Michael glared at him. ‘Many women tell me I am a handsome specimen, and the fact that I am unavailable just serves to make me more appealing. And I am not fat. I just have big bones.’
Bartholomew had suspected for some time that Michael was unfaithful to his vows, although he had never actually caught him in flagrante delicto. But suspicions did not equal evidence, and Bartholomew certainly had no proof that Michael had ever availed himself of the many ladies he claimed were always clamouring for his manly attentions, so perhaps he was doing the monk an injustice.
‘Honynge,’ he prompted, loath to speculate on matters that were none of his concern. ‘Perhaps he was going to steal some clothes from Clare. He is about to take up a new appointment, and he will not want to appear shabby in front of his future colleagues.’
‘We already know he is shabby,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘However, I do not see him as a thief, despite my antipathy towards him. What other reason could he have had for being there?’
‘None that I can think of – at least, nothing that does not involve burglary.’
‘I shall think of a way to ask him later. However, he is not as important as discovering what happened to Lynton or asking how my beadles are faring with Falmeresham. And we should visit Maud Bowyer, too. She is still not recovered, and Candelby remains banished from her presence.’
‘If she is angry with him, then perhaps she will not mind telling us what transpired in Milne Street on Sunday. However, I need to see the vicar of St Botolph’s first. He has a swollen knee.’
‘Robert Florthe?’ asked Michael. ‘I am sorry to hear that, because he is a friend. We shall visit him together, then, and you can cure his leg while he entertains me with gossip.’
As soon as Bartholomew and Michael stepped through the College gates, they were confronted by a strange sight. There was a queue of students standing outside, all waiting patiently in the rain. Those who were leaning against the walls straightened up when the two Fellows emerged, while others brushed down their tabards, hastening to make themselves look as presentable as possible. Some wore oiled cloaks against the inclement weather, but most were wet through.
‘Word has spread that Langelee intends to accept twenty new scholars,’ explained Michael. ‘And these are the hopeful applicants. But Honynge has bagged seven places for Zachary, Tyrington wants three, and you need two for Lynton’s boys, which means there are only eight places left.’
‘But there must be a hundred students here,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Why so many?’
‘Because the rent war has rendered the hostels’ situation precarious, and Colleges offer reliable accommodation, regular meals and decent masters. Do you understand now why we cannot let Candelby win this dispute? Eighty per cent of our scholars live in town-owned houses, and most of them are on the brink of poverty as it is – they cannot afford what he wants to charge.’
‘All these men are from hostels?’ Bartholomew was astounded.
Michael nodded. ‘I recognise most – many came to beg me to save their foundations from closure. All these – and more – will be permanently homeless if Candelby prevails.’
Bartholomew was moved to pity by the pinched, hungry expressions on the hopefuls’ faces, and began to usher them to St Michael’s Church, where they could wait out of the rain. The monk gave a long-suffering sigh, but then secretly slipped Cynric coins to buy them ale and bread. Carton, who was not petitioning the angels for Falmeresham’s safe return, but dozing in the Stanton Chapel, agreed to watch them until Langelee and Wynewyk were ready to begin interviewing.
The clamour of voices disturbed the two men who were kneeling at the high altar. Honynge and Tyrington turned in surprise, then came to see what was happening. When Michael explained, Honynge said the students’ mettle should have been tested by leaving them where they were – ‘only the keenest would have stayed the course’ – and Tyrington asked what he could do to help.
‘You should not have accepted this appointment,’ Honynge muttered. ‘Michaelhouse will prove to be a mistake, you mark my words.’
‘I beg to differ,’ cried Tyrington. ‘I think it is the best decision I have ever made.’
‘I was not talking to you,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘I was addressing myself, so kindly keep your nose out of my private discussions.’
‘Oh,’ said Tyrington, taken aback by the explanation. ‘My apologies.’
‘We came to say a mass for Kenyngham’s soul,’ said Honynge to Michael. ‘It was Tyrington’s idea, although I shall complete my devotions alone in future. He has a habit of spitting when he prays, which I find distracting.’
‘I do not spit,’ objected Tyrington indignantly. ‘What a horrible thing to say!’
‘You can make yourselves useful by helping Carton with these students,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt there will be trouble, given that they are eager to make a good impression, but there must be representatives from twenty different hostels here, and the competition is very intense.’
‘Surely Carton can manage alone?’ said Honynge with an irritable sigh. ‘I have plans for today.’
‘Carton is a commoner,’ said Michael, startled by the response. ‘He does not have the authority of Fellows-elect.’
‘And what will you be doing while we undertake these menial duties?’ asked Honynge unpleasantly. ‘Eating a second breakfast?’
Michael glared at him, deeply offended. ‘Looking for our missing student and trying to learn exactly what happened to Lynton.’
‘“What happened to Lynton?”’ echoed Honynge. ‘I thought he fell off his horse.’
‘He did,’ replied Michael cagily, aware that he had said more than he should and that others were listening. ‘But even accidents must be investigated.’
‘Well, I shall not stay – I am a theologian, not a beadle.’ Honynge began to walk away, adding under his breath, ‘There! That told them you cannot be treated like a servant.’
‘He is a strange fellow,’ said Tyrington, watching him leave. He treated Michael to a leer that had the monk stepping away in alarm. ‘But Carton and I can manage without him.’
‘Distribute the bread and ale as soon as it arrives,’ instructed Michael. ‘And I will ask Agatha to bring pies from the Angel later. You may be here for some time, so bag one for yourself.’
‘I do not eat the Angel’s pies,’ said Tyrington with a shudder. ‘They are far too greasy.’
‘Well, at least that is something he will not be gobbing at me,’ said Michael, wiping the front of his habit as they left. ‘But even so, I prefer his company to that of the loathsome Honynge.’
As Bartholomew and Michael walked along the High Street, they became aware of a commotion ahead. Michael groaned when he saw it comprised scholars from Clare and a number of apprentice leatherworkers from the nearby tannery.
‘Motelete cheated Death,’ one apprentice was yelling. ‘But Death does not yield his prey so readily, and Motelete will soon be seized and dragged down to Hell, where he belongs.’
‘Is that a threat?’ demanded the student called Lexham.
‘No, it is not,’ said Michael, thrusting his way between them. Knowing he had the power to fine, the apprentices did not linger. They stalked away, muttering a litany of insults that were not quite loud enough for the monk to take action on. The Clare students understood the sentiments, though, and their expressions were cold and angry.
‘They will not leave us alone,’ explained Lexham sullenly, when Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Every time we go out, they try to fight us. It is not our fault.’