‘No,’ replied Michael with a grimace. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then I suppose it must be your investigation into the four dead scholars,’ surmised the Master. ‘The only one I knew was Northwood. He often stopped for a chat when our paths crossed, especially during the last two months or so. In fact, he was a bit of a nuisance, because I did not always have time for him.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael in surprise. Bartholomew agreed: Northwood’s intolerance of slow minds made Langelee an unlikely associate.
‘He was interested in my work for the Archbishop,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘I told him a good many tales that I have never dared share with anyone else here. In fact, I probably would not have shared them with him, either, had he not plied me with claret.’
‘What sort of tales?’ asked Michael in alarm. He did not want his College’s reputation sullied by the Master’s drunken ramblings.
Langelee laughed, and waved a stubby finger. ‘Now Northwood is dead, my secrets are my own again, and I shall not make the mistake of another indiscretion. Suffice to say that they entailed my experiences in battle, my knowledge of poisons and my skills as a burglar.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, as Langelee went to lead his scholars back to Michaelhouse. ‘When he makes remarks like that, it makes me wonder whether he is the right man to be Head of House.’
‘He confessed a lot worse when we were in York a few weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am content with his rule. He is better at it than the rest of us would be.’
‘You only think so because he gives you licence to practise medicine however you see fit, and rarely condemns you for indulging in surgery. But it is too early to go to Batayl Hostel – they will still be at their devotions. We shall have breakfast in the Brazen George first.’
Although scholars were forbidden from frequenting taverns, which tended to be full of ale-swilling townsmen spoiling for a fight, Michael had always maintained that this particular stricture did not apply to the Senior Proctor, and he visited the Brazen George – a pleasant establishment on the High Street – so often that there was a chamber at the rear of the premises set aside for his exclusive use. It was a pretty room, overlooking a courtyard where the morning sunshine slanted across the herb beds, and where contented chickens scratched around a picturesque well. He ordered a substantial repast, which included cold meat, new bread and a dish of coddled eggs.
‘But no cabbage,’ he called after the departing taverner. ‘I cannot abide anything green. It upsets my stomach, and keeps me in the latrines.’
‘Only if you eat too much of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every medicus who has ever written about food says that a balanced diet, with moderate amounts of meat, bread and vegetables is–’
‘They were writing for the benefit of the general populace,’ interrupted Michael haughtily. ‘They cannot know about my innards. And these so-called balanced diets are a nonsense, anyway. How can they be balanced, when they include vegetables? Greenery is for slugs and caterpillars, not men with healthy appetites.’
Bartholomew knew better than to argue, and his attention was soon distracted from the discussion anyway – by the number of dishes that Landlord Lister brought to the table.
‘God’s blood, Brother!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and whose army will be eating this?’
‘It is only a mouthful,’ said Michael comfortably, tying a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. ‘Barely enough to keep a sparrow alive.’
‘It was a bad business at the castle yesterday,’ said Landlord Lister conversationally, as he brought a large platter of roasted beef. ‘I heard the raiders were after the taxes. Thank God they did not get them, or we would all have had to pay again.’
‘It was a close thing, though,’ said Michael. ‘The villains had reached the foot of the Great Tower before Dick Tulyet’s archers were able to drive them off.’
‘Do you really think they wanted the taxes?’ Bartholomew asked, when Lister had gone.
Michael stared at him. ‘Of course! Why else would they tackle a castle? It is not as if they were part of an invading army, and needed to secure a fortress in order to control a region.’
‘The place contains a lot more than money. There are horses, weapons, all manner of documents and deeds. There are also prisoners in the gaol, and–’
‘Then I am glad the mystery is not mine to unravel. My hands are full enough already.’
After mopping up the last of the grease with a piece of bread, Michael led the way out of the Brazen George. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively as they walked, again admiring the work that had been done to make the town pretty for Corpus Christi. The High Street looked especially picturesque, with its brightly painted houses and neat shops. The churchyards had been tidied, too – brambles and nettles trimmed back, and grass scythed.
Michael insisted on stopping at St Mary the Great as they passed, to see whether Beadle Meadowman had left him a progress report about dredging Newe Inn’s pond. The Trinity Sunday service was still in progress, and Bartholomew smiled when he heard the sweet, pure notes of the choir. The church was full of fragrant white flowers, which would be kept until Wednesday evening, when a lot of red ones would be added for Corpus Christi.
They had not been in Michael’s expensively furnished office for long – Bartholomew admiring Walkelate’s sketches of the finished library, and the monk rummaging through mounds of documents in search of a message from his beadle – when there was a cough. It was the Chancellor.
‘Come in, Tynkell,’ said Michael, without looking up. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Have you solved the Newe Inn deaths yet?’ asked Tynkell. He seemed bolder than usual, and Bartholomew wondered whether it was because he was wearing his robes of office, which conferred on him a confidence he did not normally possess. ‘The Common Library will open its doors to readers in four days, and I do not want unexplained demises hanging over the occasion.’
‘I am working as fast as I can,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘Unfortunately, I have been busy quelling spats among our scholars over your damned project – the most recent being last night, when Berwicke Hostel squabbled with King’s Hall. Moreover, there has not been much in the way of clues about what happened to those four men.’
‘Then you must find some, Brother.’ Tynkell seemed unsteady on his feet. ‘I want the opening ceremony to pass off without a hitch, and I shall hold you responsible if something spoils it.’
‘What?’ exploded Michael incredulously. ‘How dare you–’
‘You have a duty to prevent trouble,’ Tynkell went on, wagging his finger. ‘And there will be trouble, unless whoever killed those scholars is caught. So, who are your suspects?’
‘I shall tell you when I am good and ready,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am doing my best, so do not order me to work harder. I told you a Common Library was a bad idea, and I was right. You did not listen, because you are desperate to be recorded as the Chancellor who gave Cambridge what Oxford has had for years. But the whole business is a terrible mistake.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Tynkell. ‘Besides, how else will I get to study Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica?’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Why would you want to read that? It is about warfare.’
‘I happen to be very interested in siege engines and artillery,’ replied Tynkell, staggering when he tried to lean on the door frame and missed. ‘Even Northwood, Langelee and Riborowe were amazed at the depth of my knowledge, and none of them is easily impressed.’
‘Tulyet said you helped him to design a ribauldequin,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Are you sure it is appropriate for scholars to meddle in such matters?’