Bartholomew closed his eyes tiredly. At least now that Runham was dead the College should settle back into the routine of its everyday affairs, especially if Kenyngham were to be Master again, to heal with kindness and understanding the rifts and squabbles engendered by Runham.
‘Come on!’ shouted Blaston, turning to the watching scholars. ‘We can have that fat monk out in a few moments, if there are willing hands to help.’
Bartholomew and Langelee moved forward with the others, while the carpenters carefully directed the removal of each timber, so that the whole operation was conducted safely and efficiently and none of the scholars suffered so much as a splinter. Lights flickered like great fireflies as Kenyngham, Clippesby and Suttone held lamps and the only sounds were the detailed orders of the two carpenters. It was not long before the mess of wreckage was sufficiently untangled to allow Michael to climb out. Brushing dust from his habit, he stepped daintily across broken timbers and smashed tiles to the safety of the courtyard beyond.
‘I thought you were in your room when that lot came down,’ said Langelee, as he offered the monk a cup of wine to wash the dust from his throat. ‘Kenyngham told me you had gone to rest.’
‘I had,’ said Michael, drinking deeply and holding out the cup to be refilled. Langelee grimaced but did as he was bidden. ‘I was fast asleep when Matt woke me with all that yelling. I was on my way down the stairs to see what the fuss was about when the scaffolding fell.’ He gazed up at the ruins of his room and shuddered. ‘I see I would have slept all too well had I been lying in my bed when that happened.’
‘I said it was all going ahead too quickly,’ reiterated Langelee, snatching the cup from Michael before he could demand yet more wine. ‘I know about buildings – the Archbishop of York likes to raise them when he can get the money – and I told Runham this was all moving forward far too fast.’
‘I need a drink,’ said Michael with a sigh, as though the two cups provided by Langelee had never existed. ‘I cannot bear to watch my lovely College in such a state. Come on, Matt. The Brazen George awaits.’
‘We cannot go to a tavern and leave the others to do all the work,’ said Bartholomew, looking across to where students and Fellows alike still laboured over the fallen scaffolding.
‘They are stopping,’ said Michael, watching Blaston clap his hands and announce it was too late and too dark to manage anything more that night.
‘Good,’ said Langelee. ‘I will arrange some refreshment for everyone in the hall – assuming Michaelhouse has bothered to invest in optional extras, like food and wine, of course. There is still some Widow’s Wine left, but no one but William and I seem to like that.’ He strode away, hailing the cooks as he went.
‘Are you sure you are unharmed, Brother?’ asked Suttone anxiously, looking Michael up and down. ‘You are covered in dust.’
‘It will brush off,’ replied Michael. ‘And I am perfectly unharmed, thank you.’
‘Then I will go and ensure that Langelee does not turn his evening of refreshment into something that might be construed as a celebration of Runham’s death,’ said Suttone. ‘The students have been itching to do exactly that all day, and such an occasion would do Michaelhouse’s reputation no good at all.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ said Michael wearily. ‘I had not thought of that.’
‘I will enlist the help of Father William, if I can persuade him to leave his friary,’ said Suttone with a somewhat wicked grin. ‘He will not allow any unseemly debauchery.’
‘He still has not returned?’ asked Bartholomew.
Suttone shook his head. ‘According to Paul, he remains afraid of being accused of Runham’s murder. Still, perhaps the notion of students enjoying some refreshment without the benefit of his censuring eye will entice him out. I will send Deynman with a message urging him to come back.’
‘Good idea,’ said Michael.
Suttone looked concerned. ‘But you should rest, Brother, to ensure you do not suffer another bout of your recent illness. Your room is ruined, but you are welcome to use mine.’
‘You are most kind,’ said Michael, touched. ‘But the empty servants’ quarters will serve me for tonight.’ He watched Suttone hurry across the yard, calling for Deynman. ‘He is a good man, Matt. I wish there were more like him in Michaelhouse.’
‘Perhaps Paul will come back now that Runham is dead,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And at least Kenyngham will not leave for a while yet.’
‘I do not like that Clippesby,’ said Michael, turning to look at the Dominican, who seemed to be having a discussion with a bucket of mortar. ‘I am not sure he is sane. With scholars, it is sometimes difficult to tell, since academic eccentricity is often very close to plain old lunacy. But I need time to think, away from this place. How do I look? Am I too dusty to be seen in public?’
‘It is dark, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one will notice.’
Michael brushed himself down. ‘Lend me one of your cloaks – the good one, not that tatty thing with the moth-holes in it. And let us go forth to see what fare is on offer at the Brazen George tonight.’
As usual, the Brazen George offered a good many things that a man of Michael’s ample girth would have been wise to avoid. There was chicken baked in goose fat, sweet pastries swimming in a sickly sauce and saffron bread served with plenty of butter. Ignoring Bartholomew’s warning that such rich food would not be good for a man so soon out of his sickbed, Michael ordered it all, and settled down comfortably to enjoy it with his knife and horn spoon held like weapons and his face wearing a beam of pure contentment.
‘All we need to make the evening complete are a couple of ladies to keep us company,’ he said, smiling at Bartholomew, who was regarding the repast with the trepidation of a man too used to plain College food. ‘Perhaps we could send for Matilde.’
‘We are breaking the University’s rules just by being in a tavern after dark,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It would probably be prudent not to make matters worse by fraternising with prostitutes.’
‘I am the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael, taking a healthy mouthful of chicken. ‘I can fraternise with whomever I like – on University business, of course.’
They were sitting in a small chamber at the back of the tavern, which the innkeeper reserved for people who did not want to drink – or be seen drinking – with the rabble. It was a pleasant room, with its own fire. Its walls were colourfully and tastefully decorated with paintings, and there were clean, sweet-smelling rushes on the floor. Michael and Bartholomew had used it many times, and the monk did sufficient business in the Brazen George to ensure that it was his any time he requested it.
‘Well, Matt, that was an unpleasant accident,’ said Michael, taking another large mouthful of chicken and following it with a huge slurp of wine. He began to choke.
‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ said Bartholomew automatically, slapping the fat monk on the back. ‘If it was an accident. I am not so sure about that.’
‘What?’ gasped Michael, eyes watering. ‘Of course it was an accident. You heard what Langelee said. We all knew that Runham was forcing the pace of the building work too hard, and that corners were being cut. It all boils down to cheap materials, careless work and bad luck.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Those two scholars I almost caught sneaking out of Michaelhouse just before the collapse might have been the same two we saw the night Runham was elected. Remember what we considered then? That the Widow’s Wine may have been specially provided, so that those two could enter the College to do something while everyone was too intoxicated to notice?’
‘But we did not know what that “something” could be,’ Michael pointed out.