An Order for Death

perhaps she wants to take your place, and become as indispensable to him as you are.’

‘This is pure fantasy, Matt. You and Matilde seem to find it difficult to believe that some people – even women – are very stupid. You are quite wrong about Tysilia.’ He sniffed the air suddenly, and groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, Matt! Dinner is more of that stinking fish-giblet stew again! Not only is it freezing cold in this godforsaken place, but we are forced to eat stewed fish entrails and yesterday’s bread.’

‘Delicious,’ boomed Father William, rubbing his hands together as he came to sit next to them. ‘Lent is my favourite time of year. Sinful practices like over-indulgence and fornication are forbidden, there are none of those reeking flowers in the church to distract you from your prayers, and there are no frills and such nonsense adorning your altars. And yet we are still treated to tasty delicacies like fish-giblet stew.’

‘And we think Clippesby is insane!’ muttered Michael, eyeing the dirty friar doubtfully. ‘Anyone who thinks boiled fish intestines in watery broth is the ultimate dining experience should be locked away.’

‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded the Franciscan, looking around him as if he imagined the Master would suddenly appear out of the rushes that were scattered across the floor. ‘We cannot start the meal until he has said grace.’

‘He is not a great lover of fish, and so probably feels no great compunction to hurry here,’ said the Carmelite Suttone, scratching his short white hair with his large-knuckled fingers. ‘He is talking to Clippesby, anyway.’

‘Clippesby,’ said William in disapproval. ‘I caught him pulling the tail feathers from the porter’s cockerel this afternoon. He said Cynric told him that burning them in a dish with a mixture of mint leaves and garlic has the power to remove curses. And he claimed that Cynric had this information from Prior Pechem.’

‘The head of the Franciscans?’ asked Michael gleefully. ‘That sounds like heresy to me, William. Removing curses with feathers and garlic indeed!’

‘Cynric misheard,’ stated William immediately. ‘Assuming that Clippesby even had half the story right, that is.’

‘Clippesby puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Sometimes he seems quite normal, and yet other times he indulges in these peculiarities of behaviour. I do not understand him at all.’

‘That is because he is insane,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘The whole point about insane people is that their actions are incomprehensible by those of us who are normal.’

‘But on occasions, what he says makes perfect sense, and his opinions are worth listening to.’

‘Only if you are insane yourself,’ said William firmly. He glanced at the door at the end of the hall, then at the painted screen near the spiral staircase that led to the kitchens. Behind it, the servants were waiting with the food in huge steaming cauldrons. ‘I wish Langelee would hurry up. The soup is getting cold.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘The longer that abomination is kept from our tables, the better. And if we sit here long enough, it will be time for breakfast. Lukewarm oatmeal is not my favourite, either, but I would sooner eat that than rancid fish guts floating in greasy water.’

Bartholomew saw Suttone wince at the description. One or two students, sitting at the tables placed at right angles to the one where the fellows ate, also heard, and Bartholomew could see them reconsidering their options for dining that night. Since Langelee had been made Master, it had become much more difficult for the students to slip out of the College for a night in the town, but they were encouraged to lay in their own supplies of food, called ‘smalls’. This had the advantage of saving Michaelhouse a certain amount of money and it prevented the students from wanting to eat in taverns.

‘Have you caught your murderer, Michael?’ asked William conversationally, picking at a lump of old food that adhered to the front of his habit. When it was off, yet another dark spot joined the multicoloured speckling on the Franciscan’s chest. ‘My offer of help is still open, you know.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael politely. ‘It is good to know who one’s friends are these days.’

He raised his voice so that it would carry to Kenyngham, who was already muttering his own, much longer, version of grace, and who was oblivious of any meaningful comments or looks from the monk who sat to his right.

‘I said, it is good to know who one’s friends are these days,’ said Michael, more loudly still. This time, even Kenyngham was among those who looked at him in surprise, startled by the sudden volume in the monk’s voice.

‘Are you addressing me, Brother?’ asked Kenyngham, smiling in his absent-minded way. ‘Are you in need of a friend? Join me after the meal, and we will pray together.’

‘I certainly am in need of friends,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘And I do not count those who attend secret meetings at midnight, where plots to kill me are discussed.’

Kenyngham regarded him sympathetically. ‘Who has done that? You should inform him that he will be bound for hell if he continues, and that to take the life of another is a deadly sin.’

Michael gaped in disbelief. ‘You are a cool fellow, Father. I understand that you attended several such meetings. This plot was discussed at St Radegund’s Convent, when men such as Morden, Pechem and Lincolne – and you, of course – were present.’

‘Not Pechem,’ said William immediately. ‘We Franciscans do not do things like that.’

‘And not me, either,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Really, Brother! Do you imagine that I would allow such a discussion to take place? You know how I abhor violence. I can assure you that the meetings I attended made no mention of any such topic.’

‘Morden says Walcote had uncovered a plot to kill me, and that was on the agenda at these gatherings,’ said Michael angrily.

‘I attended no meeting with Morden,’ said Kenyngham. ‘The only people present, other than Walcote and me, were Pechem and Lincolne. And we certainly did not discuss murder.’

Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘Then tell me what you did talk about.’

‘I have already explained to you that I cannot. Please do not ask me to break my promise again. Come with me to the church after dinner, and we will pray together for God to give you patience.’

‘I am going nowhere with you,’ said Michael, giving the old friar a hostile glare. ‘You are not to be trusted.’

At that moment, Langelee entered the hall, and everyone stood in silence with his hands clasped in front of him waiting for the Master to begin the grace. Clippesby was with Langelee, and Bartholomew noticed that the mad Dominican’s face was flushed and his eyes were bright, which were symptoms the physician associated with episodes of especially odd behaviour. His heart sank, knowing that it would not be long before Langelee would be forced to confine Clippesby to his room until the mood had passed.

Langelee reached the Master’s chair, said a short prayer in his strong, steady voice, and had already seated himself before most of his scholars had completed their responses. He reached for the wine jug and filled his goblet. He then took a deep draught, as though the bitter, acidic drink was something to which he had been looking forward all day. The low hum of conversation restarted in the hall as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in grateful appreciation.

‘Master!’ whispered William in a hoarse voice, loud enough to carry to the far end of the hall. ‘The Bible Scholar!’

‘What?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a halfhearted nod to the student who received a free education in exchange for reading from the Bible at each meal. The practice was intended to give the scholars cause for contemplation while they were eating, and to dispense with the need for frivolous conversation. It was something of which the austere Father William very much approved, but which the rest of the Fellows preferred to do without, especially in the evenings when they were tired.

The student stood on the dais next to the high table, and began to read from the Book of Isaiah in a droning, bored voice. His phrasing was automatic, and Bartholomew suspected that his thoughts were as far away as those of most of his listeners. Michael turned his attention to the pale grey broth that was slopped into the bowl in front of him. He took a piece of bread, and dipped it in the mixture without much enthusiasm, chewing it as though it were wood chippings.

Bartholomew did not blame him. He did not like fishy soup either, especially since his knowledge of anatomy allowed him to identify particular organs and their functions. The fact that the entrails had not been fresh when they were purchased, and tasted strong and slightly gamy, did not induce many scholars to finish what they had been given. Bartholomew took one mouthful and decided he would rather go without, wondering absently whether