‘I do indeed,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But this is more dangerous than idle gossip. It may send our scholars in a vengeful horde to the Oxford men at Merton Hall, and we shall have yet more murders on our hands. And that will certainly not impress Islip.’
‘Do you think Chesterfelde was murdered by Cambridge students?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because they think he came here with the express purpose of harming us? That is what Weasenham was speculating, yesterday.’
‘I shall do some speculating with him,’ said Michael angrily. ‘Does the man want us to lose Islip? What is he thinking of, spreading those sorts of tales at a time like this?’
‘He has been fabricating rumours about Matt, too,’ said Wynewyk, shivering as the drizzle became a more persistent downpour. He pulled his cloak closely around his slight frame. ‘He said Matt has serviced Matilde every night for the last twelve days.’
‘Damn the man!’ exclaimed Langelee angrily. ‘Just because a man emerges from a woman’s boudoir does not mean that they have “serviced” each other. Bartholomew and Matilde could have been playing dice for all Weasenham knows.’
Bartholomew was appalled that the rumour should be so explicit, and wondered whether the liripipe ruse would work. He sincerely hoped so, for Matilde’s sake as much as his own. He was aware that his colleagues were waiting for him to deny the accusation, but was at a loss for words. He could hardly say he had not visited Matilde night after night, when he had done exactly that.
‘It does not look good,’ said Suttone, after a lengthy silence. ‘You should not be there, Matthew, even if you pass the time reading sacred texts. Not at that time of night.’
Langelee addressed Bartholomew more kindly. ‘I know a lusty man needs a little female attention now and again, and I do not condemn you for that – even though it is against College statutes – because I indulge myself on occasion, and I am no hypocrite.’
He glowered at Suttone in a way that indicated the same could not be said for him. Bartholomew was astonished: Suttone was the last man he would have imagined dealing with women.
Suttone looked decidedly furtive. ‘I do not-’
Langelee overrode him, still addressing Bartholomew. ‘But you must learn discretion, man! You must avoid being seen.’
Without further ado, the Master moved to the front of the procession and led his scholars to St Michael’s Church. Rob Deynman, the College’s least able student, walked in front, bearing the large cross that was only ever brought out for ceremonial occasions. There was nothing special about that particular Tuesday, but Langelee wanted it used during the Visitation, and since Deynman was apt to be clumsy, he needed all the practice he could get. Michael fell into place next to Bartholomew, speaking in a low voice so he would not be overheard.
‘You are lucky. Any other Master would have fined you or had your Fellowship revoked. But you should heed his warning – you cannot continue to flout the rules like this, because even he will not be able to protect you much longer, no matter how much he wants to keep you here.’
‘He does?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He was gradually beginning to like – and even to respect – Langelee, despite the man’s many faults and his appalling lack of scholarship, but he had been under the impression that medicine was barely tolerated at Michaelhouse, and was regarded as a necessary evil rather than the equal of the venerated disciplines of theology and law.
Michael nodded. ‘Your concern for Cambridge’s poor and their nasty diseases is good for Michaelhouse, and he would never risk antagonising them by dismissing you. He is also fond of you in his own brutish way and feels a certain kinship – you, he and Wynewyk are seculars among us monks and friars. Wynewyk prefers men, but you and Langelee are alike in your love of women.’
‘I love Matilde,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, thinking the clerics were no more chaste than he was, if Suttone’s reaction had been anything to go by, while he strongly suspected Michael was not always faithful to his vow of celibacy, either. ‘I am not lusting after half the women in town, as you imply.’
‘Neither is Langelee – at least not any more. He has curbed his appetites, and confines himself to a single paramour. However, they do not fling themselves into the bedchamber on a nightly basis without caring who sees them.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. He experienced a sudden pang of alarm when he considered Langelee’s patient tolerance of him. ‘It is not my sister, is it?’
Michael gave a startled snort of laughter that drew the unwelcome attention of William. He lowered his voice further still. ‘Edith is a loyal wife, and you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking such thoughts about a woman who is above reproach. Besides, she has far more taste than to entertain Langelee. However, you will never guess the identity of our Master’s lover, because you would not believe he could seduce her without unhappy repercussions.’
‘No talking!’ snapped William. ‘We are about to witness a sacred mass, and you should be inspecting your souls for sin, not gossiping about women. Who is Langelee’s lover, then?’
Fortunately for Michael, Langelee was listening to Wynewyk’s diatribe about the alarming state of the College accounts, and was far too concerned by the predictions of impending bankruptcy to pay heed to the conversations of others.
‘Agatha the laundress,’ said Michael flippantly, selecting the least likely candidate imaginable. Agatha was the formidable woman who ran Michaelhouse’s domestic affairs, and who intimidated every male who lived or worked there. His jest went wide, however, and the Franciscan’s jaw fell open in astonishment as he took Michael’s comment at face value. Bartholomew grinned as William fell back to consider the implications of such a liaison, and wondered what trouble Michael had just created for the Master.
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Deynman, who had also been listening. The cross swung precariously as he shifted his grip, knocking the hat from Wynewyk’s head. ‘Agatha will be too manly for him.’
‘Who is too manly for whom?’ asked Langelee, waiting for Wynewyk to retrieve his headwear.
‘Yolande the prostitute for Wynewyk,’ prevaricated Michael, shooting Deynman a glance to warn him to silence.
Wynewyk was startled to be the subject of such a discussion, but shook his head to indicate Michael was wrong. ‘She is not manly enough,’ he said meaningfully.
‘There are plenty of men in the University who look like women,’ mused Deynman, off in a world of his own. ‘It is difficult to tell them apart in some cases. For example, Chancellor Tynkell-’
‘No,’ said Michael briskly, not wanting the student to dwell on that particular topic. Deynman had once attributed the Chancellor’s aversion to washing as evidence that he was a hermaphrodite, and had started wicked rumours that still plagued the man.
‘Let us take John Wormynghalle of King’s Hall instead, then,’ said Deynman. He tried to give Michael a meaningful look, catching Wynewyk a painful blow on the shoulder as the cross sagged to one side. ‘He is an odd sort of fellow.’
‘Watch what you are doing with that thing,’ yelped Wynewyk, cowering away from him. ‘And there is nothing odd about Wormynghalle, other than the fact that he is able to resist my charms.’
‘You tried to seduce him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking that sort of behaviour might well bring about a fight between the two Colleges as each tried to defend its honour.
‘Of course not,’ said Wynewyk indignantly. ‘But I attempted to steer a conversation around to personal matters – to test the waters, if you take my meaning – and he refused to be diverted. He is interested in natural philosophy, musical theory and nothing else. He is dull, but not strange – except perhaps for the fact that he declines to set foot in taverns and never employs whores. That was why I thought he might be approachable, but it transpires he has no interest in the intimate company of men or women. All he wants to do is learn.’