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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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Powys, and failed to mention the amount of wine he had swallowed or the drunken slumber that had followed, buthis audience sat in spellbound silence until he had finished, anyway.
‘Well, we are glad you survived,’ said Suttone warmly, rubbing his hands together as the servants began to put bowls of food
on the table. ‘None of
us
want the post of Master.’
‘I would not mind,’ said Michael, poking in distaste at something that appeared to be a mixture of scrambled eggs and parsnips.
‘But only if Wynewyk continues to manage the finances, which is the tedious part. The rest would be fun.’
‘I might resign and let you do it,’ said Langelee heavily. ‘God knows, it is a thankless task.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had never heard the Master talk about stepping down before, and could see
that Michael was alarmed by the notion that his flippant remark might have been taken seriously. The monk might have harboured
ambitions in that direction once, but since then he had carved himself a niche as the University’s most influential scholar
– the man who told the Chancellor what to do, and who made all the important decisions. Accepting the Mastership of Michaelhouse
would represent a considerable demotion, and Bartholomew doubted the monk would do it – especially as he had once confided
that his next post would be either abbot or bishop.
‘Do not make any hasty decisions, Master,’ advised Michael quickly. ‘Especially as you are probably still shocked after last
night’s episode. Give yourself time to recover before—’
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Last night’s episode was nothing. I have experienced far worse in games of camp-ball –
and not just on the field, either. Why do you think I have taken to wearing a boiled-leather jerkin?Because some teams will do anything to win, and good players like me are never safe from sly attacks in the street. But I
had better say a final grace, because I have a great deal to do today, and I am sure you do, too.’
He had intoned no more than two lines before he faltered, having apparently forgotten the words. As it was a prayer he used
regularly, Bartholomew peered around Michael’s bulk to regard him in alarm, wondering whether he had bumped his head when
he had fallen and was not in his right wits. Langelee made a vague gesture to indicate that his scholars were dismissed, then
left the hall.
‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Suttone, when he had gone. ‘He is not himself today.’
‘Do you think it is malnutrition, from the terrible food we have been given over the last few weeks?’ asked Michael. ‘He is
a large man, and will not thrive on this sort of muck for long.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering if he was making a joke. Langelee
was
a large man, but Michael was considerably bigger.
‘It might be,’ agreed Suttone, who also boasted an impressive girth. ‘I know I am wasting away.’
‘I am exhausted,’ declared Michael, flopping into a fireside chair in the conclave that evening. All the Fellows were there.
Bartholomew, Suttone and Wynewyk were at the table, preparing lessons for the following day, Thelnetham and Hemmysby were
reading a Book of Hours together, and Langelee was sitting by the window. He was gazing into the courtyard below, although
it was dark outside and he would not be able to see anything. Clippesby was at his feet, playing with the College cat.
‘Why are you exhausted, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk courteously, when no one else seemed interested and themonk was beginning to look annoyed by the lack of response. Bartholomew forced his thoughts away from his work when he realised
he was being rude.
‘For several reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘I spent all morning teaching, and all afternoon questioning Gosse about the attack
on our Master last night. Then I visited the apothecaries and asked whether
Powys, and failed to mention the amount of wine he had swallowed or the drunken slumber that had followed, buthis audience sat in spellbound silence until he had finished, anyway.
‘Well, we are glad you survived,’ said Suttone warmly, rubbing his hands together as the servants began to put bowls of food
on the table. ‘None of
us
want the post of Master.’
‘I would not mind,’ said Michael, poking in distaste at something that appeared to be a mixture of scrambled eggs and parsnips.
‘But only if Wynewyk continues to manage the finances, which is the tedious part. The rest would be fun.’
‘I might resign and let you do it,’ said Langelee heavily. ‘God knows, it is a thankless task.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had never heard the Master talk about stepping down before, and could see
that Michael was alarmed by the notion that his flippant remark might have been taken seriously. The monk might have harboured
ambitions in that direction once, but since then he had carved himself a niche as the University’s most influential scholar
– the man who told the Chancellor what to do, and who made all the important decisions. Accepting the Mastership of Michaelhouse
would represent a considerable demotion, and Bartholomew doubted the monk would do it – especially as he had once confided
that his next post would be either abbot or bishop.
‘Do not make any hasty decisions, Master,’ advised Michael quickly. ‘Especially as you are probably still shocked after last
night’s episode. Give yourself time to recover before—’
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Last night’s episode was nothing. I have experienced far worse in games of camp-ball –
and not just on the field, either. Why do you think I have taken to wearing a boiled-leather jerkin?Because some teams will do anything to win, and good players like me are never safe from sly attacks in the street. But I
had better say a final grace, because I have a great deal to do today, and I am sure you do, too.’
He had intoned no more than two lines before he faltered, having apparently forgotten the words. As it was a prayer he used
regularly, Bartholomew peered around Michael’s bulk to regard him in alarm, wondering whether he had bumped his head when
he had fallen and was not in his right wits. Langelee made a vague gesture to indicate that his scholars were dismissed, then
left the hall.
‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Suttone, when he had gone. ‘He is not himself today.’
‘Do you think it is malnutrition, from the terrible food we have been given over the last few weeks?’ asked Michael. ‘He is
a large man, and will not thrive on this sort of muck for long.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering if he was making a joke. Langelee
was
a large man, but Michael was considerably bigger.
‘It might be,’ agreed Suttone, who also boasted an impressive girth. ‘I know I am wasting away.’
‘I am exhausted,’ declared Michael, flopping into a fireside chair in the conclave that evening. All the Fellows were there.
Bartholomew, Suttone and Wynewyk were at the table, preparing lessons for the following day, Thelnetham and Hemmysby were
reading a Book of Hours together, and Langelee was sitting by the window. He was gazing into the courtyard below, although
it was dark outside and he would not be able to see anything. Clippesby was at his feet, playing with the College cat.
‘Why are you exhausted, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk courteously, when no one else seemed interested and themonk was beginning to look annoyed by the lack of response. Bartholomew forced his thoughts away from his work when he realised
he was being rude.
‘For several reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘I spent all morning teaching, and all afternoon questioning Gosse about the attack
on our Master last night. Then I visited the apothecaries and asked whether
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