To Kill or Cure (47 page)

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘I wanted them all mixed up together. Now they are gathered according to faction,
they will be more inclined to quarrel.’

‘Then any bloodshed will be your fault, for calling this stupid Convocation in the first place,’ retorted Honynge viciously.
‘People will see you for the fool you are, and will call for your resignation.’

‘It is none of your damned business,’ snarled Michael. ‘You resigned your Fellowship last night, so you have no official standing
in the University until you are installed in your new post.’

Honynge was seething. ‘So
that
is why you forced me to sign that deed in such haste. You sly old snake! I should have known you had an ulterior motive for
acting so quickly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I told you they were untrustworthy. Do not let them—’

‘Leave,’ ordered Michael contemptuously. ‘You have no place here.’

But Honynge knew the University rules. ‘That is untrue – anyone who has held a senior position owns the right to
observe the proceedings. I shall remain and watch what happens.’

‘Beadle Meadowman will eject you if you make a sound.’ Michael decided not to make a scene. The altercation had already attracted
attention, and he did not want a fight between Regents who supported their Senior Proctor, and those who thought Honynge was
right. Meadowman heard his name mentioned and came to oblige.

‘Chancellor Tynkell has asked me to tell you that he is indisposed this morning,’ Meadowman whispered in the monk’s ear. ‘He
says you should proceed without him.’

‘You mean he is too frightened to show his face,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘And he has left me to bear the brunt of this alone.’

‘Actually, he swallowed a remedy Arderne gave him for indigestion, and has been in the latrines all night. He says he dare
not come here, lest he is obliged to race out at an awkward moment.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, turning away and eyeing the assembling scholars. They were pouring into the church, and Bartholomew
could see the two sides were fairly evenly matched. The nave and aisles were alive with the blues, browns and greens of academic
uniforms, mixed with the more sober greys, creams, browns and blacks of the religious Orders. Some of the Colleges had wheeled
out elderly members who were either too infirm or too addled to teach, but who were still entitled to vote.

‘No, no, Master Gedney,’ called Kardington patiently. ‘You want to be over here, not over there.’

‘Let him choose for himself,’ shouted Wisbeche. ‘Do not tell him what to do.’

‘Very well,’ said Gedney. ‘I shall have the middle, then. Where is my stool?’

Reluctantly, Spaldynge stepped forward and handed it
over. Gedney placed it in the exact centre of the nave, and sat, his toothless jaw jutting out defiantly.

‘Some of these men do not have voting rights,’ said Michael, looking around in dismay. ‘Such as Spaldynge, who lost his Fellowship
when he sold Borden Hostel. They are here to make sure a particular side receives a sly boost in numbers. What shall I do?
If my beadles attempt to oust them, there will be a skirmish. Or they will leave in a resentful frame of mind, and pick a
fight with the first apprentice who makes an obscene gesture at them.’

‘What is Honynge doing
now
?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. The ex-Fellow had climbed on to the dais normally occupied by the Chancellor, and was clearing
his throat. ‘You should stop him, Brother.’

But it was too late. Honynge had grabbed Gedney’s walking stick, and he banged it on the floor until he had everyone’s attention.
‘We have half an hour before the Convocation is officially scheduled to begin,’ he announced. ‘So, I propose we use that time
constructively, in scholarly disputation.’

‘That is actually a good idea,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, startled. ‘It will stop everyone from throwing taunts at each
other in the interim.’

‘We shall talk about Blood Relics,’ announced Honynge. Michael closed his eyes in despair as half the scholars groaned, while
the remainder cheered. ‘It is a subject worthy of clever minds.’

‘Boring!’ called Gedney. ‘Christmas is almost upon us, so we should discuss the virtues of nice plum puddings, as opposed
to these new-fangled fig things we were given last year.’

‘Prior Morden of the Dominicans will argue the case
for
Blood Relics,’ said Honynge, ignoring him. ‘And Father
William, Franciscan of Michaelhouse, will argue the case against.’

‘Stop him, Brother,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘Pitting a Grey Friar against a Black will cause trouble for certain – as well he
knows.’

‘I cannot – not now,’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘Those Regents who think this is a good idea will lynch me, and the rest
will race to my defence. Then Honynge will have what he wants anyway.’

‘You want
me
to take a leading role?’ asked Morden, aghast. He was not the University’s most skilled debater, and did not like the notion
of propounding a case publicly, not even against William. Honynge knew it, and Bartholomew marvelled at the depth of his malice.

‘I would rather talk about puddings,’ said William. The Franciscan rarely acknowledged his own shortcomings, but even he was
wary of tackling such a contentious issue in front of some of the best minds in the country. ‘Fig ones are superior to plum,
because figs come from the Holy Land.
Ergo
, fig puddings are holy, and thus better.’ He folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Morden.

‘I do not like the taste of figs,’ began the Dominican nervously. ‘And their seeds get trapped between the teeth. Then they
come out at awkward moments. The seeds, I mean, not the teeth.’

There was a smattering of laughter, from both sides of the church.

‘Wasps like plums,’ continued William. ‘So there is always a danger that you might find one baked in your pudding. I do not
eat wasps as a rule, so it is better to opt for fig pies whenever possible.’

When he could make himself heard above the guffaws, Morden replied to this contention, and the debate began in earnest. The
Regents began to enjoy themselves, and
called out theories to help the disputants, many of them extremely witty. Honynge’s face was a mask of rage when he saw his
ploy to cause dissent was failing. He tried to change the subject, but was shouted down as a killjoy.

‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew after a while, tearing his attention from the dais. ‘He has vanished, and I do not think
he has finished causing harm. Meadowman is nowhere to be seen, either.’

It was impossible to locate Honynge among the seething masses, and it was some time before they were able to deduce that he
was not in the nave, the aisles or the Lady Chapel. They moved cautiously, aware that jostling the wrong person might undo
all the goodwill that Morden and William had created.

‘Meadowman was obliged to help Gedney,’ reported Michael after talking to the beadle. ‘Apparently, the old man fell off his
stool laughing. When Meadowman looked round, Honynge had gone. He must have decided to go home.’

‘Your other beadles told me that no one has left, so he is still in here. But where? The tower is locked.’

‘My office!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! There are sensitive documents in there.’

He broke into a waddle, hurrying to the chamber off the south aisle from which he conducted University affairs. He flung open
the door and raced inside, Bartholomew at his heels. Honynge stood there, but he was not alone. The door slammed behind them,
and Bartholomew whipped around to see Candelby and Blankpayn. Blankpayn waved a heavy sword and his grin was malevolent.

‘How timely,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘Here are the pair who found out about our arrangement, Candelby. They
think I killed Lynton and Ocleye, but I assure you I did not.’

‘Honynge is certainly innocent of Lynton’s death,’ said Candelby to Michael. ‘He was going to attend the Dispensary on my
behalf – to use his wits to predict winners, while I provided money for bets. We were going share the proceeds, and Lynton’s
demise ruined a perfectly good plan.’

‘You have not mentioned this before,’ said Michael suspiciously.

‘Why would we? It is none of your business. However, we were both furious when Lynton died.’ Candelby went to Michael’s desk
and began to make a pile of the scrolls that were lying out on it. Outraged, the monk stepped forward to stop him, but Blankpayn
brandished his weapon menacingly.

‘We do not have time for this.’ Bartholomew started towards the door, but Blankpayn took a firmer grip on his sword, and the
physician was left in no doubt that he would very much like to use it. He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Please! Michael needs
to supervise the Regents, or there may be trouble.’

‘Good,’ said Honynge. ‘I hope there
is
trouble, and that you two will be blamed. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘With luck, some of those arrogant Fellows will
die, and you can accept one of the resulting vacancies – if there is a foundation that meets your exacting standards, of course.’

‘No one is going to die,’ said Candelby, going to a shelf for more of the University’s records.

‘What are you doing with those?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Be careful. Some are very valuable.’

‘We are going to have a fire,’ said Honynge, waving an unlit taper at him.

‘A fire?’ Michael was appalled. ‘But these deeds are
irreplaceable! What are you thinking of? Put them down and get out of my office. And tell your ape to stop pointing his sword
at me.’

‘Easy, Blankpayn,’ crooned Candelby soothingly, when his henchman lurched forward. Bartholomew quickly interposed himself
between taverner and monk; his leather jerkin would afford greater protection than Michael’s woollen habit. Candelby glared
at the monk. ‘And you should settle down, too, Brother, because you are not going anywhere until I say so.’

Michael glared. ‘But Matt does not need to be—’

‘If I let him go, he will summon your beadles,’ snapped Candelby. ‘Stand against the wall, where we can see you. Hurry up!
We do not have all day.’

‘Blankpayn has been itching to dispatch a few academics, so I advise you against calling out or trying to escape,’ said Honynge.
He lowered his voice. ‘Why did you warn them? You should have kept quiet and let Blankpayn cut them down. That would have
showed them who is in charge.’

Candelby seemed used to Honynge’s oddities, and did not react to the muttered comments, although Blankpayn regarded the ex-Fellow
askance. Honynge did not keep Blankpayn’s attention for long, however, because when Bartholomew hesitated to obey the instructions,
he was rewarded with a poke from the blade. It was a vigorous jab, and would have drawn blood, had it not been for the armour
he wore. For the first time, he began to appreciate the danger they were in.

Michael regarded Honynge coldly. ‘I have no idea what is happening here, but I strongly urge you to reconsider. Candelby intends
to see the University collapse. Surely you want no part of that?’

‘He is trying to pretend you and he are on the same
side,’ whispered Honynge. ‘Do not listen, Honynge. You know how he hates you.’

Michael was disgusted. ‘You are betraying your colleagues – and for what? Candelby does not pay you very generously, because
your
hostel was shabby, unlike the fine building he leased to Tyrington.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Honynge, putting out his hand to prevent Candelby from responding. ‘He let me occupy Zachary Hostel
free of charge for months. That was
extremely
generous.’

‘Is that why it took you so long to decide whether you were going to accept the Michaelhouse Fellowship?’ asked Bartholomew,
recalling how Honynge had gazed thoughtfully out of the window for some time after reading Langelee’s invitation.

Honynge nodded. ‘I was reviewing whether it would be worth my while. But I need not have worried, Candelby immediately offered
to recompense me in silver instead.’

‘Tyrington was a good tenant,’ said Candelby conversationally, rummaging in a chest to emerge with a handful of parchment.
‘He always paid me on time, and he kept the place scrupulously clean. If all scholars were like him, I would not mind renting
to them. But most are pigs.’

Michael was more interested in Honynge. ‘How
could
you form an alliance with a man who is determined to destroy the University –
your
University?’

‘Because I owed him years of back-rent,’ snapped Honynge. He produced a tinderbox and began the process of lighting his taper.
‘Had he chosen to file a complaint, I would have been expelled – perhaps even excommunicated – but instead he offered me a
solution to my problems.’

‘That should be enough for a pretty blaze,’ said Candelby, stepping back to admire his handiwork. ‘The
smoke will put the wind up those arrogant Regents, and you will have to watch all these priceless parchments destroyed, Brother.
It will take you years to sort out the resulting confusion.’

‘It will not,’ said Honynge, most of his attention on his tinderbox. ‘Because he will be dead – him and his Corpse Examiner.’

Candelby regarded him warily. ‘You said we were going to make a fire, not kill—’

‘We are about to incinerate a church containing hundreds of scholars,’ said Honynge impatiently. ‘Of course there will be
casualties. Among them will be this pair.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ said Candelby, alarmed. ‘You suggested we should create a bit of chaos, to destabilise the University
so it cannot stop me when I raise my rents, but murder is—’

‘Do not be a fool,’ snapped Blankpayn, speaking for the first time. ‘Do you think the monk and his friend will say nothing
about what they have heard here? They will tell the King, and we will hang.’

‘We will not hang,’ said Candelby irritably. ‘The King will review the evidence, and see we were driven to desperate measures.
He will never condemn us.’

Honynge addressed Blankpayn. ‘Candelby and I will be able to buy our freedom, because we are important. But
you
are just a poor taverner. You are right to want to silence these scholars before they can harm you, so go ahead and do it.
Go on. You know it is the sensible thing to do.’