‘Did you see Peyn blanch when he saw that little imp?’ he chuckled. ‘He doubtless thought it was the Devil come to snatch his soul.’
‘We should have asked Shirwynk why he encouraged Frenge to attack King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Dickon had kept his distance for a little longer. ‘And why he consulted Stephen so soon after Frenge’s death.’
Michael nodded to where the lawyer stood not far away. ‘Shall we ask him instead?’
Stephen was so adept at twisting the law to suit the highest bidder that he was used to angry people ambushing him in the street, and was not in the slightest bit discomfited when the Senior Proctor bore down on him, all powerful bulk and flowing black habit. He smiled with smug complacency, an expression that Michael quickly determined to wipe off his face.
‘I understand that you are one of Anne de Rumburgh’s lovers,’ he announced, loudly enough to be heard by several merchants who were chatting nearby.
Stephen’s smirk promptly became a gape. ‘Who … how …’ he stammered.
‘I have my sources. Well? Is it true that you seduced the wife of a fellow burgess?’
Stephen grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him to where they could talk without an audience. ‘It only happened once,’ he whispered. ‘An isolated incident.’
‘Frenge was also one of her conquests,’ said Michael, not believing a word of it. ‘Did he know you were enjoying her favours as well?’
‘He was not!’ exclaimed Stephen. ‘She would never have accepted a man like him. The brewery he shared with Shirwynk might have made him wealthy, but he was hardly genteel.’
‘So you know her well enough to guess her habits,’ pounced Michael. He raised his hand when Stephen started to argue. ‘Never mind. I would rather hear what transpired when Shirwynk visited you on the day that Frenge died.’
‘You already know what transpired,’ snapped the lawyer. ‘Because I told you the last time we met: he asked me to abandon King’s Hall and represent him instead.’
‘Why would he do such a thing? Frenge was the one being sued.’
‘Yes, but any compensation that King’s Hall won would have come out of the brewery – the business that he and Frenge shared. Of course, he requires good legal advice.’
‘You do not consider it unethical to advise one party, then slither away to act for the other?’
Stephen glared at him. ‘I dislike your attitude, Brother. I shall certainly not be giving anything to your College now. Nor Gonville – they are not having my architecture books either.’
He stalked away before either scholar could ask what Gonville had done to earn his ire. Michael watched him go thoughtfully.
‘He said nothing to remove himself from my list of suspects, and neither did Shirwynk and Peyn. As far as I am concerned, any of them might have murdered Frenge.’
With every University scholar and most wealthy townsmen in attendance, St Mary the Great was packed to the gills. Everyone overheated in the thick robes that comprised their Sunday best, and tempers frayed, especially when rival hostels or Colleges found themselves crushed together. The beadles struggled to keep the peace.
Bartholomew and Wauter hurried to the chancel, to meet the other members of the consilium. Prior Joliet looked competent and statesmanlike in his best habit, while Nigellus wore robes that would not have looked out of place on a courtier. Irby was absent.
‘He is too ill to come,’ explained Nigellus. ‘He is suffering from a loss of appetite.’
‘So am I,’ remarked Prior Joliet wryly. ‘Nerves. There is enormous pressure on us to choose the right subject, and I am cognisant of the disappointment we will cause if we err. However, if I can endure it, so can he, so send a messenger to Zachary and tell him to come and do his duty.’
‘I am afraid his malady is more serious than yours, so I confined him to bed,’ said Nigellus pompously. ‘Morys will take his place instead.’
He beckoned his colleague forward. Fierce little Morys was as wasplike as ever in his trademark yellow and black; Bartholomew wondered if he and Nigellus even remembered that Zachary scholars were meant to wear grey and cream.
‘No, he will not!’ said Joliet crossly. ‘There are procedures that must be followed before a representative can be changed. It is–’
‘There is no time,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly. ‘Or do you suggest that we keep hundreds of people waiting while we go through a host of petty formalities? I am sure Michaelhouse will not object to the substitution, given the immediacy of the situation.’
‘Do you?’ asked Joliet of Bartholomew and Wauter. He grimaced. ‘I confess I am worried about the uneasy atmosphere in the church today, so the sooner we start, the less opportunity there will be for trouble. It would certainly make for a quieter life if you agree to Morys’s nomination.’
‘True,’ agreed Wauter. ‘I do not mind him in lieu of Irby.’
Bartholomew did, and wished Wauter had consulted with him before replying. Uncharitably, he wondered whether the geometrician’s loyalties still lay with the hostel that had housed him for a decade, rather than the College that had kept him for a few weeks. And was Irby really ill, or had Nigellus simply decided to exchange a moderate man for one with opinions akin to his own?
‘The motion is carried then,’ said Joliet, casting an apologetic glance at Bartholomew, whose opinion did not matter now the majority had spoken.
‘Good,’ said Nigellus smugly. ‘Then the subject of the debate will be nemo dat, as I have been suggesting for weeks. Are you in agreement, Morys?’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Morys firmly. ‘It is by far the best idea.’
‘So there are two votes in its favour,’ said Joliet. ‘Wauter? What do you think?’
‘It would make for an interesting–’ began Wauter.
‘Three,’ pounced Morys. ‘Which means that the views of Bartholomew and Joliet are now immaterial. I shall inform the Chancellor at once.’
‘Now just a moment!’ Joliet put out a hand to stop him. ‘Wauter did not say he was voting for nemo dat – he merely said it was interesting. Besides, I am chairman, Morys, not you, so it is for me to speak to the Chancellor when we make our choice.’
Morys glared at him. ‘You want Michaelhouse to win because they hire you to teach and paint murals. You are unfairly biased, and should not have accepted a place on this committee.’
Joliet and Bartholomew gaped at him, astounded by such intemperate accusations.
‘Steady on, Morys,’ murmured Wauter. ‘And Joliet is right – I did not vote for nemo dat. I want to hear a few more suggestions before making my final decision.’
‘Why?’ demanded Nigellus. ‘Morys and I have made up our minds and we will not be swayed. Now, Joliet, will you tell Tynkell or shall I?’
‘I recommend that we select a theological or a musical–’ began Joliet, pointedly turning his back on the Zachary men.
‘No,’ snarled Nigellus. ‘It is nemo dat or nothing.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Morys.
‘Then Joliet, Wauter and I will choose the question,’ said Bartholomew, objecting to their bullying tactics. ‘If we can agree on a subject, you two are irrelevant.’
Nigellus addressed Joliet in a voice that held considerable menace. ‘Vote as I suggest or I will tell the Sheriff that you bought illegal sucura for Arnold in his final days. All the money you have hoarded to feed the poor this winter will be gone in a fine.’
Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while the blood drained from Joliet’s face.
‘You would never do such a terrible thing!’ breathed the Prior, shocked.
‘No?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Just try me.’
‘You want nemo dat because your students have been practising it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly, unable to help himself. ‘Do not look indignant – we all know the truth. But there is no glory in a victory won by cheating. Moreover, the Chancellor will not stand by and let you make a mockery of–’