‘But that might be years!’ cried Honynge, aghast.
‘Yes, it might,’ agreed Langelee smugly. ‘And you cannot leave us and go to Lucy’s too soon, because you are obliged to give us a term’s notice if you resign.’
‘However, as Senior Proctor, I have the authority to waive that clause,’ said Michael quickly. ‘I can give you permission to leave today, if you find pouring wine repellent.’
Honynge thought about it. ‘I shall stay,’ he said stiffly. He lowered his voice. ‘Do not allow yourself to be ousted by the unpleasantness of colleagues, Honynge – not on your first day.’
‘We shall have to oust him on his second day, then,’ murmured Wynewyk to Bartholomew. ‘Lord, what have I done? Had I known he was like this, I would have voted for Tyrington instead. Tyrington leers and drools, but he is preferable to this sharp-tongued cockerel!’
‘Perhaps these are nervous manners,’ suggested Bartholomew hopefully. ‘And he will become more amenable when he has settled in. Have you ever watched hens? They peck and scratch at each other until a mutually acceptable hierarchy is reached. Maybe people are not so different.’
‘He had better not peck or scratch at me,’ said Wynewyk pettishly. ‘Or I shall peck and scratch back.’
‘How well do you know Master Kardington, Honynge?’ asked Michael conversationally, raising his goblet in a salute to Tyrington for his generosity. Bartholomew braced himself, seeing from the monk’s predatory expression that an interrogation was about to take place. He recalled Michael saying he intended to put his questions subtly, and supposed Honynge’s curt manner had goaded him into staging a frontal assault instead. ‘Do you ever visit Clare? After dark?’
Honynge maintained an admirable calm as he poured the wine. ‘No. Why would I?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘Why does any man frequent another foundation? Perhaps he wants to pass the time of day – or night – with friends or lovers. Perhaps he likes the look of that foundation’s silverware. Or perhaps it is documents that catch his eye.’
Honynge blinked. ‘Are you accusing me of a felony?’
‘Me?’ asked Michael, placing a fat hand on his chest. ‘Why would you think that? Unless your guilty conscience prompted you to ask such a question, of course?’
‘I do not visit Clare, because I do not approve of fraternising between Colleges. It is safer that way. I have never been to Clare. Never. Ask Kardington if you do not believe me.’
He was so convincing that Bartholomew wondered if Cynric had been mistaken, but it seemed unlikely – if the book-bearer said he had seen the intruder’s face, then he had seen it. He glanced at Honynge’s hands as the man thrust a goblet of wine at him. The knuckles were grazed, and there was a deep gash on one thumb.
‘What happened to you?’ Bartholomew asked, indicating the wounds with a nod of his head.
‘I scraped them during the process of moving,’ replied Honynge. He pointed to the physician’s fingers, which also bore the marks of an encounter with Clare. ‘And you?’ he demanded.
‘I like Clare,’ said Tyrington pleasantly, cutting across the stammering reply Bartholomew started to make. Honynge was sharp, and the physician had not expected him to counter-attack. ‘It is a very nice College, although not as pleasant as here, of course.’
‘Tyrington is a dreadful sycophant,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, when the others were engaged in a strained discussion about the day’s inclement weather. ‘And I do not know whether I find his leers or his spitting more objectionable. However, he is charm personified when compared to Honynge. Do you think he killed Kenyngham?’
‘Honynge?’ asked Bartholomew startled. ‘Of course not! Why would he do such a thing? And, as I have told you several times, no one killed Kenyngham.’
‘Why is obvious – he wanted a Fellowship here,’ Michael shot back. He stood and sauntered over to where Honynge was pouring more wine for William. ‘Why did you chose us over Lucy’s? I would have thought that particular hostel would have suited you very nicely – it overlooks a bog.’
Honynge regarded him warily, not sure if he was being insulted. ‘Books,’ he replied shortly. ‘You have a library, Lucy’s does not.’
‘You did not choose us because you admire our tradition of academic excellence?’ asked Michael, a little dangerously.
Honynge snorted. ‘Hardly! You have Father William as a Fellow, and Deynman as a student. Those two alone make Michaelhouse a laughing stock in the world of scholarship. However, I shall help you to oust them, and then our reputation will improve.’
‘What did you think of Kenyngham’s scholarship?’ asked Michael softly.
‘Solid,’ replied Honynge. ‘Not exciting, but perfectly acceptable. Why?’
‘Because I miss him. He was one of few men I respected, and if I find something untoward happened to him, I shall not rest until the culprit is hanged.’
Honynge regarded him with contempt. ‘Is this what your Order teaches you? Vengeance?’
‘Not vengeance – justice. And I dislike men who send me gloating letters.’
‘I shall have to remember not to write you any, then. Forget Kenyngham, Brother. He was an old man who shortened his life with his religious excesses – if anyone killed him, it was Kenyngham himself. Besides, some good has come out of his death, because now you have me. I shall drag Michaelhouse from mediocrity to something other scholars will admire.’
‘Shall we have a debate before dinner?’ asked Langelee brightly, aware of the low-voiced confrontation between the two men and keen to put an end to it before it escalated. ‘We have time.’
‘Blood Relics?’ suggested Tyrington. He spoke before swallowing the wine in his mouth, and Wynewyk scrambled to blot the resulting mess from the Book of Hours he had been reading. ‘It is a matter with which we are all familiar, and is at the heart of many important theological issues.’
‘Go on, then,’ said William, pleased. ‘I am always ready to expound my views on religion.’
‘And to listen to those of others,’ added Langelee pointedly, unwilling for the friar to show them up on the newcomers’ first day.
‘I have changed my mind,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew a while later. ‘Candelby is no longer my chief suspect for killing Lynton and Kenyngham. Honynge is.’
‘Because you dislike him?’
‘Because he is an arrogant pig who would think nothing of committing murder to further his own interests. And he is a liar, too. Cynric saw him up to no good in Clare, and you can see the evidence on his knuckles. He is hiding something.’
‘Lying is a long way from murder.’
Michael was not interested in the physician’s reservations. ‘Perhaps I will steal some of Agatha’s love potion and feed it to him. He will fall hopelessly in love with her and make advances. Then she will advance back, and he will be lucky to survive the encounter.’
It was still light when the Fellows left the conclave and went to their rooms, but when they did, there were none of the usual relaxed pleasantries that normally characterised the end of their day. Langelee was dismayed, because the harmony he had sought to achieve among his senior members had evaporated like steam, and the conclave had been full of bitterness and sniping. Bartholomew was subdued and preoccupied, worried about his sister, Falmeresham, and what Arderne might do to his patients. Michael and Honynge had quickly gone from antipathy to open hostility, and Wynewyk had taken against Tyrington because the man had salivated all over his favourite book and then denied that the resulting damage was his doing.
‘I will not purchase him a new one,’ said Tyrington resentfully, before walking to his room. ‘The ink had already run. I am eager to make myself agreeable, but I will not be taken advantage of.’