the seed cake his sister had given him was still in his room, or whether Michael had already found it.
‘God’s teeth! This is a vile concoction!’ exclaimed Langelee, pushing away his bowl in disgust. He stood abruptly, and rattled off a closing grace, even though some of the students had still not been served. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen. I hope your supper does not give you nightmares.’
‘Well!’ said William, as Langelee exited from the hall, leaving the Bible Scholar in open-mouthed confusion. ‘There is a man who does not appreciate a good meal.’
‘Then you can have mine, too,’ said Michael, standing and emptying the grey liquid from his bowl into William’s. Some of the resulting spillage shot across the table towards the friar’s filthy sleeve. Bartholomew was fascinated to see that the deeply impregnated grease in the garment was easily able to repel the soup, and that it simply ran off like water from a duck’s back. ‘I would sooner starve than eat this.’
‘It will be a long time before
Michael glowered at him and stalked towards the door. Bartholomew followed, no more keen to sit in a cold hall that was full of the rank stench of rotten fish than was the monk. Other scholars were also taking advantage of the abrupt end to the meal, and the servants had even started to clear away bowls and goblets, anticipating with pleasure the treat of an early finish.
‘What is it that makes everyone want to comment on my figure?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘Do people not realise that it is rude? Even people I barely know talk about it – like your nephew, and that Ringstead at the Dominican Friary. I am growing heartily tired of it.’
‘Eat less, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘The reason people comment is because you are an imposing sight. There are not many people your size in Cambridge.’
‘I am not that big,’ objected Michael. ‘And it is mostly muscle anyway. Just look at this. Grab it, go on.’ He flexed an arm for Bartholomew to feel.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Bartholomew, declining the offer. He had witnessed the previous night that the monk was sufficiently strong to break the leg of a corpse, and knew that his bulk belied an impressive power.
‘And if I am heavy, it is because I have big bones,’ said Michael sulkily. ‘I am not as fat as people believe.’
‘It is partly your habit,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the black garment critically. ‘It makes you look enormous.’
‘That is an unkind thing to say,’ said Michael huffily. ‘What do you expect me to do? I can hardly go to my Bishop and tell him that I no longer intend to wear the Benedictine habit because it makes me look fat.’
‘Do not take it so personally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People are always criticising me because my clothes are soiled or torn. I just ignore them.’
‘I shall punch the next person who calls me fat,’ vowed Michael angrily, marching down the newel stair that led to the lower floor and heading for the door that opened into the yard. ‘And that includes you, so just mind yourself.’
‘We should probably visit Prior Pechem of the Franciscans tonight,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject, but not in the least intimidated by Michael’s bluster. ‘We need to ask him about his role at Walcote’s meetings. Now that Morden – and Kenyngham – know we are aware of these gatherings, there is no need for us to worry about putting them on their guard. They will already have been warned, and our enquiries can do no harm.’
‘I have already spoken to Pechem,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Since Clippesby introduced the subject so tactlessly with Morden, I decided there was nothing to lose by approaching Pechem directly.’
‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he say?’
‘He pretended he did not know what I was talking about, and said he had never been to St Radegund’s in his life. More lies, Matt. Just when we force the Carmelites to be honest, the Franciscans start bombarding me with falsehoods.’
‘Ah, Michael and Bartholomew. Just the men I wanted to see.’ Langelee was approaching the door from the darkness outside. ‘I would like to speak to you. Join me in my chamber, if you will.’
‘Why?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. All I want to do is go to bed and forget about that monstrosity that paraded itself as dinner.’
‘Then that is even more reason why you should come to my chamber,’ said Langelee, laying a meaty arm across Michael’s shoulders. ‘A beef and onion pie, a barrel of French wine, and a couple of loaves of fresh bread are waiting there.’
Michael eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why? So you can laugh about the amount I eat and tell everyone that I have a stomach like a bottomless well?’
‘Do you eat a lot?’ asked Langelee, genuinely surprised. ‘I cannot say I have noticed. But you and I are both large men, so healthy appetites are to be expected. Come and join me in my room, and we will do justice to this fine food. What do you say?’
Michael gazed at him. ‘What kind of pie did you say it was?’
Chapter 8
A SMALL FIRE BURNED IN LANGELEE’S ROOM, AND TWO lamps placed on the windowsills filled the chamber with a warm yellow glow. Bartholomew looked around him appreciatively, noting the tasteful wall-hangings and the clean but functional rugs that lay on the floor. Here was no wasteful decadence, but a pleasant and simple room that managed to create an atmosphere of industry and efficiency. Bartholomew, who had known Langelee for two years before the philosopher had been elected Master of Michaelhouse, was impressed by the room and the changes that had occurred in the man.
‘Where is this pie?’ demanded Michael, sitting in the best chair and looking aggrieved. ‘And what do you want to discuss? It is not those damned latrines again, is it? I have already told you that I do not care whether they are cleaned once a year, twice a year, ten times a year, or never again.’
‘All the Fellows except Bartholomew concur,’ said Langelee. ‘So, we will have them cleaned once a year, and we will use the money we save to buy a new bench for the hall.’
‘You will spend that money on medicines for intestinal disorders when summer comes,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘The latrines are not a problem now the weather is cold, but you remember how many flies they attracted last summer. The air was black with them.’
‘Please, Matt!’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I am about to eat. And there is a very simple solution to this fly problem: only use the latrines at night. There are not nearly as many then.’
‘That is not the point,’ began Bartholomew, exasperated by their refusal to acknowledge that dirty latrines were likely to have serious repercussions on the health of Michaelhouse’s scholars.
‘I did not bring you here to talk about sewage,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s words as he sliced a decadently large piece of pie and handed it to Michael. ‘I brought you here because Clippesby told me the disturbing news that Prior Morden plans to commit murder.’
Michael gave a small smile. ‘That is not what transpired at the Dominican Friary. Trust that lunatic Clippesby to get it wrong! What Morden said was that Walcote discovered evidence that there was a plan afoot to harm me, and that meetings were organised between the religious Orders to discuss what should be done about it.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’ asked Langelee, tearing the bread into pieces and passing it to his guests. ‘I know that as Senior Proctor you cannot be popular with everyone, and that there are men who hate the power of the University that you embody. But it is another matter entirely to murder someone for it.’
‘So far, there has only been a
‘But Walcote is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he was killed because he was trying to uncover the identity of the person who was planning to strike at you?’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘As you pointed out earlier, the fact that he was hanged, rather than stabbed or hit over the head, smacks of execution rather than murder. It is obvious now that I think of it.’
‘My experience of these matters, while I was an agent for the Archbishop of York, leads me to think that you
