‘Matilde has been entertaining me,’ he explained when he saw his colleague’s bemusement. ‘She has tales about life at Court you would not believe. She is wasted here. She should be with Queen Philippa, employing her many accomplishments and securing herself a decent husband.’
Matilde gave a wistful smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she might concur, and it crossed his mind to ask her to marry him then and there. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rougham chattered on, and Bartholomew did not want to propose in front of an audience anyway. He decided to ask later, when Rougham was back at Gonville and they could be alone.
‘She plays the lute with a skill I have seldom seen.’ Rougham continued with his eulogy when Matilde went to fetch cushions for her guests. ‘And she sings with the voice of an angel. She reads better than any Bible Scholar I have heard, and she sees through the political manoeuvrings of the King’s Court with a skill any clerk would envy. I repeat: she should not be squandering her talents here.’
‘You have enjoyed her company, then?’ asked Michael wryly.
‘I most certainly have!’ declared Rougham with great conviction. ‘I was horrified when Yolande and her husband brought me here: to the home of the woman who organises the town’s whores into an efficient and well-run guild. But Matilde is not like them and, since I have regained my wits, she has impressed me with her modesty and gentleness. It is not every lady who would take an ailing man into her home and risk so much for him. But Matilde did so without complaint, and my reputation remains intact.’
‘Hers is not, though,’ said Bartholomew, a little sharply. ‘And besides, she only did it because you threatened to expose Clippesby.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Rougham. ‘Clippesby. We must decide what to do about him. I overheard Yolande and Matilde talking last night, discussing rumours that a man called Gonerby died from a bitten throat. Clippesby cannot be allowed to continue his reign of terror.’
‘I am not convinced of his guilt,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed that Rougham had learned about one of the other attacks already. ‘The evidence against him is circumstantial, and-’
‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ said Rougham firmly. ‘As I lay bleeding and dazed, there he was, looming above me, covered in my blood. That is not circumstantial, Bartholomew: that is fact.’
‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘Clippesby is a danger to himself and to others, and we need to make a decision about his future.’
Rougham touched Bartholomew lightly on the arm. ‘I am grateful to you for helping me. We are not friends, and you would have been perfectly within your rights to take me to Gonville and explain I was attacked while visiting Yolande. But you have acted with decency and understanding, and I intend to reciprocate. I have given the matter a good deal of thought over the last two days, and I have a plan.’
‘A plan for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘A plan for Clippesby. He cannot be allowed to return to Michaelhouse as though nothing has happened – not only because none of us want him to kill again, but because it would not look good for Michaelhouse to harbour homicidal lunatics.’
‘I thought we could send him home to his father,’ said Michael. ‘We cannot grant him a benefice in some remote village, because he might start eating his parishioners.’
‘His family might be as mad as he is,’ Rougham pointed out, not unreasonably. ‘But my brother owns large estates in Norfolk, and I established a hospital there a few years ago. It is remote, secure and run by an Austin Canon who asks no questions. He is a good man, and will treat Clippesby kindly.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The hospital has its own chickens, geese, sheep and cows, so Clippesby will have plenty of suitable company.’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘For how long?’
‘For the rest of his life,’ replied Rougham. He sighed in exasperation when he saw his colleague’s shock. ‘There is no other solution, man, and I am offering a haven, where he will be safe and cared for and where no one else will suffer as I have. I am even volunteering to pay for his keep.’
‘You are very generous,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could refuse. ‘And you are also right: there is no other solution to this problem. Clippesby should, by rights, answer for his crimes and pay with his life, but the town and the University are too unsettled to have that sort of scandal circulating.’
‘You mean you do not want the Archbishop to know that Michaelhouse Fellows attack innocent men with their teeth,’ said Rougham. ‘Well, I happen to concur: I do not want Islip to build his new foundation in Oxford, when it should come here. We must unite on this, because it would be a pity to let Clippesby’s illness deprive our University of what is its right.’
‘But to lock a man away for the rest of his life . . .’ said Bartholomew, troubled. He recalled Clippesby’s distress when informed that he was to be incarcerated for a few days, and could not imagine how he would react to being told he would never be free again.
‘It is horrible, but necessary,’ said Rougham. ‘Besides, he should be grateful his life is to be spared. You saw what he did to me, and perhaps you inspected the corpse of the man he murdered – this Gonerby. You cannot allow him his liberty.’
‘It is settled, then,’ said Michael. ‘We should make arrangements as soon as we can – before the Visitation, if possible. Clippesby wants to see Islip, and I do not want him to escape from Stourbridge and bite the throat of the highest-ranking churchman in the country.’
‘I have already sent word to my Norfolk hospital,’ said Rougham. ‘Matilde hired a messenger, and he is riding as we speak. I recommend Clippesby leaves on Monday morning. I would say tomorrow, but it is Sunday, and I do not want to despoil the Sabbath. The Archbishop will not be here until Monday afternoon, so it should work out nicely.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. He smiled when Matilde entered the room and handed him a goblet of wine. ‘And when will you be ready to leave, Rougham?’
Hope flared in Matilde’s eyes, and Bartholomew saw that while Rougham might be enjoying his sojourn now he was well enough to appreciate her lively and erudite company, she was tired of him, and wanted him gone.
‘Tomorrow or the day after, God willing,’ replied Rougham. ‘Once I am at Gonville, I can blame my poor health on the journey from Norfolk. No one will question me, because it is common knowledge that travelling is dangerous. Look what happened to poor Henry Okehamptone.’
Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘How do you know his name was Henry?’
‘We were friends,’ explained Rougham. ‘He wrote to say he was coming, and I invited him to stay at Gonville. I was surprised – and offended – when he elected to remain at Merton Hall instead.’
‘You knew Okehamptone?’ asked Bartholomew. He exchanged a glance with Michael.
Rougham nodded. ‘I went to see him the night he arrived – on Ascension Day eve – but was told he was indisposed, and too ill to receive me. The next day, the poor fellow was dead of fever.’
‘Who told you he was indisposed?’ asked Michael. ‘Duraunt?’
‘Someone I did not recognise. He was rather rude, given that I had gone to meet an old friend – I was not even invited inside. If I had been admitted, I would have examined Henry, and might even have been able to save him.’ Rougham grimaced. ‘And I would have been occupied with his care, so would have cancelled my appointment with Yolande. A great many things would have turned out differently, had I been allowed to see Henry that night.’
‘What did he look like?’ persisted Michael. ‘This man who refused to let you in?’