‘Perhaps the accident brought her to her senses,’ said Rougham unpleasantly. ‘She should not have allowed herself to be courted by such a worm. He is determined to destroy our University, you know.’
‘I will see you later, Matthew,’ said Paxtone, moving away rather suddenly. ‘Here come the two men Michaelhouse has nominated as its new Fellows. I wish you every happiness of them.’
‘You must have been desperate,’ said Rougham, also beating a hasty retreat. ‘Tyrington is decent enough – or would be, if you could cure his spitting – but Honynge’s tongue is too sharp for me.’
‘We came to lend our support, Bartholomew,’ said Tyrington. His leer was less predatory than usual, perhaps because he knew it would be inappropriate to do too much grinning at the funeral of the man whose post he had been invited to take. ‘Michaelhouse is our College now, and we felt we should be here, despite the fact that neither of us knew Kenyngham very well.’
‘He was very old,’ said Honynge, ‘but I am sure you will miss him anyway. Is there anything we can do? No? Good. That will leave the rest of the day free for packing my belongings.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Tyrington, watching him walk away. ‘If I had known he was going to be brusque, I would have kept him away from you.’ He narrowed his eyes suddenly. ‘Is he talking to himself? His lips are moving, and he is shaking his head.’
‘He seems to do that rather a lot.’
‘Then perhaps that is why he is so rude – he spends so much time in his own blunt company that he does not know how to moderate himself when he meets folk who are more civil.’
Michaelhouse was home to a sombre gathering that night. The students were unusually subdued, and there was none of their customary laughing and chatter. Meanwhile, the Fellows struggled to make conversation in the conclave, but soon gave up and sat in silence. Kenyngham’s funeral had upset them all, and it had not been just the younger scholars who had wept.
The fireside chair usually occupied by Kenyngham – the best seat in the room – had been left empty, and Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before someone else would use it. Michael sat opposite, squinting at a Book of Hours. The light was dim, and Bartholomew knew he could not see well enough to read it; he supposed the monk’s thoughts were either with Kenyngham or on the murder of Lynton. Langelee was at the table, going over the College accounts with Wynewyk. They made the occasional comment to each other, but neither sounded as though the matter had his full attention. Bartholomew was marking a logic exercise he had set his first-years, although he was aware that he was not catching as many mistakes as he should. He was bone-weary from orchestrating yet another hunt for Falmeresham, this time using all his medical students. It had proved as fruitless as all the others, and when darkness had forced him to abandon his efforts, he had been all but overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness, frustration and despair.
Finally, Father William was reading a tract by a Franciscan called Bajulus of Barcelona, who had written that Blood Relics – drops of Christ’s blood – were a physical impossibility on the grounds that anything holy would have risen with Him at His Resurrection; only unholy substances would have been left behind on Earth. This contention was hotly opposed by the Dominicans, because of the implications for the Transubstantiation at masses, and the resulting schism was tearing the Church apart. Unfortunately, William had scant understanding of the complex theological issues involved, and his chief concern was just to oppose anything postulated by members of a rival Order. Every so often, he would give a small, crowing laugh, or snort his satisfaction.
It was not long before Michael became annoyed with him.
‘I fail to understand why you feel compelled to produce all these cackles and hisses,’ the monk snapped, after a particularly loud explosion of delight. ‘Blood Relics are nothing to snigger over.’
‘I am merely voicing my appreciation for Bajulus’s argument,’ said William. He was used to Michael venting his spleen on him, and insults and put-downs were like water off a duck’s back. ‘He proves we Franciscans are always right in theological matters. I wonder what Honynge and Tyrington think about Blood Relics. I know you all agree with me, so I hope they do not elect to be controversial.’
‘I doubt they would dare,’ muttered Langelee. His Fellows did hold opposing views – they just chose not to air them with William. The Franciscan was not a good intellectual sparring partner, because he was in the habit of stating his opinions, then declining to listen to the other side. Michaelhouse was used to his idiosyncrasies, but the new members were going to be in for a shock.
‘When do they arrive?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The day after tomorrow.’ Langelee held up his hand when he saw the startled expressions on his colleagues’ faces. ‘I know it is sudden, but there are reasons for having them installed quickly. First, we need someone ready to take Kenyngham’s classes as soon as possible, and secondly, we would have lost Tyrington to Clare had we not acted promptly.’
‘Clare wanted him?’ asked William. He looked pleased. ‘And we got him first? Hah!’
‘We pre-empted St Lucy’s Hostel, too,’ added Langelee, a little smugly. ‘Honynge’s lease on Zachary is due to expire at the end of this week, and when Lucy’s heard about it, they raced around to ask him to be their Principal. Had Michael delivered our invitation a moment later, Honynge might have been lost to us.’
‘Damn!’ murmured Michael. ‘Damn, damn!’
‘We are lucky to get him,’ said Langelee, shooting the monk a warning look. ‘And I want you all to make him welcome when he arrives. He fulfils all our academic requirements perfectly.’
‘There is that, I suppose,’ conceded Michael. ‘Although I cannot say I like him. Still, at least you do not need to wear an apron when you talk to him, as you do Tyrington.’
‘Tyrington said kind things after Kenyngham’s funeral,’ said Wynewyk. ‘But when I spoke to Honynge, I had the impression it was a three-way conversation – between me, Honynge and Honynge.’
‘I hope he does not give us a reputation for lunacy,’ said William. He turned to Langelee before anyone could point out that Michaelhouse was already famous for owning several strange Fellows, and that William was one of them. ‘I wish they were not coming quite so soon, though. There will be no time for us to grow used to the fact that Kenyngham is gone.’
‘I know,’ said Langelee sympathetically, ‘but term starts next week, and we need Tyrington and Honynge to begin teaching. We are all stretched to the limit, and cannot manage any more classes.’
‘You must be pleased about Motelete, Brother,’ said Wynewyk, after a short silence. ‘It is one less death for you to investigate, and will give you more time to devise a solution to the rent war.’
Michael nodded. ‘It was a shock, though. Robin had pronounced Motelete dead from a cut throat and Matt had begun his inspection of the corpse – which had been in its coffin since Sunday. Then Arderne waved his feather, and all of a sudden, the lad was sitting up.’
Bartholomew regarded him unhappily. ‘Men do not rise from the dead – it is impossible.’
‘And yet it happened,’ said Langelee. ‘There were dozens of witnesses to the fact, because all Clare was there, along with Candelby and several influential burgesses.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, still not sure what to think. ‘Motelete was cold, white and waxy, and there was a lot of blood around his throat from what looked to be a fatal wound. He was–’
‘Then Arderne’s claim must be accurate,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘A fatal wound is a fatal wound. I worked for the Archbishop of York before I became a scholar, and I know all about cut throats.’