‘Are you really?’ asked Honynge, looking him up and down. He lowered his voice again. ‘You made a mistake in coming here. Michaelhouse is full of fools, gluttons and madmen.’
‘You will get used to them,’ said Deynman pleasantly, assuming the muttered confidence was meant for him. ‘I barely notice my colleagues are foolish, gluttonous or mad these days.’
‘Tyrington brought a barrel of wine, for the Fellows to celebrate his arrival,’ said Langelee, keen to avert a row in front of the students, and so cutting off Honynge’s startled response. ‘It is in the conclave, so shall we adjourn?’
The Fellows trooped after their barrel-chested Master, leaving the junior members to chatter excitedly among themselves. Bartholomew hesitated, because Honynge’s seven scholars and Tyrington’s three were loitering, and he did not want a fight if they transpired to be anything like their masters. But Deynman approached them with a friendly smile, and they responded in kind.
‘Honynge is all right, once you get to know him,’ said a lad from Zachary, when Deynman commented on the fact that the new Fellow was rather free with his opinions, and that most of them were not the kind of remarks generally voiced by mannerly men. ‘He is an excellent teacher, and you will learn a lot if you are fortunate enough to be in his classes.’
‘He talks to himself,’ said Carton disparagingly. ‘How will we know whether he is lecturing to us or enjoying a discussion with his favourite person?’
‘It becomes obvious after a while,’ replied the student. ‘You should hear him on Blood Relics! I have never known a theologian make these complex issues more clear.’
‘Tyrington has interesting views on that debate, too,’ said one of the Piron students. ‘I am looking forward to hearing him challenge Brother Michael. Michael has a formidable reputation as a scholar, although I understand Father William is a little less able in that respect.’
No one from Michaelhouse begged to differ, and Bartholomew followed his colleagues into the conclave a little easier in his mind. The newcomers were too relieved to have found a permanent home in a College to risk it by squabbling, while the Michaelhouse students were a hospitable crowd. He suspected they were going to be better friends than the Fellows.
‘This is nice,’ said Tyrington, looking around the conclave appreciatively as Bartholomew closed the door behind him. Now the senior members could argue all they liked, content in the knowledge that the students could not hear them. ‘I am glad I chose Michaelhouse over Clare – they offered me a Fellowship, too, and I was obliged to make a decision faster than I would have liked.’
‘We were delighted when we heard we had pre-empted them,’ said William, rubbing his hands together as Wynewyk broached the cask of wine. ‘It is always a pleasure to learn one’s College has scored a victory over an in ferior foundation.’
Tyrington treated William to one of his leers. ‘I am gratified that you want me here, but please do not gloat over Clare. They will not like it, and I would hate to be a cause of discord.’
‘That is good advice,’ said Michael to William. ‘And if I hear you have been aggravating Master Kardington, Spaldynge or any other Clare man over securing Tyrington, I shall not be pleased.’
‘I am not a fool, Brother,’ said William, hovering close to Wynewyk, to ensure he laid claim to the first available goblet of claret. ‘I know we are poised at the edge of a precipice, and you need all your Regents to be friends with each other. I shall even lay aside my dispute with the Dominicans until the rent war is resolved, although it will not be easy.’
‘I shall take this seat,’ announced Honynge, making a beeline for the chair Kenyngham had usually occupied. ‘It is a little tatty, but it will suffice. Make sure it is always free for me, if you please. I have a bad back, so must be careful where I sit.’
‘In that case, I shall take this stool,’ said Tyrington, attempting to distance himself from his new colleague by claiming the least desirable place in the room. ‘If no one has any objection.’
William strode towards Honynge, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him upright. Bartholomew winced, and Michael held his breath. ‘That belongs to the Master, and anyone who places his rump on it pays a nonnegotiable fine of threepence.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ said Langelee, playing along by sitting and beaming around him. ‘Now, let us have this wine. I am parched. You must serve it, Honynge, because you are the Junior Fellow, and that is a time-honoured tradition at Michaelhouse.’
Honynge gaped at him. ‘I serve no man.’
‘Then you must pay another threepence,’ said Langelee with a benign smile. ‘These fines build up, and we are entitled to dismiss Fellows who cannot pay their debts, so do not incur too many.’
Honynge was seething. ‘I am not junior to Tyrington. I am older than he.’
‘It does not work like that,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Fellows are ranked by the order in which they are admitted, and Tyrington took his oath first, because you were late and we started the ceremony without you. If you had not been delayed by other business, you might have beaten him to the post, but I am afraid he has the edge over you now. You will remain Junior Fellow until someone else is sworn in.’
‘But that might be years!’ cried Honynge, aghast.
‘Yes, it might,’ agreed Langelee smugly. ‘And you cannot leave us and go to Lucy’s too soon, because you are obliged to give us a term’s notice if you resign.’
‘However, as Senior Proctor, I have the authority to waive that clause,’ said Michael quickly. ‘I can give you permission to leave today, if you find pouring wine repellent.’
Honynge thought about it. ‘I shall stay,’ he said stiffly. He lowered his voice. ‘Do not allow yourself to be ousted by the unpleasantness of colleagues, Honynge – not on your first day.’
‘We shall have to oust him on his second day, then,’ murmured Wynewyk to Bartholomew. ‘Lord, what have I done? Had I known he was like this, I would have voted for Tyrington instead. Tyrington leers and drools, but he is preferable to this sharp-tongued cockerel!’
‘Perhaps these are nervous manners,’ suggested Bartholomew hopefully. ‘And he will become more amenable when he has settled in. Have you ever watched hens? They peck and scratch at each other until a mutually acceptable hierarchy is reached. Maybe people are not so different.’
‘He had better not peck or scratch at me,’ said Wynewyk pettishly. ‘Or I shall peck and scratch back.’
‘How well do you know Master Kardington, Honynge?’ asked Michael conversationally, raising his goblet in a salute to Tyrington for his generosity. Bartholomew braced himself, seeing from the monk’s predatory expression that an interrogation was about to take place. He recalled Michael saying he intended to put his questions subtly, and supposed Honynge’s curt manner had goaded him into staging a frontal assault instead. ‘Do you ever visit Clare? After dark?’
Honynge maintained an admirable calm as he poured the wine. ‘No. Why would I?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘Why does any man frequent another foundation? Perhaps he wants to pass the time of day – or night – with friends or lovers. Perhaps he likes the look of that foundation’s silverware. Or perhaps it is documents that catch his eye.’
Honynge blinked. ‘Are you accusing me of a felony?’
‘Me?’ asked Michael, placing a fat hand on his chest. ‘Why would you think that? Unless your guilty conscience prompted you to ask such a question, of course?’
‘I do not visit Clare, because I do not approve of fraternising between Colleges. It is safer that way. I have never been to Clare. Never. Ask Kardington if you do not believe me.’
He was so convincing that Bartholomew wondered if Cynric had been mistaken, but it seemed unlikely – if the book-bearer said he had seen the intruder’s face, then he had seen it. He glanced at Honynge’s hands as the man thrust a goblet of wine at him. The knuckles were grazed, and there was a deep gash on one thumb.
�
�What happened to you?’ Bartholomew asked, indicating the wounds with a nod of his head.
‘I scraped them during the process of moving,’ replied Honynge. He pointed to the physician’s fingers, which also bore the marks of an encounter with Clare. ‘And you?’ he demanded.
‘I like Clare,’ said Tyrington pleasantly, cutting across the stammering reply Bartholomew started to make. Honynge was sharp, and the physician had not expected him to counter-attack. ‘It is a very nice College, although not as pleasant as here, of course.’
‘Tyrington is a dreadful sycophant,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, when the others were engaged in a strained discussion about the day’s inclement weather. ‘And I do not know whether I find his leers or his spitting more objectionable. However, he is charm personified when compared to Honynge. Do you think he killed Kenyngham?’
‘Honynge?’ asked Bartholomew startled. ‘Of course not! Why would he do such a thing? And, as I have told you several times, no one killed Kenyngham.’
‘Why is obvious – he wanted a Fellowship here,’ Michael shot back. He stood and sauntered over to where Honynge was pouring more wine for William. ‘Why did you chose us over Lucy’s? I would have thought that particular hostel would have suited you very nicely – it overlooks a bog.’
Honynge regarded him warily, not sure if he was being insulted. ‘Books,’ he replied shortly. ‘You have a library, Lucy’s does not.’
‘You did not choose us because you admire our tradition of academic excellence?’ asked Michael, a little dangerously.
Honynge snorted. ‘Hardly! You have Father William as a Fellow, and Deynman as a student. Those two alone make Michaelhouse a laughing stock in the world of scholarship. However, I shall help you to oust them, and then our reputation will improve.’
‘What did you think of Kenyngham’s scholarship?’ asked Michael softly.
‘Solid,’ replied Honynge. ‘Not exciting, but perfectly acceptable. Why?’
‘Because I miss him. He was one of few men I respected, and if I find something untoward happened to him, I shall not rest until the culprit is hanged.’
Honynge regarded him with contempt. ‘Is this what your Order teaches you? Vengeance?’
‘Not vengeance – justice. And I dislike men who send me gloating letters.’
‘I shall have to remember not to write you any, then. Forget Kenyngham, Brother. He was an old man who shortened his life with his religious excesses – if anyone killed him, it was Kenyngham himself. Besides, some good has come out of his death, because now you have me. I shall drag Michaelhouse from mediocrity to something other scholars will admire.’
‘Shall we have a debate before dinner?’ asked Langelee brightly, aware of the low-voiced confrontation between the two men and keen to put an end to it before it escalated. ‘We have time.’
‘Blood Relics?’ suggested Tyrington. He spoke before swallowing the wine in his mouth, and Wynewyk scrambled to blot the resulting mess from the Book of Hours he had been reading. ‘It is a matter with which we are all familiar, and is at the heart of many important theological issues.’
‘Go on, then,’ said William, pleased. ‘I am always ready to expound my views on religion.’
‘And to listen to those of others,’ added Langelee pointedly, unwilling for the friar to show them up on the newcomers’ first day.
‘I have changed my mind,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew a while later. ‘Candelby is no longer my chief suspect for killing Lynton and Kenyngham. Honynge is.’
‘Because you dislike him?’
‘Because he is an arrogant pig who would think nothing of committing murder to further his own interests. And he is a liar, too. Cynric saw him up to no good in Clare, and you can see the evidence on his knuckles. He is hiding something.’
‘Lying is a long way from murder.’
Michael was not interested in the physician’s reservations. ‘Perhaps I will steal some of Agatha’s love potion and feed it to him. He will fall hopelessly in love with her and make advances. Then she will advance back, and he will be lucky to survive the encounter.’
It was still light when the Fellows left the conclave and went to their rooms, but when they did, there were none of the usual relaxed pleasantries that normally characterised the end of their day. Langelee was dismayed, because the harmony he had sought to achieve among his senior members had evaporated like steam, and the conclave had been full of bitterness and sniping. Bartholomew was subdued and preoccupied, worried about his sister, Falmeresham, and what Arderne might do to his patients. Michael and Honynge had quickly gone from antipathy to open hostility, and Wynewyk had taken against Tyrington because the man had salivated all over his favourite book and then denied that the resulting damage was his doing.
‘I will not purchase him a new one,’ said Tyrington resentfully, before walking to his room. ‘The ink had already run. I am eager to make myself agreeable, but I will not be taken advantage of.’
‘If he calls me a liar one more time, I shall …’ Wynewyk ground his teeth in impotent rage. ‘I do not know what I shall do, but he will regret ever coming to Michaelhouse. That book was in perfect condition before he slobbered all over it, and now it is ruined. For ever.’
‘It is a pity,’ agreed Bartholomew, who also abhorred harm to books.
William slunk down the spiral stairs, the last to leave the conclave. He was mortified, because it transpired that not only did both Honynge and Tyrington support the Dominicans’ side of the argument pertaining to Blood Relics, but they were familiar with the nuances of the whole debate, and could argue them well. They had made mincemeat of his poor grasp of the subject, and he, a man supremely and blissfully oblivious to his own intellectual shortcomings, was at last forced to confront his inadequacies. Bartholomew tried to support his old colleague, but he did not give the matter his full attention, and he ended up being as savaged as the friar.
‘Thank you anyway, Matthew,’ said William gloomily, before heading for his chambers as a chastened man. ‘It was good of you to take my side. I shall not forget it – and if that Honynge ever asks me to mind his students or take one of his classes because he is indisposed, I shall tell him to go to Hell, where he belongs.’
Bartholomew doubted Honynge would ever solicit the Franciscan’s assistance on any academic matter, and suspected William would never have the satisfaction of wreaking even minor revenge for the unpleasantness he had endured that evening.
Langelee watched him go, then came to stand with Bartholomew, Wynewyk and Michael. ‘I wish Kenyngham had not left us so suddenly, because then we would have had more time to consider his replacement. I think we have made a terrible mistake with this pair.’
‘Do not worry,’ said Michael with a wink. ‘There are ways and means to deal with this sort of situation, and I am not Senior Proctor for nothing.’
‘I do not want any bloodshed, though,’ warned Langelee. ‘At least, not bloodshed that can be traced to us. Be discreet.’
‘Discretion is my middle name,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘And do not worry about bloodshed, either. There will be no need for that, because I was thinking of using my wits, not knives.’
‘Yes, but remember they are both rather well armed in the wits department,’ said Langelee. He began to walk away, but stopped briefly and called over his shoulder, ‘I have a sword in my chamber.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘Just what he said, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget where he came from. He was the Archbishop of York’s spy for years, and it would not surprise me to learn that he had solved problems by resorting to weapons.’
‘Just like you then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Itching to challenge Arderne to a trial by combat.’
‘I suspect it will be wiser to use the College statutes, and devise an administrative excuse to be rid of them,’ said Wynewyk. ‘I am a lawyer, so if I can help, do not hesitate to ask.’
&nbs
p; ‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘I shall almost certainly take you up on it. What is that commotion?’
‘Cynric!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in alarm, beginning to run towards the gate.
‘No,’ said Michael, peering into the darkness. ‘It is Falmeresham!’
A short while later, Falmeresham sat in the hall, surrounded by students, commoners and Fellows – all the Fellows except Honynge, who claimed he did not know Falmeresham, so could not be expected to celebrate his return. Tyrington stood shyly at the back at first; then he gave a leering grin when the Master hauled him to the front. It would not do for senior members to relinquish the best spots to students, and no master wanted to preside over a foundation where the hierarchical balance was in disarray.
‘So, we are not going to be blackmailed by greedy landlords after all,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, watching Carton fuss about his friend with wine and blankets. ‘That is a relief!’
‘The relief is in seeing him alive and well,’ said Bartholomew. He felt better than he had done in days, and realised what a tremendous strain the student’s disappearance had been.
William inveigled himself a cup of the students’ claret, and came to stand next to the monk. ‘You can call off the Convocation of Regents now – we do not need them to decide whether to change the University Statutes after all. We have our student back, so we can keep the rents as they are.’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Can I count on your vote?’
‘No,’ replied William. ‘I do not think we should throw out ancient laws just because Candelby wants more money. I believe the rents should stay as they are.’
‘But you are a member of Michaelhouse, and the Senior Proctor has a right to expect your support, regardless of what you think about the issue,’ said Tyrington quietly. ‘It is the way things work.’
William scowled as he brushed spit from his revolting habit, and considered Tyrington’s words carefully. He took a swig of wine, swilling it noisily around his brown teeth. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘I suppose I can ignore my conscience in the interests of solidarity – and I would not like Michaelhouse made a laughing stock because the Senior Proctor’s proposal is defeated.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 21
