Langelee nodded approvingly when he saw what Bartholomew was doing. Emma had offered to fund the repair of Michaelhouse’s notoriously leaky roofs, although her bounty had not come without a price: in return, she wanted masses for her late husband’s soul, and free medical treatment for herself. Langelee was delighted with the arrangement, but Bartholomew was not: Emma was a demanding client, and tending her meant less time for his teaching and other patients.
One of the Fellows detached himself from the line, and walked towards the physician. Brother Michael, a portly Benedictine, was a theologian and Bartholomew’s closest friend. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, which meant he was in charge of maintaining law and order among Cambridge’s several hundred scholars. Over the years, he had contrived to expand and enhance his authority to the point where he now ran the entire University, and its Chancellor was little more than a figurehead – someone to take the blame in times of trouble.
‘Has Emma demanded yet another consultation?’ he asked, pulling Bartholomew away from the door so they could talk. ‘You spend half your life with her these days.’
‘She summoned me before dawn,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But we were interrupted by a burglar. When he ran away, she ordered me to give chase.’
‘Lord!’ murmured Michael, round eyed. ‘It is a rash fellow who dares set thieving feet in her domain – she will have him hanged for certain. Did you catch him?’
‘No.’ Michael’s words made Bartholomew glad he had not. ‘And I am about to tell her so.’
Michael frowned. ‘Then perhaps I should accompany you, lest she is seized by the urge to run you through. The presence of the Senior Proctor may serve to curtail her more murderous instincts.’
Bartholomew was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘Thank you. Personally, I would rather have leaking roofs than be obliged to deal with her. It may sound feeble, but I find her rather sinister.’
‘So do I. Unfortunately, Langelee drew up the contract when I was away in Clare, and by the time I returned, all was signed and settled. I was disgusted – not with him, but with the rest of you Fellows for letting him go ahead with it.’
‘We did not let him go ahead, Brother,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just went. Ever since last autumn, when one of his scholars transpired to be corrupt, he has insisted on making all the important decisions alone. We argued against accepting Emma’s charity, but he overrode us.’
‘He would not have overridden me,’ declared Michael, a hard, determined glint glowing in his baggy green eyes.
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we should not judge him too harshly. We lost a lot of money on reckless financial ventures last year, and this hard winter means food prices are unusually high. He is only trying to keep us solvent.’
‘Then he should have found another way – I dislike the fact that you are at Emma’s beck and call all hours of the day and night. It is not right.’ Michael grimaced as he glanced at their benefactress’s handsome house. ‘I suppose we had better go and break the news that you were less than successful with her thief. But I cannot face her on an empty stomach. We shall eat first.’
‘I cannot return to Michaelhouse for breakfast,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, not liking to think what Emma would say if he did. Meals at College could be lengthy, and she would be waiting.
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall visit the Brazen George instead. That will not take long, and I do not see why everything we do should revolve around that wretched woman’s convenience.’
They began to walk the short distance to Michael’s favourite tavern. Trading had started in the Market Square and labourers were at their daily grind, so the cacophony of commerce and industry was well under way – yells, clangs and the rumble of iron-shod wheels on cobbles. The High Street thronged with people. There were scholars in the uniforms of their Colleges or hostels, merchants in furlined cloaks, apprentices in leather aprons or grimy tunics, and even a quartet of pilgrims heading for the Carmelite Priory. The pilgrims were identifiable by the wooden staffs they carried, and by the badges pinned on their clothes that told people which holy places they had visited
‘The Carmelites are doing well these days,’ remarked Michael, watching the little party pass. ‘St Simon Stock’s shrine attracts a lot of visitors, and is an important source of revenue for them.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, not very interested. He grinned suddenly when mention of the Carmelites reminded him of another of the religious Orders. ‘Have you identified the pranksters who put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ chapel roof yet?’
‘No,’ replied the monk tightly. ‘I have not.’
‘It was a skilful trick,’ Bartholomew went on, full of admiration for the perpetrators’ ingenuity. ‘I cannot imagine how they lifted a bull, a cart and thirty sacks of sand on to a roof of that height.’
‘It was stupid,’ countered Michael, whose duty it was to catch the culprits and fine them. ‘Could they not have applied their wits to something less disruptive? It took me two days to assemble the winches needed to lower them all down again.’
‘Do not be such a misery!’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, students playing tricks is better than students fighting. Do you have any suspects?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And I shall list them all for you once we are out of this biting cold.’
Bartholomew followed him inside the Brazen George. Taverns were off-limits to scholars, on the grounds that they sold strong drink and contained townsmen, a combination likely to lead to trouble. But Michael had decided that such rules did not apply to him, and, as Senior Proctor, he was in a position to do as he pleased. Given that he fined others for enjoying what taverns had to offer, it made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.
The Brazen George was a pleasant place, and Michael was so well known to its owner that there was a room at the back reserved for his exclusive use. The chamber had real glass in its windows and overlooked a pretty courtyard. A fire blazed merrily and welcomingly in the hearth.
‘I am concerned about this thief,’ said Michael, lowering his substantial bulk on to a stool and stretching his booted feet towards the flames. ‘If he is reckless enough to chance his hand against Emma, then no one is safe. He may try his luck on the University, and invade one of the wealthy Colleges.’
‘He will not choose Michaelhouse then,’ said Bartholomew, standing as close to the fire as it was possible to get without setting himself alight. Even his high-speed chase had failed to dispel the chill that morning – he had woken shivering and with icy feet, and had remained frozen ever since. Because the College was going through one of its lean phases, fires in the Fellows’ rooms were an unthinkable luxury – unless they could pay for one themselves, which he could not.
‘No,’ agreed Michael gloomily. ‘We have nothing to interest a thief, more is the pity.’
‘Who are your suspects for the ox and cart trick?’ asked Bartholomew, to change the subject. Michaelhouse’s ongoing destitution was a depressing topic for both of them.
‘The Dominicans are partial to practical jokes,’ Michael began. ‘While Principal Kendale of Chestre Hostel is famous for his understanding of complex mechanics. They all deny it of course, presumably so they can add outwitting the Senior Proctor to their list of achievements.’