‘And what about mountains?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s grin of amusement that he was unable to follow his own advice.
‘And where, pray, do you see mountains?’ demanded Langelee icily. He gestured out of the window. ‘Show me a mountain and I will concede your point.’
‘Obviously there are none in East Anglia,’ said Bartholomew, wondering, not for the first time, how Langelee had inveigled an appointment at Michaelhouse. ‘But there are hills in the north of England and mountains in Italy, France and Spain.’
‘You are lying,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘There are no mountains in York.’
In the body of the hall, the students were enjoying the dissension between the Fellows with unconcealed delight, much of their gleeful amusement directed against the unpopular Langelee.
‘I visited York once,’ said Kenyngham, smiling wistfully. ‘What a charming place! The Minster is a fabulous thing, all delicate tracery and soaring windows.’
‘But did you see mountains?’ asked Alcote, reluctant to allow the Master to change the subject to something less contentious.
‘Castle Hill is a mountain,’ said Runham. ‘Or it is mountain enough to prove Matthew’s point. If the Earth were a perfect sphere, Castle Hill would not exist.’
‘That is a foolish argument!’ spat Langelee. ‘If Castle Hill did not exist, there would be nowhere to put the castle!’
The others regarded him uncertainly, none of them sure how he had arrived at such a conclusion or how to refute it. Before the debate could begin anew, Kenyngham wisely took advantage of the momentary silence to stand to say grace. The others scrambled to their feet and bowed their heads as the Gilbertine’s words echoed around the hall. As soon as he had finished, the students clattered noisily down the stairs and across the courtyard, some to read in their rooms, others to escape the College and indulge in something better than enduring Michaelhouse’s petty restrictions on the one day they were free from their studies.
Michael and Bartholomew made a hasty exit, too, neither wanting to become embroiled in a debate with the others, particularly Langelee. Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief as he overheard the philosopher informing William that the Earth was a perfect sphere because it was created by God, and God could create nothing imperfect. Langelee, however, was preaching to the converted, and William agreed with him that all mountains and hills were therefore an abomination and should be levelled. Raising his eyes heavenwards, Michael went to the kitchens to scavenge leftovers, while Bartholomew escorted Father Paul to the room he shared with William.
‘When a man loses a sense, such as sight, the body compensates,’ announced Paul, somewhat out of the blue.
‘I have heard that,’ said Bartholomew, steering him around a puddle. ‘I knew a deaf man once who was able to tell from shadows and smell when there was someone behind him.’
‘I hear exceptionally well,’ continued Paul, ‘and although you and Michael took care to keep your voices low before that silly debate started, I heard what was said. I also have an excellent sense of smell. Should you recover these bottles, I would be happy to see if I can detect similarities or differences in this poison for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this substance is foul, and I would not like anyone to smell it, in case they inhale noxious fumes. Presumably, the stuff is odourless anyway, or Armel and Grene would not have drunk it.’
‘True,’ said Paul. ‘Although my offer remains should you need it. But, regardless, take care, Matthew. Brother Michael is an ambitious man, and little will stop him attaining the power and influence he craves. He will not hesitate to enlist your help to gain it.’
Bartholomew stared at him. It was true that Michael, as Senior Proctor, regularly called on his medical knowledge to help him solve mysteries concerning violent deaths. But would Michael involve him in something dangerous to secure his own advancement? Bartholomew would like to believe not, but he knew Paul’s observation held more than a grain of truth. Michael’s ambition must be strong indeed for him to forgo the opportunity to be Master of a wealthy institution like Valence Marie on the strength of some unspecified promise for the future made by a Bishop whose own empire might crumble in the shifting grounds of political alliances at any moment.
Although Bartholomew could attest that Michael really had been unwell on the day of the Chancellor’s election, he had put up little resistance when Bartholomew had advised him to stay in bed. Bartholomew also knew the monk well enough to see that he had not been surprised in the slightest at the suggestion that the voting process might not have been honestly conducted. Was his illness that day a coincidence and, if so, did he know more about it than he was admitting? But it was surely in Michael’s interests to have Harling as Chancellor – rather than the unknown quantity represented by Tynkell – and Bartholomew did not believe that the fat monk would keep silent if he had tangible evidence that the election had been fixed.
He was about to reply in Michael’s defence, when Paul thrust something into his hand. Bartholomew stared down at the gold coins in astonishment.
‘I hear there is fever among the town’s poor,’ said Paul. ‘Perhaps this might go some way to providing medicines they might need.’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘It would, indeed. But you cannot give me all this!’
He tried to make Paul take the coins back, but the friar pushed his hand away. ‘I have recently come into a little money,’ he said enigmatically. ‘I would sooner it went to the poor than sat in my room. I plan to give the remainder to the leper hospital.’
‘Then, thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Gray this morning to buy medicines, and Bulbeck can arrange for deliveries of eggs and bread to those that need them. The reason why many take so long to regain their strength is because they cannot afford the proper food.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Paul. ‘You believe the well in Water Lane is responsible?’
Bartholomew nodded, forgetting Paul could not see. ‘I have never encountered a fever quite like this – except once in Greece when a brook was fouled because a goat had died in it further upstream. But the Water Lane well is protected by a wall and a cover, and it is impossible for an animal to fall in. The only explanation I can think of is that the raised level of the river has invaded the well – the river became flooded around the same time that the fever claimed its first victim.’
They turned as a messenger was allowed through the gate and came racing across the yard towards them.
‘Brother Michael?’ he asked of Paul, and stopped dead as Paul’s opaque blue eyes turned towards him. ‘Where can I find Brother Michael?’
‘In the kitchens,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you have a message for him from the Bishop?’
The messenger nodded vigorously. ‘And then I must deliver the same message to the Vice-Chancellor. There was an attack yesterday on a party travelling from Ely to Cambridge for the installation. Three clerks lie dead. And among the injured is Chancellor Tynkell.’
Chapter 4
Bartholomew stared at the messenger in horror. While the road from Cambridge to London was dangerous, the one between Cambridge and Ely had always been comparatively safe from outlaws. The Bishop of Ely was a powerful man, and usually ensured the routes between his Abbey and the towns and villages with which he needed to communicate were well patrolled.
‘How many have been injured? How badly hurt?’ he asked.
The messenger shrugged. He was a young man and, judging from his rough clothes and casual manner, not someone regularly employed by the Bishop – the Bishop set great store by appearances and his staff usually wore liveries.