‘Nothing,’ said the monk in disgust, springing from his saddle with the natural grace of the born horseman, if a rather heavy one. ‘It was a waste of time. Norton admitted to knowing about Carton’s attempts to raise the cost of Sewale Cottage but said everyone does it these days – that he would have been surprised had we not tried to manipulate a better price.’
‘Is it true?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping forward to take the horse’s bridle. It snickered at him, causing him to drop it smartly. ‘Does everyone do it these days?’
‘Yes, apparently. So, now I am not sure whether Norton objected to his convent being the victim of this so-called common practice, or whether he took it in his stride.’
‘You should drink some ale before the meeting,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking the monk looked unnaturally flushed under his wide-brimmed hat.
‘I would prefer some chicken, but even the cat would not eat what was left of the ones Agatha roasted last night. Rougham was right to leave this town. It is probably cooler in Norfolk, and meat will not spoil the moment it is ready for the table.’
Agatha was in the kitchen, sprawled in her huge wicker throne and fanning herself with what appeared to be one of the College’s exemplars – anthologies of texts on a specific subject. Deynman hovered behind her, a tense expression on his face. When she glanced up to watch Michael drink, he snatched it from her hand and raced from the room. A screech of outrage followed, but the laundress was too hot to embark on a chase, and Bartholomew supposed Deynman would have to wait for the inevitable retribution. He wrinkled his nose when he smelled what lay on the table.
‘You should throw that in the midden,’ he said in distaste. ‘I am sure bad meat is a factor in spreading the flux.’
Agatha did not reply, so he started to do it himself, thinking to save her the trouble.
‘Leave it,’ she barked. Bartholomew froze: only the foolish or suicidal ignored a direct order from Agatha. ‘I might make Deynman eat it. How dare he deprive me of a scroll! I am a member of this College, so I am entitled to make use of the library.’
‘Yes – to read,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that she sometimes helped herself to the priceless tomes if there was a table that wobbled or a draught that whistled under a door.
‘I do not read!’ she declared contemptuously. Clearly, she considered it beneath her. ‘Although Cynric found an interesting book today. It was hidden on Master Langelee’s top shelf, and told us all about how the night before Trinity Sunday is a special occasion for witches.’
‘Was this book wrapped in black cloth?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, not liking to think of Carton’s manual of witchcraft in Cynric’s tender care. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had been wise to teach the Welshman his letters.
She nodded. ‘It contained a spell for making bad meat whole again, and I shall be testing it later. You can tell me if it works – hopefully before I am obliged to eat any myself.’
‘Try it on William,’ suggested Michael, bundling the physician from the kitchen before he could voice his objections. He grinned maliciously once they were outside. ‘We cannot lose, Matt! If William becomes ill, he will be confined to bed and will stop accusing you of being in league with the Devil. And if he remains healthy, we shall all dine on meat tonight.’
Bartholomew did not bother to point out that the flux did not strike the moment bad meat passed a person’s lips. He followed the monk up the stairs, across the hall and into the conclave, where the sun was blazing through the windows. He flopped on to a bench and put his head in his hands, feeling a buzzing lethargy envelop him. When would the weather break? He did not think he could stand much more of it, and hoped it would not last until the end of summer. Michael dragged the table to a place where he would not be in direct sunlight, although it meant everyone else would have it in their eyes, and sat with a sigh.
‘Here comes William,’ he said, cocking his head as footsteps thumped across the hall. ‘I recognise that purposeful tread anywhere. Even his feet have the air of a fanatic about them.’
The door opened and William strode in, humming one of the more militant psalms. ‘I have had a profitable morning,’ he announced, pleased with himself. ‘I accused Sheriff Tulyet of heresy.’
Michael’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘You did what?’
‘I accused Sheriff Tulyet of heresy,’ repeated William more loudly. ‘He owns a book on the occult, and I demanded that he hand it over, so it can be added to the ones Carton collected for burning. He refused, so I called him a heretic.’
‘Lord!’ murmured Bartholomew. Tulyet was a friend – to the University, as well as personally – and he did not want a valued relationship soured because of William. ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing – he just walked away,’ replied William. ‘But he was clenching his fists at his side, so I know my words had hit home.’
‘They were clenched because they were itching to punch you,’ said Langelee, as he entered the conclave. ‘I have just come from the castle, where I was summoned to tell him why you should not be locked up. He thinks you are a danger to the King’s peace.’
‘I have rattled Satan’s familiars,’ crowed William. ‘Tulyet would not complain about me if he were innocent, would he? I shall have our town free of heretics yet. Of course, I would rather see the Dominicans leave than Tulyet. I have always liked Tulyet, to be honest.’
‘Which of Carton’s books do you plan to incinerate?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not the Avicenna?’
‘No – I plan to destroy the ones you removed from his chest and took to Deynman,’ replied William coolly. ‘When I heard you had been given the task of deciding what was profane, I knew I would have to do it myself, given your lax attitude towards blasphemy. It was not easy to prise them from Deynman, but I managed in the end.’
‘Those were theological and philosophical texts,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Including some you use on a regular basis, so they cannot be blasphemous. And if you have harmed Deynman–’
‘I waited until he was out, then broke his locks with a stone,’ interrupted William. ‘I have not inspected the tones properly yet, but I am sure there will be some that will make for a merry blaze.’
Bartholomew regarded him in distaste. ‘Book-burning says you are frightened of new ideas.’
‘I am frightened of new ideas,’ said William fervently. ‘If they were any good, they would be in the Bible – and the fact that they are not means they should never be entertained by right-thinking men.’
‘But we are scholars,’ protested Bartholomew, knowing he was wasting his time but unable to stop himself. ‘We have a moral responsibility to assess novel theories, and push back the barriers of our collective knowledge.’
‘Exactly,’ said William. ‘Men like you will be pushing these barriers back to the point where any heretical notion can be aired in the debating chamber. Well, it will not happen as long as I am here.’
‘I usually fail to see the problem with most condemned texts,’ said Langelee, rummaging in the wall-cupboard for his sceptre – the ceremonial symbol of his authority, which he used to signal the beginning and end of meetings. ‘They invariably make perfect sense, but just happen to go against some doctrine cooked up by men with narrow minds. So leave Carton’s collections alone, Father. We will have no book-burning at Michaelhouse.’
William’s face fell, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged pleased glances. Neither would have expected Langelee to take a positive stand on books, which he tended to hold in low regard unless they were valuable, in which case he agitated for them to be sold. There were always bills to be paid or some costly repair to be made to the College fabric, and the Master was a practical man.