‘You trust me?’ said Bartholomew harshly. ‘When I cannot trust you?’
Michael laughed softly in the darkness. ‘You can trust me for important things, and that is what matters. This is a trifling business.’
‘Not to me,’ proclaimed Julianna huffily.
‘Nor to me,’ growled Langelee from behind them.
Bartholomew heaved a huge sigh of resignation and followed them into the church. He struggled to light the temperamental lamp while the others waited impatiently.
‘Hurry it up, Bartholomew,’ ordered Langelee imperiously. ‘We do not have all night.’
Bartholomew was about to suggest that Langelee should light the lamp himself – knowing that the philosopher’s thick, clumsy fingers would never be able to perform the intricate operation required – when it coughed into life. Langelee snatched it from his hand and led the way inside. Michael had apparently made some preparations the night before, because the Bible was opened to the relevant page and the altar was draped with a white cloth. Something glittery to one side caught his eye. It was Wilson’s black marble tomb, now topped with a grotesque effigy of a man in a scholar’s gown, partly faced in gold.
‘That monstrosity will have to go,’ muttered Michael, seeing Bartholomew staring at it with loathing. ‘It would be bad enough if it were all one colour, but now the smuggling is over Runham cannot lay his hands on sufficient gold leaf to finish covering the thing. We have Wilson with a golden stomach and a face of cheap limestone.’
‘At least it does not look like him,’ said Bartholomew, helping Michael to lay out the regalia for the mass. ‘I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies.’
While Michael ripped through the Latin wedding ceremony at an impressive rate, Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the pillars and watched moodily. He wondered what the offspring of such an alliance would be like and hoped they did not move back to Cambridge so he would find out. There was a sudden draught of wind and the lamp fluttered dangerously. Michael looked up from his reading and Bartholomew went to close the door that the fierce wind had blown open.
He heaved it closed, his feet skidding on the wet tiles as he fought against the blizzard, and went back to his place at the base of the pillar. Moments later, the same thing happened again. Michael scowled at the interruption.
‘The latch must be faulty, Matt. Shut it properly. If the lamp goes out I will have to pronounce them man and wife in the dark and I do not want to end up kissing Langelee instead of the bride.’
‘I thought the groom was supposed to kiss the bride,’ said Langelee. ‘Not the priest.’
‘And who is the expert on religious matters here, you or me?’ demanded Michael. ‘Go and check the door, Matt, or we will all freeze to death before I kiss anyone!’
Bartholomew hauled himself to his feet a second time and went to the door. And stopped abruptly when he saw Master Kenyngham struggling to close it. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself for forgetting that it was the feast day of St Gilbert of Sempringham and that Kenyngham, a Gilbertine friar, would certainly keep a midnight vigil in the church in honour of the occasion.
Kenyngham turned to put his back to the door to force it closed, and smiled happily when he saw Bartholomew standing in the shadows.
‘Matthew!’ he exclaimed in genuine pleasure. ‘What a lovely surprise! I assume you are here to keep me company while I say matins for the feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward to help latch the door.
‘Who is there?’ called Michael. Bartholomew heard the slap of his sandals as he huffed his way up the nave to find out what was happening.
‘Brother Michael!’ cried Kenyngham in delight, taking his weight from the door so that it blew open again. Bartholomew caught it as it flew backwards, and leaned into it, making the others jump when the wind dropped and it slammed with a crash that sent echoes reverberating around the dark church. ‘And Master Langelee, too! All here to pray with me and celebrate the feast day of Gilbert of Sempringham, the saintly founder of my Order! And you have brought a friend, I see.’
He reached forward and placed a hand on Julianna’s head in blessing, muttering a prayer as he did so. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance of bemusement, not at all certain what would happen next.
‘I am to be married,’ announced Julianna proudly. ‘And then I am going to live in France, where the sun shines all the time.’
‘Do not go to Paris, then,’ said Bartholomew.
‘France?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘You have not mentioned France before.’
‘Congratulations, my child,’ said Kenyngham, still smiling beatifically. ‘I shall pray for you. Who is to be the lucky man?’
Only an innocent like Kenyngham could have failed to notice the way Langelee’s arm was wrapped indecorously around Julianna’s waist and the way in which the lovers looked at each other. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged yet another mystified look.
‘Ralph de Langelee,’ said Julianna loudly, as though she were talking to someone either very old or very deaf. ‘I am to marry Ralph de Langelee, Master Kenyngham.’
Kenyngham’s smile faded slightly. ‘Ralph de Langelee? But he is a Fellow of Michaelhouse; you cannot marry him!’
‘Why not?’ demanded Julianna indignantly. ‘He is a man, is he not?’
‘Not all men are available for marriage,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘And if Ralph de Langelee married you, he would have to resign his Fellowship and he would lose the opportunity to make a name for himself by teaching philosophy – and perhaps even to be the Master of the College himself one day.’
‘God forbid!’ muttered Michael under his breath. ‘And the name he would make for himself by teaching philosophy would not be one I would repeat in a church!’
‘Why should I resign?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Why can I not marry Julianna and keep my Fellowship as well?’
‘It is against the rules,’ said Kenyngham. ‘No Fellows are allowed to marry. But the choice is yours: marry and have a happy and fulfilled life with children and a wife who loves you, or stay at Michaelhouse and take part in the shaping of young minds or perhaps tread in the footsteps of others before you and become an emissary to the King or the Pope.’
‘Really?’ asked Langelee, intrigued. ‘Scholars from Michaelhouse have become emissaries to popes and kings?’
‘Not very many,’ said Michael quickly. ‘And the opportunities are few and far between, and very competitive.’
‘We would have such fun,’ whispered Julianna, leaning against him seductively. ‘We could set up business together and become rich beyond our wildest dreams.’
Langelee was silent, thinking. All Bartholomew could hear in the dark church was the splattering of sleet against the window shutters and the sound of Langelee’s heavy breathing as he pondered his dilemma.
‘Well,’ said the philosopher eventually. ‘Now, let me see …’
Historical Note
Before the drainage of parts of East Anglia in the seventeenth century, the Fens were an area of wilderness, a myriad of channels, ditches and lakes winding round innumerable small islands that were heavily wooded with tangles of willow and alder. Routes through the marshes were treacherous, and most were known only to the Fenlanders who lived there. For boats, there were winding reed- and sedge-choked waterways, and for horses and pedestrians there were unstable causeways comprising paths that led from one islet to another. The Fens saw England’s only serious rebellion against the Norman Conquest: Hereward the Wake used his knowledge of the area to lead William’s troops a merry dance until a proper causeway was built between Cambridge and Ely.