‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘But let me know if it becomes worse. Earache is caused by flesh-eating worms, and you do not want those boring into your brain.’
He was ashamed of the lie when he saw the glance of horror exchanged between Badew and Harweden, although Roos was unconcerned, and merely gave Bartholomew a look of such disdain that the physician felt himself bristle.
‘I trust you had a good breakfast, Doctor,’ he said tauntingly, ‘because only fools embark on long and dangerous journeys on empty stomachs. Does Michaelhouse run to providing real food these days, or are you still subsisting on sawdust and grit?’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to defend his College, but Langelee, ever a man of action, was unwilling to waste time trading insults with colleagues. He nodded to Michael and the two of them began to trot forward. Unfortunately, Donwich thought it was Clare Hall’s prerogative to be first, and tried to overtake, which resulted in his horse stumbling in a pothole, after which it began to limp. Dismayed, Donwich dismounted to fret over the damage. Michael and Langelee watched in contempt, disgusted that Donwich’s self-serving antics should have resulted in harm to such a fine animal.
‘He will have to rest that for at least a week,’ said Michael, regarding the afflicted leg with the eye of a man who knew. ‘You will have to hire one instead.’
Another delay followed, as Donwich declared himself to have high standards where horseflesh was concerned and rejected a dozen animals before accepting one that he considered to be of sufficient quality. By the time he was satisfied, the three Swinescroft men had repaired to the tavern for more food, obliging everyone to wait until they had finished a second time.
Then, just as the party was about to ride through the gate, a panting student arrived from Clare Hall to report that water was dripping through the library ceiling. Horrified, Donwich and Pulham raced home, and refused to go anywhere until they were sure their precious collection was safe. It was noon by the time the travellers assembled again.
‘You go first, Donwich,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘We cannot have you ruining a second horse by attempting to shove past me. We are late enough as it is.’
‘We will make up the lost time,’ shrugged Donwich carelessly. ‘Once we are on the open road, the miles will just melt away. You wait and see.’
‘They will not,’ growled Langelee to his Fellows. ‘Not with our poor nags and the three old men from Swinescroft. We shall be lucky to arrive by midnight.’
As it happened, they did not reach Clare at all that day, because they were plagued by a series of mishaps, all of which resulted in spats that held them up even further. First, Donwich’s new horse threw a shoe, which Michael and Langelee claimed was down to poor handling. Donwich naturally took exception to their remarks, and a furious quarrel ensued.
Then Badew was taken ill with indigestion – no surprise there, thought Bartholomew, as he prepared a soothing remedy – forcing everyone to wait until the pain had subsided. A muttered remark about gluttony by Pulham sparked yet another ill-tempered tiff, this time between Clare Hall and Swinescroft.
And finally, there was a fractious debate when a pack of farmers demanded a substantial and illegal fee for the privilege of riding through their village. Donwich wanted to pay it, on the grounds that a detour would take them too far out of their way, but Langelee refused. He claimed it was on principle, although Bartholomew and Michael knew it was to conserve their scant funds. He capitulated only when an exasperated Donwich offered to pay the whole amount himself.
They rode on, the three Michaelhouse men watching anxiously as daylight began to fade. Dark clouds massed overhead, promising an early dusk and rain before morning. Langelee urged his pony into a trot, but although the others matched his pace, nightfall came when they still had at least another five miles to go. Then they saw lights gleaming in the gloom ahead.
‘That is Kedyngton,’ said Donwich. ‘It would be folly to press on tonight, so we shall stay there and continue in the morning.’
‘But the funeral,’ argued Langelee worriedly. ‘It will–’
‘I cannot see it starting before midday,’ interrupted Roos, ‘so we shall arrive in plenty of time. The White Horse here will accommodate us. I have stayed there before, and it is a lovely place.’
The White Horse was an upmarket establishment that cost considerably more than Langelee was willing to spend. It was busy, and there were only two rooms left, which Clare Hall and Swinescroft quickly bagged for themselves. The landlord was acutely embarrassed that he was unable to accommodate all the scholars from the famous University, and declared himself much relieved when Langelee graciously agreed to accept three straw pallets in the hayloft free of charge.
‘I wish we had come alone,’ said Michael, eyeing the makeshift beds in distaste before choosing the one he thought would be the most comfortable. ‘We would have been there by now.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Langelee, watching a servant bring water, so they could rinse away the dust of travel; it was cold, so Bartholomew was the only one who bothered. ‘Or maybe we would be lying in a ditch without our ears. I sensed eyes on us a mile back – Simon Freburn’s, no doubt. He would have chanced his hand if we had been three rather than eight.’
Bartholomew was astonished to hear it. ‘You think it was our companions who struck fear into the hearts of these hardened robbers? Three elderly men and two prancing monkeys?’
‘Swinescroft and Clare Hall are no warriors,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But neither is Freburn, and he was loath to risk a skirmish in which he would be quite so heavily outnumbered.’
Michael murmured a prayer of thanks for their deliverance. ‘I wish Cynric could have come,’ he said, referring to Bartholomew’s book-bearer, who was almost as formidable a fighter as the Master. ‘It is a pity he is away visiting kin in Wales.’
‘We shall be safe enough if the eight of us stick together,’ averred Langelee. ‘But I shall be glad to be home again, even so.’
‘Yes, we shall attend the funeral, collect our inheritance, and hurry home with it as soon as we can,’ determined Michael. ‘Fortunately, none of our party can dally in Clare, given that term starts next week. We all need to be back.’
‘But we three have the strongest reasons not to linger,’ sighed Langelee. ‘You left our University in the dubious hands of Chancellor Suttone, while I had to appoint Father William as Acting Master. Neither can be trusted alone for long.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And you have a wedding to arrange.’
Bartholomew experienced a familiar stab of unease as he contemplated the changes that were about to occur in his life. The University did not allow scholars to marry, so he would have to resign from Michaelhouse and move into the little house that his betrothed, Matilde, had bought. He would no longer be able to teach, and he knew he would miss the intellectual stimulation of the debating chamber. To take his mind off it, he turned the discussion to Clare.
‘I still do not understand why you think the Lady left us something in her will. Perhaps she did like us, but she also liked other foundations, including several nunneries, her local community of Austin friars and Clare Hall – the place that named itself after her. They are far more likely to be remembered than us.’
‘We should have left him behind,’ said Langelee to Michael. ‘His attitude is entirely wrong. We must give the impression that she definitely promised us a legacy, so if it transpires that she did not, we can claim it was an oversight and demand one anyway.’
‘There is no need to explain it to me,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I have been browbeating awkward executors for years. Matt is the one who needs priming.’