‘I have just seen some students in the King’s Head,’ he announced to Michael, reining in and gazing with brazen disdain at the monk. ‘I ordered them out, but they informed me I had no jurisdiction over them. I want them imprisoned and fined for insolence.’
‘What are their names?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘I did not bother to find out,’ said Morice nastily. ‘I have better things to do than engage in conversation with a group of ill-mannered louts who think a Franciscan habit gives them leave to insult the Sheriff.’
‘I am on my way to the King’s Head now,’ said Michael, patting Morice’s elegantly clad leg patronisingly. ‘Do not worry; I will show them who is master. But what were you doing in such a disreputable institution? I hear there are some illegal gambling games scheduled in the King’s Head this week. Were you planning to take part?’
‘I do not gamble in taverns,’ snapped Morice, leaving everyone who heard him with the impression that he gambled elsewhere. ‘I was visiting a man named Harysone. Complaints have been filed against him for licentious dancing, so I was obliged to demand a fine of two shillings.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘I hope he paid, because I am about to order him to leave Cambridge. He has borrowed funds from a charitable chest, and if he does not have the money to give me now, he will be escorted to the town gates tomorrow at dawn.’
‘If he goes, he will never repay this charity,’ said Morice, obviously regarding financial considerations first and foremost. ‘But he may have sold enough books to make a respectable profit, so perhaps you will be in luck. Deal with those students, though, Brother, or I shall be obliged to teach them a lesson myself.’
He spurred his horse into a rapid trot, scattering people and animals as he went. His men cantered after him, following his cavalier example.
When Bartholomew and Michael reached the King’s Head, a celebration was in progress. People were laughing and singing, and there was an atmosphere of gaiety. Michael looked around him in astonishment, while Bartholomew entered with a degree of unease, sensing something had happened that might mean scholars were unwelcome. But they were greeted with pleasure by Isnard the bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir. He clapped a large, calloused hand across Michael’s shoulders and passed the monk his goblet. Michael accepted a drink cautiously.
The main room was full, and fires were burning in both hearths. All the shutters were firmly closed, but this was common practice in the King’s Head, where the patrons did not want their activities observed by Sheriff’s men or beadles peering through the windows. The air smelled of wood-smoke, spilled ale and unwashed bodies, and was close and humid. Bartholomew felt himself begin to sweat. A group of pardoners sat near one fire, Harysone among them, while Ovyng’s Franciscans were standing around the hearth at the opposite end of the room. Godric seemed to be the centre of the general bonhomie.
‘That Godric is a fine lad!’ slurred Isnard, eyeing the friar fondly.
Bartholomew watched with amusement as he saw Godric glance in Michael’s direction, look away, then back again with an expression of horror. He nudged his companions, who all hastily downed the remains of their ale and headed for the door, pursued by disappointed cries from their drinking companions.
‘Godric,’ said Michael pleasantly, stopping the young friar in his tracks. ‘A word, please.’
‘It was not my fault,’ said Godric immediately. A chorus of support from his cronies told Michael that was true.
‘Morice complained about you,’ said Michael. ‘He wants you arrested and fined.’
‘Never!’ declared Isnard warmly, removing his arm from Michael and draping it around Godric. ‘This good priest told that leech where to go, and we will not see him fined for his courage. Will we, lads?’ There were loud shouts of agreement. ‘Morice prances in here and starts demanding money for all manner of imagined crimes. He ordered me to pay sixpence because my donkey fouled the Great Bridge, but look what
Bartholomew and Michael followed his accusing finger to a pile of fresh horse dung that sat in splendid isolation in the centre of the room.
‘Morice rode his horse inside the tavern?’ asked Michael in astonishment.
‘Either that or he should lay off the hay,’ muttered Bartholomew. He had not intended his comment to be overheard, but Isnard caught it, and repeated it in a braying voice to the delight of the other patrons. More back-slapping followed, and it was declared that scholars were splendid fellows, and worthy company for honest townsmen.
‘He fined Harysone for dancing – two shillings!’ added Isnard when the levity had died down. ‘Mind you, Harysone’s jigs do verge on the obscene, so I cannot blame the Sheriff for that. But when Morice tried to fine Godric for being in a tavern the lad pointed out the law regarding scholars, and sent him away with something to think about.’
