‘The killer wants me to know how clever he is,’ Michael shot back.
‘Piffle,’ declared Honynge. ‘If you disturb a man’s corpse after it has been buried, you are agents of the Devil. I strongly urge you to reconsider this distasteful course of action, Brother.’
‘I cannot,’ said Michael shortly. ‘It would not be right to turn a blind eye to murder.’
‘Then I want my objections made public,’ said Honynge. ‘I want it recorded in the College annals that I consider this exhumation wicked and unnecessary.’
‘Honynge is right,’ said Tyrington shyly. ‘Although I would not have phrased my reservations quite so baldly. The whole business does not seem proper, somehow.’
Langelee sighed. ‘We had better vote on it. We shall meet back here in an hour, which will give us all time to reflect. It is not something that should be decided without proper consideration.’
‘You can vote,’ said Michael. ‘But I am Senior Proctor, and I shall do what I think is right.’
‘You may be Senior Proctor, but you are also a Fellow of Michaelhouse,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘And I assert my authority over you to bide by the decision of your colleagues.’
Michael was furious as he stamped from the conclave.
‘I cannot believe you are against me, Matt!’ The monk was almost shouting as he and Bartholomew walked towards Peterhouse, aiming to ascertain whether there were other aspects to Lynton’s character that had been kept from the general populace.
‘And I cannot believe you are contemplating exhumation,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is horrible.’
‘You have done it before.’
‘Not to someone close to me.’
‘He has only been dead six days. I do not think you will see anything too distressing.’
‘That is not the point. Kenyngham was laid to rest. That does not mean hauled out of his tomb a few days later because you are beguiled by some lunatic letter.’
‘It bragged about the murder of a colleague. How can you remain dispassionate about it?’
‘For two reasons. First, the confession is false – Wynewyk is right, someone is trying to hurt you because of the rent war. And secondly, you will not learn anything by unearthing Kenyngham anyway. I examined him twice and saw nothing amiss.’
Michael looked sly. ‘The fact that you went back for a second paw means there was something about the first examination that bothered you. You are not as sure about this as you claim to be.’
‘Motelete,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was dead, and was shocked when he sat up in his coffin. It made me question myself – especially after Arderne’s claims about my competence.’
Michael’s anger faded when he saw the unhappiness in his friend’s face. ‘I would not take his criticism to heart. He is a … oh, Lord! Here comes Isnard. He is holding a sword, so I recommend you stand behind me. He will not strike a man of God – especially one who is his choirmaster.’
‘Let me at him!’ shouted Isnard, hobbling faster than was safe for a man with one leg. ‘I said I would kill him the next time we met. Well, we have met.’
His voice was loud, and people hurried to see what was happening. Before Michael could stop them, Kardington, Spaldynge and a group of students from Clare had come to stand next to him, while three pot-boys and Blankpayn hastened to show their solidarity with Isnard.
‘You are out a lot these days, Master Kardington,’ remarked Michael coolly. ‘In fact, this is the third time since Sunday that you have been present at a confrontation.’
‘There are confrontations at every turn these days, Brother,’ said Kardington with a shrug. ‘You cannot take two steps without town louts forming battle lines.’
Fortunately, he spoke Latin, so the ‘town louts’ did not understand. They knew it was nothing pleasant though, and Blankpayn scowled. Meanwhile, Isnard was more concerned with carrying out his threat against Bartholomew. He was not drunk, but he was not sober either, and there was a fierce light in his eyes. He took a step forward, gripping his sword two-handed, like an axe.
‘Put that down at once,’ ordered Michael sternly. ‘Brawling may damage your throat, and I need you for the solo on Sunday.’
Isnard stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Solo?’
‘Never mind singing, Isnard,’ hissed Blankpayn. ‘Think about your leg – the one that was sawn off when you were too ill to prevent it. The Bible says an eye for an eye, and a leg for a leg.’
‘Does it?’ asked Isnard, disconcerted. The weapon wavered. ‘I do not think I can bring myself to chop off a limb. It is too … well, too personal.’
‘Kill him then,’ whispered Blankpayn. ‘He has all but killed you.’
‘If you do, I shall make sure you never sing in a choir again,’ said Michael, interposing himself between physician and bargeman. Bartholomew tried to stop him, not wanting the monk to bear the consequences for something he had done, but it was not easy to step around the Benedictine’s bulk.
Isnard’s sword drooped a little more. The Michaelhouse ensemble was one of the greatest joys in his life. Not only did it let him bellow at the top of his lungs with people he liked, but the College provided food and treats after performances, and he enjoyed those, too. ‘But my leg …’
‘It was crushed beyond repair,’ said Bartholomew, finally succeeding in moving out from behind Michael. ‘You saw it yourself, and I do not understand why you refuse to believe me.’
‘But I cannot remember,’ cried Isnard. ‘You gave me wine, to dull my senses.’
‘There!’ muttered Blankpayn. ‘He rendered you insensible before doing his evil work. Listen to what Arderne tells you. Make the physician pay for what he did.’
‘I am no lover of physicians myself,’ said Spaldynge, shooting Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘But I do not recommend slaughtering them in broad daylight. They are not worth hanging for.’
‘You seem very keen for someone to commit a capital crime, Blankpayn,’ lisped Kardington. He spoke English, so no one understood him. ‘Why is that?’
‘Do not swear at us,’ snarled one of Blankpayn’s pot-boys, fingering his dagger meaningfully.
Isnard was confused and unhappy. ‘Falmeresham – your own student – said this morning that if he knew then what he knows now, he would have stopped you from operating. How could you do this to me?’
The last part was delivered in an accusing wail that made Bartholomew wince; so did the notion that Falmeresham had turned against him. He rubbed his eyes, tired of the whole business. There was nothing he could say to make Isnard believe him, and he did not think he could bear weeks of accusing glances and angry High Street encounters until Isnard managed to do what he threatened.
‘Do what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew made no attempt to defend himself. ‘Save your life? Sometimes I ask myself the same question. But I have had enough of this unedifying spectacle. Go home and practise the Magnificat, or I shall ask someone else to sing instead.’
Isnard started to obey – he had never been honoured with a solo before, and dispatching physicians could wait a day – but Blankpayn was furious that a brawl was going to be averted. ‘You are a coward, Isnard! A stupid cripple. He should have amputated you head, not your foot.’
There was a collective murmur of distaste at this remark, including from Blankpayn’s own pot-boys. They exchanged uneasy glances and started to move away. The other townsmen were also loath to be associated with Blankpayn when he was of a mind to insult the popular Isnard, and began to follow suit. In a matter of moments, Blankpayn found himself left with only scholars for company; he did not like being outnumbered, and hastily made himself scarce.