‘Now there will be trouble,’ muttered Michael uneasily.
‘Stop it, then,’ suggested Bartholomew, searching the shelves for the parchment he wanted. ‘You are the Senior Proctor.’
‘I will wait and see what happens. I do not want Lee to accuse me of heavy-handedness. He is quick to take offence, and if he insults me, your boys will rally to my defence with their fists.’
He edged closer, taking care to keep himself well concealed behind the labyrinth of storage furniture that displayed Weasenham’s wares. Bartholomew followed, not to help, but because the type of parchment he was hunting for had been moved since the last time he had visited the shop.
‘I am surprised to see you here,’ said Lee tauntingly to Falmeresham. ‘I did not think you could afford decent supplies.’
‘You are right,’ replied Falmeresham pleasantly. ‘I do not come from a wealthy family, but Deynman is buying it for me, as payment for the help I have given him with his studies this year.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ said Lee contemptuously. ‘Only an ass would waste money on such a stupid exercise.’
‘Stupid exercise?’ echoed Falmeresham innocently. He appealed to Lee’s cronies, who were ranged in a pugilistic line behind him. ‘Take heed, gentlemen. Lee thinks helping friends is a “stupid exercise”. You should ask yourselves whether he is someone worthy of your companionship.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Lee, irked by the way his words had been twisted. ‘I meant he is squandering his gold by buying vellum for the likes of you. I heard you are a bastard.’
Michael stiffened, readying himself to intervene, while Wormynghalle tore herself away from the pens and listened to the burgeoning argument with an expression of alarm. She started to edge towards the door, unwilling to be implicated in an incident that might draw unwanted attention. Dodenho, however, was more interested in holding forth about quills, and Weasenham was too intent on securing a sale to notice the quarrel brewing under his roof.
‘What is a waste of money,’ said Falmeresham lightly, ‘are lessons from Doctor Rougham.’
‘True,’ muttered Michael to himself. ‘But this is not a good time to mention it.’
Lee’s brows drew together. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he is never here,’ replied Falmeresham, who had meant nothing of the kind and was obviously enjoying playing with the slow-witted Lee. ‘He has been gone for more than two weeks – in the middle of term and when his students need him most.’
‘He is on leave,’ replied Lee. ‘We had a letter saying he has gone to visit his family.’
‘Then I hope he returns as good a teacher as when he left,’ said Falmeresham ambiguously.
Lee scratched his head as he considered the statement, and Falmeresham lost interest in baiting him. It was too easy; he preferred someone who provided more of a challenge. He doffed his hat in an insulting manner, then turned back to the vellum. His friends followed his lead, and were soon engaged in a good-natured debate that filled the room with ringing voices and boisterous laughter. Lee did nothing for a moment, but then moved to the back of the shop, where he and his cronies began to discuss whether Rougham would prefer his remedies book copied in brown or black ink.
Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That was close! Lee was determined to fight, but Falmeresham was too clever for him.’
‘He is clever,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt he will forget what Lee said to him today – no man likes being called illegitimate. Those remarks will cost Gonville dearly in time.’
But Michael was not paying attention. He was leaning forward to eavesdrop on the discussion between Weasenham and the King’s Hall men. Now the danger of a spat was over, Wormynghalle was back at the counter, fingering the glove in the hope that the stationer would notice it and begin a few rumours about her masculine lechery. Weasenham and Dodenho had agreed a price, and the stationer was regaling his customers with some post-sale gossip. The Michaelhouse students’ cheerful banter was enough to mask any sound Michael might have made with his muttered asides, but was not sufficiently loud to drown out the words of the chattering scholars. The situation was perfect for the monk to listen unobserved, and he intended to make the most of it, keen to hear for himself whether the stationer was spreading lies about the Oxford murders.
‘Gonville students are the worst,’ Weasenham was saying. ‘They are not too bad when Rougham is here, because he uses his sharp tongue to keep them in line, but now he is away, they are a menace.’
‘When will he return?’ asked Wormynghalle. She did not sound very interested in the answer and gave the impression she had asked only to be polite.
‘No one knows.’ Weasenham’s voice dropped to a salacious whisper so that Michael had to strain to hear him. ‘They say he has gone to enjoy himself with his lover.’
‘His lover?’ asked Dodenho, regarding Weasenham doubtfully. ‘I doubt he has one. No woman would want him near her, when there are men like me to oblige.’
Michael scowled at Bartholomew when he started to laugh and almost gave away the fact that they were close by. ‘I want to hear this,’ he hissed irritably.
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, still amused. ‘You know it is rubbish – Rougham’s lover is a woman he pays every first Monday in the month, and he is definitely not enjoying himself with her now. Weasenham is a vicious-tongued snoop, and his stories are invariably lies.’
‘Rougham’s lover is no woman,’ said Weasenham, snagging Michael’s attention back again. Bartholomew peered through a gap in the shelving and saw the stationer’s face was bright with malice, lips pressed firmly together in sanctimonious disapproval.
‘It is not Chancellor Tynkell, is it?’ asked Dodenho. ‘I have heard he is a woman, and that is why he never washes – he does not want anyone to know what lies beneath his tabard.’
‘Do not be absurd,’ said Wormynghalle scornfully. ‘That story came from Bartholomew’s student – Deynman – and there are no grounds to it, other than his own ludicrously twisted logic. Of course the Chancellor is not a woman.’ Her fierce words made Dodenho take a step back in alarm.
‘You are getting away from my point,’ said Weasenham crossly. He was not interested in ancient rumours when he had new ones to spread. ‘Rougham’s lover is someone you know: it is Hamecotes. Do not believe the tale that he is in Oxford collecting books. It is not true.’
‘It is true!’ cried Wormynghalle, outraged by the aspersions cast on her room-mate. ‘I had a letter from him only this morning, telling me he has secured a copy of Regulae solvendi sophismata. It comes from Merton College, and he says it is annotated with notes in Heytesbury’s own hand.’ She glared at Weasenham, waiting for him to be suitably impressed. Bartholomew certainly was, and wondered whether King’s Hall would allow him to study it.
‘Besides,’ added Dodenho, equally affronted, ‘Hamecotes is not inclined towards men. He prefers women – and so does Rougham, if Yolande de Blaston is to be believed.’
‘Yolande is a whore,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘She will say anything once she is shown the glitter of silver. Doubtless Rougham pays her to tell everyone he is a rampant and manly lover.’
Michael sniggered softly. ‘Poor Rougham! After all he has been through to keep his dalliance with Yolande a secret, here is Weasenham telling people that it cannot be true because he is in love with Hamecotes!’
‘Why pick on Hamecotes?’ demanded Wormynghalle icily. ‘Because he is away, and therefore cannot defend himself against these wicked fabrications?’
‘Wolf is away, too,’ said Weasenham, unperturbed by her ire. ‘Perhaps he is Rougham’s lover.’
‘Wolf has a pox, caught from dalliances with unclean women,’ confided Dodenho. ‘That is why he cannot be seen around the town this term, and why he cannot be Rougham’s lover. I should know, because I shared his room before he took himself off to the hospital at Stour…’ He stopped speaking and bit his lip, aware that he had said something he should not have done.