diners’ hands with splinters each time they ate, as at Michaelhouse. But it was the smell of the house that Bartholomew liked best. It was warm and welcoming, a mixture of the herbs Edith tied in the rafters to dry, of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, and of the slightly bitter aroma of burning wood. Bartholomew had spent his childhood at Trumpington, and the house always brought back pleasant memories.
That evening, the main chamber was even more welcoming than usual. Edith had decorated it with early spring flowers, and little vases of snowdrops and violets stood here and there, mingling their sweet fragrance with the scents already in the room. Because it was dark, lamps were lit, filling the room with a warm amber glow. They shuddered and guttered as the wind rattled the window shutters and snaked under the doors, sending eerie yellow patterns flickering over the walls.
Michael poured himself a goblet of wine from a jug that had been placed on the table, and went to sit in the chair opposite Richard. He took a sip, and then stretched his legs towards the fire with an appreciative sigh.
‘It is cold out tonight,’ he said conversationally. ‘It is just as well we rode, Matt. Walking would not have been pleasant in this wind.’
‘You rode?’ asked Stanmore. He handed Bartholomew a goblet of wine and then sat next to him on the bench near the table, since Michael and Richard had already claimed the best places. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Michael with amusement. ‘You anticipated that Matt would ask you to accompany him and took the precaution of hiring horses?’
‘I am a man prepared for every eventuality,’ said Michael silkily. He turned his attention to Richard. ‘But tell me about Oxford. Why did you abandon medicine and embrace law instead?’
‘Law is a nobler profession,’ replied Richard. ‘It is better to make an honest living than to practise medicine.’
‘Law? Honest?’ asked Bartholomew, too astonished to feel offended. ‘Is that what they taught you at Oxford?’
Richard sighed irritably. ‘I was educated just as well at Oxford as I would have been in Cambridge – better, probably.’
‘It was not your allegiance to Oxford that startled him,’ said Michael. ‘It was your claim that law is an honest profession. Where did you learn such nonsense?’
Richard regarded him coolly. ‘It is not nonsense. I decided it would be better than poking around with sores and pustules and suchlike. And then, when the Death comes again, I shall ride away as fast as I can, not linger to lance buboes and watch people die.’
‘Running will not save you,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘There was barely a town or a village in the whole of Europe that escaped unscathed. The plague would just follow you. Or worse, you might carry it with you and spread it to others.’
‘We are supposed to be celebrating,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘We will not spend the evening dwelling on the Death. We all lost people we loved, and I do not want to discuss it.’
‘Quite right,’ said Michael, holding out his goblet for Stanmore to fill. He changed the subject to one that was equally contentious. ‘I have never been to Oxford, but Matt tells me it is an intriguing place. Personally, I have no desire to see it. I imagine its greater size will render it very squalid.’
‘It is not squalid,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Richard look angry. ‘Well, not as squalid as some places I have seen.’
Richard glowered, and was about to make what would doubtless have been a tart reply when Stanmore cleared his throat noisily as Edith walked in.
‘You still have not told us who you invited to dine tonight,’ said the merchant hastily, to change the subject before Edith saw that they were on the verge of a row. ‘When will he arrive?’
‘He is here already,’ said Richard. He gave an amused grin. ‘I met him quite by chance in the town a few days ago. Apparently, he has business in Cambridge, and has been lodging at the King’s Head.’
‘Good choice,’ muttered Michael facetiously. ‘It serves both bad food and a criminal clientele.’
‘We were delighted to run across each other,’ Richard went on, ignoring him. ‘I insisted he stayed with us for at least some of his visit, and I took him to the Laughing Pig when he accepted my offer today. Unfortunately, we both drank rather more than we should have done, and he went upstairs to sleep. He is a friend from Oxford.’
Stanmore pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Oxford. I might have guessed someone from
‘We were only toasting each other’s health,’ objected Richard. He uncoiled himself from his seat as someone entered the room – a courtesy that had not been extended to Bartholomew and Michael – and gave the newcomer a genuine smile of welcome. ‘But here he is.’
Bartholomew and Michael stood politely as a shadowy figure entered the room. And then Bartholomew saw Michael’s jaw drop in astonishment when he saw the man who stood in front of them. The newcomer seemed as discomfited by Michael’s appearance as the monk was by his.
‘William Heytesbury of Merton College,’ breathed Michael, staring at the man.
‘Brother Michael of Michaelhouse,’ replied Heytesbury. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You two have already met?’ asked Richard, surprised that the Oxford scholar, who now reclined in the Stanmores’ best chair with a brimming goblet of wine, should be acquainted with the likes of the obese Benedictine. ‘How?’
‘We are in the middle of certain negotiations,’ replied Michael vaguely. Although his plans to pass two farms and a church to Oxford in exchange for information were not a secret, he was evidently not prepared to elaborate on them for Richard’s benefit. He raised his cup to the Merton man. ‘Your health, Master Heytesbury. I was not expecting to see you until well after Easter.’
‘The roads have been dreadful,’ replied Heytesbury, stretching elegant legs towards the fire. ‘The snow and rain have turned them into one long quagmire from Oxford to Cambridge. I decided to start the journey early, so I would not be late for our meeting.’
‘But that is not until Ascension Day,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Six weeks hence. The roads are not
Heytesbury gave a small smile. ‘True. But I have other business in Cambridge, besides the agreement I am making with you.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, affecting careless indifference, although Bartholomew caught the unease in his voice.
Michael had already gambled a great deal on the success of his arrangements with Merton, and did not want them to fail. Bartholomew was hazy on the details, but he knew that the seemingly worthless information and documents Heytesbury would pass to Michael would eventually be worth a lot more than two farms and a church. Michael anticipated that he would be able to steal the patronage of some of Oxford’s wealthiest benefactors, and that Cambridge would ultimately emerge richer and more powerful than her rival University. Bartholomew knew that Heytesbury was under the impression that the monk wanted the information simply in order to secure himself the post of Chancellor in a year or two. For all Bartholomew knew, there could be an element of truth in that, too.
Heytesbury was an influential figure in the academic world. He had written a number of books on logic and natural philosophy, and was a leading proponent of nominalism. He was also a member of Merton, one of the largest and most powerful of Oxford’s colleges. Bartholomew recalled listening to lectures given by Heytesbury during his own days there.
He studied the Oxford man with interest. In the flattering half-light of the fire and the lamps, it seemed the years had been kind to Heytesbury. He had been an intense young man in his twenties when he had first started to make a name for himself with his scholarship, and Bartholomew supposed he must now be nearing fifty. However, his face had retained its smooth skin and his brown hair was unmarked by grey; these, combined with his slight, boyish build, had led many an academic adversary to underestimate him in the debating chamber. Such opponents did not make that mistake a second time. But despite his superficially youthful appearance, the physician in Bartholomew detected a certain pouchiness beneath Heytesbury’s eyes and a slight tremble in his hands.
Heytesbury continued to smile at Michael. ‘My other work involved meeting one of your scholars with a view to taking him to Oxford. It was nothing that would influence anything you and I have discussed, so do not be
