‘Very well,’ he said tiredly. ‘But I doubt Michael will change his mind.’
‘Do not bother,’ spat Stasy. ‘We want nothing from you or anyone else at this stupid College. And Michaelhouse will be sorry – I can promise you that.’
‘You threaten us?’ asked Cynric dangerously, fingering the dagger in his belt.
‘Not in the way you think,’ gulped Hawick with an unconvincing smile. ‘You know we are in the used-exemplar business? Well, we shall no longer sell our wares to Michaelhouse students. That means they will have to pay the stationer’s exorbitant prices, so the College will be very sorry indeed that its Master has crossed us.’
‘Come on, Hawick,’ said Stasy, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘It is time to go. Wait for me by the gate – I need to use the latrine before we leave.’
Bartholomew was glad when they had gone, although he was not alone for long, as Islaye and Mallett sidled in, confessing sheepishly that they had not liked to be there while the other two were packing. However, they soon wished they had steeled themselves to the poisonous atmosphere, because their erstwhile roommates had not confined themselves to their own belongings when loading up their bags. The cries of outrage were cut short by a screech from Agatha, followed by a tremendous racket from the peafowl. Bartholomew and Islaye ran outside to see Stasy streaking across the yard with several birds in hot pursuit.
‘He must have tried to steal food from the kitchen,’ surmised Islaye. ‘But Agatha hates him, so when her howl woke the birds … well, they do not like him either.’
‘My prayer book has gone!’ shouted Mallett, rushing out to join them. ‘The one my mother gave me. Come on, Islaye – help me get it back.’
They tore after Stasy, but the ex-student had too great a start, and was gone before they could reach him. Cynric also gave chase, but not for long, because he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He came back to talk to Bartholomew.
‘I do not believe Hawick’s claim that they will only avenge themselves by withholding cheap exemplars,’ Bartholomew told him. ‘Will you warn everyone to be on their guard?’
‘I already have,’ said Cynric. ‘But they will not get in here again, especially now the birds have taken against them. They were fools to make enemies of peafowl – Master Clippesby says they are the most vindictive of all God’s creatures. Well, other than people.’
They had certainly seen Stasy on his way, thought Bartholomew, watching the Dominican help Walter round them up and chivvy them back to their roost.
‘We are protected by spells and charms, too,’ Cynric went on. ‘Ones I asked Margery Starre to prepare. She will not let us down, so you can sleep safe in your bed tonight, boy.’
Bartholomew nodded a terse goodnight and trudged to the conclave, hoping to spend an hour relaxing with his colleagues before bed. He was tired, but he was too tense to sleep after the confrontation with Stasy and Hawick.
The conclave was stuffy, even though only one lamp was lit. Moths circled it in a fluttering cloud, and their shadows danced on the walls. He arrived at the same time as Clippesby, who reported that all the birds had settled back down for the night, sure the physician would want to know. Then he went to sit in a corner, where he produced two mice from his sleeve, and proceeded to hold a conversation with them.
Michael had returned not long before, and was sitting in his chair by the hearth, while William and Zoone regaled him with their opinions about the election.
‘You said that today was an auspicious date for it, because St Benedict would ensure that you woke up as Chancellor on his feast day, tomorrow,’ said William, rather accusingly. ‘But you will not. Perhaps you should have petitioned my founder – St Francis – instead.’
‘Of course I shall wake up as Chancellor,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Everyone knows that Donwich’s ambitions will never be realised.’
Zoone regarded him narrowly. ‘You seem remarkably composed about all this, Brother, almost as if you do not care that he called you a cheat. I would be incandescent with rage, but you only smile, and radiate wisdom and tolerance.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Which is how a Chancellor should behave. No one would thank me for aping Donwich’s manners.’
‘You will need help to overthrow him,’ declared William. ‘So I suggest you make me Junior Proctor. I did it once before, and I was very good at it.’
‘Thank you, William,’ said Michael, tactfully not pointing out that William’s narrow-mindedness and bigotry had been a real liability. ‘But I shall not appoint anyone until the situation is resolved. To do otherwise would be like prodding an angry hornet.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Zoone. ‘Hopefully, Ufford and Rawby will be in Ely by now, and they will bring the vicars-general tomorrow. This business must be resolved before term ends, or our scholars will carry news of the situation to all corners of the civilised world. What is Donwich thinking? It is almost as if he wants to harm the University.’
‘He does not care about reputations,’ averred William. ‘How can he, when he is enjoying a lustful liaison with the Senior Proctor’s sister?’
‘Not lustful,’ said Michael mildly. ‘They are friends.’
William laughed coarsely. ‘Is that what you call it? But perhaps you should persuade him to marry her, Brother – he cannot be Chancellor then, and Lucy is in need of a husband. Of course, she could do a lot better than that arrogant ape …’
Zoone was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps the rule about women is another statute Donwich aims to change if his challenge is successful. He told me himself that he will abolish the keeping of term, allowing students to come and go as they please.’
‘The Clare Hall blackbird says he wants to let scholars visit taverns and carry weapons, too,’ put in Clippesby from his corner. ‘And as such a policy will lead to violent and drunken brawls with townsfolk, she hopes he is never in a position to do it.’
‘He must be stopped,’ agreed Zoone. ‘So, what can I do to help, Brother? I am an engineer, so shall I arrange an accident? I can make it a non-fatal one, if you prefer.’
Michael laughed, although Bartholomew suspected that Zoone had not been joking. ‘I think we can trust the vicars-general to make the right decision without resorting to that sort of tactic, Zoone. But it is late and it has been a long day. I bid you all good night.’
Chapter 6
During the night, Bartholomew received two summonses from patients. The first was Zoone, who had failed to drink enough during the day and had given himself a bad headache – the pain eased after two jugs of the ubiquitous boiled barley water. The second was Walter the surly porter, and Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised the first symptoms of the flux. Thus far, Michaelhouse had escaped it.
‘What have you eaten or drunk outside the College?’ he asked, hoping there would be a tavern involved, so he would be able to isolate one source of infection.
‘Nothing,’ groaned Walter, both hands to his stomach. ‘It is too hot for wandering about, and I have not left the porters’ lodge in days.’
‘You must have gone out to check the gates or to admit visitors. Or to feed the poultry.’
A weak smile lit Walter’s surly features: his birds were the only creatures that had ever truly touched his heart, and he loved them far more than any human.
‘I might have slipped to the kitchens to fetch them treats,’ he admitted. ‘But I do not leave my lodge to meddle with gates or escort visitors about. That is what students are for.’