‘Do you want to be rid of me then? So you can be Senior Proctor and run the University in my stead?’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘I doubt it would thrive with me in charge. But you have often expressed a desire for high office, and this may be your chance. I should like to see you happy, even if it does mean being deprived of your company.’
‘You would?’ An oddly guilty expression flashed across Michael’s face. ‘I may remind you of that sentiment one day.’
It was a curious thing to say, and Bartholomew was about to demand an explanation when the landlord arrived. Michael told him to bring a sample of his wares, but when food as well as wine began to arrive, Bartholomew regarded him disapprovingly.
Michael shrugged. ‘It would be rude to decline, and I do not want him remembering the insult when I am Abbot.’ He raised his voice suddenly, silencing the drone of conversation around them. ‘Landlord! This is a splendid repast, but do you have any Lombard slices? I like them best of all pastries.’
‘I am afraid not,’ replied the landlord apologetically. ‘My wife used to bake them, but she died in the Death, and I have never attempted them myself.’
‘Oh,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the monk was sorrier to hear about the landlord’s loss or the absence of his favourite food. ‘My condolences. But the rest looks splendid, and Matt will help me do it justice.’
‘Here come Langelee and Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, nodding towards the door. ‘They can spare me a bout of indigestion.’
Cynric’s face was flushed with excitement as he sat at their table. ‘That Spalling is a tremendous man,’ he enthused. ‘He has such hopes for the future!’
‘Hopes for a rebellion, more like,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘I do not understand it at all – he was not like this in York. There, he was rather quiet.’
‘He is not quiet now,’ said Cynric approvingly. ‘He had forty men in his house last night, all listening to a very stirring speech. It was even better than the one made by the Prince of Wales at Poitiers, just before we went into battle. Do you remember that, boy?’
‘Vividly,’ replied Bartholomew bleakly.
‘Here he is,’ said Cynric, eyes lighting as his hero strode confidently through the door.
Spalling was wearing a new set of workman’s clothes, this time the kind donned by stonemasons, although without the dust. The real craftsmen nodded approvingly, although Bartholomew was no more convinced by the attire than he had been the first time they had met Spalling. He thought the man was a fraud, and hoped Cynric would not be too disillusioned when he eventually came to realise it, too.
‘Aurifabro!’ Spalling roared in a voice designed to carry. ‘So this is where you are skulking. Did you not hear that I have been looking for you?’
Aurifabro regarded him with dislike. ‘Yes, but I am not at your beck and call. Piss off.’
‘Now watch.’ Cynric was full of admiration. ‘You are about to see an obscenely wealthy merchant berated for keeping all his money to himself and starving his artisans.’
‘Are his artisans the men sitting with him?’ asked Bartholomew. Cynric nodded. ‘Then they are hardly starving – their clothes suggest they are affluent in their own right. Just because Aurifabro employs them does not mean–’
‘He has more money than them,’ interrupted Cynric shortly. ‘And it is not fair.’
‘He is bedazzled by the man,’ whispered Langelee in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Like a lover. You will not persuade him to see reason. I have tried, but I was wasting my breath.’
‘You will listen to me, Aurifabro,’ Spalling was bellowing. ‘When will you stop making yourself rich at others’ expense, and share your ill-gotten gains with the poor?’
The landlord stormed up to him. ‘You can take that sort of talk outside. This is a respectable establishment, and we do not want your raving–’
‘And you are just as bad, Nicholas Piel,’ raged Spalling, turning on him. ‘I know why your tavern is so opulent – because you fleece your customers!’
‘My wares are expensive,’ acknowledged Piel haughtily. ‘But quality costs, and those who want cheap rubbish can go elsewhere. I do not force people to come – they do it because they like what I offer.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Aurifabro. ‘Now sod off, Spalling.’
‘I am going nowhere,’ declared Spalling. ‘Not until I have had my say. I ask you again, Aurifabro: when will you share your money with the downtrodden masses?’
His voice was so loud that people stopped in the street outside to listen. There was an appreciative growl from the paupers, although those who were better off exchanged exasperated glances. Immediately, several rough men in boiled leather jerkins shouldered their way into the tavern: they were Aurifabro’s mercenaries.
‘When you give up yours, you damned hypocrite,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘You inherited a fortune when your father died, and you own a fancy house. Give your money to the poor if you feel so strongly about it.’
‘I shall,’ averred Spalling. ‘In time.’
‘In time!’ jeered the goldsmith. ‘You mean never. And how are you feeding all the peasants who flock to hear you rant? I know for a fact that you have not touched your own funds, so where does the money come from?’
‘He does keep a lavish table,’ murmured Langelee. ‘We were entertained royally last night, and so were his forty friends. Indeed, I warrant we fared better than you.’
‘I would not bet on it,’ Bartholomew muttered back.
‘If you cannot silence this braggart, I am leaving,’ said Aurifabro to the landlord. ‘I came here for a quiet drink, not to be harangued by fools.’
‘Out,’ ordered Piel, turning angrily to Spalling. ‘Before I pick you up and…’
Cynric was one of several men who came to stand at Spalling’s side, and the landlord faltered. Aurifabro stood and walked towards the door instead, his mercenaries in tow. Piel’s face was a mask of dismay when the artisans rose to follow their employer out.
‘Leave Aurifabro alone, Spalling,’ hissed one as he passed. ‘He pays us extremely well, and we have no complaints.’
There was a growl of agreement from the others.
‘A word, please, Master Aurifabro,’ said Michael, running after the goldsmith, and grabbing his arm just as he reached the street. ‘I have been asked–’
One of the mercenaries shot forward and shoved the monk away, fingering his dagger as he did so. His fellows immediately moved to form a protective barrier around Aurifabro, their faces bright with the prospect of violence. Bartholomew hurried to Michael’s side, although he was not sure what he would be able to do in the event of trouble. He could hold his own in a brawl with students, but these were experienced warriors.
‘It is all right,’ Aurifabro told his men. ‘This monk is not one of the villains from the abbey. He is the Bishop’s man, and I have nothing against Gynewell.’
‘Other than the fact that he pardoned Spalling after Robert had excommunicated him,’ countered the soldier with the dagger. ‘You thought he should have stayed excommunicated.’
‘I did,’ said Aurifabro, his eyes fixed on Michael. ‘It was hard to know who to support in that particular quarrel – the stupid firebrand Spalling, whose so-called principles have only driven him to action recently; or the greedy, unscrupulous Robert, who should not have been placed in charge of a brothel, let alone an abbey.’
‘As you know, Gynewell has commissioned us to find out what happened to Robert,’ said Michael pleasantly. ‘So will you answer some questions?’
‘That depends on what you ask.’
‘Fair enough. Will you tell me what you thought of him?’
‘He was a villain, and I cannot imagine why Pyk put up with him. But Pyk always was an amiable fool, incapable of distinguishing between good men and bad.’