‘I knew it would not be long before you joined me,’ she said. ‘I am only surprised the rest of the Fellows are not here, too, leaving that fat old slug to his own devices.’
‘I do hope you are not referring to our noble Master,’ said Suttone mildly. He took a deep draught of the ale, and then refilled his cup. ‘This is good, Agatha. Did you brew it yourself?’
Agatha favoured him with a coy smile. ‘You know how to flatter a woman, Master Suttone. But I buy ale from the Carmelite Friary for us servants; the College brewer provides that cloudy stuff that the scholars drink.’
‘The servants drink better ale than we do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
Agatha cackled. ‘You lot down anything I decide to put on the dinner table, but we servants are a little more discriminating. Only the best ale appears for our meals. Since you pay us such miserable wages, we have to reward ourselves in other ways.’
‘Clippesby told me that you attended a fatal accident at Bene’t last week,’ said Suttone to Bartholomew, as he settled himself comfortably on a stool near the hearth. ‘Is that true, or is it something he has imagined?’
‘It is true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wish I had not, though, because the colleague who sat with Raysoun as he died claimed he had been pushed, while everyone else seems convinced he fell. Then, two days later, this colleague also died – in circumstances that are suspicious, to say the least – and so I do not know what to believe.’
Suttone regarded him gravely. ‘You think this colleague may have been murdered because he claimed Raysoun was pushed? Lord, Matthew! That is a nasty business!’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Bene’t does seem to have some problems.’
‘Clippesby was supposed to take a Fellowship at Bene’t,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘Raysoun, the man who fell – or was pushed – from the scaffolding, had some connection with the Dominicans at Huntingdon, where Clippesby hails from. Clippesby told me that Raysoun arranged him an interview with the Master of Bene’t, but said that the meeting did not go well.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Suttone shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. Clippesby seems to believe that the Master took against him for some undetermined reason. Personally, I suspect that the Master had some reservations regarding Clippesby’s suitability, and so recommended he apply to Michaelhouse instead.’
Agatha gave a guffaw of laughter. ‘I must tell Brother Michael that one! The subtlety of that move by Bene’t against another College will make him smile.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would only find it amusing if Michaelhouse had foisted an “unsuitable” student on Bene’t, not the other way around.’
‘Clippesby told me that he was shocked when he saw Raysoun,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, the man had been a cheerful sort of fellow, given to playing practical jokes on his friends. But when Clippesby met him recently, he said he had changed. He had become gloomy and listless, and drank more than he used to.’
‘Perhaps drinking and gloominess are connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems wine led poor Justus to take his own life.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham’s book-bearer who came from Lincoln. It is a pity he died: I would like to have met a man from my own city.’
‘Justus had Bene’t connections, too,’ put in Agatha. ‘His cousins are the two Bene’t porters, Osmun and Ulfo. Justus wanted to work at Bene’t when he first came from Lincoln a year ago, but they had no money to pay an additional porter, so he went to work for Runham instead.’
‘Langelee also seems to have an association with Bene’t,’ said Suttone. ‘If I had a penny for every time he told me he was going to visit Simekyn Simeon (the Duke of Lancaster’s man) at Bene’t, I would be a rich man.’
‘And I have Bene’t connections, do not forget,’ said Agatha. ‘I have a cousin who is a cook there, and he has been pressing me to honour Bene’t with my services.’
‘I hope you do not,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled at her. ‘Where would Suttone and I go on a cold winter’s night for good ale and entertaining company?’
Agatha puffed herself up. ‘True. Michaelhouse would not survive long without me here to oversee matters. But Bene’t is offering me twice the salary that you pay, and I get a bigger room. It knows how to treat its valued members of staff.’
‘I could have a word with Runham, and see whether we can afford to give you more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are right: we should pay you what you deserve.’
Agatha reached out and chucked him under the chin. ‘You are a kind man, Matthew. I will miss you most of all if I leave. But I cannot say that I relish the prospect of remaining here with that Runham at the helm. He is like a great fat spider, spinning webs to ensnare anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. And I will never forgive him for what he did to Father William today.’
‘That was an unedifying incident,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Father William is not an easy man to like, but he is loyal, open and I think generous underneath all his religious bluster.’
‘Michaelhouse will not be the same without him,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Still, perhaps it will all blow over in time. Then William can come back and make his apologies to Runham.’
‘William can apologise all he likes,’ said Suttone. ‘But Runham will never allow him to make his peace. I saw the triumph in Runham’s eyes when William struck him: he knew at that point that he had the excuse he needs to rid himself of the man.’
‘But why would Runham want William to leave?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is a reliable teacher and his students seldom cause us any trouble.’
Suttone and Agatha exchanged a mystified glance.
‘I am surprised you need to ask that, Matthew,’ said Agatha. ‘I have heard you complain often enough that you cannot teach while William rants and raves in the hall.’
‘And his fanatical dislike of the Dominicans may prove dangerous for Michaelhouse,’ added Suttone. ‘It is not good to harbour men who hate another Order within our walls in as uneasy a town as Cambridge. It would not do for Michaelhouse to become the focus of an attack by Dominicans enraged by claims of heresy by our resident Franciscan.’
‘But it is irrelevant now, anyway,’ said Agatha, staring into the dying embers of the fire. ‘William has been driven out. Which of you will be next, I wonder?’
The following day saw the first sunshine they had experienced for days. Bartholomew woke at dawn, heartened to see the streaks of pale blue and gold striping the banks of grey clouds. He walked with the others to mass in St Michael’s Church, watching the windows as the first delicate strands of sunshine began to dapple the chancel floor. He was less sanguine when the same sun caught the gilt on Wilson’s grotesque effigy and set it glittering and gleaming like some pagan idol, but tried to ignore it and concentrate on the reading from the Old Testament.
When the mass was over, he peeled off from the end of the procession and walked across the courtyard to check on Michael. The monk was sleeping, although a number of empty dishes suggested that Agatha had already brought him his breakfast. He stirred, and muttered something about Yolande de Blaston, the prostitute. Afraid he might hear something he would rather not know, Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and joined his colleagues in the hall.
The uninspiring meal – watery oatmeal and equally watery ale – was eaten in silence, while the Bible Scholar read about the trials and tribulations of King David. Runham’s own meal was supplemented with some raisins and a bowl of nuts from his personal supplies. Kenyngham seemed sad and distracted, barely touching his food and not even listening to the sacred words of the Bible Scholar, which suggested to Bartholomew that he was deeply unhappy. Langelee was nursing yet another of his gargantuan wine-induced headaches, and was irritable with the harried servant who single-handedly struggled to attend the Fellows – Runham had dismissed his two assistants.