‘That would be a good enough reason to stay behind locked gates in itself,’ said Walter without the flicker of a smile. ‘But I do not think they have come to sing: I think they have come to fight.’
‘Fight?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would they want to fight? I plan to reinstate them as soon as I have resolved this business with Runham. I should have done it before, but first I was ill, and then I was busy.’
‘They do not know that, do they?’ Walter pointed out. ‘But they are outside, and they look as though music is the farthest thing from their minds.’
A flight of steep, narrow steps led to the top of the wall that separated the College from Foul Lane. Bartholomew climbed it quickly, and was startled to see that Walter was right: there was a large gathering of townsfolk outside the College gates. None of them carried weapons as far as he could see, and he supposed that they had only come to beg for the reinstatement that Michael proposed to arrange anyway. They did not seem to be the menacing throng that Walter had claimed.
‘You should talk to them,’ he said to Michael, climbing down again. ‘Tell them that the next practice will be at the usual time, and I imagine they will disperse quite peacefully.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, striding towards the gate. Before he could reach it, there was a tremendous hammering. He stopped and gazed at Bartholomew in surprise.
‘Michaelhouse!’ came a loud voice from the other side of the wall. ‘Open up.’
‘Who is it?’ demanded Walter in an unsteady voice. Standing well to one side, he eased open the small grille in the door that would allow him to see out.
‘It is me and Adam de Newenham,’ came Robert de Blaston’s voice. ‘And a few others who are prepared to stand by us and see justice done. We want our money for working on your buildings.’
‘You said tomorrow,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘Then we will have a week’s wages for every man at the rate agreed by Master Runham.’
‘But we want all of it,’ shouted Blaston. ‘We want the entire month’s pay in advance – today, not tomorrow.’
‘Michaelhouse will pay you for a week,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That is already twice what you would have earned from Bene’t.’
‘We have heard rumours – put about by your own servants – that Michaelhouse was robbed when Runham died,’ shouted Blaston. ‘We do not trust you to pay us later. We want all our money now.’
Walter immediately started to inspect his fingernails, while one of the cooks who had been listening to the exchange seemed to be similarly guilt-stricken. Bartholomew did not blame either of them: they had been summarily dismissed after years of service, and it was only human nature to gossip and gripe about it in the taverns – and to speculate that the College did not have the money to pay for the services it had requested.
‘It is not common practice to pay everything in advance,’ argued Michael. ‘We will pay you for the week of work that you have already done, and then you can return to Bene’t. The scholars there are keen for you to complete their building first. You can finish ours later.’
‘The rumours were right!’ cried Newenham in disbelief. ‘You do not have the funds to pay us what we are due.’
‘I will not shriek out this matter with you like the constable of a besieged castle,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I will open the door, and you and Blaston can enter. We will discuss this like civilised men, not like vendors at a fish market.’
Reluctantly, Walter opened the gate to admit Blaston and Newenham, flinching as though he anticipated the horde outside might come crashing in. Michael’s beadle, Meadowman, was with them, white-faced and tense as he contemplated the widening rift between the University that paid his wages and the town in which he lived.
Curious scholars had gathered in the yard, and they ringed Michael and the two carpenters, watching the exchange with interest. The other Fellows arrived, too, Langelee in a foul enough mood to join in any fight going, and Clippesby and Suttone, unused to the occasional spats between town and University, looking nervous. William was gripping a heavy bible like a lethal weapon, and Bartholomew had the unnerving impression that he was either about to pronounce the start of a holy war or hurl the book at someone and brain them with it.
‘Oh, hello, Doctor,’ said Blaston amiably to Bartholomew as he spotted the physician. ‘Did I tell you that my Yolande was very pleased with her ribbon?’
‘What is this?’ demanded William, glaring challengingly at Bartholomew. ‘You gave Yolande de Blaston a gift? I thought she was a whore.’
‘Only on certain nights of the week,’ objected Blaston, offended.
‘Then what is that smell?’ demanded William, gazing around him with the glare of a fanatic. ‘I detect the unmistakable odour of brothel!’
Bartholomew moved away from him.
‘And how would you know, Father?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘You have some personal experience of brothels, do you? Perhaps you can recommend me a couple.’
‘Come into our hall,’ said Kenyngham quickly to the craftsmen, sensing a confrontation in the making that had nothing to do with wages and broken contracts. ‘Share some wine with us, and we will discuss this in a dignified way.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Newenham hastily. ‘We hear that Michaelhouse has laid in a supply of Widow’s Wine. I would not drink that stuff if I were dying of thirst in a desert.’
‘It is a splendid brew,’ said William indignantly. ‘It is a good, honest man’s drink, not this weak and watery rubbish that I hear is served in other Colleges. I must see about ordering more of it.’
‘We did not come here to talk about wine,’ said Newenham impatiently. ‘We came because we want our money. We want the ninety pounds right now – for the supplies that we will have to buy and for our labour over the next three weeks, as well as what we are already owed.’
‘It is not customary to pay for work before it is completed,’ argued Michael again. ‘I can assure you that our College–’
‘Show us, then,’ interrupted Blaston. Michael regarded him uncertainly. ‘Give us our week’s wages now, and show us the rest. We heard it was all in a large coffer in Master Runham’s room. Show us this coffer, and we will be back within the hour with our tools to complete the work we started. We only want to make sure we will not be cheated.’
‘Michaelhouse does not cheat people,’ began William, offended. Kenyngham put a cautionary hand on his shoulder to quieten him.
‘Please,’ said Suttone, stepping forward and raising his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Michaelhouse scholars are honest men, and none of us has any intention of cheating you.’
‘No?’ demanded Blaston. ‘Then show us the gold.’
‘We are clerics,’ continued Suttone, in the same reasonable tones. ‘Friars and monks. I promise you we are honourable men who will see you are paid what you agreed with Runham. Even if I have to work as a common scribe in St Mary’s Church for the rest of my life, I assure you that Michaelhouse will make good its debts.’
Blaston gazed at him, aware of the sincerity in the Carmelite’s voice. ‘Then show us the gold, Father. Prove to us that you have it. That is all we are asking.’
‘When Master Runham died, we thought it was unsafe to have so much money in one place,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘so we deposited it with various people around the town. We cannot show it to you, because it is no longer here.’
‘Lies!’ spat Newenham. He turned to Blaston. ‘The rumours were true: Michaelhouse will not pay us at the rate we were promised. They want to give us a week’s money, when we were promised four times as much. I am not standing here to have my intelligence insulted!’