Agatha regarded him beadily. ‘You had better not be getting ideas. I am the laundress around here, and I wash the clothes. I do a good job, and I will not have you demanding to do your own. It would not be proper, and I would not stand for it.’
‘Quite right, too,’ said Michael ingratiatingly, taking another step towards the pantry. ‘I would never consider managing my own clothes – you always do it so splendidly.’
Agatha looked pleased. ‘I do,’ she agreed immodestly. ‘I am the finest laundress in Cambridge.’
‘In England,’ gushed Michael. ‘In the world, even. But my innards ache with hunger, so I shall retire to my bed and pass a miserable night. Unless, of course, there are oatcakes available …?’
‘There might be,’ said Agatha imperiously. ‘Are you saying I am better even than the laundresses in the King’s household?’
‘There is no comparison,’ said Michael desperately.
Agatha smiled in smug satisfaction. ‘Then perhaps one of you will write to the King on my behalf, and tell him I am willing to be of service – subject to him bringing his Court to Cambridge, of course. I would not like to move away.’
‘The oatcakes?’ whined Michael piteously.
‘They are for someone else,’ replied Agatha maliciously. ‘Matthew will collect them tomorrow morning and take them to Clippesby, to sustain the poor man on his journey to Hell.’
When Bartholomew went to bed, he was restless and unsettled, and found sleep would not come. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours before he finally dropped into a doze, but his dreams teemed with uncomfortable images of Clippesby. Deciding he would rather be doing something better than exhausting himself with nightmares, he rose, donned the hated yellow liripipe and left. Matilde would be asleep, and Rougham no longer needed his ministrations, but a patient called Isnard was happy for company at any hour. He had recently lost a leg, and enforced physical inactivity meant he slept little and was always grateful when visitors relieved his boredom. Intending to leave Michaelhouse through the back door and use the towpath, Bartholomew aimed for the orchard.
He had not gone far when he became aware that he was not the only person out in the darkness. He glanced up at the sky, and gauged it was probably long past midnight: not a time when law-abiding scholars should be wandering around. He wondered whether it was a student, off to meet his paramour, and hoped it was not one of his own class. He had more than enough to worry about, without being concerned for errant students.
The figure making his way through the fruit trees was large and burly. The only one of Bartholomew’s students with such a build was Falmeresham, and Bartholomew strained his eyes, trying to assess whether it was him. But it was too dark, and the person had taken the precaution of wrapping himself in a cloak with a hood that hid everything except his size. Bartholomew reflected. William and Langelee were also big men who owned long cloaks, and so was Michael. But the figure in the orchard was not quite vast enough to be Michael, and nor did it waddle.
When the man reached the gate he removed the bar and laid it gently in the grass. He opened the door, and looked carefully in both directions before letting himself out. Bartholomew followed, and watched him reach the High Street, then turn left. The physician trotted after him, hoping it was late enough for Tulyet’s guards and Michael’s beadles to have eased their patrols, and that neither of them would be caught. The scholar ahead of him did not seem to be suffering from any such qualms, and his progress along the High Street towards the Jewry could best be described as brazen.
As the figure passed King’s Hall, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated him, and Bartholomew recognised the cloak with its rabbit-fur collar. It was Langelee, wearing the garment he had retrieved from Agatha earlier that evening. Now he could see the mantle, Bartholomew thought the figure was unmistakably the Master’s, with its barrel-shaped body and confident swagger; it was also very like Langelee not to care who saw him as he flouted University rules by striding around after the curfew. Bartholomew had kept to the shadows as he stalked his prey, but Langelee had not once glanced behind him.
Bartholomew immediately assumed that Langelee was going to meet Alyce Weasenham, and was staggered to think the Master would risk cavorting with her while her husband slumbered in the same house. Langelee reached the stationer’s shop and eased himself into a doorway opposite. From this vantage point, he proceeded to stare at the silent building for some time. Then, abruptly, he darted out and shot towards the Jewry. Before he disappeared down one of its narrow lanes he paused and looked back, as if to ensure no one was watching. Bartholomew could only suppose he was making sure Alyce did not spot him as he embarked on a tryst with another woman.
With nothing better to do, Bartholomew followed him again, and for one agonising moment thought Langelee was going to knock at Matilde’s door. But the Master did not give it so much as a glance as he strode past. Emerging from the tangle of alleys between the Round Church and the Franciscan Friary, he began to move purposefully along the marshy road known as the Barnwell Causeway. He paused at the small bridge that spanned the filthy waters of the King’s Ditch, and Bartholomew saw a guard emerge from his hut to challenge him. The murmur of soft voices drifted on the still night air, and Bartholomew supposed coins were changing hands. When the transaction was completed, Langelee began walking again, and the soldier ducked back inside his shelter.
Bartholomew hesitated. He had no money to bribe guards, and nor did he want them gossiping about how Michaelhouse Fellows shadowed their masters at odd hours of the night. If he wanted to learn what Langelee was doing, there was only one course open to him: to bypass the sentry and try to sneak across the bridge without being seen. He was not especially talented at stealth, and it occurred to him to mind his own business and go home, but Langelee’s odd mission had piqued his interest, and he wanted to know where the philosopher was going.
He walked as close to the shelter as he dared, then scrambled off the causeway to the lower ground surrounding it. He tiptoed clumsily through rutted fields until he reached the stinking black ooze of the King’s Ditch. The bridge was just above his head, so he climbed up the bank and listened hard. The soldier was singing to himself, and he concluded the man would not be doing that if he thought someone was trying to creep past him. As quickly as he could, Bartholomew darted across the bridge and dropped down the bank on the other side. He waited, breathing hard, and pondering what explanation he would give if he was caught. But the guard continued to warble, and Bartholomew felt fortunate that the fellow was so pleased with the money Langelee had given him that he had relaxed his vigilance.
After a moment, Bartholomew began to move forward again, creeping through the fields until he deemed it was safe to climb back on to the causeway. In the faint moonlight, he saw that Langelee had made good headway, and was obliged to run hard to catch up. Despite the noise he was sure he was making, Langelee still did not look around.
The causeway skirted St Radegund’s Priory, where the Benedictine nuns were known to entertain men on occasion, and Bartholomew supposed Langelee had secured himself an appointment. But the Master stalked past the convent with its untidy scattering of outbuildings and headed for the Fens. And for Stourbridge, Bartholomew thought grimly, at last understanding what was happening: Langelee was going to visit Clippesby.
Bartholomew hung back, not sure what to do. Was Langelee planning to warn Clippesby that he was about to be spirited away to a remote institution from which he would never escape? But Langelee had thought that an acceptable option the previous evening, and Bartholomew did not see why he should change his mind. Was he going to say his farewells? Langelee was an odd man, bluff and thoughtless one moment, considerate the next. Perhaps he had a soft spot for Clippesby, and wanted to wish him well before he began his exile. But what really concerned Bartholomew was a darker, more sinister option: murder. No Master wanted it said that his College had lunatic Fellows locked away in distant parts of the countryside, and Bartholomew had a sick feeling that Langelee intended to resolve the Clippesby problem once and for all.