‘I understand this house is owned by Candelby,’ said Michael, looking around appreciatively. ‘It is very well maintained – unlike most of his scholar-occupied buildings.’
‘Our lease expires in September,’ explained Tyrington. ‘So he keeps the place in good order, because he wants to rent it to a rich merchant the moment we go.’
‘Does that mean Honynge’s lease expires at the end of the next century, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘His building is tatty compared to yours.’
‘I believe it is due to lapse at the beginning of the upcoming term,’ replied Tyrington. ‘Perhaps Candelby wants it vacant before beginning a major restoration. We had to endure noisy builders last month, when we were trying to study, and it was very inconvenient.’
‘Honynge will be pleased when he hears our invitation, then,’ said Michael. ‘He and you will be appointed at the same time.’
‘He is a good choice,’ said Tyrington sincerely. ‘One of the best teachers in the University. His students are a bright crowd, too.’
‘What about your three?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you are willing to vouch for their academic merit? We are Michaelhouse, after all, and do not accept just anyone. We have standards.’
‘Do you?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought Deynman was one of yours, and he is barely literate.’
‘He is an anomaly,’ said Michael icily. ‘Carton and Falmeresham have won prizes for their disputations. Are you ready, Matt? We should deliver the news to Honynge before I lose courage.’
Tyrington grabbed Bartholomew’s hand, tears in his eyes as he wrung it. ‘Thank you! I cannot tell you what this means to me, and I promise you will never have cause to regret your offer. I shall strive to be the best teacher in Cambridge, and will make you proud to own me as a colleague.’
Bartholomew tried not to flinch from the deluge. ‘Then let us hope you feel the same about us.’
The door to Zachary Hostel was opened by a student who was eating a pie that looked as though it came from the Angel. Although the building was unprepossessing on the outside, its occupants had made it comfortable inside. It was scrupulously clean, and there were bowls of crushed mint on the windowsills to mask the smell of cabbage. Someone had polished the furniture to a rich sheen, and the walls had been given a wash of pale gold, which lent each room a warm, cosy feel. There were prettily woven rugs on the floor, and an abundance of home-made cushions on the benches.
Roger Honynge was tall, thin and aloof. He had a narrow face and a long nose; his bony fingers were covered in ink, indicating he had been hard at work that morning. He was cool when Michael presented Langelee’s letter, and did not smile when he opened it and read the contents.
‘Well?’ demanded Michael, when Honynge did nothing but stare out of the window. The visitors had not been offered a seat, and the monk disliked being obliged to stand while Honynge ruminated.
‘I shall think about it,’ replied Honynge. ‘I know you are desperate for someone to teach the Trivium now Kenyngham is dead, but I never leap into such breaches without due consideration.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘You can please yourself, because there are others who–’
‘There are others,’ agreed Honynge. ‘But the best ones have commitments, and cannot come to you immediately. The only scholars of quality available at this instant are Tyrington and me – and I can see why you offered me the post first.’
‘Actually, we spoke to him first,’ said Michael, seizing the opportunity to wound the man’s pride. ‘And we are not as desperate as you seem to think, because there are several monks at my abbey who would be willing to help us out for a term or so.’
‘Do not let him leave,’ whispered Honynge, as the monk headed for the door. ‘It will be inconvenient, because you will have to go to Michaelhouse and deliver your acceptance yourself.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He glanced behind him, wondering if a student had entered without him noticing, but no one was there.
‘You can tell Langelee I accept his offer,’ said Honynge. He brandished the letter in a way that was vaguely threatening. ‘I have it in writing, so you cannot renege. However, there are three conditions. I am a light sleeper, so I must have my own bedchamber. I do not teach on Mondays, because that is reserved for my erudite research. And I do not eat dog.’
‘Dog?’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘What makes you think dog forms part of the Michaelhouse diet?’
‘Because it is not a wealthy College,’ replied Honynge superiorly. ‘Why do you think I am wary about accepting your invitation? However, I shall know if you give me dog and try to pass it off as mutton, so do not even attempt it.’
‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.
‘Good,’ said Honynge, adding in a mutter, ‘That told them! They will not try to trick you now.’
‘God’s Blood!’ swore Michael, as soon as they were outside. ‘What has Langelee done?’
‘Foisted a lunatic on us,’ replied Bartholomew worriedly. He had not taken to Honynge at all. ‘He spent more time talking to himself than to you and me.’
‘My poor College,’ groaned Michael. ‘Invaded by drooling sycophants and madmen.’
When Bartholomew and Michael passed through the Trumpington Gate – Peterhouse stood outside the town’s defences – the physician had the uncomfortable feeling that they might not be allowed back in again. The soldiers sided with Candelby in the rent war, and without Sheriff Tulyet to keep them in order, they were apt to be awkward and surly with scholars. He felt the purse that hung on his belt. It was all but empty, and he hoped Michael had enough for bribery, should the need arise.
Peterhouse was the oldest of the Colleges, a handsome foundation with a beautiful hall and pleasant living accommodation. Its chapel was the ancient Church of St Peter, which had been partly rebuilt and rededicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary after the plague. Michael knocked at the gate, and they followed a student across the cobbled courtyard to a house where the Master, Richard de Wisbeche, resided. Wisbeche was a scholarly man, famous for his skill in theological debates. He was growing old – Bartholomew recalled a time when he had sported a head of thick brown curls; now he was stooped, and his hair was grey. The physician thought about Kenyngham, and was unpleasantly reminded that everyone he knew was slowly heading towards the grave.
‘Yesterday was a black day,’ said Wisbeche softly, when his visitors were settled on a bench in his airy solar. ‘You lost Kenyngham, and we lost Lynton. The world is a poorer place without them in it. Did you find your wounded student? Carton was here last night, asking if any of us had seen him. He was distressed when no one had.’
‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Michael. ‘Falmeresham seems to have disappeared without a trace.’
‘Have you considered the possibility that he may have fallen in the river or the King’s Ditch? Both are swollen from spring rains, and will carry a body some distance before depositing it. I know, because I lost a favourite cat that way two weeks ago.’
‘Cynric is searching the waterways as we speak,’ said Michael. He saw the stricken expression on Bartholomew’s face; no one had told him what the book-bearer was doing. ‘I am sorry, Matt.’
‘I understand a student from Clare was killed yesterday, too,’ said Wisbeche. ‘In that brawl.’
‘And all because of this wretched rent dispute,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘It is getting way out of hand. Candelby does not care about averting riots, of course – all he wants is to make himself rich.’