‘There,’ said Wynewyk, pointing towards the front gate. The porter had just opened it, and Carton was slipping quickly inside. ‘Where has he been?’
‘Reciting masses,’ replied the friar, when Langelee repeated the question to him. ‘In St Michael’s. I came back when I heard the bell.’
Yet he was very wet, and had clearly been out longer than the time it would have taken to walk from church to College. Bartholomew was about to demand the truth, but the Master was speaking.
‘Right,’ Langelee shouted. ‘The rest of you gather around me. Come on, hurry up!’
Everyone formed a tight huddle, with him in the centre, waiting expectantly for what sounded as though it was going to be an important announcement. Bartholomew wondered if he had found a way to dispense with Honynge, and was going to confide it while the man was not there.
‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, after several moments of silence.
‘Nothing,’ said Langelee. ‘I just thought you could keep the rain off me while we wait.’
There was a chorus of weary groans. Bartholomew started to laugh, although William failed to see the humour in the situation, and began a litany of bitter grumbles that saw the Dominicans to blame for the Master’s jest and the foul weather at the same time.
‘I am glad I am not a Black Friar,’ said Tyrington, standing close to the physician and speaking in a low voice. ‘William is not entirely sane when he starts ranting about them, and I would not like that sort of venom directed at me. How can you let him spout such poison? The students will hear it, and might think it is true.’
‘I suppose we should tell him to moderate himself,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to edge away from the cascade of spit. ‘We take no notice of him, so we assume no one else does, either.’
‘You have twenty new members who do not know he should be ignored. I do not mean to be objectionable – finding fault with my new College so soon – but I am offended by these tirades and would like them to stop. Is that unreasonable?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Of course not, and you are right. I will talk to Langelee about it.’ He shivered. ‘It is freezing out here! Where is Honynge?’
‘He and I were invited to a debate in Bene’t College last night. It went on longer than we expected, and we came home very late.’
Bartholomew nodded, recalling how it had not been late enough to prevent Honynge from joining him and Wynewyk in the conclave afterwards. Wynewyk had been working on the accounts and Bartholomew had been reading, enjoying the remnants of the fire in companionable silence. Then Honynge had arrived and ordered them to move so he could warm himself. Wynewyk had objected, and Bartholomew had left when the ensuing argument had degenerated into an exchange of personal insults.
‘Honynge is imbued with great energy at night,’ Tyrington went on. ‘I was exhausted, but he was all for continuing the debate. I declined, so he tried to persuade others instead. All refused, because of the lateness of the hour, but he even approached Candelby in his desperation for a discussion.’
‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he has much patience with scholarly pursuits.’
Tyrington shrugged. ‘I think Honynge was so keen for a disputation that it did not occur to him that a taverner might not be the man to ask. It did not take him long to find out, though. He had caught me up by the time I reached St Mary the Great, and we walked the rest of the way home together.’
‘Where is that man?’ demanded Michael. Rain had plastered his thin hair to his head, which looked very small atop the vast mountain of his body. ‘Does he not know he is keeping us out here in the wet?’
Tyrington pulled a phial from his scrip and handed it to Bartholomew. ‘Here is something that may occupy you while we wait. I bought it from Arderne – or rather, he forced it on me, then demanded a shilling. I was too taken aback to protest.’
‘What was ailing you?’ asked Bartholomew, taking it cautiously. The stopper did not fit very well, and it was leaking. He would never have dispensed medicine in such a container.
Tyrington looked indignant. ‘He told me I have too much saliva in my mouth, and that this potion would dry it out. What was he talking about? I do not spit!’
‘You will not be doing anything at all if you swallow too much of this,’ said Bartholomew, sniffing the flask warily. ‘I detect bryony in it, and that can be harmful in too concentrated a dose.’
Tyrington gaped at him, shocked. ‘You mean he was trying to poison me? Why? I have never done anything to him! In fact, I had never even spoken to him before yesterday.’
‘I suspect he just saw an opportunity to earn himself a shilling,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And bryony is used to clear the chest of phlegm, so it is not poison exactly.’
‘Just another example of Arderne’s incompetence,’ muttered Michael.
Eventually, Honynge arrived, and did not seem to care that he had kept his colleagues lingering in the wet while he made himself ready. He was clad in an expensive cloak, his hair was neatly brushed, and he was shaved so closely that Bartholomew imagined the procedure must have taken a very long time. Langelee was only willing to be pushed so far. He nodded to his Fellows, who stepped into formation behind him, and set off. Cynric whipped the gate open to ensure there was no delay, and Langelee stormed up St Michael’s Lane at a furious lick. As a consequence, Honynge was obliged to run to catch up. He was seething when he finally took his place, and glowered at Langelee in a way that made Bartholomew uneasy.
The physician put Honynge from his mind as Michael began the mass, enjoying the monk’s rich baritone as he intoned the sacred words. Although he was a Benedictine, Michael had been given special dispensation to perform priestly duties during the plague, and the shortage of ordained men since meant he had continued the practice. The psalm he had chosen was one of Kenyngham’s favourites, and Bartholomew found himself wishing with all his heart that the old man had not died. Even without Honynge’s malign presence, Michaelhouse was a poorer place without him.
When the monk had finished, the scholars trooped back to the College at a more sedate pace than they had left it, and waited in the yard until the bell announced that breakfast was ready. Michael was first to reach the door, thundering up the spiral stairs that led to the hall, then pacing restlessly until everyone else had arrived. Honynge was last, because he had found something else to do along the way, and Langelee said grace before he had reached his seat. Pointedly, Honynge murmured his own prayer before he sat, and then took so much of the communal egg-mess that there was none left for Bartholomew and Tyrington. When Tyrington voiced his objection, the hands of the Fellows sitting near him immediately adopted the Michaelhouse Manoeuvre.
‘I am concerned about this exhumation you propose to conduct,’ said Honynge, when the meal was over and the Fellows were in the conclave, deciding who should invigilate the disputations. The comment was somewhat out of the blue. ‘Are you sure it is necessary?’
‘I must know how Kenyngham died,’ said Michael. ‘Besides, I always investigate odd deaths.’
‘Is Kenyngham’s death odd?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought he died of old age.’
‘He was poisoned.’ Michael brandished the parchments he had been sent. ‘This confession proves it, and so does the letter offering me twenty marks for finding his killer.’
‘Perhaps they are pranks,’ suggested Wynewyk, studying them thoughtfully. ‘Or a plot devised by someone who wants to hurt you because of the rent war.’
‘Why would anyone confess to a murder he did not commit?’ demanded Michael.
‘Why would a killer want you to know what he had done?’ countered Honynge. ‘If Kenyngham really was poisoned, the culprit would be grateful that his crime had gone undetected. He would not brag about it, and risk having you launch an investigation that might see him exposed. Of course these missives are hoaxes! And anyone who cannot see it is a fool.’