‘We must approach–’ began Langelee.
‘I know what to do,’ interrupted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘And I shall do my best, although you should have brought someone else. I am not very good at this sort of thing.’
‘Unfortunately, we had no choice,’ replied Langelee. ‘The other Fellows either had duties that kept them in Cambridge, or they would have been even worse at it than you. And do not say Michael and I could have come alone – we had to send a bigger deputation than Clare Hall, so it will look as though we care more about honouring her.’
A series of unwise investments and poor financial decisions meant that Michaelhouse had been teetering on the brink of fiscal ruin for years, but every time the Master and his Fellows managed to remedy the situation, something happened to put them back to square one again. For example, a handsome donation from York had been eaten up by urgent repairs to the roof, while the generous gift of a pier, which should have brought in a steady income, had been lost to fire – not once but twice. The second inferno had been especially disheartening, and Bartholomew was not the only one who was beginning to wonder if they were cursed.
‘We should sleep,’ said Langelee, and snuffed out the candle before his Fellows could demur. ‘All that quarrelling was very tiring, and I am exhausted.’
‘I hope we are mentioned in the will,’ muttered Michael, groping about in the dark for a blanket. ‘It will be much easier than persuading her executors that we should have been.’
‘If only she had chosen to finance us fourteen years ago,’ sighed Langelee. ‘Donwich and Pulham do not have to fret about how much Clare Hall has been left.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ countered Michael. ‘Relations between them have been strained these past few years, because she insisted on meddling in their affairs. She wanted to control every aspect of their lives – who should have which room, how much ale they drink, what entertainment should be provided at Christmas …’
‘Then they are petulant fools,’ declared Langelee. ‘I would have swallowed however much ale she stipulated in return for sixty pounds a year.’
‘Why do you think Swinescroft really wanted to come?’ asked Bartholomew, after a while. ‘I do not believe it is to gloat over her death. Not even they are that spiteful.’
‘Never underestimate the power of malice, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Especially from that trio. I recommend that we watch them very closely while we are in Clare, because we do not want their vindictiveness to turn the executors against all scholarly foundations.’
‘No,’ agreed Langelee drowsily. ‘So let us hope they behave themselves, because I am loath to use my sword on such elderly colleagues.’
Bartholomew hoped the Master was speaking metaphorically; Michael knew he was not.
Bartholomew had wanted to visit Clare ever since he had heard a description of it several years earlier, so he had been pleased when Langelee had ordered him to accompany him and Michael, despite his misgivings about hoodwinking the Lady’s executors. But he had not imagined that the journey would be plagued by such a gamut of emotions.
When he had first become intrigued by the place, it was because he had liked the sound of its setting on the River Stour and its wealth of handsome houses. However, he had since learned that Matilde had lived there after the misunderstanding that had caused her to leave him – he had been slow in asking her to be his wife, which she had interpreted as a disinclination to give up teaching for a life of wedded bliss. He had hunted for her for months afterwards, travelling as far afield as France, and had later been stunned to discover that she had been in Clare – virtually on his doorstep – the whole time.
Once she had learned that a future with him was still possible, Matilde had set about earning a fortune in venture capital, aware that Bartholomew would not be able to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed – most of his patients were paupers, who were not only unable to pay for his services, but who needed him to buy their medicines into the bargain. When she felt she had accumulated enough, she had returned to Cambridge and waited for him to renew his courtship.
It had not been easy to accept her back into his life again. Both had changed in the years they had been apart, and while he still loved her deeply, all was not harmonious perfection. They argued more than they had, and neither remembered the other as being quite so stubborn. Or was it simply that they were now thrust together a lot more? One of the reasons Bartholomew had been glad to visit Clare was that it provided them both with an opportunity to step back and reflect on their relationship and decision to marry.
‘I hate Suffolk,’ grumbled Michael, breaking into his thoughts, as they rode along side by side the following morning. ‘Every time I step over its borders, it rains. It was sunny in Cambridge.’
The weather had indeed taken a turn for the worse overnight. There was a persistent and drenching downpour that looked set to continue for the rest of the day, the sky was a solid, unbroken grey, and everything dripped. There was new growth in the hedgerows they passed, and celandines and primroses dappled the banks, but their bright colours were dulled by the sullen light.
The rain soon turned the track slick with mud, so progress was both slow and uncomfortable. Thus no one minded very much when Badew declared himself to be too tired to continue, and demanded that they stop at a wayside inn for refreshments. Clare Hall and Swinescroft then proceeded to order themselves handsome repasts of roasted meat and bread, but Langelee shook his head in alarm when Michael started to do the same. The monk, however, was not a man to let a small thing like money stand between him and his stomach.
‘My colleague can cure that painful knee of yours,’ he informed the landlord confidently. ‘Of course, you could never afford the fees of a famous University physician, but I am in a generous mood, so we shall allow you to provide us with a meal instead.’
‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew crossly, once the grateful patient had hobbled away clutching a pot of salve. ‘What would have happened if he had been suffering from something I could not help him with? Would you have returned his food?’
‘I doubt he would want it now,’ retorted Michael, wiping grease from his chin. ‘But you did heal him, so where lies the problem?’
Bartholomew knew there was no point in arguing. He glanced to the other side of the room, where Donwich, Badew and Roos had embarked on an ill-natured debate over whether Clare was a large village or a small town. It should not have been a subject that provoked high passions, but it was not long before they were screeching at each other. Wincing at the racket, Harweden came to join the Michaelhouse men, and without a by-your-leave, began to pick at their food. Michael and Langelee were naturally indignant, so soon a second spat was under way.
Unwilling to be dragged into it, Bartholomew went to sit with Pulham, who was reading by the fire. To be civil, he politely asked if the book was from Clare Hall’s library, brought on the journey lest the ceiling leaked again.
‘No, it belongs to me,’ Pulham replied, laying an affectionate hand on its exquisitely crafted cover – soft red leather with letters picked out in gold. ‘It is my most cherished possession, and far too valuable to leave in a place where some grubby undergraduate might get hold of it.’
Bartholomew blinked his incomprehension at the sentiment. He was always delighted when a student expressed an interest in reading one of his books, as it meant the lad wanted to know what was inside – and education was the reason they were all there, after all.