‘Not today, Isnard,’ said Aynton apologetically. ‘Vice-Chancellor Heltisle is conducting the service, and he has opted for a spoken Mass – one without musical interludes.’
‘There is no music involved with the Michaelhouse Choir,’ quipped one of the Horde, a rough, gap-toothed individual whose name was Perkyn. ‘Just a lot of tuneless hollering. Master Heltisle plans to disband them soon, on the grounds that they bring the University into disrepute.’
‘The Michaelhouse Choir no longer exists,’ croaked Isnard loftily. ‘We are the Marian Singers. Moreover, we have nothing to do with the University, for which we thank God, because we would not want to belong to an organisation that is full of Frenchmen.’
‘And none of us is foreign,’ declared Pierre Sauvage. ‘Unlike you lot – we know you turned a blind eye when all them French spies escaped from the Spital.’
‘What are you saying, Sauvage?’ sneered Perkyn, giving the name a distinctly foreign inflection. ‘That we should have made war on women and children?’
‘The French do,’ stated Isnard. ‘They slaughtered them by the hundred in Winchelsea. Besides, unless you hate the whole race, it means you love them all, and you are therefore a traitor. Chancellor Suttone said so in a sermon.’
Bartholomew was sure Suttone had said nothing of the kind – the ex-Chancellor had had his flaws, but making that sort of remark was certainly not among them.
‘Suttone!’ spat Perkyn. ‘A rogue from Michaelhouse, who left Cambridge not because he was afraid of the plague, but because he wanted to get married.’
There was a startled silence.
‘You are mistaken, Perkyn,’ said Aynton, the first to find his voice. ‘Suttone is a Carmelite, a priest who has sworn vows of celibacy.’
‘He ran off with a woman,’ repeated Perkyn firmly. ‘I was there when de Wetherset and Heltisle discussed it.’
‘They would never have held such a conversation in front of you,’ said Aynton sternly. ‘Not that Suttone is guilty of such a charge, of course.’
Perkyn glared at him. ‘I was listening from behind a pillar, if you must know. They tried to keep their voices low, but I have good ears. And I am happy to spread the tale around, because I hate Michaelhouse – it is full of lunatics, lechers and fanatics.’
‘Not lechers,’ objected Isnard, which Bartholomew supposed was loyalty of sorts.
‘You cannot keep us out, Perkyn,’ said Sauvage, aware that he might not get his free victuals if the choir failed to fulfil its obligations. ‘St Mary the Great belongs to everyone.’
‘It is the University Church,’ argued Perkyn. ‘Not yours. Now piss off.’
‘It will not be the University’s for much longer,’ rasped Isnard. ‘It was ours before you lot came along and stole it, and the only reason we have not kicked you out before is because Brother Michael works here. However, now de Wetherset has ousted him, we are free to eject your scrawny arses any time we please.’
‘De Wetherset did not oust Michael,’ squawked Aynton, cowering as the choir surged forward threateningly. ‘They agreed to exchange rooms.’
Bartholomew could bear it no longer, so went to intervene. He was too late. Isnard shoved past the Commissary, and entered the church with the rest of the Marian Singers streaming at his heels. Aynton followed like a demented sheepdog, frantically struggling to herd them in the opposite direction.
Inside, Heltisle had already started the office, confidently assuming that Aynton was equal to excluding those he had decided to bar. He faltered when he heard the patter of many feet on the stone floor.
Moments later, a terrific noise filled the building – the Marian Singers had decided to perform anyway, regardless of the fact that they had no conductor. They plunged into the Jubilate, gaining confidence and volume with every note. Bartholomew put his hands over his ears, and imagined Heltisle was doing the same. Certainly, the Mass could not continue, because the president would be unable to make himself heard.
The music reached a crescendo, after which there was a sudden, blessed silence. Delighted by their achievement, Isnard indicated that the singers were to go for an encore. After three more turns, he declared that they had done their duty, and led the way outside. When they had gone, Michael stepped out of the shadows by the door.
‘Do not tell me you were there all along,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael grinned. ‘Just long enough to know that my choristers did themselves proud today, and annoyed Heltisle into the bargain.’
As it was Sunday, teaching was forbidden, but few masters were so reckless as to leave a lot of lively young men with nothing to do, so it was a Michaelhouse tradition that the Fellows took it in turns to organise some entertainment. Bartholomew usually opted for a light-hearted disputation, followed by games in the orchard or riddle-solving in the hall. Clippesby invariably contrived an activity that would benefit his animal friends – painting the henhouse or playing with dogs – while William always chose something of a religious nature.
That week, it was Theophilis’s turn, and his idea of fun was a debate on the nominalism–realism controversy, followed by him intoning excerpts from his Calendarium – the list of texts that were to be read out at specific times over the Church year.
‘Goodness!’ breathed Michael, unimpressed. ‘He will set them at each other’s throats in the first half, and send them to sleep in the second.’
‘Perhaps he wants them to quarrel, so he can tell everyone that we have a Master who cannot keep order in his own house,’ suggested Bartholomew.
Michael made a moue of irritation. ‘Hardly! He is in charge today, so if there are any unseemly incidents, the blame will be laid at his door, not mine.’
But Bartholomew looked at the Junior Proctor’s artful, self-satisfied face, and knew he had chosen to air a contentious subject for devious reasons of his own. He realised he would have to stay vigilant if he wanted to nip any trouble in the bud. Unfortunately, Michael had other ideas.
‘I need you with me today, Matt. I feel responsible for Orwel’s death, given that he was trying to talk to me when he was murdered. It seems likely that a scholar killed Wyse, and as Wyse and Orwel were both brained with a stone … well, we must catch the culprit as quickly as possible to appease the town. Then there is the killer of Paris and the others …’
‘Who is almost certainly not Alice, although she is arrested for it.’
‘If we can identify the real killer, it may ease the brewing trouble,’ Michael went on. ‘Although I fear it is already too late, and we shall only have peace once we have torn each other asunder. And to top it all, I am obliged to waste my time fending off petty assaults on my authority from the triumvirate.’
Bartholomew was unhappy about leaving his College in hands he did not trust. He warned Aungel and William to be on their guard, but Aungel was too inexperienced to read the warning signs, while the Franciscan would be too easily distracted by the theology.
‘Our lads may misbehave because they are angry,’ said Aungel worriedly. ‘Offended by the town braying that we harbour French soldiers, who will slaughter them all.’
‘Whereas they are the ones whose patriotism should be questioned,’ added William venomously. ‘They looked the other way while Frenchmen lurked in the Spital. I wish I had known they were there – I would have driven them out.’