Head held high, he sailed away. With a churlish smirk, Browne followed.
‘You see, Matthew?’ said Etone in exasperation. ‘It is hopeless! I offer them an olive branch, and they spit on it. Well, they can have a feud, if that is what they want.’
‘No!’ cried Walkelate, distressed. ‘You are right to end this silly spat. It would be a pity for ill feelings to sour our opening ceremony on Thursday, and–’
But Etone was already striding away, so Walkelate was obliged to scurry after him to finish what he wanted to say. Kente and Frevill were hot on his heels, tool-bags slung over their shoulders, eager to wash the wood dust from their throats with cool ale. Bonabes, Dunning and Bartholomew followed more sedately.
‘You are wasting your time if you think you can help forge a truce between Batayl and the Carmelites, Bartholomew,’ said Bonabes. ‘Neither side seems wholly rational to me.’
‘Nor to me,’ agreed Dunning. ‘And I object to them saying that the source of their discord is my so-called promise to give each of them Newe Inn. I did nothing of the kind.’
‘What were you doing here?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Surely it is a little late for guided tours?’
Bonabes winced. ‘We happened to be passing, and Walkelate raced out and hauled us inside to inspect Aristotle’s newly buffed bust. It is not the first time he has ambushed me to admire his works of art, so I think I must avoid Cholles Lane in future.’
Dunning chuckled good-naturedly. ‘He is something of a menace in that respect.’
They walked down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, Etone used the opportunity afforded by their arrival to escape from Walkelate. Bonabes and Dunning followed him, and they could be heard laughing in the lane together, amused by the architect’s eccentric enthusiasm. Oblivious of the reason for their mirth, Walkelate began talking to Bartholomew.
‘I am glad you came, because I have something to tell you. Alfred, our youngest apprentice, informed me today that he heard a bell in the garden last week – he spent a night here, you see, sanding a cornice. He only remembered it today, but he wanted me to inform you or Michael. However, I imagine he fell asleep and dreamt it, because bells do not ring at that hour.’
‘I am not so sure. Coslaye heard one chiming when Northwood and the others died.’
‘Really?’ Walkelate shook his head, baffled. Then a happy grin stole across his face. ‘Kente put the finishing touches to the lecterns for the libri distribuendi an hour ago. Come and see them.’
‘Another time.’ Bartholomew saw the disappointment in Walkelate’s face, and hastened to make amends. ‘It is too dark to appreciate them properly now.’
‘We made excellent progress today,’ said Walkelate, his excitement bubbling up again. The libri concatenati are ready, and we shall keep their room closed now, until our grand opening. Well, we shall have to oust the bale of hay, but that will not take a moment.’
‘The bale of hay?’ asked Bartholomew, nonplussed.
Walkelate smiled. ‘Holm’s concoction was not working, so Dunning suggested an old country remedy instead – the theory is that dry grass absorbs strong odours from the air. He assures me that by Thursday, the room will smell as sweet as a meadow.’
Bartholomew started to walk home to Michaelhouse, aware that the daylight was fading fast. Recalling what had happened the last two times he had wandered about the town after dark on his own, he broke into a trot, eager for the sanctuary of the conclave, where wine and perhaps some cake would be waiting. He jumped in alarm when Cynric materialised in front of him.
‘You should not be out at this time of night without me,’ the Welshman said admonishingly. ‘It is not safe.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we are almost home.’
‘You cannot go home,’ said Cynic. His expression became sympathetic when he saw Bartholomew’s tiredness. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘They are Meryfeld’s patients.’
‘There was a dispute about overcharging, apparently, and Meryfeld declines to answer their summonses until they acknowledge that he is in the right.’
‘But Master Heltisle does not like me,’ said Bartholomew, too weary for a confrontation with the prickly Master of Bene’t. ‘It would be better if you fetched Gyseburne or Rougham.’
‘Neither is home. I am on my way to Batayl, by the way, to tell them about Poitiers, but I will walk with you to Bene’t first.’
Bartholomew had forgotten about Cynric’s invitation to lecture, and hoped the talk would not induce a lot of patriotic fervour that would be uncomfortable for Pepin.
‘Do not mention me in your account,’ he begged. ‘Half the town believes I am a warlock, and I do not want the other half thinking I am a warrior. Tell them about your own exploits.’
‘Very well,’ promised Cynric. ‘But here we are at Bene’t. Knock on the door to make sure they are willing to let you in. If not, I shall escort you back to Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew was disappointed when the porter stepped aside and indicated he was to enter, because Cynric’s offer of company home was appealing. The book-bearer nodded a farewell and disappeared into the gathering shadows, as silent-footed as a cat.
‘Damn!’ muttered Thomas Heltisle, a tall, aloof man with neat silver hair, when he saw which physician had answered his summons. ‘I had hoped one of the others would be available.’
‘I am happy to leave, and you can wait for–’
‘No,’ said Heltisle hastily. ‘I do not want the Devil’s crony in my College, but John Rolee has knocked himself senseless, so it is an emergency and I have no choice. Come.’
He began hauling Bartholomew across the yard before the physician could take issue with him. As they went, it occurred to Bartholomew that he had never been in Bene’t’s library before. The heads of the other Colleges were happy to let him use their books, but Heltisle had always refused.
When they arrived, he was impressed. The room – a chamber above one of the teaching halls – was crammed with texts of all shapes and sizes. Unlike King’s Hall with its mighty bookcases, Bene’t had opted for a low mezzanine gallery that ran around all four walls to provide additional storage; access to it was via an elegantly crafted but rather unstable set of wheeled steps.
Heltisle’s six Fellows stood in a huddle near the window. They nodded wary greetings to him, and one or two crossed themselves, as if they expected Satan to be close at hand now he was there.
‘Over here,’ called a small, feisty scholar named Teversham. He was crouching next to someone on the floor. ‘We have tried shouting and tapping his face, but we cannot wake him up.’
Bartholomew’s heart sank as he approached. Rolee’s head lay at a peculiar angle, and it was obvious that his neck had been broken.
‘I am afraid it is too late,’ he said, kneeling and performing a perfunctory examination to confirm what he already knew. ‘He is dead.’
‘He cannot be!’ cried Heltisle, shocked. ‘He was talking with us not half an hour ago. We were discussing elephants, and he came to fetch his bestiary, to show us what they look like.’
‘And he fell?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The steps broke,’ explained Heltisle, pointing to where the wheeled stairs lay on their side. ‘We heard the crash, and came racing in here to find him … But he cannot be dead, Bartholomew! He is just knocked out of his wits. Look again.’
‘His neck is broken,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do. If it is any consolation, death would have been instant. He felt nothing.’
‘It is no consolation at all!’ shouted Heltisle. ‘He owes me ten shillings.’