When he arrived, he told Matilde that their ‘secret’ was now common knowledge, and that even his sister knew about their assignations. Matilde’s expression was wry when she mentioned that Edith had quizzed her ruthlessly until she had extracted a confession, but together the two women had devised a plan that they hoped might ease the situation. Bartholomew flopped on to one of Matilde’s comfortable benches and rested his head in his hands, feeling exhaustion wash over him in a great unstoppable tide. Matilde looked fatigued, too; there were dark rings under her eyes and she was less immaculately groomed than usual.
‘Well?’ he asked, his voice muffled. ‘What have you and my sister decided will protect us from wagging tongues?’
‘This,’ Matilde replied, presenting him with a lurid, gold-coloured liripipe – a fashionable hood-come-scarf that could be donned in a variety of styles.
He regarded it without enthusiasm. ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’
Matilde sighed, her own lassitude making her unusually irritable with him. ‘You wear it, Matthew.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, pushing it back at her and thinking how bizarre it would look with his sober academic attire. ‘This is not the kind of thing I favour. It is yellow, for God’s sake.’
She shoved it firmly into his unwilling hands. ‘You must try to get some sleep tonight, because you are uncommonly slow witted. The fact that this is not something you would normally wear means that people will not associate you with it and it will hide your face if you wrap it properly. Folk will see only an amber-hatted man.’ She saw his blank expression and sighed again. ‘It is what is generally known as a “disguise”.’
Reluctantly, he pulled the thing over his head. It felt ridiculous, and he disliked the scratchy sensation around his neck. ‘Will it work, do you think?’
‘Edith chose it as being the least likely thing you would ever select for yourself. But do not forget to conceal it during the day. If you leave it out for all to see, then it will have the opposite effect – it will advertise what you are doing.’
When he returned to the College, well before dawn this time, Bartholomew was annoyed, but not surprised, to discover that someone had barred the orchard door again. This time, however, he had a contingency plan – one that did not involve arriving early at the church and pretending to be at his devotions. He walked to the bottom of the lane, where a tall wall separated Michaelhouse’s grounds from the towpath that ran along the river. A heap of discarded barrels and other riverine clutter lay at the foot of the wall, and he clambered up it. There was a long drop over the other side, but he had spent an hour moving compost the previous afternoon, and it provided him with a soft landing. He jumped, rolled easily and made his way back to his room. He even managed to sleep for a while before the College bell and an answering shriek from the night porter’s peacock announced that it was time for the scholars to rise for the morning service.
He prised himself from his bed, and washed and shaved with the water his book-bearer left for him each night, feeling its icy chill revive him. He rummaged in a chest for a clean tunic, and pulled it over his head, acutely aware that the old one was scented with the rosemary Matilde kept in her bedroom. A jerkin followed, and his hose and academic tabard completed his uniform. His boots were near the door and, as he walked across the yard, he saw they were stained with mud from his nocturnal tramp through the gardens. Hoping no one was watching, he stood on one leg to scrub first one and then the other on the backs of his hose, before joining the line that formed as the scholars emerged from their rooms, most complaining about the early-morning chill, the shrillness of the bell, the fact that it was drizzling, and anything else that bothered them before the first sunrays touched the eastern sky.
The Fellows were in a huddle behind Langelee, waiting to follow their Master in their daily procession to church. Michael stood next to Father William, and Bartholomew was repelled to see that the strand of cabbage Michael had flicked away two days before still adorned the friar’s shoulder, crusted and dry. The morose Suttone, whose predawn conversation usually revolved around the imminent return of the plague, was with a lawyer named Wynewyk, who was invariably more concerned with predicting Michaelhouse’s imminent fiscal collapse. The last Fellow was Kenyngham, an ancient Gilbertine friar who was oblivious to his colleagues’ grumbles and proclamations as he stood with his hands clasped in reverent prayer.
‘Any news about Clippesby?’ Langelee asked Bartholomew, wincing when the wind blew drizzle directly into his face. ‘I heard you visited him on Sunday.’
‘He is still unwell.’
‘Unwell!’ snorted William. ‘He is insane, man, so say what you mean! However, we must remember that he is a Dominican, and men of that Order are prone to madness. It comes from being obliged to put up with each other’s company.’
‘Visit him again today,’ ordered Langelee, while Suttone pointed out to William that he himself was enough to drive sane men to lunacy with his bigoted opinions. ‘God knows, I was relieved to have him gone for a while – his philosophical discourses with bats and pigs were becoming an embarrassment – but we need him back. His students complained about Michael’s teaching again last night.’
‘Did they indeed?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘And what is wrong with it, pray?’
‘They say you do not know what you are talking about,’ replied Langelee baldly. ‘And do not look at me with such outrage, Brother. You told me yourself that you are not qualified to take these classes. The astronomy students are disgruntled, too, but they say they are being taught subjects that are too advanced. It is a pity you two cannot get together and provide something in the middle.’
‘I could teach them theology,’ offered William. ‘I am busy, of course, but I could manage an hour to tell them something worth knowing – something better than music or astronomy.’ He almost spat the last words, making no secret of what he thought about any subjects taught by a Dominican.
‘No, thank you,’ said Langelee, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I do not want them to grumble that they are being railed at by a fanatic, either.’ He turned to Michael while the Franciscan spluttered with indignation. ‘The whole town is talking about that murder at Merton Hall. Should we be concerned? It is rumoured that scholars from Oxford are trying to besmirch our good name, to encourage Islip to found his College there instead of here.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘Who has been spreading these tales?’
‘Probably that Doctor Rougham,’ said Suttone gloomily. ‘He is a nasty fellow, and it is the sins of men like him that will bring the Death down on us again.’
‘Rougham is not here,’ said William, who listened to a good deal of gossip himself. ‘He has gone to see his family in Norfolk, although I do not think he should have been granted permission to leave in the middle of term.’
‘He was not,’ said Michael. ‘He sent his Master a letter after he left, at a point when his “request” could not be refused. Hamecotes of King’s Hall did the same. They both knew what they were doing: once they have gone there is nothing we can do about it, and fines mean little to rich men.’
‘Hamecotes’s colleague Wolf did not send any such letter, though,’ said William. ‘He just left – probably because he is in debt.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I am more concerned with these tales about Oxford than in disobedient scholars. Where did they originate?’
‘With Weasenham, the University stationer,’ said Langelee. ‘You know what he is like for chatter.’