He opened the door and heard voices within – the dissipated Vicar Frisby was talking to Thelnetham and Nicholas. The Gilbertine had added a length of puce silk, which he wore like a scarf, to his array of colourful accessories. The shade contrasted pleasingly with his purple brooch, and Bartholomew found himself thinking that Matilde would appreciate his sense of style. Or perhaps she would disapprove, given that canons were supposed to resist such vanities, and she was a devout woman. The fact that he was uncertain told him yet again that he no longer knew her as he once had.
‘I am canvassing for votes,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Frisby has just promised to support me.’
‘On my kinsman’s recommendation,’ said Frisby, giving the little secretary an affectionate pat on the back that almost sent him flying. ‘I trust his judgement.’
‘Good,’ said Nicholas, hobbling on his lame leg to regain his balance. ‘Because only a fool would opt for anyone else. Even Suttone, I am sorry to say. He is a nice man, but his views on women … well! We cannot have a lecher as Chancellor.’
‘Did you hear the speech I gave in St Andrew’s Church today, Matthew?’ asked Thelnetham with one of the superior smiles that Bartholomew found so irritating. ‘It received a standing ovation. My rivals cannot match me for eloquence, and that is all there is to it.’
‘Lyng can,’ said Nicholas, earning himself a hurt scowl. ‘But he seems to have left town, which is stupid, as no one will want a Chancellor who disappears at critical junctures.’
‘Will you back me, Matthew?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘We were friends at Michaelhouse, and I always considered you the best of all its members.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although ‘friends’ was not how he would have described their relationship – there had been some serious antagonism, nearly all of it arising from the Gilbertine’s barbed tongue. ‘But I cannot vote against another Fellow.’
‘I was a Fellow,’ said Thelnetham reproachfully. ‘And if Langelee had reinstated me, as I requested, then I would have been Michael’s pet candidate. Not Suttone.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, although he was sure that Michael would never have chosen Thelnetham, on the grounds that the Gilbertine was too intelligent to manipulate.
Thelnetham dropped his hectoring manner and became sincere. ‘I honestly believe that I can do some good, and I would like the opportunity to try. You know how seriously I take scholarship. I am the only one who will put it first – and it is why we are all here, after all.’
‘True,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘But–’
‘Our University is more important than blinkered allegiances,’ interrupted Thelnetham earnestly. ‘And if I win, I will give Suttone a post to salvage his wounded pride.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Official Plague Monitor, perhaps, given that he is so obsessed with it.’
‘I have been Chancellor’s secretary for six years,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘So I am better qualified than most to judge what is needed. And it is not Suttone.’
‘I am a lawyer, too,’ Thelnetham went on. ‘Which means I can handle complex legal matters. Suttone is a theologian, who has never run a College, let alone a University.’
They spoke convincingly, but Bartholomew’s hands were tied – College loyalty ran too deep in him, and Suttone was a better friend than Thelnetham would ever be. He settled for dispensing some helpful advice instead. He nodded to Thelnetham’s scarf.
‘That will lose you votes – it makes you appear rebellious and unsteady. And a manly stride, rather than a dainty mince, will give an impression of strength and purpose.’
Thelnetham sighed. ‘Nicholas says the same. I had hoped to run an honest campaign, where people see me as I am, but I suppose I had better yield to popular prejudice. It is a pity – I bought some lovely cerise hose this morning and was looking forward to showing them off.’
Frisby, who was taking a surreptitious swig from his wineskin, almost choked. ‘You do not want to be wearing pink stockings, man! People will think bad things.’
Bartholomew left them discussing it, and went to stand by Stanmore’s tomb, whispering the prayers that he hoped would shorten his kinsman’s sojourn in Purgatory. Then he left the church, eager now for the conclave fire. However, he had not taken many steps along Milne Street before he ran into Hopeman and his followers, who had been visiting the hostels along Water Lane. They clustered around him rather menacingly.
‘That sinful Lyng dares not show his face,’ Hopeman crowed. He held a lantern, which cast eerie shadows on his dark features and made him look sinister. ‘He knows he is no match for me. And Godrich is Satan’s spawn – I shall exorcise him if I see him out tonight.’
‘We carry the necessary equipment with us at all times,’ elaborated a disciple, hefting a sack that bulged. ‘We can be ready to combat Lucifer in a trice.’
‘The Devil would not have flown away if he had tackled me on the tower,’ declared Hopeman. ‘I would have vanquished him once and for all. And if you care anything for the safety of your soul, you will elect me next week.’
He did not wait for a reply, clearly thinking that no more needed to be said, and turned to rap on the door to White Hostel. He pounded with such vigour that he dislodged several icicles from the roof, causing his men to scatter in alarm. He stood firm though.
‘I am God’s chosen,’ he informed them loftily. ‘Nothing can harm me.’
Bartholomew hoped for his sake that he was right.
The physician was glad to reach Michaelhouse. He walked across the yard, feet crunching on frost, and glanced up at a sky that was splattered with stars, some brighter than he had ever seen them. He arrived at the conclave to find all the other Fellows there, some reading, the rest talking quietly. Kolvyle sat apart from them, as if he considered himself too good for their company. When Clippesby tried to draw him into an innocuous conversation about the College cat, the younger man stood abruptly, snapping shut the book he had been perusing.
‘I do not have time for idle chatter,’ he declared shortly. ‘Especially with lunatics.’
‘The cat is not a lunatic,’ objected Clippesby, stroking her silken head.
The other Fellows laughed, which drew a petulant scowl from Kolvyle and a look of hurt confusion from Clippesby. The cat purred and settled herself more comfortably on the Dominican’s knees. Kolvyle collided roughly with Bartholomew as their paths converged, but the physician had anticipated such a manoeuvre and was ready, so it was Kolvyle who staggered. The others laughed again, and Kolvyle stamped out furiously, slamming the door behind him.
Bartholomew poured himself some mulled ale and went to sit next to Suttone. There were crumbs down the front of the Carmelite’s habit, and he had not bothered to shave that day, so Bartholomew found himself comparing Suttone rather unfavourably to the cultivated Thelnetham. Or even to Hopeman, who was not relaxing by a fire, but busily working to secure himself more votes. If Suttone did win, he thought, it would be because Michael had engineered a victory, not because of the Carmelite’s own efforts.
When Michael came to join them, Bartholomew saw the solution to his conundrum regarding Isnard was at hand, and berated himself for not thinking of it sooner: Michael could tell Tulyet what the bargeman had confided. The moment Suttone went to pour himself more wine, leaving the two of them alone, Bartholomew took a deep breath and began to repeat what he had heard, phrasing his report with infinite care, so as not to reveal his source.