‘Do not worry,’ Lucy was saying. ‘I shall put it about that his scribes make critical errors, so his texts are not to be trusted. After a week of falling sales, Weasenham will be only too glad to complete our order.’
‘He cannot bear the thought that women are as clever as men,’ said Matilde angrily. ‘So he aims to thwart our plans by refusing us supplies. But now you are Chancellor, Brother, you can command him to cooperate with us.’
‘And I shall,’ promised Michael. ‘As soon as the vicars-general have been and gone.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘I was proud to appoint your brother as my Senior Proctor today. I am sure he will serve me well, and make a name for himself in University politics at the same time.’
Lucy smiled wryly. ‘He certainly thinks so. However, I fear his suit against Narboro will overshadow all else. Perhaps you can persuade him to drop it.’
‘I have already tried,’ sighed Michael. ‘But the insult rankles and he refuses to listen. Of course, Narboro does not help by flaunting himself about the town. He makes it hard for Brampton to forget about him.’
‘Narboro is his own worst enemy,’ agreed Matilde. ‘But speaking of legal challenges, I hope you have a plan to defeat Donwich. It will be a disaster if he is Chancellor: he will anger townsfolk by refusing to help fund the new bridge, and he opposes my school.’ She glanced at Lucy. ‘I do not know what you see in him.’
‘He is always very charming to me,’ replied Lucy defensively. ‘A different man altogether from the one who offends his colleagues and aggravates the town.’
‘Did you see him last night?’ fished Bartholomew. ‘Around compline?’
‘Yes, he visited me briefly, but I told him to return to his guests at once. I felt it was rude to abandon them in order to spend time with me. As far as I know, he did as I suggested.’
Bartholomew frowned. March had said that Donwich had been gone for an hour. Was this evidence that he had taken the opportunity to kill the man who refused to endorse his candidacy, and who dared to spy on his romantic liaisons into the bargain?
‘Your friendship with him has become common knowledge,’ he warned. ‘It may harm your reputation if it continues.’
Lucy grimaced. ‘I would rather be seen as a fallen woman than as an object of pity. Besides, Donwich will keep me amused until someone better comes along – assuming another man is brave enough to risk my brother’s litigious nature, of course.’
‘I forgot to mention it earlier,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew, ‘but Edith and I overheard Aynton quarrel with Morys yesterday afternoon, and it occurs to me that it might be relevant to finding his killer.’
‘Edith told me they argued about the bridge,’ said Bartholomew.
Matilde nodded. ‘Our Mayor wants an expensive stone affair, but your Chancellor said that the University will pay only one tenth of the cost of a wooden one, and not a farthing more. At one point, Morys told Aynton that he would regret his decision.’
Bartholomew stared at her. ‘And within hours Aynton was dead?’
‘I think Morys meant that wood is only a temporary solution,’ explained Matilde, ‘and that Aynton would be sorry if he failed to look further into the future.’
Bartholomew was not so sure, but at that moment the town’s bells began to chime for evening prayers, and Matilde said it was time for her to go home. Bartholomew offered to accompany her there.
‘Then allow me, madam,’ said Michael, offering Lucy a plump arm. ‘Escorting you to your house will be no trouble, as I can use the opportunity to discuss University business with my Senior Proctor.’
Bartholomew was pleased to have Matilde to himself, especially when she listened patiently and with interest to his ideas about the flux.
‘So the culprit seems to be ale one day, and water butts the next,’ he finished. ‘With wells and the Mill Pond thrown in totally at random. It is all very perplexing.’
‘Have you considered the possibility that water has nothing to do with it?’ she asked. ‘All the other medici say it is a miasma, which is certainly the accepted wisdom on the subject. Or perhaps it is bad food or this terrible heat.’
‘The heat exacerbates the problem but does not cause it, while food cannot be to blame because there is no common supply. I understand why people think that miasmata – tiny airborne particles of rotting matter – cause diseases, but this does not explain why some folk fall ill while others are spared. I am missing something.’
‘Well, I am sure you will work it out,’ said Matilde comfortingly. Then her eyes narrowed and her voice turned angry. ‘Look at him, slinking along like some common felon. I shall never forgive him for what he did to Lucy. He is a rat!’
Bartholomew followed her pointing finger, and saw Narboro, who had finished regaling the burgesses and was returning to Hoo Hall. He was clearly uneasy to be out alone after dark, so was trying to keep to the shadows in the hope of remaining invisible.
‘Did you hear how he came to fall down Chaumbre’s dye-pit?’ she went on scathingly. ‘He was admiring himself in that hand-mirror of his, and did not look where he was going.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Was it the one Lucy gave him to remember her by, with the painting of her on the reverse?’
Matilde nodded. ‘Yes, but her image is all but rubbed off, because he prefers what he sees on the other side. Did he show it to you? The man has no shame! Perhaps Brampton is right to destroy him with the law.’
‘Would Lucy take him, if he offered himself again?’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it – she deserves better. A lot better. But here we are at home. Will you come in?’
It was late by the time Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse. He had been so busy since the election that he had forgotten about Stasy and Hawick, and was startled when he opened his door to find them stuffing the last of their belongings into a sack. Cynric stood over them impatiently.
‘I keep telling them to hurry,’ he growled. ‘But they are slower than snails.’
‘They cannot leave the town now,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed for them. ‘The King’s highways are dangerous after dark, especially for travellers with baggage. They will stay here tonight, and go in the morning.’
‘We have no intention of leaving Cambridge, not tonight or any other time,’ declared Stasy indignantly. ‘We are going to appeal Michael’s decision in front of the Archbishop’s emissaries, and they will reverse it.’
‘And thank you for the offer, but we refuse to spend one more night in this nasty old place,’ said Hawick, looking around with studied distaste. ‘We shall go to the shop we have rented in Shoemaker Row – the one we shall open to patients tomorrow.’
‘And there is nothing you or your fat friend can do to stop us,’ put in Stasy fiercely. ‘We do not need degrees to heal the sick and make lots of money.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But–’
‘You should have stood up for us, sir,’ blurted Hawick, defiance crumbling as he remembered again all he had lost. ‘To be expelled for a harmless jape after all our hard work! It is not fair.’
‘Prior Pechem heard you chanting spells, and there was a Satanic symbol on the floor,’ Bartholomew pointed out tartly. ‘What did you expect? A monk can hardly turn a blind eye to that sort of thing in the University church, especially in front of all the Regent Masters.’
‘We are sorry,’ said Hawick tearfully. ‘Please talk to him and plead our case.’
Bartholomew did not want to, but reminded himself that they had been his students for years, so he should at least try to help them.