Michael concealed his irritation at such presumptuousness with a show of indifference. ‘Very well. Of course, I shall expect you three to be the first in line, setting a good example.’
‘Then you will be disappointed,’ declared Heltisle, ‘because we have hired proxies – men from the Spital, who are mad and therefore not expected to answer the call themselves.’
‘My proxy is not a lunatic,’ said Aynton hastily. ‘He is a scholar from King’s Hall – a Fleming, who is exempt on the grounds of being foreign. I dared not hire a madman, lest he forgets whose side he is on and attacks his friends. I do not want that on my conscience!’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I hate to break this to you, but the option of hiring proxies is only available to certain priests. You are not–’
‘It is available to anyone who makes a suitable donation to the King’s war chest,’ countered Heltisle smugly. ‘Several of my Bene’t colleagues will follow my example, although I imagine no one at Michaelhouse can afford it.’
Michael’s smile was tight. ‘We could, but none of us will, because it reeks of cowardice and elitism. I advise you to reconsider, lest you win the contempt of your fellow scholars.’
‘Not to mention the resentment of townsfolk,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘They will not take kindly to the fact that the wealthy can buy their way out of their military obligations.’
‘Who cares what they think?’ shrugged Heltisle. ‘Our fiscal arrangements with the King are none of their business. Besides, it is inappropriate for high-ranking members of the University to engage in such lowly activities. We have our dignity to consider. It is–’
He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared silently at the door – so silently that Bartholomew was sure he had been listening. The book-bearer gave no indication as to whether he was pleased or alarmed by the plans being made for his future, and his expression was carefully neutral as he addressed Michael.
‘You must come at once, Brother. There is a situation at the Gilbertine Priory.’
‘What kind of situation?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘And please direct your remarks to the Chancellor. He is in charge here, not the Senior Proctor.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Cynric flatly, and turned back to Michael. ‘Apparently, it is ablaze, and as you have lodged some of your nuns there, I thought you should know.’
Chapter 3
Bartholomew, Michael and the triumvirate hurried into the High Street to gaze at the plume of greasy black smoke that wafted into the air to the south.
‘That is not the Gilbertine Priory,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It is further away.’
‘Some farmer, clearing land, probably,’ said Heltisle dismissively.
‘It is the Spital!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘I have nuns lodged there, too – a score of ladies from Lyminster Priory.’
‘One convent sent twenty delegates?’ asked de Wetherset in surprise. ‘That is a lot.’
‘The largest by a considerable margin,’ acknowledged Michael, his face pale. ‘And one of them is Magistra Katherine de Lisle.’
‘De Lisle?’ mused de Wetherset. ‘Is she any relation to our Bishop Thomas de Lisle?’
‘His older sister,’ replied Michael tautly. ‘She is scheduled to speak at the conloquium today, so hopefully she will have left the Spital already, but–’
‘Then go and make sure,’ gulped de Wetherset. ‘The Bishop will never forgive us if his sister is incinerated at an event organised by an officer of the University.’
Knowing this was true, Michael began to hurry along the High Street. Bartholomew fell in at his side, because everything was tinder-dry after the long spell of warm weather, and he wanted to be sure the blaze represented no danger to the town – only fools were unconcerned about fire when most buildings were made of timber and thatch. Cynric followed, and so did the triumvirate.
‘We cannot have you telling the Bishop that we skulked here while the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner rescued his beloved sister,’ called Heltisle. ‘We know the kind of sly politics you two practise.’
A few years before, Bartholomew had objected to the number of bodies he was required to inspect out of the goodness of his heart, so Michael had established the post of Corpse Examiner. The duties entailed determining an official cause of death for any scholar who passed away, or anyone who died on University property. Bartholomew was paid threepence for each body he assessed, all of which was spent on medicine for the poor. However, he wished Michael had chosen a less sinister-sounding title for the work he did.
‘Speaking of sly politics, Heltisle,’ said the monk coolly, ‘I understand you struck a deal with Clippesby over the sale of his treatise.’
Heltisle smirked. ‘And there is a contract to prove it – signed with one of my own metal pens, in fact – so do not try to renege. And if you claim he is mentally unfit to make such arrangements, then he should not be in the University. You cannot have it both ways.’
‘I cannot wait to see his face when he realises he has been bested by Clippesby,’ murmured Michael, walking more quickly to put some distance between them. ‘I must find a way to depose him, as he is a dreadful man. Even so, I would sooner have him than Aynton – at least Heltisle does not try to disguise his vileness with cloying amiability.’
‘Perhaps I can shoot him while I show scholars how to use a bow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘An arrow in the posterior will teach him a little humility.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, afraid he might actually do it. ‘He would claim you acted on our orders, and we do not want Michaelhouse sued.’
The plume of smoke seemed no closer when they reached the Trumpington Gate, where the sentries were gazing at the smudge of black that stained the sky.
‘It is the Spital,’ said a soldier to his cronies, ‘which is no bad thing. The place is haunted, and I shall not be sorry to see it go up in flames.’
‘He is right,’ Cynric told Bartholomew and Michael, as they hurried through the gate. He considered himself an expert on the supernatural, and was always willing to share his views with the less well informed. ‘It stands on the site of a pagan temple, see, where human sacrifices were made.’
‘It does not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, although he should have known better than to argue with Cynric. The book-bearer’s opinions, once formed, were permanent, and there was no changing his mind.
‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ declared Cynric darkly. ‘Building that Spital woke a lot of evil sprites. Indeed, it may even be them who set the place afire.’
‘Then let us hope Heltisle has the right of it,’ said Michael, ‘and it is just a farmer burning brush in order to plant some crops.’
‘Regardless,’ said Bartholomew, fearing it was not, ‘we should hurry.’
Five high-ranking scholars and Cynric, trotting three abreast along the main road south, was enough to attract attention, and folk abandoned what they were doing to trail after them, sure an interesting spectacle was in the offing. They included both scholars and townsfolk, who immediately began to jostle each other. Isnard the bargeman and his cronies were among the worst offenders, and Bartholomew was concerned – with only one leg, Isnard was vulnerable in a scuffle, although he never allowed it to prevent him from joining in.
‘I feel like the Piper of Hamelin,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Followed by rats.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And four louts from King’s Hall, who have chosen to don clothes that are brazenly French. They have done it purely to antagonise the likes of Isnard.’