‘And what would you know of such things?’ asked Bartholomew, closing his eyes. ‘You are not a love-sick woman of twenty-two – as Matilde pointed out to us recently.’
Michael stood to close the window shutters. A wind had picked up, and was sending chilly blasts across the room, sending parchments and scrolls tumbling from the table onto the floor. When he turned around again, Bartholomew was asleep.
The scrawny cockerel, which Agatha fed on kitchen scraps, crowed yet again outside Bartholomew’s window and woke him up. Exasperated, he hurled a boot at the shutter, hoping the sudden thump would be sufficient to drive the bird away without his needing to climb out of bed to see to it. It was pitch dark in his chamber, and he was certain it could not yet be time to rise for mass. He was just allowing himself to slide back into the uncertain area between sleep and wakefulness, when Michael tiptoed into his room.
‘It is morning, Matt!’ he whispered. ‘Although you might not believe it. It is dark and cold, and no time for sane men to be up and about.’
‘Then go back to bed and leave me alone,’ mumbled Bartholomew, pulling the blanket over his head in an attempt to escape the cold draught that flooded the chamber as Michael opened the window shutters. There was a flapping sound as the cockerel was startled into removing itself to crow outside someone else’s quarters.
‘I will have that thing in a stew with onions one of these days,’ muttered Michael viciously. ‘It is the third time this month it has kept me awake half the night. But come on, Matt, or we will be late. Do not look so irritable! You said you would take mass duties today, because Father William did your turn while you were enjoying yourself at Denny.’
Still half asleep, Bartholomew hauled himself out of bed, and hopped from foot to foot on the icy flagstones while he washed and shaved. He grabbed a clean shirt with frozen fingers, and struggled into it, tugging hard enough to rip the stitches in one sleeve when it clung to his wet skin. It was several moments before he located his leggings in the dark and, by the time he was ready, Michael had already left for the church. Racing along the lane as fast as he could in a vain attempt to warm himself up, he almost collided with the solemn procession of scholars from Physwick Hostel, also making their way to St Michael’s Church for the early morning service.
Michael had been unable to light the temperamental lamp, and was fumbling around the chancel in the dark, grumbling to himself, and swearing foully when he stubbed his toe against the sharp corner of Master Wilson’s marble tomb.
‘That man continues to be a bane in my life, even though he is five years dead!’ the monk snapped, pushing Bartholomew out of his way as he groped towards the altar.
There was a loud crash that reverberated around the silent building, and made several of the Physwick scholars jump and cross themselves hurriedly. Michael’s stream of obscenities grew more expressive as he realised he had knocked over the vase of flowers Runham insisted on leaving on his cousin’s grave. Bartholomew lit the lamp quickly, and went to the monk’s rescue before he did any more damage. While he gathered up the wilting blooms and shoved them back into the now dented jug, Michael slapped the sacred vessels on the altar in an undisguised display of temper, limping far more than was necessary, and not always favouring the same foot.
Michael had completed his preparations and Bartholomew had just kicked the flowers that remained on the floor out of sight under a bench, when the Michaelhouse procession entered the church, sleepy and shivering in their scholar’s tabards – with the exception of Alcote, who was clad in a gorgeous, fur-lined cloak that an earl would have been proud to wear.
Father William’s leather-soled sandals skidded in the water that had been spilled from the vase, and he gazed up at the roof in concern, seeking signs of another leak. Runham frowned when he saw the state of his blooms, as many stalks pointing upwards as flower heads, and Bartholomew heard him muttering disparaging remarks about the parish children who sometimes played in the church when it was empty.
Because it was the festival of the Conversion of St Paul, and therefore a feast day, a few parishioners had dragged themselves from their beds to attend the mass. Most of them were members of Michael’s choir, present because the College provided oatmeal and sour ale to anyone who sang on special occasions. Also present were Thomas Deschalers and his niece Julianna. Julianna stood at the front of the small congregation, watching everything with open interest. She caught Bartholomew’s eye and gave him a wink, and then did the same to Langelee. Afraid that the philosopher would see her smiling at him so brazenly and start some kind of fight over it, Bartholomew studiously avoided looking at her for the remainder of the service.
When it was over, he waited until he was sure her attentions were fixed on Langelee, and then slipped past her quickly to walk back to Michaelhouse, without waiting for his colleagues. As he shoved open the wicket door, Walter started guiltily, and Agatha’s cockerel flapped out from under his arm. It rushed across the yard in a huff of bristling feathers and disappeared over the orchard wall. Bartholomew said nothing, although he suspected that he and Michael were not the only ones that the irritating bird was keeping from their sleep.
Master Kenyngham’s procession – with the marked absence of Langelee – was not long in following, and Walter went to ring the bell for breakfast. Bartholomew was in his room, putting dirty clothes in a pile for Cynric to take to the laundry, and folding the others, when the book-bearer tapped on the door.
‘A messenger has just arrived to say that Master Stanmore’s steward returned with Egil’s body late last night,’ said the Welshman. ‘Master Stanmore and your sister have spent the night in town, and he wants you and Brother Michael to go to his premises immediately.’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the warm oatmeal flavoured with honey and cinnamon that would be waiting for him in the hall. ‘Can it not wait a while?’
‘It sounded urgent,’ said Cynric. ‘Master Stanmore would not issue such a demand lightly.’
Bartholomew sighed and told Cynric to fetch Michael, who was already at his place at the breakfast table. He waited in the yard and shivered. It was beginning to rain: the dry spell of the past two days seemed to be over, and the weather was reverting to its customary dampness. He leaned against the wall and kicked absently at the weeds that grew around the door. He saw Father Paul walking hesitantly from his room to the hall, and he went to offer him his arm when the blind friar skidded in the mud.
Paul smiled. ‘How cold you are!’ he exclaimed, taking Bartholomew’s hand in both of his.
‘A problem with winter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially with no fires anywhere and Alcote the only one of us with enough money to buy wood to burn.’
‘Then you should inveigle yourself an invitation to his room,’ said Paul wisely. ‘Not only does he have roaring fires, but he has a lamp and comfortable chairs with woollen rugs.’
‘He is still indignant about three logs he thinks I stole,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. It was a shame, though: it would be worth enduring Alcote’s company for the pleasure of sitting in a comfortable chair by a fire with a lamp to read by.
‘Brother Michael took those logs,’ said Paul. ‘I quite clearly heard his distinctive puffing as he wrested with the stable door the night they disappeared. I put Alcote right about that, although you should not allow yourself to take the blame for things Michael does.’
Bartholomew smiled, amused that Paul should consider him in need of advice about how to deal with Michael.