‘I said – several times – that you should not waste your time with Dympna, but you did not listen, and preferred to consider Godric’s interpretations. I tried to stop you from following a futile line of enquiry without betraying Dympna, but you ignored my efforts.’
‘You were Dympna’s “keeper” until recently,’ said Michael, unmoved by the reprimand. ‘Did you lend Norbert money?’
‘No,’ said Ailred shortly. ‘Norbert was not a worthy cause.’
‘Why did he receive messages from Dympna, then?’ pressed Michael.
Ailred looked tired. ‘I did not see these missives, so cannot tell you anything about them, other than to assure you that my Dympna did not send them. Perhaps Godric is right: there is a woman called Dympna who likes to send decadent young men messages begging secret meetings. It is an unusual name, but someone may have christened a daughter after the saint, I suppose.’
‘There is another matter I would like to discuss,’ said Michael. ‘I understand you are from a village near Lincoln.’
‘Yes. I often think about Lincoln, and how much better it is than Cambridge. Its cathedral is the most splendid–’
‘You are from Fiscurtune,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And Fiscurtune is a village that has suffered the recent death of someone who was born there – a relative of yours. James Fiscurtune had the misfortune to be stabbed by a fishmonger named Walter Turke. I find it a curious coincidence that Turke happened to die while he was skating. He is obviously as clumsy as you are talented.’
‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ said Ailred, standing and testing the thong he had just repaired. ‘I know neither Walter Turke nor John Fiscurtune.’
‘Precisely!’ said Michael in triumph. ‘The murdered man’s name was John Fiscurtune, not James. I knew you would hear the correct name and not the one I spoke. You do know him.’
‘I do not,’ said Ailred stiffly, although his denial was unconvincing.
‘You lied to us,’ Michael went on relentlessly. ‘You claimed you were with your students the evening St Michael’s Church was invaded, but you were not. Why did you feel the need for dishonesty? What are you trying to hide from us?’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Ailred, sounding panicky. ‘If you are referring to Godric, then you should know he has not been well. I have ordered him not to join the winter games today, so the warmth of indoors will help him recover his damaged wits.’
‘What is wrong with him, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if Ailred had thought warmth would heal Godric, then he should have lit a fire. The hostel had been bitterly cold.
Ailred made an impatient gesture. ‘I am not a physician! All I know is he sometimes imagines things. There are other Ovyng scholars besides Godric. Ask them whether I was out that night.’
‘There would be no point,’ said Michael. ‘They have been instructed to say you were in.’
Ailred regarded him with dislike. ‘You are accusing me of grave offences, and you are insulting my integrity. I will not stand here and listen to this.’
‘Then tell the truth,’ said Michael harshly. ‘I know you are lying. Where did you go that night? Was it on Dympna’s business? Or was it some errand of your own?’
‘This is outrageous!’ shouted Ailred, finally angry. ‘I shall complain to the Chancellor about you. I am the principal of a University hostel, and I will not be questioned as though I were a common criminal or one of your secular students caught in some minor mischief.’
‘We are not talking about minor mischief,’ said Michael coldly. ‘We are talking about murder and deceit on an enormous scale.’
Ailred glanced across the river, and bent down, as though to brush something from his gown. Then, before Bartholomew or Michael could do anything to stop him, he had pushed off and was scooting down the river at a furious pace.
‘After him, Matt!’ ordered Michael in a shriek. ‘Do not just stand there!’
Bartholomew jumped on to the ice, but feet were no match for skates, and the physician’s awkward slithering was no match for Ailred’s speed and power. The Franciscan rounded a bend on the river, and was gone from sight.
CHAPTER 11
Michael was still furious at Ailred’s escape the following day, claiming he would have had the answers to many questions if the physician had managed to seize the Franciscan before he could skate away. Bartholomew disagreed. He did not think Ailred had been in the mood for throwing light on Michael’s mysteries, and believed the friar would simply have continued to lie. It came down to Godric’s word against his principal’s, and Bartholomew sensed Godric might not keep to his story anyway – he would capitulate, and declare that Ailred had been in after all. Loyalty was important in hostels and Colleges.
It was almost noon, and Bartholomew had spent the morning trailing around after Michael in a futile attempt to discover where Ailred might have gone. They had visited Ovyng Hostel twice and the Franciscan Friary once, but no one had any idea where a fleeing Grey Friar might go in an emergency. They all said much the same: Ailred was a quiet man, respected and liked by his contemporaries, whose life had revolved completely around his hostel and his students.
‘Only another four days,’ growled Suttone irritably. The bell had just chimed to announce the midday meal, and he was walking across the yard with Bartholomew and Michael, just back from their futile hunt. ‘Then this ridiculous charade will be over.’
‘You mean the season of misrule?’ asked Michael. ‘It has not been too bad this year. The cold weather spoiled some of the wilder schemes, and the fun is wearing too thin now for there to be many more surprises in store for us. Some students are already settling back to their studies.’
‘Quenhyth never stopped his,’ said the Carmelite in disgust. ‘Smug little beggar.’
‘I thought his obsession with learning would endear him to you,’ said Bartholomew, surprised the dour Carmelite so disliked Quenhyth. The student was dull, pedantic and single-minded, which were traits Suttone usually approved in a scholar. ‘He has not engaged in any of the antics surrounding the Lord of Misrule.’
‘Yes and no,’ replied Suttone. ‘His character makes people want to tease him. Indeed, his very presence in Michaelhouse has been the cause of pranks that would not have taken place had he been gone. We must remember to send him away next year – especially if Deynman is reelected.’
They walked into the hall and went to the servants’ screen, where large pots of food were waiting to be distributed. The Fellows were still obliged to serve the others on occasion, and some students continued to occupy the high table, although many had reclaimed their own seats in the body of the hall. The novelty of eating with Deynman had completely worn off for Agatha, however, and she declined his invitations, claiming that she was bored with the prattle of silly boys. She had reverted to dining in the kitchen, along with the rest of the servants.
‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded Michael crossly, snatching up a dish of something that was coloured a brilliant emerald. ‘It will take us ages to serve everyone without him. And what in God’s name is this?’ His attention had been caught by the contents of the bowl.
‘Deynman said all food served today should be green,’ said Bartholomew, laughing when he saw the mouldy bread that Agatha had piled into a basket and the platter of rancid pork that had been prepared. ‘He should have chosen a different colour, because if anyone willingly eats this stuff he deserves to die of poisoning.’
‘That will teach Deynman to make life difficult for Agatha, with his ridiculous demands and orders,’ said Wynewyk in delight. ‘Decaying meat, mouldy bread, cabbage and pea soup with added colouring. It is all green, but Deynman did not specify it also had to be edible!’