But Bartholomew thought Candelby as the culprit left too many unanswered questions. ‘I still think Arderne is a better suspect – ridding himself of a rival, because–’ He stopped speaking and stared across the street. ‘There is Blankpayn!’
‘Wait!’ Michael reached out to stop him, but it was too late. The physician was far too agile for the heavy-boned monk. ‘Let my beadles … oh, damn it all!’
The owner of the Lilypot tavern was swaggering along the High Street. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, suggesting he had been at the ale, and his clothes were the ones he had worn on Sunday.
‘Where have you been?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘I have been looking for you for days.’
Blankpayn was startled to be addressed so bluntly, and tried to walk away, but the physician’s arm shot out and barred his way. Michael held his breath, anticipating violence, and his unease intensified when three of the Lilypot’s patrons arrived – rough, unkempt fellows with a reputation for brawling. He hurried forward, intending to pull Bartholomew away from the confrontation while he was still in one piece – they would do better to ask their questions another time, when Blankpayn did not have the security of friends massing at his back.
But Michael had reckoned without the fellowship of the University. Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse saw Bartholomew surrounded by hostile drunks, and hastened to redress the balance. He had two students with him, burly lads who carried long knives in their belts. Then Kardington of Clare came to see if he could help. Spaldynge was at his side, clenching his fists in a way that told the monk he was more than ready to use them in defence of his colleagues, even if one was a physician. Unfortunately, then a group of Oswald Stanmore’s lads approached, and pointedly ranged themselves behind the townsmen. Michael supposed they were tired of being called scholar-lovers by their friends, just because Bartholomew was their master’s kinsman.
‘Lord, Matt!’ the monk muttered angrily. ‘Now look what you have done.’
‘What do you want, physician?’ demanded Blankpayn. ‘I do not waste time talking to scholars, so say whatever is on your mind, then get out of my way and let me pass.’
‘We just want to know if you have seen Falmeresham,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could phrase the question in a more aggressive – or accusatory – manner.
‘No,’ said Blankpayn, shoving Bartholomew hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Now get lost.’
‘There is no need for violence,’ objected Kardington in his precise Latin, while Michael put out a hand to prevent the students from reciprocating in kind. ‘Surely we can converse in a civil manner, without recourse to common brutalities?’
‘If you swear at me again, I will cut your throat,’ snarled Blankpayn, rounding on him. ‘Do not think I cannot understand your vile tongue, because I learned French at school.’
Kardington lisped something no one understood. He looked pleased with himself, and beamed affably at the taverner; Bartholomew supposed he had made some comment about finally meeting a man who knew a language other than Latin. His friendly smile confused Blankpayn, who stood with a look of total incomprehension stamped across his pugilistic features.
‘We do not want trouble,’ said Michael quickly. He heard Spaldynge mutter that trouble would be fine with him, because he would welcome the opportunity to trounce the sly villain who had murdered Falmeresham. ‘We are just concerned for a lad who may need medical attention.’
‘You mean the fool who ran on to my dagger?’ asked Blankpayn with an unpleasant sneer.
‘Perhaps you will run on to my fist,’ suggested Spaldynge, to approving nods from the students. Kardington and Wisbeche exchanged an alarmed glance. ‘And then on to the toe of my boot.’
‘And perhaps you will dance on the end of my sword,’ retorted Blankpayn. He started to reach for his weapon, but thought better of it when Wisbeche’s lads immediately drew their daggers. ‘But I have no idea what happened to your student, because I have been with my mother in Madingley since Sunday. Why? Is he dead? I did not wound him that badly.’
‘You have not been in Madingley,’ said Bartholomew, determined to have the truth. ‘Your mother has not seen you in days.’
Blankpayn’s expression hardened. ‘You have been pestering her? An old lady who lives alone, and who would have been terrified by scholars invading her home? How dare you!’
‘We do not care where you have been hiding,’ said Bartholomew, not pointing out that Blankpayn’s mother was a fierce matron who was unlikely to be terrified by anything. ‘We are only concerned with Falmeresham.’
‘If he is alive, we want him home,’ said Michael. ‘If he is dead, we want him decently buried.’
‘I have not seen him since the accident,’ stated Blankpayn firmly. ‘I wish I had, because then I would have bartered – your student’s corpse in return for a relaxing of the rent laws. It would be a fair exchange.’
‘I will give you a fair exchange,’ muttered Spaldynge, stepping forward.
Michael pulled him back. ‘Do not let us detain you, Blankpayn. Thank you for your time.’
‘Go and wash your ale-pots like a good boy,’ Spaldynge jeered as the taverner began to slouch away. ‘And while you are at it, you can wash yourself, too. You stink.’
‘Spaldynge!’ exclaimed Kardington, shocked. ‘Rude!’
Spaldynge looked suitably sheepish. Fortunately, Blankpayn did not consider the insult to be an especially grave one, because he made an obscene gesture as he left, but that was the full extent of his retaliation. Seeing the crisis was over, and there would be no opportunity for brawling that day, the students and apprentices began to disperse. They were disappointed, clearly itching to be at each other’s throats.
‘Thank you for your support,’ said Michael to the two masters. He pointedly ignored Bartholomew and Spaldynge, displeased with both for almost bringing about another fight.
‘Surely, there is no need for all this strife?’ asked Wisbeche. ‘Are you sure the stance you are taking with the rents is the right one, Brother?’
‘I think it is,’ said Kardington, abandoning his attempts to speak English now he was alone with scholars. ‘We must maintain affordable hostels, or we will have a plethora of unpaid bills at the end of every term – if students enrol at all. Candelby’s demands could destroy the University.’
Wisbeche remained unconvinced. ‘I think Candelby has a point – it is time to relax the Statutes. Since the Death, prices have risen for every commodity – except rents.’
‘But surely, maintaining low rents in a world of spiralling costs is a good thing?’ asked Michael.
‘Good for us,’ said Wisbeche. ‘But not for those who need the income to feed themselves.’
‘That does not include Candelby, though,’ said Spaldynge. ‘He is already disgustingly rich.’
‘You should know,’ said Wisbeche tartly. ‘You sold him a University-owned house, despite the Senior Proctor’s request that we hold off on property sales until the rent war is settled.’
‘A compromise would be the best solution,’ said Kardington, stepping forward to prevent Spaldynge from responding. ‘Perhaps we could raise the rents by a nominal amount. Our students will complain, and so will the landlords, but it is the best we can do.’
‘I have already tried that,’ said Michael. ‘And it has been rejected in no uncertain terms. The landlords want to triple the rents, and will not accept a penny less.’