‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. But his mind was on medicine, pondering how he had struggled to see Horneby’s sore throat with the Carmelites’ best lamp. ‘Are you friends with Welfry the Dominican? I have seen you with him several times.’
Valence immediately became wary. ‘He lives in his friary, sir. And Master Langelee prefers that we do not fraternise with men from other foundations, so we rarely meet.’
‘He prefers that you do not visit taverns, either, but that does not stop you from doing it,’ Bartholomew remarked tartly. ‘How well do you know Welfry?’
‘I may have had a drink or two in his company,’ acknowledged Valence. He coloured furiously when he realised what he had just admitted. ‘Not in a tavern, of course.’
‘Of course. Did he tell you how he managed that trick with the flaming lights last week? The one where St Mary the Great was illuminated as if by a vast candle?’
‘That was not Welfry, sir. Kendale from Chestre Hostel did that.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you sure? Lighting up St Mary the Great seems too innocent a stunt for him. I imagine he would have devised something more … deadly.’
‘The Dominicans are notorious pranksters,’ acknowledged Valence. ‘And the affair at the church is the kind of escapade they love. But they are innocent of that particular jape.’
‘You seem very sure. Can I assume you were with Welfry at the time? In a tavern?’
‘We may have enjoyed an ale in the Cardinal’s Cap, now you mention it,’ admitted Valence reluctantly. ‘He is an intelligent man, and I enjoy his company. But the Cap is not really a tavern. It is more a society, where gentlemen gather for erudite conversation.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. There was no point in remonstrating. Valence knew the rules, and if he was willing to risk being fined by the beadles – Brother Michael’s army of law-enforcers – then that was his business. The same went for Welfry, too. He considered the friar. ‘I cannot imagine why he took the cowl. I do not think I have ever encountered a man less suited to life in a habit.’
‘Many clever men take holy orders because it is the only way they can be among books. But he is a good man, sir – generous to the poor, and endlessly patient with the sick.’ Valence grinned. ‘He does love to laugh, though. His Prior-General ordered him to Cambridge in the hope that an abundance of erudite conversation would quell his penchant for mischief, but…’
‘But his Prior-General miscalculated.’ Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Some of his tricks have been very ingenious, though – such as his picture of stairs that always go up and never down, and the tiny ship inside the glass phial. That is why I assumed it was he who lit up St Mary the Great.’
‘Kendale is ingenious, too – Welfry’s equal in intellect, although it galls me to say so, because he is a vile brute who hates the Colleges. But why are you interested in the church incident, sir? Do you plan a similar trick yourself?’
Bartholomew laughed at the notion. ‘No! I struggled to inspect a swollen throat with a flickering lamp today. If the brilliance of Kendale’s illumination could be harnessed, it might be possible to devise a lantern with a steady gleam – and that would make our work much easier.’
Valence considered. ‘I suppose it would. Of course, Kendale’s real aim was to set Gonville Hall alight – sparks went very close to their roof, and everyone knows he waited until the wind was blowing in their direction before he ignited his display. Has Brother Michael guessed the culprit?’
‘Not yet.’
Valence sniffed. ‘Welfry and I inspected the church afterwards. He thinks Kendale put buckets of black sludge at strategic points, linked by burning twine, so they would all go up at more or less the same time. The sludge contained brimstone, which is why it burned so bright.’
‘What else was in it?’
‘Welfry said it was probably charcoal and some kind of oil. He asked Kendale for the formula, but the miserable bastard refused to tell him. The Colleges answered Kendale’s challenge well, though, do you not think? Our trick showed we are just as clever as the hostels.’
‘You put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. But I thought Welfry was behind that – and he is not a member of a College, so should not be attempting to best hostels.’
Valence raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Have you not heard? The Dominicans and Carmelites are on the Colleges’ side, because we are all permanent foundations with endowments. The Gilbertines decided to back the hostels, on the grounds that they are poor and they feel sorry for them.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do the convents’ priors know about this affiliation, or is it something that has been decided by novices?’
Valence smirked and declined to answer. ‘It is only a bit of fun, sir. Cambridge has been dull since the University and the town have buried the hatchet. Moreover, most of the criminals have been ousted by Emma de Colvyll, so nothing ever happens now. The rivalry between the Colleges and the hostels will keep us amused until we have a real spat to occupy us.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance, amazed he should admit to holding such an attitude.
‘Unfortunately, Kendale is trying to turn our harmless competition into something nasty,’ Valence continued. ‘He encourages hostel men to yell abuse at College members in the street, and relations between us grow more strained every day.’
Bartholomew was worried. ‘Will the Colleges respond to Kendale’s trick involving the crated bull?’
‘Of course,’ replied Valence. ‘But it will not be with anything violent, careless or stupid. We are not savages.’
Chapter 3
When Bartholomew arrived at St Michael’s Church, his colleagues were in the chancel, discussing last-minute details for the Purification ceremony. As he walked up the nave to join them he saw a large number of people he knew, which included some he would not have expected to have been there. Among the latter were Emma and her family. Heslarton had brought a chair for her, and was fussing around it with cushions. Odelina and her mother stood to one side, and Bartholomew was surprised to see Celia with them, looking bright and inappropriately cheerful.
‘I find consolation in religion, Doctor,’ she whispered, when her eyes happened to meet his. Her expression was brazenly insincere. ‘As do many recent widows.’
Bartholomew inclined his head, although it had been on the tip of his tongue to retort that most had the grace to wait until after the funeral before going out with friends. As he resumed his walk, his heart sank when he realised many of the congregation were members of the Michaelhouse Choir. And they all exuded an aura of tense anticipation, which strongly indicated they were planning to make what they liked to call music.
The choir was a large body of men – and some women – who had joined because they wanted the free bread and ale that was provided after practices. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in volume, and they prided themselves on being one of the loudest phenomena in the shire, audible over a distance of two miles, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.
‘They are not going to sing, are they?’ Bartholomew asked, glancing behind him at the assembled mass.
‘Yes,’ replied Michael stiffly. He was protective of his ensemble, although as a talented musician himself, he was fully aware of its limitations. ‘They are a choir, and singing is what choirs do.’
‘They are a rabble,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘Here only for the free food.’
Bartholomew spoke before Michael could reply to the charge. ‘There seem to be more of them than usual. Do we have enough to feed them all?’