Michael sighed. ‘We have eight days until term resumes. Let us hope that is enough time to work out what is happening.’
‘Very well, but I am sending our students home in the meantime,’ said Langelee. ‘Cambridge feels dangerous at the moment, what with religious zealots threatening sinners with hellfire, and the Devil’s disciples retaliating with spells and curses. I want our lads safely away.’
‘That is a good idea,’ said Michael, pleased. ‘And if Carton really was embroiled in something odd, then they will not be here to take umbrage at any rumours. We do not want them defending his reputation with their fists.’
‘Quite,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not want them joining covens, either, because they think they might be more fun than church. Hopefully, you will have evicted this Sorcerer by the time they return, and the danger will be over.’
Michael looked unhappy at the pressure that was being heaped on him, but knew the Master was right – students were always interested in anything forbidden to them. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is too late to do anything tonight, and you have patients to see, anyway. We shall start our enquiries in earnest tomorrow.’
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Here, in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael grimly. ‘With Carton’s friends: William and Mildenale.’
Chapter 3
In Michaelhouse’s hall the following morning, Langelee stood on the dais and cleared his throat, indicating he wanted to speak. The sun was slanting through the windows, painting bright parallelograms on the wooden floor. The servants were setting tables and benches ready for a lecture he was to give on fleas. No one was quite sure why he had selected this topic, and Bartholomew could only suppose he had been low on ideas. The scullions stopped hauling furniture when they saw that the Master was going to make an announcement first.
‘There will be no analysis of fleas today,’ he said, folding his beefy arms across his chest. ‘The College is closed until next Monday, so you must all go home. Oh, and Carton is murdered.’
‘That was an ill-considered juxtaposition of statements,’ muttered Michael, disgusted. ‘It looks as though he is shutting the College because a Fellow has been killed, which is not the case.’
He and Bartholomew were standing at the front of the hall, because he had wanted to gauge his colleagues’ reactions when told the news. Bartholomew watched William and Mildenalus Sanctus intently, but their response to Langelee’s proclamation was exactly what he would have expected: a mixture of shock, disbelief and horror. Similar sentiments were written on the faces of everyone else, too, but Carton had not been the most popular member of the foundation, so few tears were shed.
‘Do you think one of us might be next?’ demanded William, voicing the question that was in everyone’s mind, given Langelee’s careless choice of words. ‘Is some fiend intent on destroying Michaelhouse? A Dominican, for example?’
Mildenale was standing next to him. ‘The Black Friars have nothing against us,’ he said. But his voice lacked conviction, which frightened some of the younger students. Bartholomew was glad Clippesby was not in residence, sure he would be hurt by the unwarranted attacks on his Order.
‘No, but they have something against me,’ said William. ‘And against you, Thomas and Carton, too, because we tell the truth about sin. They hate anyone who preaches against wickedness, because they are rather partial to it.’
A small, neat Fellow who taught law came to stand next to Bartholomew. His name was Wynewyk, and one of Langelee’s most astute moves had been to delegate the financial running of the College to him. He excelled at it, and Michaelhouse was finally beginning to prosper.
‘If someone had wanted to remove a zealot,’ he said in a low voice, ‘surely he would have chosen William or Mildenale? They are far more odious than Carton could ever be.’
‘But William and Mildenale did not go to Barnwell yesterday,’ Bartholomew pointed out, ‘and thus present a killer with an opportunity to strike.’
‘No, but they were both alone for a large part of the day, which amounts to the same thing.’ Wynewyk sighed, and shook his head sadly. ‘I am terribly sorry about Carton. Aside from his rigid stance on sin, he was a decent enough fellow. A little distant, perhaps, but not unpleasant. Who would want to hurt him?’
‘That is what I intend to find out,’ vowed Michael, overhearing.
‘I hope it is no one here,’ said Wynewyk. He waved a hand at the scholars in the body of the hall. ‘Langelee enrolled twenty new students at Easter, and we have been too busy teaching to get to know them properly. I still feel our College is full of strangers.’
‘I want everyone gone by dawn tomorrow,’ Langelee was saying. ‘I know Lincolnshire is a long way, Suttone, but you will just have to hire a horse.’
‘You cannot order Fellows to leave,’ declared William, outraged. ‘I will not be ousted. So there.’
‘Why not?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Is it because you have nowhere else to go?’
‘I have dozens of folk clamouring for my company,’ snapped William, although smirks from his students suggested Langelee’s brutal enquiry was probably near the truth. ‘But I do not choose to see them at the moment. Besides, the College is at a crucial stage in the buying and selling of properties, and you cannot make those sorts of decisions without the Fellowship. You need us here.’
‘That is true,’ acknowledged Langelee with a grimace. ‘Very well, the Fellows can stay.’
‘What about me?’ asked Mildenale. His eyes drifted heavenwards. ‘God came to me in a vision at Easter, and ordered me to found a new hostel. I am on the brink of doing so, and it would be inconvenient to leave now. I should stay, too, working for the greater glory of God.’
‘All right,’ agreed Langelee tiredly, aware that to refuse would almost certainly result in accusations that he was taking the Devil’s side. ‘But everyone else must begin packing immediately.’
‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the Master stepped down from the dais and the students swooped towards him, full of questions and objections. ‘He handled that badly. Now rumours will start that Michaelhouse has been targeted by a vengeful killer, and the other Colleges and hostels will assume we have done something to warrant the attack.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly at Bartholomew’s side. ‘Carton’s murder is more likely to be seen as part of the battle between the Church and the Sorcerer. Unusually for Cambridge, it is not a town–University division this time, because there are scholars and laymen in both factions. Unfortunately, it means no one knows who is on whose side. Like a civil war.’
‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes,’ said Michael, watching him walk away to help the other servants move the tables. ‘I wonder you put up with him, Matt.’
‘He has saved my life – and yours – more times than I care to remember.’
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But which side will he choose in this looming battle between good and evil?’
‘It is not a battle between good and evil,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is a battle between two belief systems, each with its own merits and failings. The Sorcerer will not see himself as wicked, but as someone who offers a viable alternative to the Church.’
‘Wynewyk is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk was about to take issue. ‘And the Church can be repressive and dogmatic, so choosing between them may not be as simple as you think. It has adherents like William and Mildenale for a start, which does not render it attractive.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘That is a contentious stance; perhaps William is right to say you dance too closely with heresy. However, while I might – might – concede your point, please do not express that opinion to anyone else. I do not want to see you on a pyre in the Market Square.’