‘Is that why you are merrily destroying your room?’ he asked of Deynman, nodding to the knife that lay at the lad’s feet, and the wine that had been splashed across the walls.
‘It serves Runham right,’ said Deynman in a muffled voice, not looking at Bartholomew.
‘But Gray will have to live here after you have gone,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not just Runham you are punishing with this wanton act of loutishness.’
‘He will not be here long enough to care,’ mumbled Deynman.
Bartholomew regarded Gray warily. ‘Why? Did Runham catch you dicing again?’
‘Stealing ink,’ supplied Deynman. ‘We all do it – masters and students alike. But Runham said if Sam does not copy out the entire first part of Corpus Juris Civilis by this time tomorrow, then he will be dismissed, too.’
‘Corpus Juris Civilis is a legal text,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Is he using you as a scribe to improve his personal library, then?’
‘No,’ said Gray bitterly. ‘Because I cannot do it. It is so long that even if I worked all night, I would never be able to finish it. Runham set me a task that he knows is impossible, and he did it because he wants me gone – like Father Paul, Rob and Master Kenyngham.’
‘Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has not gone anywhere.’
‘He will soon, though,’ said Gray. ‘Runham suggested that Kenyngham might find it difficult to see his College under a new Master after managing it so long himself. Kenyngham, like a meek little lamb, agreed. He leaves on Sunday.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts began to whirl. It was clear that Runham intended to dismiss anyone he thought he might not be able to manipulate, and that he intended to fill his College with scholars who would not oppose anything he tried to do. He stared at the resentful students who sat in huddles in front of him. Deynman, filled a new with anger and grief, snatched up the knife and raked a deep gouge down the wall.
‘Stop that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘And clear all these wine cups away. You have some writing to do.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gray suspiciously.
‘You might not be able to copy out the whole text yourself, but there are fifteen of you here. Start with a page each – and remember to use a similar style of handwriting.’
‘What is the point?’ asked Gray sullenly. ‘He will only find another excuse to be rid of me.’
‘Just start scribing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we will face the next problem when it comes.’
‘What about me?’ asked Deynman hopefully. ‘Will you tell Runham that he was mistaken, and that I am all that Michaelhouse could ask for in a scholar?’
There were limits, Bartholomew thought. ‘I will see what I can do. Hang a rug over that mess on the wall before anyone sees it.’
He left the students hunting around for parchment and ink and made his way to the hall. Runham’s actions seemed to be methodical and premeditated – a neat pruning of unwanted parts like a gardener hoeing weeds – and Bartholomew guessed that the pompous lawyer had been planning exactly how he wanted his College for a long while. He felt unwarranted anger at Kenyngham for resigning and leaving them in this mess, but it had only been a matter of time before Kenyngham had become too old to continue, and then Runham would have made his move anyway.
He ran up the stairs to the hall, hoping to find some of his colleagues with whom he could discuss the issue of Deynman. The room was deserted, and a draught from the open door had scattered parchments across the floor, so that it had a desolate, abandoned feel to it. It was also cold with no fire, and Bartholomew’s breath plumed in front of him as he looked around. There was something different about it, and at first he could not pinpoint what. Then he noticed that some of the best wall-hangings, which had lent the hall its cosy feel, had been removed, leaving the bare stone exposed. Because the tapestries would go well with the cream walls in Runham’s new quarters, Bartholomew guessed exactly where they had gone.
Kenyngham was sitting in the fireless conclave with Langelee and Suttone. The gentle Gilbertine was pale, but his face wore a serene expression, as though he had accepted Runham’s curt dismissal of a Fellowship spanning almost thirty years, and was already thinking of other matters.
‘We were just talking about you, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. His voice lacked its usual ebullient quality. Like Kenyngham, he was wan; his heavy jowls were dark with stubble and there was a pink sheen to the whites of his eyes. Bartholomew suspected that Deynman and Gray were not the only ones who had spent the afternoon drowning their sorrows. ‘You will have no students left if Runham sends down any more.’
Bartholomew sat next to the empty hearth, prodding at the dead white ashes with a stick and sending a scattering of dust across the flagstones. ‘I am surprised he dismissed Deynman. I always thought we needed his money.’
‘So did I,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I would never have accepted him had we not – no offence, Matthew, but that boy has no place in a University.’
‘He certainly does not now,’ agreed Langelee gloomily.
‘So why is it that we do not need Deynman’s money all of a sudden?’ asked Suttone. ‘Is there a new benefactor so that we can afford to discount our old sources of income? I do not understand. These new buildings must be costing Michaelhouse a fortune, and it seems we should be conserving our regular income, not doing away with it.’
‘Especially given that Runham has offered to double the builders’ wages if the work is completed within a month,’ said Bartholomew.
Suttone and Langelee gaped at him in astonishment. ‘Really?’ asked Langelee. He blew out his red-veined cheeks in a sigh of surprise. ‘That will mean a lot of ready money.’
Kenyngham nodded. ‘But he has it – I saw it in a chest in his room. He is overly trusting to keep it in such an insecure place. Anyone could wander in and help themselves.’
‘You mean it is in an open box?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Just lying there?’
Kenyngham nodded again. ‘I asked him where it came from, but he would not tell me.’
‘I do not like the sound of this at all,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘I am a law-abiding man – a friar from a respectable Order. I do not want to be associated with anything illegal.’
‘And we will be,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘If Runham has obtained this wealth by underhand means, we will be considered as guilty as he is, because we are Fellows of the same College.’
‘But what can we do?’ asked Suttone, alarmed. ‘We cannot just sit idly by and let him do things that may be dishonest.’
‘We have no proof that he has been breaking the law,’ said Kenyngham reasonably. ‘Just because he will not reveal the source of his wealth does not mean that he acquired it by criminal means.’
‘Does it not?’ said Suttone, clearly unconvinced. ‘Well, I do not feel comfortable with his secrecy. What are we going to do about it?’
‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Kenyngham wearily. ‘We can hardly approach the man and ask him where he stole his money from.’
‘Really?’ said Langelee harshly, standing with sudden purpose. ‘Well, I was once an agent for the Archbishop of York, and I have dealt with all manner of criminals and traitors in my time. I have no intention of allowing my career to be cut short by the activities of a common thief. We shall confront him with our suspicions like men, not skulk here in the dark because we are afraid of him.’
‘Ah, my loyal colleagues,’ said Runham smoothly, as he walked into the conclave with Clippesby at his heels. Bartholomew noticed that the door to the hall had not been properly closed, and assumed that the pair had been listening outside.
‘I want a word with you, Runham,’ began Langelee bluntly.
Bartholomew cringed. Runham was a clever man, and was not likely to yield any of his secrets or render himself amenable to reason if Langelee went at him with all the subtlety of a bull in heat.
‘And I want a word with you, Langelee,’ countered Runham im
mediately. ‘It has come to my notice that you are not all you should be.’
‘Am I not?’ asked Langelee, aggression evaporating as puzzlement took over. ‘In what way?’
‘You are married,’ said Runham, in a tone of voice that suggested wedlock was more akin to a contagious disease than a union made holy by the blessing of God. ‘And because you are married, you have rendered yourself ineligible for a Fellowship at Michaelhouse. You will remove yourself and all your belongings by morning. Your deceit is reprehensible.’
‘But I am not married,’ protested Langelee. ‘I was, but I am not now.’
‘Did you or did you not hold your Fellowship while you were wed to a woman called Julianna Deschalers?’ asked Runham coldly.
‘Well, yes, but I–’
‘Then you have broken one of the fundamental rules of our College, which is grounds for dismissal. And, since you also claimed your Fellow’s stipend when you had no right to do so, I demand that you repay the entire amount by the end of next week – a total of two marks.’
‘But I cannot pay so large a sum that soon!’ cried Langelee, aghast. ‘I spent all my money on obtaining the annulment and in buying off Julianna.’
‘Your domestic arrangements are not my concern,’ said Runham distastefully. ‘But I will have every penny of the money you drew fraudulently from Michaelhouse, or I shall ask the proctors to arrest you.’
‘Who told you about my marriage?’ asked Langelee in a whisper, his face white. ‘Was it Bartholomew?’
‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the philosopher would believe he had betrayed a trust to a man like Runham – even when that trust had been foisted upon him without his consent.
‘It was you,’ said Langelee, anger slowly replacing the dull shock in his face. ‘It must have been, because you were the only one I told. I will kill you for this!’
Bartholomew leapt backward as the enraged Langelee dived at him with murder in his eyes. He edged behind a heavy bench, but Langelee kicked it to one side as though it were parchment, oblivious to the horrified cries of Kenyngham. Langelee snatched up a poker from the hearth, and only missed Bartholomew with his sweeping blow because blind fury made him clumsy.
Kenyngham seized Langelee’s sleeve in a feeble attempt to pull him away, but Langelee shook him off impatiently. Kenyngham stumbled and fell to the floor, where Suttone quickly dragged him out of the path of Langelee’s feet. Bartholomew glanced at Runham, expecting him to berate Langelee for his unprovoked display of violence or dart forward to prevent a brawl in his College. But Runham remained where he was, a smug smile on his face and his hands tucked in his wide sleeves. Clippesby stood next to him, grinning and apparently enjoying the unedifying scene as much as was Runham.
Bartholomew tore his gaze away from the Master just in time to see Langelee bring the poker down in a savage arc that was aimed at his head. He scrambled away, hearing the crunch of smashed wood as the blow destroyed one of the carved benches.
‘Stop!’ cried Kenyngham in dismay, trying to shake off Suttone. Wisely, Suttone maintained his restraining grip, knowing that a gentle old man like Kenyngham would be no match for the pugnacious Langelee. ‘You will hurt someone.’
‘Hurt? I am going to kill someone,’ Langelee howled furiously.
Bartholomew grabbed a stool and raised it to parry the next blow. The poker crashed down, iron meeting wood. His arms hurt from the force of the impact, and then the stool fell to pieces in his hands. He gazed at it in horror, then glanced up to see the hot hatred in Langelee’s eyes as the philosopher’s muscles bunched for another strike.
‘Langelee! Put that down!’ Michael’s imperious tones turned every head in the room, and Langelee faltered just long enough to allow Bartholomew to snatch the poker from him.
‘You are up and about again, are you?’ asked Runham coolly, sounding none too pleased.
Michael shoved Clippesby to one side, and gazed around him with cold green eyes. ‘This is a discreditable little tableau,’ he said, his voice conveying disgust. ‘Is this how you plan to run Michaelhouse, Master Runham? Will you allow your Fellows to brawl and threaten each other with lethal weapons, while you stand and watch like a blood-lusting peasant at a cockfight?’
Runham’s face hardened. ‘You forget who you are talking to, Brother. I am the Master of your College, and not a man to be insulted. And what did you expect me to do? You saw Langelee: he was out of control. There was nothing I could do to stop him.’
‘I stopped him,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if you were any kind of man, you would have done so, too. Even frail Master Kenyngham tried – you just stood there and laughed.’
‘Well, it is over now,’ said Runham carelessly. ‘Langelee is dismissed from Michaelhouse for being a married man – although I could equally well dismiss him for riotous behaviour – and Bartholomew is fined two shillings for brawling in the conclave.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘Matt was not brawling. He was scrambling to escape Langelee’s murderous onslaught. Any fool could see that.’
‘Bartholomew betrayed my trust,’ whispered Langelee, his voice soft with disbelief and hurt now that the fury had drained away. ‘How could he?’
‘It was not Matthew,’ said Kenyngham quietly. ‘It was me. I am afraid it just slipped out. It was that wretched wine that made me loose-tongued; I shall never drink the stuff again.’
‘You told Runham I was married?’ repeated Langelee slowly. ‘You?’
Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘At the feast. Master Runham wanted to know about the Fellows who would soon be under his fatherly eye, and he asked about your dalliance with Julianna. I told him that you had married her in Grantchester church, but that within a few weeks you had sought an annulment. I helped you to arrange it, if you recall.’
Langelee’s shoulders slumped and he left the conclave without a word. Runham regarded the remaining scholars with cool disdain.
‘I will not tolerate disobedience among my Fellows. You four – Bartholomew, Clippesby, Michael and Suttone – will be all who are left once Kenyngham goes. I shall expect total loyalty to me and the College, and if I find you lacking, I shall dismiss you, too. The new statutes that you signed yourselves give me the right to rid myself of anyone committing acts of dissension.’
Michael glowered, but said nothing, knowing there was no point. Bartholomew also remained silent, feeling too drained of emotion to argue. Kenyngham’s eyes brimmed with tears when he saw the sorry way his College was going, while Clippesby stood behind Runham and grinned and nodded like a half-wit.
‘But Langelee was loyal to you,’ Suttone pointed out reasonably. ‘He was doing his best to support you in what you wanted. It is unjust of you to send him away.’
‘The man is a lout,’ said Runham in distaste. ‘And do not preach to me about injustice, Suttone. I know all about you – about the missing gold from your friary in Lincoln, and who everyone believed stole it.’
Suttone gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you learn about that?’
‘Your name was cleared only because no one could prove you were guilty,’ said Runham. ‘And I know about Clippesby’s strange ailments, too – hearing voices in empty rooms and imagining himself to be an angel.’
‘What is this?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘No!’ cried Clippesby, his grin evaporating like rain on hot metal.
‘I had words with your Prior before you came here,’ said Runham spitefully, watching Clippesby’s face fall with dismay. ‘You have a vivid imagination, it seems, and spent some time being treated for madness.’
‘But not recently,’ said Clippesby in a small voice, shooting agitated glances at the other Fellows. ‘I am well now. Ask Master Raysoun of Bene’t. He knows.’
‘But Raysoun is dead, Clippesby,’ said Runham softly. ‘We do not possess your abilities to commune with those in the next world.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ cried Clippesby in agitation. �
��I forgot Raysoun was dead. It had slipped my mind. I am not a lunatic!’
‘Of course you are not,’ said Suttone kindly, shooting Runham a warning glance. Clippesby seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘Come and sit next to the fire. It is all right.’
‘I am well now,’ said Clippesby again, sounding pathetically bewildered.
‘So you are,’ said Runham, patting his shoulder paternally, his abrupt change of behaviour leading Bartholomew to wonder whether Clippesby was the only one who had been assessed for the state of his wits. Runham beamed suddenly. ‘Well, the day is wearing on, and I have many things to do if I want to make Michaelhouse a College to be proud of. I shall be in my chambers.’
With that, he turned abruptly, and strode out.
Michael had been alerted to the trouble by Bulbeck, who had heard Langelee yelling in the conclave, and although Michael was keen to discuss the matter in the privacy of their rooms, Bartholomew was too disillusioned and dismayed. He felt sick with Runham’s machinations and spiteful revelations, and knew he would be unable to concentrate on his treatise on fevers if he tried to work. With nothing else to do in Michaelhouse, he strode across the yard and hauled open the gate, intending to escape the College for a while. He walked briskly up the High Street, slipped through the Trumpington Gate while the guards were busy with a family of tinkers who wanted access to the town, and started to stride along the road that led to the village where his sister lived. He wanted only to be away from the town and the tense, accusing atmosphere of his College.
It was only just evening, but darkness fell early in November. The trackway stretched ahead of him as he walked, black as ink, so that once or twice he felt the soft wetness of dew-laden grass under his feet rather than the stony mud of the path. He knew very well it was not wise to be out alone on one of the main roads, but he was angry and despondent enough not to care. He had a small knife in his medicine bag, which he pulled out and carried in his hand, and there were always the heavy childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him – a well-placed blow from those would make most would-be robbers think again.
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