‘What are you doing?’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘I wanted them all mixed up together. Now they are gathered according to faction, they will be more inclined to quarrel.’
‘Then any bloodshed will be your fault, for calling this stupid Convocation in the first place,’ retorted Honynge viciously. ‘People will see you for the fool you are, and will call for your resignation.’
‘It is none of your damned business,’ snarled Michael. ‘You resigned your Fellowship last night, so you have no official standing in the University until you are installed in your new post.’
Honynge was seething. ‘So that is why you forced me to sign that deed in such haste. You sly old snake! I should have known you had an ulterior motive for acting so quickly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I told you they were untrustworthy. Do not let them–’
‘Leave,’ ordered Michael contemptuously. ‘You have no place here.’
But Honynge knew the University rules. ‘That is untrue – anyone who has held a senior position owns the right to observe the proceedings. I shall remain and watch what happens.’
‘Beadle Meadowman will eject you if you make a sound.’ Michael decided not to make a scene. The altercation had already attracted attention, and he did not want a fight between Regents who supported their Senior Proctor, and those who thought Honynge was right. Meadowman heard his name mentioned and came to oblige.
‘Chancellor Tynkell has asked me to tell you that he is indisposed this morning,’ Meadowman whispered in the monk’s ear. ‘He says you should proceed without him.’
‘You mean he is too frightened to show his face,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘And he has left me to bear the brunt of this alone.’
‘Actually, he swallowed a remedy Arderne gave him for indigestion, and has been in the latrines all night. He says he dare not come here, lest he is obliged to race out at an awkward moment.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, turning away and eyeing the assembling scholars. They were pouring into the church, and Bartholomew could see the two sides were fairly evenly matched. The nave and aisles were alive with the blues, browns and greens of academic uniforms, mixed with the more sober greys, creams, browns and blacks of the religious Orders. Some of the Colleges had wheeled out elderly members who were either too infirm or too addled to teach, but who were still entitled to vote.
‘No, no, Master Gedney,’ called Kardington patiently. ‘You want to be over here, not over there.’
‘Let him choose for himself,’ shouted Wisbeche. ‘Do not tell him what to do.’
‘Very well,’ said Gedney. ‘I shall have the middle, then. Where is my stool?’
Reluctantly, Spaldynge stepped forward and handed it over. Gedney placed it in the exact centre of the nave, and sat, his toothless jaw jutting out defiantly.
‘Some of these men do not have voting rights,’ said Michael, looking around in dismay. ‘Such as Spaldynge, who lost his Fellowship when he sold Borden Hostel. They are here to make sure a particular side receives a sly boost in numbers. What shall I do? If my beadles attempt to oust them, there will be a skirmish. Or they will leave in a resentful frame of mind, and pick a fight with the first apprentice who makes an obscene gesture at them.’
‘What is Honynge doing now?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. The ex-Fellow had climbed on to the dais normally occupied by the Chancellor, and was clearing his throat. ‘You should stop him, Brother.’
But it was too late. Honynge had grabbed Gedney’s walking stick, and he banged it on the floor until he had everyone’s attention. ‘We have half an hour before the Convocation is officially scheduled to begin,’ he announced. ‘So, I propose we use that time constructively, in scholarly disputation.’
‘That is actually a good idea,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, startled. ‘It will stop everyone from throwing taunts at each other in the interim.’
‘We shall talk about Blood Relics,’ announced Honynge. Michael closed his eyes in despair as half the scholars groaned, while the remainder cheered. ‘It is a subject worthy of clever minds.’
‘Boring!’ called Gedney. ‘Christmas is almost upon us, so we should discuss the virtues of nice plum puddings, as opposed to these new-fangled fig things we were given last year.’
‘Prior Morden of the Dominicans will argue the case for Blood Relics,’ said Honynge, ignoring him. ‘And Father William, Franciscan of Michaelhouse, will argue the case against.’
‘Stop him, Brother,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘Pitting a Grey Friar against a Black will cause trouble for certain – as well he knows.’
‘I cannot – not now,’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘Those Regents who think this is a good idea will lynch me, and the rest will race to my defence. Then Honynge will have what he wants anyway.’
‘You want me to take a leading role?’ asked Morden, aghast. He was not the University’s most skilled debater, and did not like the notion of propounding a case publicly, not even against William. Honynge knew it, and Bartholomew marvelled at the depth of his malice.
‘I would rather talk about puddings,’ said William. The Franciscan rarely acknowledged his own shortcomings, but even he was wary of tackling such a contentious issue in front of some of the best minds in the country. ‘Fig ones are superior to plum, because figs come from the Holy Land. Ergo, fig puddings are holy, and thus better.’ He folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Morden.
‘I do not like the taste of figs,’ began the Dominican nervously. ‘And their seeds get trapped between the teeth. Then they come out at awkward moments. The seeds, I mean, not the teeth.’
There was a smattering of laughter, from both sides of the church.
‘Wasps like plums,’ continued William. ‘So there is always a danger that you might find one baked in your pudding. I do not eat wasps as a rule, so it is better to opt for fig pies whenever possible.’
When he could make himself heard above the guffaws, Morden replied to this contention, and the debate began in earnest. The Regents began to enjoy themselves, and called out theories to help the disputants, many of them extremely witty. Honynge’s face was a mask of rage when he saw his ploy to cause dissent was failing. He tried to change the subject, but was shouted down as a killjoy.
‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew after a while, tearing his attention from the dais. ‘He has vanished, and I do not think he has finished causing harm. Meadowman is nowhere to be seen, either.’
It was impossible to locate Honynge among the seething masses, and it was some time before they were able to deduce that he was not in the nave, the aisles or the Lady Chapel. They moved cautiously, aware that jostling the wrong person might undo all the goodwill that Morden and William had created.
‘Meadowman was obliged to help Gedney,’ reported Michael after talking to the beadle. ‘Apparently, the old man fell off his stool laughing. When Meadowman looked round, Honynge had gone. He must have decided to go home.’
‘Your other beadles told me that no one has left, so he is still in here. But where? The tower is locked.’
‘My office!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! There are sensitive documents in there.’
He broke into a waddle, hurrying to the chamber off the south aisle from which he conducted University affairs. He flung open the door and raced inside, Bartholomew at his heels. Honynge stood there, but he was not alone. The door slammed behind them, and Bartholomew whipped around to see Candelby and Blankpayn. Blankpayn waved a heavy sword and his grin was malevolent.
‘How timely,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘Here are the pair who found out about our arrangement, Candelby. They think I killed Lynton and Ocleye, but I assure you I did not.’