This raised a cheer from Bartholomew’s lads, although Michael’s monastics maintained a disapproving silence.
‘But that was my idea,’ cried Suttone, dismayed. ‘I forgot to mention it in my speech just now, but I was the one who first suggested–’
‘You had your turn, Suttone,’ interrupted Kolvyle sharply. ‘So shut up and allow Godrich the same respect he afforded you by listening to him in silence.’
He indicated that Godrich should resume, nodding encouragingly. The King’s Hall man spoke well, and Suttone shrivelled further with every word. Bartholomew felt for him, especially as Godrich was a noted hater of women, and had started his campaign by mocking Suttone’s recommendation that the rules regarding them be relaxed.
‘There,’ said Kolvyle, when Godrich had finished. ‘Are there any questions before we end this session and move on to the next stage?’
‘I have one,’ said Thelnetham mildly. ‘Have you forgotten me?’
Kolvyle regarded him disparagingly. ‘You want to speak, do you? Very well, but make it brief. We cannot waste time.’
It was rude, as well as patently unfair, but the Gilbertine rose to the challenge, and laughter soon reverberated around the hall. Kolvyle’s face was stony, while the other candidates were openly envious at the applause that marked the end of Thelnetham’s speech – a short one, because the Gilbertine also knew when to stop. Then Bartholomew felt someone tugging at his sleeve. It was Clippesby, red-faced, sweaty and breathless.
‘I went to my friary, as Langelee ordered,’ he whispered. ‘And I got talking to a couple of cockerels. It seems that Hopeman had a very fierce argument with Lyng on Thursday night, after which Lyng stalked off towards the Trumpington road.’
Michael frowned. ‘Are you telling us that Hopeman killed Lyng?’
‘No, Brother,’ replied Clippesby. ‘I am telling you that they quarrelled the night he died. The cockerels did not witness this fight themselves, though – Almoner Byri did, and they overheard him telling Prior Morden about it. Apparently, it was a very savage row, and threats were made …’
‘What threats?’ demanded Michael.
‘Hopeman said that he would sooner kill Lyng than let him be Chancellor – he genuinely believes that God guides his wild opinions, you see. The cockerels are afraid that Hopeman realised Lyng was the most popular candidate, and decided to eliminate him …’
‘Well, then,’ said Michael, ‘we had better visit Byri and have this tale from the horse’s mouth before tackling Hopeman with it.’
‘The horses were not there,’ said Clippesby seriously. ‘Just the cockerels. But wear your warmest cloaks. The wind is getting up again, and it is bitterly cold. Ethel says there will be snow soon.’
‘I will come with you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. He nodded towards the dais. ‘I do not think I can stand any more of this.’
Chapter 11
A Dominican Priory had been founded in Cambridge not long after that Order had first arrived in the country, and its founders had chosen a site east of the town, rather than in the centre, like the Carmelites, Austins and Franciscans. This meant it had been free to expand unfettered by constraints of space, and so was enormous. It was centred around its beautiful church, which rivalled St Mary the Great in size and splendour. Other buildings included a refectory and dormitories for its sixty or so priests, and a range of sheds, pantries, storerooms and stables.
The lay-brother who answered the gate invited them to wait by the fire in his lodge while he went to announce their arrival to Prior Morden. His kindness came with a caveat, though.
‘And no stealing my bread and cheese, Brother. I know exactly how much there is, and will notice if any is missing.’
‘He seems to have a very odd impression of me,’ said Michael when the man had gone. ‘Does he really imagine that I wander around the town scoffing whatever I happen to find?’
Eventually, they were conducted across the garden to the Prior’s House, an elegant edifice that had been built that summer, and that was larger than many hostels. It had a tiled roof, and its walls were stone. Michael had developed a mischievous habit of entering the old one by flinging open the door hard enough to startle its occupant – a practice that nearly always resulted in damage to the wall. However, Morden had evidently taken this into account when he had designed his new parlour, so Michael thrust open the door with his customary vigour, only to have it snap back at him, landing him a painful crack on the nose.
‘Do come in, Brother,’ said Morden, struggling to keep a straight face.
He was in company with Almoner Byri, a plump man with white hair, who leaned against the wall while tears of mirth rolled down his plump cheeks. Bartholomew saw the door had been fitted with a thin strip of metal, which meant it would always spring back at the opener – and the harder it was pushed, the more violently it would return. The Dominicans were famous for their love of practical jokes.
‘This is dangerous,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You could hurt someone.’
‘They have hurt someone,’ said Michael nasally. ‘I feel as though I have been punched, and the Senior Proctor can levy fines for that sort of thing.’
‘It is only a bit of fun,’ said Morden. He was sitting on a stool behind his desk, which had been piled high with cushions; his little legs swung in the empty space below them. ‘Where is your sense of humour?’
‘There is nothing amusing about visitors’ noses being mashed into the back of their skulls,’ growled Michael. ‘I have cautioned you about these pranks before.’
‘You are as bad as Hopeman,’ said Morden, rolling his eyes. ‘He is all grim business and no play, too. However, we only deployed that device when we heard you were here, Brother. My walls are new, and I do not want them dented by one of your forceful arrivals.’
‘Here is some wine to make you feel better,’ said Byri. He saw the monk’s eyes narrow, so took a sip himself. ‘Best quality claret. This is not another jest, I promise.’
Michael took the proffered goblet with ill grace, and plonked himself down on a bench. He should have known better, and squawked in shock when it tipped violently. Quick as lightning, Bartholomew grabbed the end that flew into the air, and preserved the monk’s dignity by sitting on it himself. Morden and Byri were openly disappointed.
‘I am here on a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Murder. It is not an occasion for merriment, so I suggest you desist with these foolish antics before you annoy me.’
Morden became serious. ‘My apologies, Brother. We are very sorry about Tynkell and Lyng. Both were good men, and Lyng would have made an excellent Chancellor.’
‘Yet you support Hopeman,’ Michael pointed out, ‘who will not.’
‘Yes, because he is a Dominican,’ explained Morden. ‘We cannot vote for Thelnetham or Suttone, because one is a Gilbertine and the other a Carmelite, while Godrich will not do at all.’
‘Why not?’ probed Michael.
Morden indicated that Byri should reply.
‘He has been bribing hostels to vote for him,’ obliged the almoner, although he spoke reluctantly; he was not a man for gossip. ‘But he was overheard saying that he cannot possibly honour all the pledges he has made, and will renege on most the moment he is in post.’
‘Then there is his friendship with Moleyns,’ added Morden. ‘I assume you know what happened in Stoke Poges all those years ago, when Moleyns was charged with the murder of Egidia’s uncle, but was acquitted?’
Michael nodded. ‘He chose the jury himself.’