‘Can you not? Vale was young, reasonably handsome and he could be witty. Compared to Weasenham, he was a veritable Adonis.’
‘Dunning seems to like marrying his daughters to disagreeable men,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is going to foist Surgeon Holm on Julitta soon. You would think he would want better for them.’
‘Nonsense, Matt. You heard what Edith just said about Holm’s beauty, and other women have told me much the same. I imagine Julitta is delighted to have won such a fine specimen.’
‘She is not stupid, Brother. She will be able to see beyond his looks.’
‘Will she? There is no suggestion that she is averse to the match. Indeed, I would say that she is rather pleased by it. And what do you know of women, anyway?’
Bartholomew supposed the monk had a point, given that he had failed to keep the one lady who had meant more to him than any other. Although scholars were not permitted to fraternise with women, he was currently seeing a widow who lived near the Great Bridge. However, while he liked her greatly, and enjoyed all she had to offer, he could not imagine giving up his University teaching for her, as he would have done for Matilde. No woman would ever compare to Matilde, he thought unhappily, a familiar pang of loss spearing through him.
He and Michael had almost reached the Carmelite Priory when they saw Langelee and Ayera, walking slowly with their heads close together. Ayera was talking in an urgent whisper, and Langelee’s face was a mask of worry. As the Master rarely allowed much to dent his natural ebullience, the expression was cause for concern. His smile was strained when he saw his Fellows.
‘It is a pleasant time for a stroll,’ he said, all false bonhomie. ‘Neither too hot nor too cold.’
Bartholomew’s disquiet intensified; the bluff, soldierly Langelee was not a man to chat about the weather, either. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked in alarm.
‘Just the usual,’ replied Ayera, when Langelee hesitated. ‘College finances. As you know, my uncle died recently, after promising a substantial benefaction to Michaelhouse. Unfortunately, I have just learned that he had nothing to leave. Once his debts were paid, he was penniless.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You planned to spend your share on a horse …’
Ayera shrugged. ‘I shall manage without it. I am just sorry to disappoint my College.’
He gave a small, courtly bow and went on his way, his abrupt departure leaving Bartholomew with the impression that he was more disturbed by the news than he wanted them to know.
‘It is a damned shame,’ said Langelee, watching him go. ‘That money would have kept us afloat for more than a year, and the horse would have been a welcome addition to our stables. We could have made a tidy profit from putting him to stud, too.’
‘Ayera worked on his uncle for weeks to include us in his will,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his colleague’s jubilation when the old man had capitulated. He glanced at Langelee. ‘And you travelled to Huntingdon with him last month, to witness the new document.’
‘And to see my youngest daughter,’ said Langelee, fondness suffusing his blunt features.
It was not the first time the Master had mentioned offspring, and Bartholomew was keen to learn more about them, but Michael overrode the question he started to ask.
‘A wasted journey,’ the monk said in disgust. ‘One that cost us money, too.’
Langelee sighed ruefully. ‘Well, at least I enjoyed myself. Ayera is excellent company, and he impressed me with his martial skills. He was a soldier once, you know.’
‘We had gathered that from the tales you and he exchange of an evening,’ said Michael dryly. He regarded the Master pointedly. ‘Although he at least has the decency to regret the violence he has inflicted on others.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee with a rueful sigh. ‘It is a pity, because he is otherwise a fine man. And he is a considerable improvement on Bartholomew, who manages to make the great victory at Poitiers sound dull.’
Bartholomew rarely discussed the battle, and wondered what he could have said to give the Master that impression. There were many words he might have used to describe it, but ‘dull’ certainly would not have been one of them. ‘Do I?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Langelee folded his hands and gave a disconcertingly accurate impression of the physician’s voice. ‘“The Prince of Wales sounded the charge, we ran forward and the French surrendered.” An extremely vibrant account, to be sure.’
Bartholomew shrugged, suspecting Langelee would not understand if he confided that the battle was a blur in his mind – of wildly flailing weapons, screams and blood. He vividly recalled the injuries he had tended afterwards, but no one was very interested in those.
‘Have you discovered what happened to those four scholars in Newe Inn yet?’ the Master asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘The whole town is abuzz with rumours.’
‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘But my beadles have been busy with questions today.’
‘Good,’ said Langelee. ‘However, I strongly advise you to hurry, because our University seethes with bile and bitterness at the moment, and the sooner you can present us with a culprit, the sooner wounds and rifts will begin to heal.’
Michael did not need to be told.
At the Carmelite Friary, a lay-brother conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the pleasant cottage that served as the Prior’s House, where Etone sat at a large table surrounded by documents and a sizeable ledger.
‘We are here to ask about Northwood,’ explained the monk. ‘Will you answer some questions?’
‘Of course,’ replied Etone. ‘But this interview should take place in the scriptorium, where he worked. His colleagues knew him better than I did.’
The scriptorium was a grand name for the room above the refectory, which boasted large windows to admit the light. There were about a dozen desks, and a scribe stood at each; among them were Riborowe and Jorz. Another four were novices, labouring over some basic writing exercises.
‘Riborowe has set them a series of theological tracts to copy,’ explained Etone, when Michael paused to look. ‘They will eventually be sold to Weasenham as exemplars. It is a good idea – it allows them to practise before we set them loose on vellum and expensive coloured inks.’
‘How many did Northwood sell last week?’ asked Michael innocently.
‘One,’ replied Etone. ‘There were two, but he said the other was of insufficient quality.’
‘Weasenham!’ exclaimed Jorz, overhearing and exchanging an angry glance with Riborowe. ‘That man delights in causing mischief. We should have let him drown in his paper vat today!’
‘Now, now,’ admonished Etone. ‘Those are unworthy sentiments for a friar.’
‘Well, he is going around telling everyone that Northwood did sell him the second exemplar, but that he kept the money for himself,’ said Jorz sulkily.
‘Then he deserves your compassion, not your ire, because the tale is clearly a lie,’ said Etone mildly. ‘He must be a deeply unhappy man to invent such tales about the dead.’
Jorz did not look convinced, and neither was Bartholomew. Weasenham had always seemed perfectly content to him, and had good reason to be, with his flourishing business, succession of pretty wives, and robust health.
‘What else do you do here?’ he asked. ‘Besides providing exemplars for the stationer?’
‘We produce bibles mostly, along with prayer books and psalters.’ Etone smiled, proud of his scriveners’ talents. ‘Obviously, we do not expect our illustrators to be able to draw everything, so we encourage them to specialise in particular letters or specific animals. For example, Willelmus here excels at Js and As.’
Willelmus was a man of middle years, small and hunched, with the milky eyes of incipient blindness. Poor vision was an occupational hazard among illustrators, and Bartholomew wondered what he would do when he could no longer see well enough to work. Etone read his thoughts.