‘If he calls me a liar one more time, I shall …’ Wynewyk ground his teeth in impotent rage. ‘I do not know what I shall do, but he will regret ever coming to Michaelhouse. That book was in perfect condition before he slobbered all over it, and now it is ruined. For ever.’
‘It is a pity,’ agreed Bartholomew, who also abhorred harm to books.
William slunk down the spiral stairs, the last to leave the conclave. He was mortified, because it transpired that not only did both Honynge and Tyrington support the Dominicans’ side of the argument pertaining to Blood Relics, but they were familiar with the nuances of the whole debate, and could argue them well. They had made mincemeat of his poor grasp of the subject, and he, a man supremely and blissfully oblivious to his own intellectual shortcomings, was at last forced to confront his inadequacies. Bartholomew tried to support his old colleague, but he did not give the matter his full attention, and he ended up being as savaged as the friar.
‘Thank you anyway, Matthew,’ said William gloomily, before heading for his chambers as a chastened man. ‘It was good of you to take my side. I shall not forget it – and if that Honynge ever asks me to mind his students or take one of his classes because he is indisposed, I shall tell him to go to Hell, where he belongs.’
Bartholomew doubted Honynge would ever solicit the Franciscan’s assistance on any academic matter, and suspected William would never have the satisfaction of wreaking even minor revenge for the unpleasantness he had endured that evening.
Langelee watched him go, then came to stand with Bartholomew, Wynewyk and Michael. ‘I wish Kenyngham had not left us so suddenly, because then we would have had more time to consider his replacement. I think we have made a terrible mistake with this pair.’
‘Do not worry,’ said Michael with a wink. ‘There are ways and means to deal with this sort of situation, and I am not Senior Proctor for nothing.’
‘I do not want any bloodshed, though,’ warned Langelee. ‘At least, not bloodshed that can be traced to us. Be discreet.’
‘Discretion is my middle name,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘And do not worry about bloodshed, either. There will be no need for that, because I was thinking of using my wits, not knives.’
‘Yes, but remember they are both rather well armed in the wits department,’ said Langelee. He began to walk away, but stopped briefly and called over his shoulder, ‘I have a sword in my chamber.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘Just what he said, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget where he came from. He was the Archbishop of York’s spy for years, and it would not surprise me to learn that he had solved problems by resorting to weapons.’
‘Just like you then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Itching to challenge Arderne to a trial by combat.’
‘I suspect it will be wiser to use the College statutes, and devise an administrative excuse to be rid of them,’ said Wynewyk. ‘I am a lawyer, so if I can help, do not hesitate to ask.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘I shall almost certainly take you up on it. What is that commotion?’
‘Cynric!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in alarm, beginning to run towards the gate.
‘No,’ said Michael, peering into the darkness. ‘It is Falmeresham!’
A short while later, Falmeresham sat in the hall, surrounded by students, commoners and Fellows – all the Fellows except Honynge, who claimed he did not know Falmeresham, so could not be expected to celebrate his return. Tyrington stood shyly at the back at first; then he gave a leering grin when the Master hauled him to the front. It would not do for senior members to relinquish the best spots to students, and no master wanted to preside over a foundation where the hierarchical balance was in disarray.
‘So, we are not going to be blackmailed by greedy landlords after all,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, watching Carton fuss about his friend with wine and blankets. ‘That is a relief!’
‘The relief is in seeing him alive and well,’ said Bartholomew. He felt better than he had done in days, and realised what a tremendous strain the student’s disappearance had been.
William inveigled himself a cup of the students’ claret, and came to stand next to the monk. ‘You can call off the Convocation of Regents now – we do not need them to decide whether to change the University Statutes after all. We have our student back, so we can keep the rents as they are.’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Can I count on your vote?’
‘No,’ replied William. ‘I do not think we should throw out ancient laws just because Candelby wants more money. I believe the rents should stay as they are.’
‘But you are a member of Michaelhouse, and the Senior Proctor has a right to expect your support, regardless of what you think about the issue,’ said Tyrington quietly. ‘It is the way things work.’
William scowled as he brushed spit from his revolting habit, and considered Tyrington’s words carefully. He took a swig of wine, swilling it noisily around his brown teeth. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘I suppose I can ignore my conscience in the interests of solidarity – and I would not like Michaelhouse made a laughing stock because the Senior Proctor’s proposal is defeated.’
‘It is hardly a matter of conscience, Father,’ said Langelee impatiently. He turned to the monk. ‘I shall stand with you, Michael, and I shall persuade a few others to do likewise.’
‘You will not use rough tactics, will you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘I might,’ said Langelee airily, rubbing his hands together. ‘It depends how willing they are to accept my point of view. William is right: if Michael loses, his failure will reflect on our College, and I do not want to be seen as the Master of a place that cannot get its own way.’
Bartholomew was not very interested in Langelee’s political manoeuvrings, and was more concerned to find out where Falmeresham had been for the last four days. The student was pale and thin, but his eyes were bright, and his old grin was plastered firmly across his face. Carton was also smiling, although not as broadly as the physician would have expected.
‘We were worried about you,’ said Bartholomew chidingly, as he went to sit next to his student. ‘Could you not have sent word to say that you were safe?’
‘You had several days to do it,’ added Carton, rather coolly.
‘Magister Arderne said it would be better to wait, to make sure his treatment of my fatal wound was successful,’ replied Falmeresham apologetically. ‘He feared for my life the first two days.’
‘It was not a fatal wound,’ said William pedantically, ‘if it did not kill you.’
‘But it did kill me,’ said Falmeresham earnestly. ‘I was dead, and Magister Arderne brought me back to life. It was a miracle!’
‘Was it indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Where were you wounded?’
Falmeresham raised his tunic to reveal a small, neat scar. ‘Blankpayn’s knife plunged deep into my liver. Magister Arderne pulled the whole thing out, stitched it up, and replaced it again.’
‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. In the past, he had extracted damaged organs, gently sutured them, and then put them back, but there was nearly always a fever afterwards, and it was often fatal. However, he had never attempted the procedure with anything as vital as a liver. Like most medici, he tended to leave livers alone.
‘And it hardly hurt at all,’ Falmeresham went on, clearly impressed. ‘Well, the stitching-up did, I suppose, but having my liver removed did not. I saw it in Magister Arderne’s hands.’