‘Does it indeed?’ Bartholomew began to eat. He was not hungry, but the leeks were there, and it was something to do. ‘And on whose authority do you make this claim?’
‘My own. I have a lot of experience where victuals are concerned, and you should listen to me because you would learn a great deal.’
Bartholomew did not doubt it, and was equally sure that most of it would be total nonsense. He reached for the wine jug, and shot the monk an irritable glance when he saw it had been drained a second time.
‘The chicken is salty, too,’ said Michael, unrepentant.
They were about to leave the Swan when Langelee arrived with Cynric and Spalling, the latter still wearing his farmer’s smock and hat. The Master slid on to the bench next to Michael, his face sombre, although Cynric remained with his new friend, pausing only to give the briefest of smiles to his old ones. The book-bearer and Spalling joined a group of carpenters at a table by the fire.
‘Peterborough is full of rebels,’ Langelee whispered. ‘Word that Spalling is fomenting unrest has reached the surrounding villages and farms, and people are flocking to join his little army. They are not soldiers, of course, but they already vastly outnumber Aurifabro’s mercenaries and the abbey’s defensores.’
‘Is this the beginning of the country-wide uprising that Cynric has been talking about ever since the plague?’ asked Michael. ‘And if so, does it pose a danger to my University?’
‘Possibly, although Spalling is concentrating his ire on the merchants at the moment. Specifically Aurifabro, who is sitting in the corner: look.’
Bartholomew had not noticed the goldsmith while they had been talking, although Aurifabro had evidently noticed them, because he was scowling in their direction.
‘He has been glaring at us ever since we arrived,’ said Michael loudly. ‘I ignored him, as I do not allow other patrons’ bad manners to interfere with the important business of eating.’
‘Yes, I have been watching you,’ Aurifabro called back. Two mercenaries sat with him, while more lurked in the shadows leading to the kitchen. ‘You intend to blame me for Robert’s murder, and I will not have it.’
The buzz of conversation in the tavern faded as people turned to see what was happening.
‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,’ said Michael coolly.
‘I am innocent,’ growled Aurifabro. ‘Forget it at your peril.’
He stood up and stalked towards the door, his henchmen at his heels. Unfortunately, the path he chose took him past Spalling, who stretched out a burly arm to stop him.
‘My home is full of hungry men, women and children,’ the rebel declared in a voice like a trumpet. ‘The food has been taken from their mouths by the rich.’
The mercenaries surged forward to push him away, and Cynric leapt to his feet with a dagger in his hand. Instinctively, Bartholomew started to go to the book-bearer’s aid, but Michael grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back. Then Landlord Piel arrived to interpose himself between the two factions.
‘Enjoy a quiet drink, if you will, Spalling,’ he said angrily, ‘but I will not have you haranguing my other customers. So either shut up or get out.’
‘I shall harangue whoever I like,’ declared Spalling indignantly. ‘It is not for you to still the voice of the oppressed. And if you try, I shall order your tavern burned to the ground when the time comes to redress this wicked imbalance between the classes–’
He got no further, for the mercenaries seized his arms and marched him towards the door. He was a large man, but they were used to dealing with people who did not like where they were being taken, and his struggles, while determined, were futile. Bartholomew twisted away from Michael and hurried to prevent Cynric from going to Spalling’s rescue, but Cynric was no fool – he knew his chances of defeating so many professional soldiers were slim and he made no attempt to intervene.
‘You see, Brother?’ asked Langelee. ‘Spalling makes remarks like that wherever he goes – churches, taverns, the market. I hope to God he never learns that our University has more wealth than is decent. Cynric has said nothing so far, but he is so enamoured of the fellow that I fear trouble in the future.’
‘How dangerous is Spalling, exactly?’ asked Michael uneasily.
Langelee shrugged. ‘Well, my Archbishop would not have liked him operating in his domain, and would have sent me to take care of the matter.’
Michael winced. None of the Fellows were comfortable with what the Master had done for a living before he had decided that an academic career would be more rewarding. ‘I shall warn Gynewell. He must have the wherewithal to deal with this sort of situation.’
He spoke just as Bartholomew returned to the table with Cynric, who frowned when he heard the last remark.
‘Spalling is a great leader,’ the book-bearer declared. ‘With vision. The Bishop will not want him silenced, because Gynewell is a decent man, too.’
‘As far as I can tell, most of Spalling’s “vision” revolves around how to transfer other people’s money to the poor – with him as their banker,’ countered Langelee acidly.
Cynric shook his head earnestly. ‘You misunderstand him, Master. He sees the injustice of a situation where most of us work for a pittance while a minority grows fat from our labours, and he has solutions.’
‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘To remove excess wealth from those with too much, and give it to those who have nothing,’ explained Cynric. ‘It is simple, but fair.’
‘Do you want a pay rise, then?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘I suppose we can manage one, although it will put the College in–’
‘No, you have always been generous.’ Cynric smiled, and continued. ‘But Spalling predicts great changes, ones that will result in a more equitable world. I am inclined to help him in his struggle.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Is this your way of telling us that you want to leave Michaelhouse? But what about your wife?’
‘She will understand, and it will not be for ever – just until this revolution has come to pass. Spalling needs men like me, who are handy with a sword.’
‘You mean he plans to fight for this paradise?’ Bartholomew was dismayed.
‘Only if the wealthy resist,’ replied Cynric. ‘But they will not, because they will see that surrendering their riches is the proper thing to do.’
‘You know better than that, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Spalling had dosed the book-bearer with some substance that had addled his wits. ‘No one parts with money willingly. Especially people who have a lot of it.’
‘They will when they see how many people are on our side. Please do not try to stop me, boy. You know I have felt strongly about this for a very long time.’
‘I will not stand by while you do something so manifestly reckless,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are my friend. I will not see you hanged as an insurgent when–’
‘I am doing what I think is right.’ Cynric gripped the physician’s arm in a rare and shy gesture of affection. ‘Just as you have always encouraged me to do. But I should take Spalling home now. We have had enough speeches for tonight.’
He nodded a farewell and left, stopping only to mutter a few soft words to the carpenters at whose table he had been sitting. As one, they stood and followed him out. Bartholomew stared after them unhappily.
‘I will keep trying to talk sense into him,’ promised Langelee, although his grim expression suggested that he did not think he would succeed. ‘How much longer will you be here, Brother? In other words, how long do I have?’
‘Three full days,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Plus a little of Wednesday. After which we shall leave whether we have Robert’s killer or not. Oh, look – Lombard slices! When did they arrive? I thought the landlord said he did not have any.’