‘I am sure there is nothing in them to prevent Michael from standing as Master,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘Put them away, Ralph. We do not want to pry into Michael’s personal affairs.’
‘Then you should,’ said Langelee. ‘They discuss giving our University’s property to Oxford.’
‘But not Michaelhouse property,’ objected Michael. His face was pale, and Bartholomew saw that Langelee’s revelation had badly shaken him. Michael was usually able to bluff his way out of uncomfortable situations with bluster and sheer force of personality, but the physician could sense that his friend had already lost this battle.
‘Will you not deny Langelee’s accusations, Brother?’ asked Paul, astonished. ‘I did not believe him. I thought he had fabricated the story to discredit you.’
Langelee thrust the documents at him with a gloating smile. ‘Look for yourself, Father. Michael’s writing is unmistakable.’
‘Paul is blind, you oaf,’ snapped Runham impatiently, leaning forward to snatch the scrolls from Langelee. ‘Give them to me.’ His eyebrows went up as he inspected the parchments. ‘Well, well. This is indeed Brother Michael’s distinctive roundhand.’
‘This is not how it seems …’ began Michael, although his voice lacked conviction.
Langelee raised a thick, heavy hand. ‘No excuses. It is here – in ink – that you plot with Oxford men to deprive Cambridge of valuable assets. You are not the kind of man we want as Master of Michaelhouse, Brother.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if you withdrew your name, in the light of these discoveries,’ suggested Kenyngham warily, gazing at the offending documents Runham passed to him. ‘I am sure you will prove your innocence in time, and there will be other opportunities for the Mastership in the future.’
Michael said nothing, and assumed a nonchalant pose, although Bartholomew could see the anger that seethed in him. He wondered why the monk had not made a convincing denial, or at least had tried to vindicate himself. Despite Langelee’s ‘evidence’, Bartholomew was certain Michael would do nothing to harm the University he so loved.
Kenyngham passed the documents to Bartholomew. They were unquestionably written by Michael, and offered the Oxford nominalist several properties that belonged to Cambridge in exchange for certain information that was carefully unspecified, although the letter made it clear that both parties knew exactly what was on offer.
Bartholomew gazed at Michael uncertainly. Michael refused to meet his eyes, something that almost certainly indicated guilt. Sulkily, Michael snatched the missives from Bartholomew and thrust them into the fire. Langelee gasped, and tried to retrieve them, but the flames were already turning creamy parchment to black, and there was nothing he could do but watch them turn to cinders. But, as far as Michael was concerned, the damage had been done.
‘So, we have Langelee, Runham and William who have offered to stand for the Mastership,’ said Kenyngham in the silence that followed. ‘Michael is disqualified. What about you others? Paul?’
‘I do not wish to be considered,’ said Paul, his opaque blue eyes gazing sightlessly around the room. ‘Not because I could not do it – my blindness gives me an advantage over the rest of you in that I hear and notice things you do not – but because I have decided to return to my Franciscan brethren in the Friary.’
‘You cannot do that!’ shouted William, leaping to his feet in outrage. ‘That will leave me as the only Franciscan here. I will be outvoted in everything, and the College will become a pit of debauchery and vice!’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ breathed Langelee.
Paul smiled at William. ‘I doubt that will happen, Father. But I, like Master Kenyngham, am old, and I long to spend my days in contemplation and prayer – not teaching bored youngsters about grammar and rhetoric when they would rather be doing something else. So, at the end of term, I shall vacate my room and leave you.’
‘Eight Fellows plus a Master was too many anyway,’ said Langelee breezily. ‘Seven is better.’
‘That man has all the charm of a pile of cow dung,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, eyeing Langelee with intense dislike. ‘Paul is the best of us. The College will be a poorer place without him, and the students will miss his kindly patience.’
‘I expect Matthew’s duties as a physician will preclude him from standing for the Mastership,’ said William hopefully.
Bartholomew was about to agree, when Michael spoke.
‘Nonsense. Matt has students who are now sufficiently trained to relieve him of some of his work, and he has been at Michaelhouse for ten years. He knows the College and is all a Master should be. We will have him, if I cannot stand.’
Bartholomew was too astonished to object.
‘I agree,’ said Kenyngham, smiling at the physician. ‘Matthew would make an excellent Master – firm, but not inflexible, and his dedication to his teaching and his writing will ensure that Michaelhouse continues its tradition of academic excellence. He would be my choice, certainly.’
‘It is true he would be a fair and thoughtful Master,’ said William reluctantly. ‘And I would rather have him than someone from a rival Order. Matthew is my choice, too.’
‘I am not from a rival Order,’ Langelee pointed out, a little angrily. He was red-faced, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drinking, preparing with false courage for the meeting that might make him a powerful man. ‘What about me?’
‘But I do not like you,’ said William baldly. Michael’s snort of spiteful laughter was loud in the otherwise quiet room. ‘I do like Matthew, however – well, most of the time. I do not approve of his dealings with harlots, but he seems to have forsaken them these days.’
‘But I do not want to be Master,’ said Bartholomew, as soon as he could find a gap in the conversation that seemed to be taking place as though he were not present. ‘William was right – my duties as physician claim too much of my time. And if anyone thinks I can leave my patients to the ministrations of students like Rob Deynman, he only need look at Agatha the laundress’s teeth to see that I cannot.’
‘True,’ agreed Kenyngham, shaking his head in compassion. ‘Poor woman.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You have three votes out of a necessary five to make you Master, Matt. Consider very carefully before you decline.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I was given additional students this year, and, since Father Philius’s death last winter, I have had more patients than ever to see. And there is my treatise on fevers – I will never finish it if I take on extra College duties.’
‘I knew you would not agree, but it was worth a try,’ said Michael softly. ‘You would not have been as good as me, but I could have guided you along the right paths.’
‘You mean you could have ruled Michaelhouse by telling Bartholomew what to do,’ said Runham, overhearing. ‘Bartholomew’s election would have made you Master in all but name.’
Michael gave him a contemptuous glare.
‘So,’ said Langelee with satisfaction. ‘To summarise: Michael, Paul and Bartholomew have declined to stand, which leaves William, Runham and me. It is clear which one of us is the outstanding candidate.’
‘Is it?’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Who will you choose, Matt? The bigoted friar who would have us all burned for heresy for holding beliefs that do not directly reflect his own; the cunning lawyer whose most memorable characteristic is his smug pomposity; or the Archbishop of York’s spy-turned-academic, who is more lout than scholar, and who stoops to using cheap tricks to eliminate the best man for the task?’
‘Michaelhouse will not thrive under the Mastership of any of them,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is a case of selecting the least of three evils.’
‘I suggest we make our decision now, and then announce it after the admissions ceremony,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We are all present, and I am sure we all know which candidate we want to elect.’
‘It is not my place to speak when I am n
ot yet a Fellow,’ said Suttone, his red, cheery face serious. ‘But I feel I am not in a position to make a decision of such importance to the College. If you will excuse me, I must abstain.’
‘Well, I will not abstain,’ said Clippesby, glaring at Suttone as though the Carmelite had tried to cheat him of something rightfully his. ‘And it is obvious to me whom we should choose.’
‘Oh, Lord, Matt,’ groaned Michael under his breath. ‘Another opinionated bigot! Why do they all have to come to Michaelhouse?’
‘Suttone seems a decent man,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He does,’ agreed Michael in a whisper. ‘But I do not like Clippesby!’
Clippesby glared around at the assembled Fellows, his oddly intense gaze lingering on the muttering Michael. ‘I do not want a disgusting Franciscan as Master and I do not approve of men who smell of strong drink at breakfast – as Langelee did this morning. So, I choose the lawyer.’
‘Well!’ drawled Michael, as an embarrassed silence greeted Clippesby’s statement. ‘You are a man who does not mince his words.’
‘Are all Fellows’ meetings this acrimonious?’ asked Suttone nervously. ‘Only I was led to believe that the hallowed halls of the University of Cambridge were places of learned debate and enlightenment.’
‘Where on God’s Earth did you hear that?’ asked Langelee. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know! Oxford! Our rival scholars are trying to make us sound tedious and dull! “Learned debate and enlightenment” indeed!’
The Michaelhouse Fellows processed into the hall in order of seniority. Master Kenyngham led the way, followed by Michael and William, and then Bartholomew with Father Paul clinging to his arm. Langelee and Runham walked together, while Clippesby and Suttone brought up the rear. The students were already standing at their places, waiting in tense anticipation to learn which of the Fellows would be their new Master.
The inauguration of new Fellows was a special event, and an extravagant number of candles had been lit, so the hall was filled with a golden glow. The fire blazed and crackled, sending flickering shadows across the painted ceiling. The usually bare wooden tables were covered in cloths – old, yellowed and stained ones, but cloths nevertheless – and the College silver was displayed on the high table. To mark the occasion, some of the students had even washed and donned clean gowns. The atmosphere of tense expectation and muted excitement reminded Bartholomew of Christmas. He wondered whether the students would look quite so cheerful when they learned who had been elected Master. He suspected they would not.
‘We have gathered this evening to witness the swearing in of two new Fellows,’ intoned Kenyngham mechanically, gesturing for everyone to sit. ‘I will read the founder’s statutes and the newcomers will be asked to obey these rules, and to defend zealously the honour and usefulness of the house.’
Michael gave a huge, bored yawn, and reached out to take a handful of nuts from the silver cup that had been placed in front of him. Langelee had somehow contrived to have his goblet filled with wine before anyone else, and was gulping it noisily. Bartholomew saw his students, Gray and Bulbeck, exchange a look of amusement at Langelee’s tavern-style manners, while Deynman had to look away to prevent himself from laughing out loud.
‘The new Fellows must listen carefully to the statutes and ordinances made over time by the Masters and scholars,’ said Kenyngham, reciting the familiar words without much interest.
‘I am sorry Langelee did what he did,’ said Bartholomew softly to Michael.
‘So am I,’ said Michael. ‘I was looking forward to being Master of Michaelhouse. Unfortunately, Kenyngham’s announcement was sudden, and I did not have the opportunity to prepare myself properly. Langelee acted before I could put my own plan into action.’
‘And what plan was that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Michael puffed out his cheeks, noting the uneasiness in his friend’s face. ‘Nothing as underhand as the trick Langelee played on me. I was merely going to suggest the election be postponed for a month, to allow Clippesby and Suttone to make their decisions with the benefit of knowing each of the candidates.’
‘And during the interim, you would have ensured that only one candidate was able to stand?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael nodded, unabashed. ‘It would have been done with discretion and cunning – not like Langelee, who has all the subtlety of a mallet in the groin – and no one would have known that it was I who started the rumours that besmirched the reputations of the others.’
‘Then you made a grave error of judgement, Brother. You assumed that your rivals would be equally subtle in their strategies, but you should have known Langelee and William better than that. Runham did: he is a clever man, but he saw such tactics would not work, and he engaged in the same kind of brazenness employed by Langelee and William.’
‘All right, all right. You do not have to rub it in,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I admit I was ill-prepared. This is all Kenyngham’s fault. He could not have resigned at a worse time, when I have the Bene’t death and Brother Patrick’s murder to investigate. My Junior Proctor is in Ely, and I am overwhelmed with work.’
‘What is this business with Master Heytesbury of Merton?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Offering Oxford something at Cambridge’s expense does not sound like something you would do, but that letter was definitely in your handwriting.’
Michael gave a grim smile. ‘Of course I am doing nothing that would damage Cambridge – quite the contrary, in fact. Say nothing to anyone else, but my Bishop and I devised a scheme whereby we would sacrifice a few small properties in exchange for some information that will gain us a good deal more.’
‘Now that does sound like you.’
Michael sighed. ‘Thank you. But Langelee’s interference may have destroyed all hopes of a successful outcome, not to mention the fact that the delicate nature of the arrangements meant that I could not justify why I was dealing with Heytesbury at all. But in time my plan will become known, and then he will be revealed as the fool he is. Meanwhile, I must suffer in silence. But I will have my revenge on Langelee, never you fear.’
Bartholomew knew perfectly well that Michael would not readily forgive Langelee for thwarting him in his ambitions, and that Langelee would pay dearly. He just hoped he would not have to play a part in it – wittingly or otherwise. Contemplating the ways in which Langelee would be forced to pay the price for his actions seemed to put Michael in a better mood, and he even began to enjoy himself.
‘The new Fellows shall also swear not to intrigue or promote litigation contrary to the utility of the house,’ droned Kenyngham, reading from the dog-eared copy of the statutes and ordinances.
‘That is my favourite one,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It says that intriguing and promoting litigation are perfectly acceptable, just as long as they are not to the detriment of the College. Our founder was blessed with a stroke of a genius when he wrote that.’
Bartholomew wondered how the founder had managed to produce such dry and antiquated phrases. Perhaps it was because he had been a lawyer.
‘They shall swear not to reveal the privy plans of the Fellowship to anyone outside,’ Kenyngham went on, with a casual, but unmistakable, glance at the hour candle that stood above the hearth.
‘We do not have any privy plans,’ muttered Michael somewhat grumpily. ‘More is the pity. I could have seen to that, had Langelee not interfered. The only business we have discussed recently is whether we should borrow two marks from the endowment to have the latrines cleaned. I hardly think the outside world will be falling over itself to hear about that kind of decision – even though it took us most of the afternoon to reach, thanks to you.’
‘It was important,’ whispered Bartholomew defensively. ‘Clean latrines are essential for the students’ good health – and ours.’
‘You do have some odd ideas, Matt,’ said Michael, taking another handful of nuts with one hand and scratching his arm with the other. ‘No wonder half the scholars i
n Cambridge think you are mad. We do not eat in the latrines, you know, or sleep in them. In fact, most of us spend as little time as possible in them, given their state.’
‘Then my point is proven. And do not scratch, Brother. You will give yourself an infection.’
‘If you think our latrines are bad, you should see the ones at Bene’t!’ said Michael, ignoring the advice. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit there the day before yesterday, while I was dealing with the Fellow who fell from the scaffolding – Raysoun.’
‘Speaking of Bene’t …’
‘I thought we were speaking of latrines,’ said Michael with a snigger. ‘Or do you consider them one and the same? That porter who came to fetch you – Osmun – is a nasty piece of work. I remember the student who complained he had been assaulted. The case against Osmun was dropped, but I am sure he was guilty.’
‘The Bene’t porters are notorious for being rough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think they pride themselves on being the surliest, rudest, most belligerent men in Cambridge. But did you discover who killed Raysoun? His friend, Wymundham, did not tell me.’
Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘No one killed Raysoun, Matt. He fell off the scaffolding: his death was an accident.’
‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled in his turn. ‘But what about his dying words? What about Wymundham’s claim that Bene’t is an unhappy College with bad feeling among the Fellows?’
‘Where did you hear this?’ demanded Michael. ‘The Master of Bene’t told me that the Fellows are all good friends who rub along extremely well.’
‘Perhaps Wymundham was confused,’ said Bartholomew, growing confused himself. ‘He was deeply shocked by the death of his friend; it may have unbalanced him and made him say things that are not true.’
‘Or perhaps Master Heltisle was lying to me,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I suspected there was something odd going on in that place – there was an atmosphere of goodwill and cheer that struck me as forced and painful. So, what exactly did Wymundham tell you?’
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