‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Deynman, who had also been listening. The cross swung precariously as he shifted his grip, knocking the hat from Wynewyk’s head. ‘Agatha will be too manly for him.’
‘Who is too manly for whom?’ asked Langelee, waiting for Wynewyk to retrieve his headwear.
‘Yolande the prostitute for Wynewyk,’ prevaricated Michael, shooting Deynman a glance to warn him to silence.
Wynewyk was startled to be the subject of such a discussion, but shook his head to indicate Michael was wrong. ‘She is not manly enough,’ he said meaningfully.
‘There are plenty of men in the University who look like women,’ mused Deynman, off in a world of his own. ‘It is difficult to tell them apart in some cases. For example, Chancellor Tynkell—’
‘No,’ said Michael briskly, not wanting the student to dwell on that particular topic. Deynman had once attributed the Chancellor’s aversion to washing as evidence that he was a hermaphrodite, and had started wicked rumours that still plagued the man.
‘Let us take John Wormynghalle of King’s Hall instead, then,’ said Deynman. He tried to give Michael a meaningful look, catching Wynewyk a painful blow on the shoulder as the cross sagged to one side. ‘He is an odd sort of fellow.’
‘Watch what you are doing with that thing,’ yelped Wynewyk, cowering away from him. ‘And there is nothing odd about Wormynghalle, other than the fact that he is able to resist my charms.’
‘You tried to seduce him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking that sort of behaviour might well bring about a fight between the two Colleges as each tried to defend its honour.
‘Of course not,’ said Wynewyk indignantly. ‘But I attempted to steer a conversation around to personal matters – to test the waters, if you take my meaning – and he refused to be diverted. He is interested in natural philosophy, musical theory and nothing else. He is dull, but not strange – except perhaps for the fact that he declines to set foot in taverns and never employs whores. That was why I thought he might be approachable, but it transpires he has no interest in the intimate company of men or women. All he wants to do is learn.’
‘He is fanatical about his studies,’ agreed Deynman. ‘He attends all the public lectures, and you can tell from his face that he is listening.’ The bemusement in his voice indicated that he did not.
‘I would not like to sit next to him at a feast – he would be tedious company,’ said Michael. ‘But you cannot suspect him of being a hermaphrodite, just because he enjoys scholarship. He and Tynkell cannot be compared.’
‘You admit it, then!’ crowed Deynman triumphantly. ‘I knew there was something singular about that Chancellor!’
‘That is not what I meant,’ objected Michael, alarmed by the way his words had been twisted. ‘I meant that Wormynghalle and Tynkell are completely different, and . . .’
He trailed off as Deynman, armed with new ‘evidence’, strode ahead, doubtless working out how to apply the information to the dubious medical theories he had accrued from half listening to lectures.
‘That has torn it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, stifling a yawn. ‘Now you will never persuade him there is nothing wrong with the Chancellor that a bath would not cure.’
‘Damn Tynkell and his peculiar habits,’ muttered Michael. He saw the physician smother a second yawn and shook his head in disgust before changing the subject. ‘Langelee’s lover is Alyce Weasenham, wife of the town’s biggest gossip. You have to be impressed, Matt, because very little escapes our stationer’s sharp eyes. Still, I suppose Weasenham has more than enough to occupy him at the moment, what with fabricating tales about Merton Hall, about Oxford and its riots, and about you and Matilde.’
‘Alyce?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘How do you know?’
‘Few things happen here without someone telling me – and that includes reports about you. You think you were careful last night, but tongues are still clacking. I warn you again, Matt: stop this dalliance with Matilde, at least for a while.’
‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I wish I could explain, because I know you would understand. But I cannot stop seeing her, and I cannot tell you why.’
Michael sighed. ‘Then you will lose your Fellowship, and the fine you will be ordered to pay will be so vast that you will spend the rest of your life in debt. Just think about that as you creep along the High Street tonight.’
‘Agatha the laundress,’ breathed William, still thinking about a relationship between Langelee and the only woman permitted to live inside Michaelhouse’s sacred portals. Even the morose Suttone was smirking at the way the Franciscan had so readily accepted Michael’s careless remark, and Suttone rarely smiled about anything. ‘He is a braver man than I thought.’
‘I am concerned about this Merton Hall murder,’ said Suttone, leaving the Franciscan to his musings and stepping forward to speak to Michael. ‘Another College founded in Cambridge would be greatly beneficial, and it would be a pity to lose Islip’s goodwill just because an Oxford man died in our town. Do you have any idea who killed Chesterfelde?’
‘None. But I plan to interview Merton Hall’s servants this morning.’
‘Do not neglect to speak to Eudo and Boltone,’ said William, reluctantly dragging his thoughts away from Agatha and Langelee. ‘They are an unpleasant pair – you may find they are your killers.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Michael, surprised the friar should know them at all. They were unlikely to move in similar circles.
‘They came to visit that relic I made available for public veneration earlier this year, and I saw then what kind of men they were. They probably killed Chesterfelde to keep their crimes a secret.’
‘What crimes?’
‘They have been cheating Merton for years,’ replied William, a little impatient that the monk should not know. ‘It is the talk of the whole town. Why do you think Warden Duraunt is here? It is to confront them. But that is not all: they steal from others, too – scholars and townsfolk alike.’
‘Such as whom?’ asked Michael, trying to recall whether he had received complaints in the past.
‘Geoffrey Dodenho at King’s Hall,’ replied William. ‘And if you want a witness from the town, then ask Matthew’s lover: Matilde.’
Michael and Bartholomew did not finish teaching until mid-afternoon. At that point, Michael’s sober Benedictines astonished him by showing they were an entire term ahead with Peter Lombard’s Sentences and were given their leisure for the rest of the day as a reward – they smiled polite thanks and immediately resumed their studies – while Clippesby’s musicians were dispatched to King’s Hall to hear Wormynghalle’s lecture on plainsong. Bartholomew’s medical students had been given a passage in Galen’s De simplicibus medicinis to learn, while the astronomers were to evaluate Ptolemaic epicycles using the mathematical tables constructed by an Arab scholar in the tenth century and translated into Latin by Adelard of Bath. They objected vociferously, and claimed the exercise was too advanced for them, while Bartholomew firmly maintained it was elementary.
‘You need the practice,’ he said, unmoved by their cries of dismay at the mountain of work he had set them. ‘Your calculations yesterday were entirely wrong.’
‘That was not our fault,’ said one, sulkily. ‘Brother Michael ordered Deynman to supervise the lesson, and he got us confused. We were figuring movable feasts, and his formula had Easter taking place the day after Christmas! We do not want him to “help” us again. He has set me back weeks by forcing us to use his convoluted equations.’
Bartholomew knew Deynman had taken a more active role in the class than he had been allocated. He was older than the astronomers, and eager to display his superior knowledge. Instead of merely making sure they kept at their work, and did not wander away before the session was over, he had stepped in to teach, and the result was seven very confused astronomers and an even more bewildered Deynman. That day it was the considerably more intelligent Falmeresham who had bee
n left in charge, while Deynman was told to sit at the back and keep quiet.
‘We should visit Matilde,’ said Michael, who had accompanied the physician when he had tended a patient in nearby St John’s Hospital. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. ‘I want to know what they stole from her.’
‘Not now,’ said Bartholomew absently, still bemused by the students’ indignation at being asked to do some serious thinking. ‘I will ask when I see her tonight.’
‘I would rather talk to her myself,’ said Michael. They were near the Jewry, and he took a couple of steps in that direction.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing the monk’s arm and snapping out of his reverie. ‘I said I will speak to her later.’
Michael turned to face him. ‘Why? Are you ensuring she has her rest, so she will be better able to frolic with you tonight?’ He took an involuntary step backwards when he saw the dark expression on his friend’s face, then reached out to touch his shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Matt. I should not have said that. But Matilde is my friend, too, and you have no right to prevent me from seeing her.’
‘I am asking you to leave her alone,’ said Bartholomew, fighting to keep the anger from his voice. He rubbed his head, supposing tiredness was making him prone to losing his temper. ‘Please.’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘This is an odd state of affairs, Matt. I am not sure Matilde . . .’ He faltered when he became aware that someone was close behind him, and turned around fast.
The University stationer was standing there, with his wife Alyce on his arm. He was grinning in triumph, and it was clear he had overheard at least part of the conversation and was anticipating the pleasure of repeating it. It was equally obvious that the snippet would be embellished so that soon it would bear little resemblance to what had actually been said. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair.
‘Weasenham,’ said Michael amiably. ‘You startled me, approaching so softly from behind.’
‘So I imagine,’ said Weasenham with a leer. ‘I startle many folk with my silent-footed tread. I have surprised Doctor Rougham on occasion, too, as he creeps out to dally with his sweetheart.’
‘Not Rougham,’ said Michael immediately. ‘No woman would take him as a lover.’
‘Well, he is obliged to pay her,’ acknowledged Weasenham spitefully. ‘He is away from Gonville at the moment. I am told he sent a letter saying he was in Norfolk, but I do not think that is true.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew. He probably disliked Rougham more than anyone, but he still objected to him being the subject of gossip. ‘He does have family there.’
‘He would never willingly leave during term, and especially not with the Archbishop about to visit,’ Weasenham pointed out with impeccable logic and a clear understanding of the man. ‘He would want to be here, to be seen and to curry Islip’s favour.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Why are you accosting us when we are busy?’
Weasenham ignored his hostility and gestured behind him. ‘My shop is there, gentlemen, and when I saw you chatting, I felt compelled to come out and pay my respects. I am always ready to pass the time of day with Michaelhouse men.’
‘So is your wife,’ said Michael baldly. Alyce swallowed uneasily, but Weasenham did not seem to grasp the monk’s meaning. He glanced at her, then back at Michael, and a frown of puzzlement creased his face.
‘Master Langelee does a good deal of business with us,’ blurted Alyce.
‘He is always in our shop,’ agreed Weasenham. He smiled, dismissing his confusion as he considered the prospect of lucrative future contracts. ‘He says Michaelhouse is planning to expand its membership, which means that a lot more writing supplies and exemplar texts will be required.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew recalled Wynewyk’s bleak analysis of the College’s finances with its current quota of scholars, and marvelled at the baldness of the lie.
‘He says Michaelhouse will soon be the largest College in the University,’ Weasenham went on, oblivious to his wife’s squirming mortification. ‘He is always in our solar, confiding his grand plans to my Alyce. That man has vision.’
‘I planned to visit you later,’ said Michael, bringing the discussion to a merciful end. Bartholomew was relieved; Alyce’s discomfort was too close to his own circumstances to be even remotely amusing. ‘The Chancellor is running short of vellum again.’
‘I always have vellum for Chancellor Tynkell. He is a good, decent man who sleeps in his own bed at night.’ Weasenham smirked at Bartholomew in a way that made the physician want to punch him.
‘But perhaps I will send to Ely Abbey for it instead,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘My Benedictine brethren produce remarkably fine vellum.’
The smug grin faded. ‘Yes, they do. I buy mine from them – to sell in my shop.’
‘I could save the University a good deal of money,’ said Michael, appearing to think aloud. ‘The monks know me and are sure to give me a good price. Better than anything you can offer.’
‘But you would have to pay to have it transported here,’ argued Weasenham uneasily. ‘And that road is very dangerous – plagued by robbers.’
‘It would not be worth the inconvenience to you,’ added Alyce, also alarmed. Her voice dropped to an appalled whisper as she glanced at her husband. ‘We cannot survive without the patronage of the Chancellor’s Office.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael softly. ‘Well, I suppose I could persuade Tynkell to continue to buy from you. Of course, it would very much depend.’
‘Oh?’ asked Weasenham nervously. ‘On what, exactly?’
Michael’s voice was low and menacing. ‘The Chancellor’s Office will purchase nothing from a man who damages my colleagues’ reputations. Furthermore, I shall urge the Colleges and hostels to follow my example. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ replied Weasenham. He swallowed hard. ‘If I mention what I just overheard between you and Bartholomew, you will drive me out of business.’
‘Then can I assume we have reached an understanding?’ asked Michael, not bothering to deny the charge of blackmail, or even attempting to couch what he was doing in more pleasant terms.
‘Yes,’ said Weasenham shortly. His face was dark with resentment as he stalked back to his house, and Bartholomew saw the monk had just made himself a new enemy. Alyce lingered, however.
‘If our business fails because Tynkell takes his custom elsewhere, we will have nothing to lose,’ she said coldly. ‘Extortion works both ways, you know.’
‘You are right,’ said Michael softly. ‘Your husband will have no reason to keep quiet about Matt if he loses all his customers. But you will. You do not want me to inform Weasenham that you and Langelee discuss far more intimate matters than Michaelhouse’s fictitious expansion, do you?’
She glowered at him. ‘But that would damage your College, too. Michaelhouse will not want its Master exposed as a man who possesses a lover.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael amicably. ‘So I suggest we both keep still tongues in our heads. Then no one will be harmed and we will all be happy.’
She thought for a moment, then gave Michael a curt nod before following her husband. Bartholomew watched her open the door and bustle inside the shop, where scholars were waiting to be served with orders of pens, parchment, ink and the cheap copies of selected texts known as exemplar pecia. She did not look back, but Bartholomew could tell she was livid. He wondered whether she would inform Langelee about Michael’s threats, and plunge the College into a bitter dispute between its Master and its most influential member.
‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely. ‘But you should not have intervened, Brother. I do not want you involved in this mess.’
‘In what mess?’ The physician’s odd choice of words to describe his romance did not escape the astute Michael. He looked searchingly at his friend’s face, and spoke kindly. ‘What are you not telling me, Matt?�
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‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable. ‘But thank you for taking care of Weasenham. I will tell Matilde what you did, and will ask her about whatever it is that Eudo and Boltone are supposed to have stolen when I visit this evening.’
‘There is something amiss,’ said Michael, catching his arm and preventing him from walking on. ‘You never normally pass up an opportunity to see Matilde.’
Bartholomew searched desperately for a way to change the subject, knowing it would not be long before the monk smoked out his most intimate secrets if the discussion were to run its course. He was simply too tired for convincing prevarication, and Michael was too skilled an interrogator. He was transparently relieved to see John Wormynghalle and Dodenho coming towards them, deep in the throes of a debate. He did not know them well, but they served his purpose.
‘Good afternoon!’ he called, hailing them with considerable enthusiasm. ‘How are you?’
Wormynghalle was startled to be so buoyantly addressed, but Dodenho considered it only natural that someone should be interested in the state of his health.
‘I am in need of a physic,’ he announced. ‘Paxtone says I should take a purge but I detest those. I am sure there is a less dramatic way to remedy this burning in my innards.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, feeling on safer ground now he was talking about medicine. ‘A chalk solution might help, or perhaps some charcoal mixed with poppy juice and wine.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dodenho, nodding keenly. ‘The latter remedy sounds acceptable. But omit the charcoal, if you please. Come to King’s Hall and write the recipe for this concoction now, so I can send it to the apothecary.’
It was difficult to refuse, having initiated the conversation in the first place, but Michael did not object as Dodenho led them into his College. The chance encounter presented a good opportunity for the monk to ask Dodenho whether Eudo and Boltone had stolen something from him, not to mention probing further into his relationship with the dead Chesterfelde. However, the boastful scholar was not Michael’s main concern at that moment: he was more troubled by what he now thought of as Bartholomew’s ‘predicament’ with Matilde, and resolved to add it to his list of problems to solve.
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 14