.’
‘Well!’ said William, as Langelee exited from the hall, leaving the Bible Scholar in open-mouthed confusion. ‘There is a man who does not appreciate a good meal.’
‘Then you can have mine, too,’ said Michael, standing and emptying the grey liquid from his bowl into William’s. Some of the resulting spillage shot across the table towards the friar’s filthy sleeve. Bartholomew was fascinated to see that the deeply impregnated grease in the garment was easily able to repel the soup, and that it simply ran off like water from a duck’s back. ‘I would sooner starve than eat this.’
‘It will be a long time before you starve,’ said William, eyeing Michael up and down critically. ‘You will be able to live off that fat for years.’
Michael glowered at him and stalked towards the door. Bartholomew followed, no more keen to sit in a cold hall that was full of the rank stench of rotten fish than was the monk. Other scholars were also taking advantage of the abrupt end to the meal, and the servants had even started to clear away bowls and goblets, anticipating with pleasure the treat of an early finish.
‘What is it that makes everyone want to comment on my figure?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘Do people not realise that it is rude? Even people I barely know talk about it – like your nephew, and that Ringstead at the Dominican Friary. I am growing heartily tired of it.’
‘Eat less, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘The reason people comment is because you are an imposing sight. There are not many people your size in Cambridge.’
‘I am not that big,’ objected Michael. ‘And it is mostly muscle anyway. Just look at this. Grab it, go on.’ He flexed an arm for Bartholomew to feel.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Bartholomew, declining the offer. He had witnessed the previous night that the monk was sufficiently strong to break the leg of a corpse, and knew that his bulk belied an impressive power.
‘And if I am heavy, it is because I have big bones,’ said Michael sulkily. ‘I am not as fat as people believe.’
‘It is partly your habit,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the black garment critically. ‘It makes you look enormous.’
‘That is an unkind thing to say,’ said Michael huffily. ‘What do you expect me to do? I can hardly go to my Bishop and tell him that I no longer intend to wear the Benedictine habit because it makes me look fat.’
‘Do not take it so personally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People are always criticising me because my clothes are soiled or torn. I just ignore them.’
‘I shall punch the next person who calls me fat,’ vowed Michael angrily, marching down the newel stair that led to the lower floor and heading for the door that opened into the yard. ‘And that includes you, so just mind yourself.’
‘We should probably visit Prior Pechem of the Franciscans tonight,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject, but not in the least intimidated by Michael’s bluster. ‘We need to ask him about his role at Walcote’s meetings. Now that Morden – and Kenyngham – know we are aware of these gatherings, there is no need for us to worry about putting them on their guard. They will already have been warned, and our enquiries can do no harm.’