asked smugly. ‘You have me to thank for that: I arranged it all.’
‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, storming back down the nave. ‘It is not for the likes of you to organise who speaks in the University of Cambridge’s public debates.’
‘Because I am an Oxford man?’ asked Richard insolently. ‘I will tell Master Heytesbury you take that attitude. He will certainly rethink whether he wishes to do business with you, if you regard him and his colleagues in so poor a light.’
‘You will mind your own affairs,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘My arrangements with Heytesbury have nothing to do with you.’
‘He asked me what I thought of you,’ said Richard carelessly, relishing the fact that he had nettled the monk. ‘He wanted to know whether you can be trusted.’
‘My affairs have nothing to do with you,’ repeated Michael in a venomous whisper.
‘So, why are you prepared to give Oxford that property?’ pressed Richard, unmoved by Michael’s fury. ‘As Heytesbury’s lawyer, I have been over the deeds very carefully, but there is no trick. Since you are not a generous man, the only other explanation is that you are a fool.’
‘That is for Heytesbury to decide,’ said Michael, bringing his ire under control and turning away from the infuriating young man. ‘Come on, Matt. We should go.’
‘I do not think you are a fool,’ Richard continued. ‘I always remembered you as a cunning sort of fellow. Then I saw through your little game.’
Michael stopped walking and gazed at Richard, but his beady glare broke when he sneezed, suddenly and violently. Agatha coughed meaningfully, and flapped her hand back and forth in front of her face.
‘Brother Michael is right,’ she declared. ‘You smell like a whore – although I do not know of any self- respecting women who would douse themselves in whatever stinking potion you have bathed yourself in.’
Richard looked her up and down with as much distaste as she had treated him. ‘Better that than reeking of old onions and garlic,’ he drawled.
Agatha advanced on him. ‘Old onions and garlic–’
‘Where is that sheet you had for Kyrkeby, Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew quickly. ‘The day is wearing on, and I am keen for the Dominicans to see the fine work you have done this morning. I imagine they will be very grateful to you.’
‘It is in my basket,’ said Agatha, easily diverted when told she could expect the praise of men like the Dominicans. ‘I will fetch it.’
‘Are you sure she is safe to be let loose in a small town like this?’ asked Richard, watching her large figure sway importantly up the aisle to where she had left her belongings.
‘She will rip you limb from limb if I ask her to,’ said Michael nastily. ‘So tell me what you meant when you said you had guessed my plan, or you shall see exactly how unsafe she can be.’
Richard glanced from Agatha to Michael and saw the cold fury in the monk’s eyes. He decided it was not worth taking the risk to see whether Michael was bluffing.
‘Heytesbury believes that you want to use the information he will give you to become the University’s next Chancellor. He thinks you will use the names of the wealthy, but anonymous, Oxford patrons that he will divulge to you to make sure that you are elected.’
Michael did not reply.
‘But I think there is another reason,’ Richard went on. ‘I think that you already know that one of the patrons is a man with large dairy farms, who is reputed to make the best cheese in the country. I think your motive lies entirely with your stomach!’
‘I have never heard such nonsense in my life,’ said Michael, shoving Richard out of the way as he started to walk towards the door. ‘I can assure you that my stomach has nothing to do with my arrangements with Heytesbury.’
‘It has!’ crowed Richard triumphantly. ‘You intend to dine on fine cheese, best butter and large brown eggs for the rest of your indulgent life.’
Bartholomew was thinking about something else Richard had said. ‘What did you mean earlier, when you said Heytesbury was lecturing this Sunday?’
‘Kyrkeby has not yet confirmed with the Chancellor that he still intends to speak,’ said Richard. ‘So, the Chancellor has been looking for a replacement.’
‘If Kyrkeby does speak, it will cause some raised eyebrows,’ muttered Agatha, walking towards them with a winding sheet clasped in one meaty hand. ‘And it will not be his clean hair and scrubbed fingernails that people will notice.’
‘Most scholars would be oblivious to the fact that they were receiving a lecture from a corpse,’ Cynric replied in an undertone. ‘I sometimes wonder whether half of them are dead anyway, but just do not know it.’
Agatha gave an inappropriate guffaw of laughter that echoed around the church and made everyone jump.
‘The Chancellor was in a quandary,’ Richard continued. ‘University lectures are important events, and he had no distinguished speaker for Easter Sunday. I recommended Heytesbury.’
‘You interfering little snake,’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘Heytesbury is England’s leading nominalist. The mere presence of such a man in the University church will incite a riot.’
‘Why?’ asked Richard smugly. ‘Is it because your scholars cannot trust their powers of reason and skills in rhetoric to win them the day?’
‘It is because Cambridge is a tinderbox at the moment,’ Michael almost shouted. ‘It is on the verge of serious unrest, and something like this could tip the balance. Do you really want to see the streets of the town where you were a child run with blood?’
Richard blanched, but remained defiant. ‘If they choose to use their fists rather than their wits, I cannot find it in my heart to mourn their fates.’
‘I am sure you cannot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But I care little for what is in your heart. I care about the innocent people this will affect.’
‘I do not understand why you are in such a state about this,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Kyrkeby was going to speak on nominalism anyway, and the only difference is that your scholars will listen to a man whose logic is brilliant, instead of some bumbling old friar with bad teeth and no hair.’
‘Kyrkeby did not have bad teeth,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And he had plenty of hair.’
‘Had?’ asked Richard. ‘What happened to it?’
Bartholomew gestured to the pale corpse, blotched and flaccid, that lay in the parish coffin. Agatha stepped past him and began to cover it with the sheet.
‘It is Kyrkeby,’ said Richard in horror, gazing down at the distorted features. ‘And he is dead!’
‘And you decided not to become a physician!’ muttered Michael. ‘With powers of observation like yours, the medical world should mourn such a dreadful loss.’
‘He is a funny colour,’ remarked Cynric, looking critically at Agatha’s handiwork. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘That is what happens when you spend two days in a wet, muddy hole after you are dead,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I can do something about the colour of him,’ said Agatha, treating Bartholomew to a conspiratorial wink. ‘I can make him look good enough to eat.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not certain what she intended to do, but very certain that she should not be permitted to proceed.
Agatha tapped the side of her nose and gave him a significant glance. ‘Women know about these things. Just leave it to old Agatha.’
‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, as her ponderous bulk began to move off down the aisle like a great ship leaving a harbour – stately and virtually unstoppable. ‘Do not–’
‘No wonder Kyrkeby did not contact the Chancellor,’ said Richard, when Bartholomew’s objections faltered away to silence. Agatha had decided she was going to act on whatever notion had sprung into her mind, and was underway.
‘
