‘It is the Feast Day of St Dorothea,’ declared Michael, raising an imperious hand to stop the Bible Scholar from pouring. ‘And we always abstain from strong drink then, to honour her. We cannot accept your generous offer, I am afraid.’
Neyll opened his mouth to argue, but could apparently think of nothing to say, and closed it again. Bartholomew hoped the monk had not lied, for the excuse was something that could be checked.
‘Then state your business, so I can return to my lecture,’ ordered Kendale arrogantly. ‘Is it to ask yet more tediously bumbling questions about Poynton, like you did yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ replied Michael, equally haughty. ‘I want to know why Gib sobbed like a girl over his bruised leg, thus allowing Neyll to murder a pilgrim on the camp-ball field.’
Even Bartholomew was taken aback by this assertion, and the students were livid. They flew to their feet, and for a moment the hall was a cacophony of clamouring voices.
‘That is not my idea of subtle probing, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, as Michael held up an authoritative hand for silence. It was ignored, and it was Kendale who restored calm.
‘Sit,’ he ordered his scholars. They did so immediately, and he turned to the monk. ‘I assure you there was no collusion between Neyll and Gib. And Neyll was only one of a score of men who inadvertently crushed Poynton, anyway. Clearly, the man owned a feeble constitution and should not have been playing such a rough game.’
Bartholomew watched Neyll and Gib intently, but their faces were blank, and he could read nothing in them. Nor could he tell whether Kendale had had an inkling that his violent students might have committed a crime. Neither could Michael, apparently, because he changed the subject.
‘This business of our gates,’ he began, and Bartholomew saw Kendale’s hubris had nettled him into saying more than he had intended. ‘It was neither amusing nor clever.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Kendale. ‘Which is why we are not guilty. We would never demean ourselves with such a paltry trick. It is hardly in the same class as illuminating St Mary the Great!’
‘Your “fuses”,’ began Bartholomew, still hoping to learn something useful from that escapade. ‘No one can work out how you–’
‘True,’ interrupted Michael, cutting across him and concentrating on Kendale. ‘Stealing gates is an asinine prank, so I know you are innocent. However, your students–’
‘My lads had nothing to do with it,’ interrupted Kendale firmly. ‘And I suggest you look to a College for your culprit. They are the unimaginative ones, not we.’
‘It was Seneschal Welfry,’ declared Neyll, grinning. ‘He did it, so the hostels would be blamed. He had better not try anything like it on us, or I will slit his … I will not be pleased.’
‘There you are, Brother,’ said Kendale smugly. ‘Speak to Welfry – that fool in a Dominican habit, who takes it upon himself to answer the hostels’ challenges. Incidentally, the townfolk were disappointed by yesterday’s camp-ball. They said it was boring. So, I have decided to sponsor another game on Tuesday. It will be between the hostels and the Colleges, and any scholar will be welcome to join in.’
Bartholomew was appalled, knowing exactly what would happen if a lot of young men were given free rein to punch other young men from foundations they did not like.
‘You cannot,’ said Michael, also trying to mask his shock. ‘It will be the same day as the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. You will never recruit enough players.’
But he would, of course, because camp-ball was far more interesting to students than a theological debate, and Kendale knew it. He smiled languorously.
‘I am sure we shall rustle up sufficient support. And afterwards we shall provide free wine and ale, for players and spectators alike.’
If the game itself did not lead to a fight, then Chestre’s powerful beverages would certainly do the trick. Bartholomew gaped at him, horrified that he should even contemplate such an irresponsible act.
‘I refuse you permission,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You cannot hold such an event without the consent of the Senior Proctor, and that will not be forthcoming.’
Kendale held a piece of parchment aloft, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more maliciously gloating expression. ‘I do not need your consent, because I have gone over your head. Chancellor Tynkell has given me what I need, and he is head of the University, is he not?’
‘Only in theory,’ replied Michael icily. ‘Tynkell’s writ will be annulled within the hour.’
‘It will not,’ predicted Kendale. He smiled again. ‘I have powerful friends in the King’s court, and Tynkell is a lot more concerned about offending them than you.’
‘The game will be fun,’ said Neyll insolently, delighted by the monk’s growing alarm. ‘A chance for the hostels to demonstrate their superiority over the fat, greedy Colleges. It will be a great spectacle – for scholars and townsfolk alike.’
‘A bloody spectacle,’ muttered Michael. ‘Lord! There will be deaths galore.’
‘You cannot do it,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘Please reconsider, Kendale! Surely, your conscience tells you that this is wrong?’
‘I am sponsoring a game and drinks for my fellow men,’ said Kendale, while his students sniggered. ‘That makes me a philanthropist. What can possibly trouble my conscience about that?’
‘I will not allow this to happen,’ warned Michael.
‘You can try to stop me,’ said Kendale softly. ‘But you will not succeed.’
Michael was so angry as he stormed out of Chestre that he did not hear the jeering laughter that followed. White-faced, he stamped towards the High Street, and those who saw the expression on his face gave him a wide berth. Even Emma, who was walking with Heslarton and Odelina, closed her mouth and the remark she had been planning to make went unspoken. Odelina smiled coquettishly at Bartholomew, and reached out to snare his arm as he passed.
‘I am better,’ she said in a low, sultry voice. ‘You were right: a good night’s sleep banished my fever and rendered me hale and hearty again. I owe you a great deal.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ said Bartholomew shortly, aware that Heslarton was listening, and loath for the man to think his daughter might need protecting from predatory medics. Heslarton wore the broadsword he had been honing the previous night, and it looked sharp and deadly.
‘No, we do not,’ agreed Emma. Her malignant face creased into what he supposed was a smile. ‘But we are appreciative anyway. I might do you a favour one day, if it is convenient to me.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to make of such an enigmatic offer, but he had more pressing matters to concern him at that moment, and he pushed Emma and her family from his mind as he ran to catch up with Michael. Seeing that the red fury burned as hotly as ever, he put a calming hand on the monk’s shoulder. Michael shrugged it off.
‘Who does Tynkell think he is?’ he raged.
‘The Chancellor?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Kendale is right: he is supposed to be in charge.’
‘He has never been in charge,’ snarled Michael. ‘Not even in the beginning. It has always been me, so how dare he issue writs without my permission!’
There was no reasoning with him, so Bartholomew followed him to St Mary the Great, where the Chancellor’s office comprised a chamber that was considerably less grand than the Senior Proctor’s. They arrived to find Tynkell laid low with stomach pains, something from which he often suffered, due to a peculiar aversion to hygiene. The room stank, and Bartholomew itched to put his sleeve over his mouth. The wrath drained out of Michael when he saw Tynkell looking so pitiful.