‘The students will not mind a delay,’ predicted Langelee. ‘And if they do, I will tell Deynman to read to them. That will shut them up, because his Latin is all but incomprehensible.’
‘Why may you not be able to find it?’ demanded Michael, ignoring the fact that the Master was hardly in a position to criticise someone else’s grasp of the language, given that his own was rudimentary, to say the least.
‘I think it is in that box, but it has been a long time since I have looked in it, and–’
‘Matt!’ cried Michael, dismayed. ‘Are you saying you might have lost it?’
Bartholomew regarded him guiltily. ‘Very possibly, yes.’
With the Fellows at his heels, Bartholomew led the way to his room, wondering why he had forgotten the badge until now. He had been to some trouble to acquire it – cheap signacula were sold by the dozen to pilgrims, but he had wanted something rather better for Michael, who was a man of discerning tastes. He had purchased the best one he could find, then ensured it spent a night on top of the shrine, paid a bishop to bless it, and dipped it in holy water from Jerusalem. And after all that, he had shoved it in a travelling box and neglected to unpack it.
Valence was sitting at the desk in the window, scribbling furiously as he struggled to complete an exercise that should have been finished the previous evening. He looked up in surprise when the Fellows crammed into the chamber. Bartholomew stood with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to remember where he had put the chest in question.
‘Under the bed,’ supplied Valence promptly, when Michael told him what they were doing. ‘Right at the back. I have always wondered what was in it, and would have looked, but it is locked.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had no idea where to find the key.
Valence disappeared under the bed, and emerged a few moments later with the small, leather-bound box that the physician had toted all the way through France, Spain and Italy. It was dusty, battered, and trailed cobwebs. Bartholomew set it on the bed and sat next to it. The lock was substantial, and of a better quality than he remembered. He doubted he could force it.
‘I do not have the key,’ he said apologetically, wincing when there was a chorus of disappointed groans and cries, the loudest of them from Michael.
‘Allow me,’ said Langelee, drawing his dagger. ‘I did this for the Archbishop many times.’
He inserted the tip of his blade into the keyhole, and began to jiggle it. Students crowded at the window, curiosity piqued by the sight of the Master and all his Fellows in Bartholomew’s room. Even Clippesby’s piglet was among the throng, eyes fixed intently on Langelee’s manoeuvrings.
‘Hah!’ exclaimed the Master, as there was a sharp click and the lock sprang open. He opened the lid and peered inside. ‘Here is a very fine dagger, although it is not very sharp.’
‘It is a letter-opener,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I bought it for you.’
‘For me?’ asked Langelee. He grinned his delight. ‘How thoughtful! I shall begin honing it tonight. It is a beautiful implement, but it will be lovelier still when it is sharp enough to be useful.’
Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, wishing the Master was not always so ready to revert to the soldier he had once been. It was hardly seemly in an academic.
‘My signaculum,’ prompted Michael impatiently. ‘Where is it?’
It was at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in cloth. There were other gifts Bartholomew had forgotten about, too – a mother-of-pearl comb for William, a tiny painting of St Francis of Assisi for Clippesby, and a book of plague poems for Suttone. There was an embroidered purse and a silver buckle, too, intended for friends who were now dead, so he gave them to Thelnetham and Ayera. While they cooed their delight, he spotted two anatomy texts he had purchased in Salerno, and closed the lid hastily. He would look at them later, when he was alone.
‘What else is in there?’ asked William, running the comb through his greasy locks as he eyed the chest speculatively.
‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. He was not a good liar.
‘It is exquisite, Matt,’ said Michael, pushing students out of the way so he could examine his gift in the light from the window. ‘Gold, too.’
‘Is it?’ Bartholomew knew it had been expensive, but could not recall why. Not being very interested in such things, it had not stuck in his mind.
‘It will not get you into Heaven, though, Brother,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘As I said in the conclave, that only happens through personal merit, not because you happen to own signacula.’
‘I know all that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I am never going to see Compostela myself, so this is the next best thing.’
‘Actually, I believe it might reduce your time in Purgatory,’ countered Suttone. ‘Matthew made the pilgrimage, but he was clearly thinking of you when he did it, so your badge is important. You are wrong, Thelnetham: owning or buying such items can help one’s immortal soul.’
‘Drax thought the same,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before they could argue. He knew from experience that debates among theologians could go on for a very long time, and was eager to return to his teaching. ‘He believed the Walsingham signaculum, bought from Heslarton, would help his soul. Why else would he have worn it in his hat?’
William pointed at Michael’s token with his comb. ‘Do you know how much that is worth? A fortune! Not only is it precious metal and exquisitely made, but it has all the right blessings on it, too. Men will pay dearly for that.’
‘Really?’ asked Langelee keenly. ‘How much?’
‘It is not for sale,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not even for Michaelhouse’s roof.’
‘My Carmelite brethren sell pilgrim tokens, here in Cambridge,’ said Suttone idly, his attention more on his new book than the discussion. ‘Our shrine does not attract vast numbers, like the ones in Hereford, Walsingham or Canterbury, but we make a tidy profit, even so.’
‘Do they hawk bits of St Simon Stock’s relic?’ asked Langelee. ‘I have heard that folk who die wearing a Carmelite scapular go straight to Heaven, but a scrap of the original will surely set one at God’s right hand.’
‘We would never sell that,’ declared Suttone, looking up in horror. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, we might, I suppose, if the price was right.’
‘White Friars are not going to get to Heaven before Franciscans,’ declared William hotly. ‘And I do not know what the Blessed Virgin thought she was doing when she gave that scapular to Simon Stock. She should have appeared to a Grey Friar instead, because we would not be charging a fortune for folk to see the spot where this delivery occurred.’
‘Yes, you would,’ countered Suttone. ‘It is an excellent opportunity for raising much-needed revenue, and the Franciscans would have seized it with alacrity. Look at how much money they are making from Walsingham – more than we will see in a hundred years!’
‘That is different,’ said William stiffly, although he did not deign to explain why.
‘I think I had better make a pilgrimage to the Carmelite Priory,’ said Langelee. ‘I did one or two dubious favours for the Archbishop of York, you see, and I would not like to think of them held against me on Judgment Day.’
Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘If you want forgiveness for past sins, Master, you must be truly penitent. Walking to Milne Street is not enough.’
‘It is, according to Suttone,’ replied Langelee cheerfully. ‘And it suits me to believe him.’