‘Then triple them,’ said Wisbeche with a shrug. ‘Students on low incomes will have to go to Oxford instead. Nothing can be bought in this world without money, so why should a university be any different?’
‘Do not do it, Brother,’ warned Kardington. ‘If you yield on this front, we will face ultimatums from those who provide other commodities – ale, bread, meat and other essential supplies.’
Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘So, as well as having to do battle with the town, I discover that my colleagues are divided in their opinions, too – two sides offering perfectly valid arguments.’
Wisbeche smiled ruefully. ‘It would seem so. I would not like to be in your position, Brother.’
‘Neither would I,’ said Kardington fervently. ‘So, we agree on that, at least. Come, Spaldynge. Let us go home before you offend any more vulgar taverners.’
‘Willingly,’ said Spaldynge. ‘I do not want to linger here with a physician, anyway.’
When they had gone, Bartholomew noticed that three old ladies who sold vegetables near St Mary the Great were glaring at him. One summoned him frequently to cure her stomach pains, and he had never once charged for his services. He smiled at her, and was disappointed when she spat at him. He had expected her to feel some affection towards him, after all his years of charity.
‘Spaldynge has a fierce temper,’ remarked Michael, sketching a wry benediction at her as he passed. ‘And he, alone of the Clare scholars, has no alibi for the business on Sunday – he remained in the College when everyone else rushed out to gawp, because he thought it might be a diversion for a burglary. I wonder just how far his hatred of physicians extends.’
‘But the Clare men raced out of their hall after the accident, when Lynton was already dead. What Spaldynge did at that point is irrelevant.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘I made a few enquiries, and learned that no one from Clare actually saw Spaldynge that afternoon – the reason Kardington and Lexham say he stayed behind to guard the College is because he told them so. They did not see him – not after the accident, and not before, either. And do not forget that Falmeresham is a physician in all but name, now he is so close to finishing his degree.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Spaldynge has been making barbed comments to me ever since the plague, but he has never been violent.’
‘Then let us hope he has not started now.’
‘Perhaps Wisbeche is right about the rents,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around as they crossed the Market Square. He could not recall a time when he had felt less comfortable in his own town, and realised how fickle people could be. ‘Maybe you should capitulate.’
Michael sighed. ‘I lay awake most of last night, fretting about the situation. I considered tendering my resignation and fleeing to Ely before I am lynched, but that would be cowardly.’
‘It is not you that is the problem, Brother. It is the rents. Raise them.’
‘The only way to do that is by amending the Statutes,’ said Michael. ‘And that requires the permission of the Regents.’ The Regents were the University’s Fellows and senior scholars.
‘Then call a Convocation of the Regents, Brother. They can decide whether the Statutes should change or stay as they are, and we can all take responsibility for what is happening. I do not see why you should have to bear this alone.’
Michael smiled wanly. ‘I imagine most Regents will feel like Wisbeche, and will prefer more expensive accommodation in a peaceful town.’
‘I hope so, because the alternative is cheap rent in a town that is rife with turmoil.’
‘Arderne must have a compelling tongue,’ said Michael, as they walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘I thought you were popular with your patients, but several have scowled at you today. Surely you cannot have killed that many?’
‘Robert de Blaston just smiled, so they are not all infected with Arderne’s poison. Most of them are glaring at you, anyway, and Burgess Ashwelle just called you a–’
‘What did you learn from challenging Blankpayn?’ asked the monk, not wanting to hear what Ashwelle had said. ‘Were his answers worth risking another brawl?’
Bartholomew winced as a man, cloaked and hooded against the rain, walked out of St Michael’s Lane directly into the path of a cart. The pony reared and the driver howled abuse. The pedestrian jerked back in alarm, then fled along the High Street. Bartholomew was puzzled. Such incidents happened all the time, and those involved either yelled back or ignored them – few people ever ran away.
‘Blankpayn’s testimony was inconsistent. First, he said he had not wounded Falmeresham badly, and only later did he start talking about a body. I suspect he was just trying to upset us.’
‘Do not read too much into it,’ warned Michael, seeing hope glow in his friend’s eyes. ‘If Falmeresham was alive, he would have found his way home by now. Ergo, I suspect he is dead, and Blankpayn’s parting words will prove to be prophetic – we will start to receive letters demanding a relaxing of the rent laws in exchange for his body soon.’
‘Falmeresham is resourceful,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘I do not believe he is dead.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting for them in the lane. ‘I do not like the way people are looking at you,’ the book-bearer said uneasily. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Unless you think I was spotted burgling Clare last night.’
‘No one saw you except Spaldynge, who now thinks he was mistaken,’ said Cynric. ‘We were lucky. But I was loitering to give you this. It was delivered anonymously a few moments ago, and I thought it might be important.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the book-bearer handed him a note. ‘Now what?’
The message was written on parchment that was thin and old – someone had not wanted to spend money on a better piece. The handwriting was crabbed, and Michael turned it this way and that until he was forced to admit it was too small for his eyes. He gave it to Bartholomew. The physician scanned it quickly, then gazed at the monk in horror.
‘It is a confession from a man who claims he murdered Kenyngham. He says he fed him a slow-acting poison at Easter, and that is why he died.’
Michael tore it from him. ‘Are you sure? You have not misread it?’
‘Of course I have not misread it! It is in French, which is strange – scholars would use Latin and townsfolk prefer English. Someone is making sure he leaves you no clues as to his identity.’
‘How could anyone poison Kenyngham?’ asked Cynric. ‘He was with you at Easter.’
Bartholomew felt a stab of unease when he realised that was not true. ‘There was a vigil in St Michael’s Church from sunset on Saturday until dawn on Sunday. The rest of us came and went in shifts, but Kenyngham remained the whole night and sometimes he was alone.’
‘I told you he was poisoned,’ cried Michael. His face was white with shock. ‘I said so on several occasions, but you kept saying that he was not.’
‘I did not think he could have been.’ Bartholomew’s stomach felt as though it was full of liquid lead – heavy and burning at the same time. Had he really made that sort of blunder? The poison must have been a very sly one, without odour or obvious symptoms, or he would have detected something amiss. Or would he? He thought about Motelete, and how even Arderne – a fraud – had seen signs of life that he had missed. Perhaps he had made another terrible mistake, this time with a man he had considered a friend. The thought made him feel sick.