‘You cannot blame that on the dyeworks,’ said Bartholomew to the Sheriff.
‘He drank some woad,’ said Tulyet, giving his son a disapproving glare. ‘It was a stupid thing to have done. He might have poisoned himself.’
‘I did not drink it,’ Dickon informed him chirpily. ‘I just took a mouthful, kept it there during Mass, then spat it out.’
‘I wondered why you were so quiet.’ Tulyet turned anxiously to Bartholomew. ‘It will not stain him permanently, will it?’
‘No, although he might want to remember in future that one of the ingredients of blue dye is urine.’
Horror stole over the lad’s face, and there followed a good deal of agitated spitting.
‘Relations continue to deteriorate between us and the University,’ Tulyet said to Michael, dragging his eyes away from the spectacle. ‘The situation is not helped by that tale you told me about Frenge.’
‘That he was a cattle thief,’ put in Dickon. ‘Which he was not, so you lied.’
‘Dickon!’ snapped Tulyet. He turned back to Michael. ‘I am sure it was an honest mistake on your part, Brother, but the fact is that you were wrong. Frenge’s only real failing was a fondness for his own wares, which led him to do reckless things.’
‘Like invading King’s Hall and the Austins,’ said Dickon. ‘It was stupid when he could have gone somewhere like Zachary, which has lots of lovely things to steal, but not much in the way of defences.’
Michael and Bartholomew regarded him askance, both unsettled that he should know which University foundation would be best to burgle. Tulyet hastened to change the subject.
‘I do not know how best to keep the peace,’ he confided unhappily. ‘Flooding the streets with troops amounts to martial law, which is more likely to inflame than soothe.’
‘Then do it,’ suggested Dickon keenly. ‘A massacre will show everyone who is in charge.’
A soldier arrived at that point to announce trouble in the Market Square. Tulyet hurried away to deal with it, Dickon dancing at his heels, flashing his blue fangs at anyone who glanced in his direction.
‘Why are men so blind when it comes to their offspring?’ said Michael wonderingly as he watched them go. ‘Shirwynk is another example: Peyn is a sullen lout who is barely literate–’
‘And who has never heard of Virgil,’ put in Bartholomew.
‘–but Shirwynk thinks he will sail into the Treasury and make his fortune. Perhaps it is as well I will never have brats. I should not like folk to see me as a doting fool, fawning blindly over some useless young wastrel.’
King’s Hall was ready to repel an invasion. Its gates were barred, its walls were patrolled by archers, and a stone smacked into the ground when Michael and Bartholomew approached, as a warning that they should come no closer. The monk stopped dead in his tracks and scowled upwards, outraged that anyone should dare try to prevent the Senior Proctor from going about his lawful business. Alarmed, the culprit dipped out of sight.
‘No, I will not withdraw my complaint against Frenge’s estate,’ snarled Wayt, when they had been admitted to his solar by a porter who wore full battle armour and carried a bow. ‘We suffered shamefully at his hands, so why should we not sue for compensation?’
‘Because it is damaging the fragile relations between the University and the town,’ Michael snapped back, watching intently as he tried to assess whether he was speaking to a killer.
‘I care nothing for the town’s paltry efforts to make war,’ spat Wayt. ‘And Frenge’s prank destroyed Cew’s mind, so we owe it to him to persist.’
‘Frenge is dead,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Is that not punishment enough?’
‘Not as far as we are concerned. And speaking of Frenge, I do not believe that Nigellus dispatched him. The culprit is far more likely to be Shirwynk, in the expectation that we would drop our case against him. Which is another reason why we will not do it.’
‘Let us consider Frenge’s last movements again,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘He claimed he was bringing ale here, to King’s Hall. Your porters say such a delivery was never made, but you were seen arguing with him shortly before he died – about Anne Rumburgh allegedly, with whom you both had relations.’
‘How many more times must I repeat myself? First, if Frenge claimed he was supplying us with ale, he was lying: we have never done business with his brewery and we never will. And second, yes, he threatened to tell my colleagues about Anne, but his attempt to blackmail me failed: they already know, because most of them have had her themselves.’
‘Was it your colleagues he threatened to tell?’ probed Michael. ‘Or the wronged husband?’
Wayt smiled without humour. ‘He could hardly take that sort of tale to Rumburgh when he was enjoying Anne’s favours himself!’
‘But he did not stand to lose princely benefactions from an indignant donor,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I would say the power lay with him in this disagreement, and that you had very good reason to want him silenced.’
Wayt’s face turned pale with anger. ‘How dare you! We are the victims here. It was our pigs and geese who were set running amok in his foolish japes, and our colleague who was frightened out of his wits.’
Michael folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure there is not another dark secret in King’s Hall? One Frenge discovered when he came raiding?’
Alarm flared in Wayt’s eyes: Michael had hit a nerve. He began to lash out defensively. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Now come with me, both of you. At once!’
‘Go with you where?’ asked Michael, not moving.
‘To see Frenge’s victim. Then you will see who is in the right and who is in the wrong.’
He stalked out, so Bartholomew and Michael followed him along a corridor to where curious hooting sounds could be heard. It seemed the King of France had been replaced by an ape.
Bartholomew was shocked by the decline in Cew. The logician was no longer able to walk, as he had lost control of his left foot, which dragged whenever he tried to raise it. He loped about on all fours instead, making animal-like grunts while Dodenho tried in vain to persuade him back to bed.
When the Michaelhouse men approached, Cew bared his teeth, and Bartholomew saw a thin grey line around the top of them. It was identical to the one he had seen in the student the previous day, and similar to the problem suffered by Rumburgh. But there was no time to ponder its significance, because Cew began to gibber in a manner that made Dodenho back away in alarm.
‘Garlic and onions. Put them in my soul-cakes. List the syllogisms – Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio. Dodenho does not know them. Garlic in the oysters, onion in the pastries.’
‘You see?’ snapped Wayt, although there was more sorrow than anger in his voice. ‘Now tell us why we should care about the man who did this to him.’
‘He will not eat oysters now.’ Dodenho sounded sad and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Just soul-cakes. God knows why – they are far too sickly for me.’
‘You sweeten them with sucura,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Dodenho had let slip the last time they had met.
‘Not any more,’ averred Wayt. ‘We use honey instead.’
‘Honey is not a syllogism,’ babbled Cew. ‘Baroco, Bocardo. Nasty, sticky stuff to dissolve my orb and sceptre. I hate honey, so give me onions. Onions and garlic.’
‘He keeps asking for those,’ said Dodenho worriedly. ‘But he cannot mean it.’
Bartholomew was about to agree when he remembered Rougham quoting Galen the night before, about the body knowing what it needed. Nigellus had mentioned it, too, at a meeting of the consilium, when he and Bartholomew had argued about the importance of a balanced diet. But before he could suggest that they give Cew what he wanted, Wayt tried to propel him and Michael towards the door. Outraged that anyone should dare lay hands on the august person of the Senior Proctor, Michael resisted with a snarl, so Wayt ordered Dodenho to see the Michaelhouse men off the premises, loath to risk his dignity in a shoving contest he would not win.