‘You should go home,’ said Abergavenny, indicating the slime adhering to the scholars’ clothes. ‘If you hang around smelling like that, you will have half the dogs in the county slathering after you.’
‘That is good advice,’ said Duraunt. ‘It is chilly, so you can borrow my cloak and . . .’ He looked around for a suitable candidate ‘…and Polmorva’s to keep you warm until you reach your rooms.’
‘Not mine,’ objected Polmorva. ‘I do not want it smelling like a latrine, thank you.’
‘You can buy another,’ said Spryngheuse. ‘Give it to them.’
Polmorva’s expression was disdainful. ‘If I lent it to Bartholomew, it would come back ruined. I remember how he treated his clothes in Oxford, and he has not changed.’
Spryngheuse removed his own, with its hem of coarse grey fur. ‘Take mine, then. We are not all uncharitable, and I am happy to be of service to the men who will catch Roger de Chesterfelde’s killer.’
Reluctantly, Michael stripped off his filthy habit, revealing baggy silken underclothes that would have had most of the women in the town green with envy; he was a man who knew how to cater to his earthly comforts. They, too, were stained, but he declined to remove them, despite Bartholomew’s assurances that no one was very interested in what lay beneath.
‘He will make an exception for the occasional whore, I imagine,’ Bartholomew heard Polmorva mutter to Eu. ‘I do not see a fellow like that depriving himself when the mood so takes him.’
Bartholomew set a cracking pace through the darkening streets to Michaelhouse, and when he arrived, he led Michael straight to the lavatorium, a sturdy structure behind the stables. It comprised woven twig walls, a thatched roof, and a stone floor inlaid with drains. Thick beams supported suspended leather buckets that contained water, so that bathers could stand under a trickle of water while they washed. An oversized hearth in the middle of the shed not only supplied warmth on winter days, but allowed water to be heated, too.
Bartholomew decided vigorous scrubbing was the only way to deal with the unpleasant aroma that clung to him, and for some time his Welsh book-bearer Cynric was occupied with stoking up the blaze and fetching pail after pail of water from the well. The night porter, amused by the notion of two Fellows trapped in a well, repeated the tale to anyone who would listen, and it was not long before Michael had an audience of scholars and servants, eager to hear the details of his latest daring encounter with dangerous criminals. Even Agatha was present, despite the fact that the lavatorium was strictly out of bounds to the College’s only female employee. She stood with her powerful hands on her hips, shaking her head in disapproval of the attack, and even Master Langelee was not brave enough to point out that she should not be there.
‘Please, Brother,’ urged Suttone. He was fond of a good story, especially one that might be adapted to fit with his predictions about the return of the plague – and what better example of human depravity than the attempted murder of two University officials? ‘Tell us again how you came to be hurled into the cistern, and how you spent hours whispering words of encouragement to Bartholomew, to keep him swimming.’
‘Go away,’ ordered Michael imperiously. The massive silken under-tunic concealed most of his bulk, leaving only a pair of sturdy white calves for the curious to view. ‘All of you. A man’s ablutions are his own affair, and not to be carried out in front of a crowd.’
‘We are here to make sure you do them properly,’ said Agatha. ‘After all, I am the expert on washing things around here.’ She raised her chin and gazed around challengingly, and no one had the courage to point out that her expertise was limited to their clothes, and that their persons were entirely outside her jurisdiction. She took a step towards him.
‘Stay back, madam,’ shrieked Michael, clutching a piece of sacking to his chin like a reluctant maiden on her wedding night.
‘You have nothing I have not seen a thousand times before,’ said Agatha contemptuously. ‘Besides, I like men with a bit of meat on them, not skin and bone like you.’
There were a number of awed glances, as scholars and servants alike contemplated the kind of suitor favoured by Agatha, if Michael was ‘skin and bone’ by comparison. Bartholomew’s imagination reeled, and he found himself reviewing the medical problems that would be associated with such elephantine proportions.
‘She must like them immobile,’ he heard Deynman whisper to his friend Falmeresham. ‘Brother Michael is so fat he can barely walk, so anyone bigger must be unable to move at all.’
‘Probably so they cannot escape,’ Falmeresham whispered back. ‘Poor bastards!’
‘I do not care how you like them, madam,’ snapped Michael haughtily. He glared at Deynman. ‘And I am not fat; I just have big bones. But I am not going to wash with you watching me like cats with a mouse. Go away, or I shall fine the lot of you for …for pestering.’
‘Pestering,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That sounds a useful charge for a Senior Proctor’s armoury.’
Deeply disappointed that they were to be deprived of an evening’s entertainment, the onlookers drifted away, speculating about what might have happened to culminate in Michael falling inside a cistern. Bartholomew heard Suttone suggesting to William that Oxford men might have orchestrated the attack, and closed his eyes wearily, suspecting that William would repeat this as fact, and it would not be long before gossips like Weasenham the stationer began to spread the rumour. He hoped it would not result in Cambridge scholars accusing their Oxford rivals of trying to spoil their attempts to impress the Archbishop, sure it would be the first step in a violent altercation if they did. Polmorva would not pass up an opportunity to exchange inflammatory remarks, and then the situation would spiral out of control, just as it had done on St Scholastica’s Day. Soon everyone had gone except Langelee and Cynric, who were stoking up the fire. And Agatha.
‘You, too, madam,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I cannot do anything with a woman gazing at me.’
‘I am here to help,’ Agatha declared, waving a bag of lavender. ‘I do not want my scholars smelling like latrines – imagine what that would do for my reputation as laundress.’
‘My cloak desperately needs your attention,’ intervened Langelee diplomatically, removing the garment and handing it to her. It was a handsome thing, with rabbit fur around the neck. ‘Would you be so kind? The sooner you wash it, the sooner I can have it back.’
‘It is grimy,’ agreed Agatha, inspecting it. She yawned, to make the point that Langelee was asking her to work rather late that evening. Then she left, making for the area behind the kitchens where she usually pummelled the life out of the scholars’ clothes. Michael tiptoed to the door and peered around it, to make sure she had gone. Satisfied she was not lurking in the shadows, longing for a glimpse of his flabby nakedness, he returned to his hot water.
‘Use this,’ said Langelee, proffering a block of hard fat that was strongly scented with mint and rosemary. ‘It can disguise the most rank of odours. Chancellor Tynkell gave it to me.’
‘Then it does not work,’ said Bartholomew, declining to take it. ‘Besides, I do not want to “disguise” the smell. I want it gone.’
Prudishly, Michael retreated behind a screen before divesting himself of his under-tunic, then began to smear the bar all over himself, flapping and splashing like a beached whale, so Langelee was obliged to retreat or risk being soaked.
‘I had the pleasure of speaking Welsh today,’ said Cynric as he brought more water for the monk to fling around. It was the first civil word he had spoken to Bartholomew for two weeks. He was hurt and indignant that his master should visit Matilde at night, and risk moving around the dark streets without an escort. Cynric prided himself on his skill with stealth, and resented the fact that he was ordered to remain at home when he felt his role was that of nocturnal protector.