Bartholomew tore his gaze away from the Master just in time to see Langelee bring the poker down in a savage arc that was aimed at his head. He scrambled away, hearing the crunch of smashed wood as the blow destroyed one of the carved benches.
‘Stop!’ cried Kenyngham in dismay, trying to shake off Suttone. Wisely, Suttone maintained his restraining grip, knowing that a gentle old man like Kenyngham would be no match for the pugnacious Langelee. ‘You will hurt someone.’
‘Hurt? I am going to kill someone,’ Langelee howled furiously.
Bartholomew grabbed a stool and raised it to parry the next blow. The poker crashed down, iron meeting wood. His arms hurt from the force of the impact, and then the stool fell to pieces in his hands. He gazed at it in horror, then glanced up to see the hot hatred in Langelee’s eyes as the philosopher’s muscles bunched for another strike.
‘Langelee! Put that down!’ Michael’s imperious tones turned every head in the room, and Langelee faltered just long enough to allow Bartholomew to snatch the poker from him.
‘You are up and about again, are you?’ asked Runham coolly, sounding none too pleased.
Michael shoved Clippesby to one side, and gazed around him with cold green eyes. ‘This is a discreditable little tableau,’ he said, his voice conveying disgust. ‘Is this how you plan to run Michaelhouse, Master Runham? Will you allow your Fellows to brawl and threaten each other with lethal weapons, while you stand and watch like a blood-lusting peasant at a cockfight?’
Runham’s face hardened. ‘You forget who you are talking to, Brother. I am the Master of your College, and not a man to be insulted. And what did you expect me to do? You saw Langelee: he was out of control. There was nothing I could do to stop him.’
‘I stopped him,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if you were any kind of man, you would have done so, too. Even frail Master Kenyngham tried – you just stood there and laughed.’
‘Well, it is over now,’ said Runham carelessly. ‘Langelee is dismissed from Michaelhouse for being a married man – although I could equally well dismiss him for riotous behaviour – and Bartholomew is fined two shillings for brawling in the conclave.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘Matt was not brawling. He was scrambling to escape Langelee’s murderous onslaught. Any fool could see that.’
‘Bartholomew betrayed my trust,’ whispered Langelee, his voice soft with disbelief and hurt now that the fury had drained away. ‘How could he?’
‘It was not Matthew,’ said Kenyngham quietly. ‘It was me. I am afraid it just slipped out. It was that wretched wine that made me loose-tongued; I shall never drink the stuff again.’
‘You told Runham I was married?’ repeated Langelee slowly. ‘You?’
Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘At the feast. Master Runham wanted to know about the Fellows who would soon be under his fatherly eye, and he asked about your dalliance with Julianna. I told him that you had married her in Grantchester church, but that within a few weeks you had sought an annulment. I helped you to arrange it, if you recall.’
Langelee’s shoulders slumped and he left the conclave without a word. Runham regarded the remaining scholars with cool disdain.
‘I will not tolerate disobedience among my Fellows. You four – Bartholomew, Clippesby, Michael and Suttone – will be all who are left once Kenyngham goes. I shall expect total loyalty to me and the College, and if I find you lacking, I shall dismiss you, too. The new statutes that you signed yourselves give me the right to rid myself of anyone committing acts of dissension.’
Michael glowered, but said nothing, knowing there was no point. Bartholomew also remained silent, feeling too drained of emotion to argue. Kenyngham’s eyes brimmed with tears when he saw the sorry way his College was going, while Clippesby stood behind Runham and grinned and nodded like a half-wit.
‘But Langelee was loyal to you,’ Suttone pointed out reasonably. ‘He was doing his best to support you in what you wanted. It is unjust of you to send him away.’
‘The man is a lout,’ said Runham in distaste. ‘And do not preach to me about injustice, Suttone. I know all about you – about the missing gold from your friary in Lincoln, and who everyone believed stole it.’
Suttone gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you learn about that?’
‘Your name was cleared only because no one could prove you were guilty,’ said Runham. ‘And I know about Clippesby’s strange ailments, too – hearing voices in empty rooms and imagining himself to be an angel.’
‘What is this?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘No!’ cried Clippesby, his grin evaporating like rain on hot metal.
‘I had words with your Prior before you came here,’ said Runham spitefully, watching Clippesby’s face fall with dismay. ‘You have a vivid imagination, it seems, and spent some time being treated for madness.’
‘But not recently,’ said Clippesby in a small voice, shooting agitated glances at the other Fellows. ‘I am well now. Ask Master Raysoun of Bene’t. He knows.’
‘But Raysoun is dead, Clippesby,’ said Runham softly. ‘We do not possess your abilities to commune with those in the next world.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ cried Clippesby in agitation. ‘I forgot Raysoun was dead. It had slipped my mind. I am not a lunatic!’
‘Of course you are not,’ said Suttone kindly, shooting Runham a warning glance. Clippesby seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘Come and sit next to the fire. It is all right.’
‘I am well now,’ said Clippesby again, sounding pathetically bewildered.
‘So you are,’ said Runham, patting his shoulder paternally, his abrupt change of behaviour leading Bartholomew to wonder whether Clippesby was the only one who had been assessed for the state of his wits. Runham beamed suddenly. ‘Well, the day is wearing on, and I have many things to do if I want to make Michaelhouse a College to be proud of. I shall be in my chambers.’
With that, he turned abruptly, and strode out.
Michael had been alerted to the trouble by Bulbeck, who had heard Langelee yelling in the conclave, and although Michael was keen to discuss the matter in the privacy of their rooms, Bartholomew was too disillusioned and dismayed. He felt sick with Runham’s machinations and spiteful revelations, and knew he would be unable to concentrate on his treatise on fevers if he tried to work. With nothing else to do in Michaelhouse, he strode across the yard and hauled open the gate, intending to escape the College for a while. He walked briskly up the High Street, slipped through the Trumpington Gate while the guards were busy with a family of tinkers who wanted access to the town, and started to stride along the road that led to the village where his sister lived. He wanted only to be away from the town and the tense, accusing atmosphere of his College.
It was only just evening, but darkness fell early in November. The trackway stretched ahead of him as he walked, black as ink, so that once or twice he felt the soft wetness of dew-laden grass under his feet rather than the stony mud of the path. He knew very well it was not wise to be out alone on one of the main roads, but he was angry and despondent enough not to care. He had a small knife in his medicine bag, which he pulled out and carried in his hand, and there were always the heavy childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him – a well-placed blow from those would make most would-be robbers think again.
He rubbed a hand through his hair as he walked, wondering how long Runham had harboured such deep hatred towards his colleagues. He could not imagine what the man had against the mild and gentle Kenyngham, although he understood his dislike of Langelee well enough. And it had been a cheap trick to use some ancient accusation against Suttone and make a weapon of Clippesby’s past illness to ensure their co-operation. Runham was despicable, he thought, kicking viciously at a weed by the roadside.