Susanna Gregory: A Deadly Brew

He heaved it closed, his feet skidding on the wet tiles as he fought against the blizzard, and went back to his place at the base of the pillar. Moments later, the same thing happened again. Michael scowled at the interruption.

‘The latch must be faulty, Matt. Shut it properly. If the lamp goes out I will have to pronounce them man and wife in the dark and I do not want to end up kissing Langelee instead of the bride.’

‘I thought the groom was supposed to kiss the bride,’ said Langelee. ‘Not the priest.’

‘And who is the expert on religious matters here, you or me?’ demanded Michael. ‘Go and check the door, Matt, or we will all freeze to death before I kiss anyone!’

Bartholomew hauled himself to his feet a second time and went to the door. And stopped abruptly when he saw Master Kenyngham struggling to close it. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself for forgetting that it was the feast day of St Gilbert of Sempringham and that Kenyngham, a Gilbertine friar, would certainly keep a midnight vigil in the church in honour of the occasion.

Kenyngham turned to put his back to the door to force it closed, and smiled happily when he saw Bartholomew standing in the shadows.

‘Matthew!’ he exclaimed in genuine pleasure. ‘What a lovely surprise! I assume you are here to keep me company while I say matins for the feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward to help latch the door.

‘Who is there?’ called Michael. Bartholomew heard the slap of his sandals as he huffed his way up the nave to find out what was happening.

‘Brother Michael!’ cried Kenyngham in delight, taking his weight from the door so that it blew open again. Bartholomew caught it as it flew backwards, and leaned into it, making the others jump when the wind dropped and it slammed with a crash that sent echoes reverberating around the dark church. ‘And Master Langelee, too! All here to pray with me and celebrate the feast day of Gilbert of Sempringham, the saintly founder of my Order! And you have brought a friend, I see.’

He reached forward and placed a hand on Julianna’s head in blessing, muttering a prayer as he did so. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance of bemusement, not at all certain what would happen next.

‘I am to be married,’ announced Julianna proudly. ‘And then I am going to live in France, where the sun shines all the time.’

‘Do not go to Paris, then,’ said Bartholomew.

‘France?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘You have not mentioned France before.’

‘Congratulations, my child,’ said Kenyngham, still smiling beatifically. ‘I shall pray for you. Who is to be the lucky man?’

Only an innocent like Kenyngham could have failed to notice the way Langelee’s arm was wrapped indecorously around Julianna’s waist and the way in which the lovers looked at each other. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged yet another mystified look.

‘Ralph de Langelee,’ said Julianna loudly, as though she were talking to someone either very old or very deaf. ‘I am to marry Ralph de Langelee, Master Kenyngham.’

Kenyngham’s smile faded slightly. ‘Ralph de Langelee? But he is a Fellow of Michaelhouse; you cannot marry him!’

‘Why not?’ demanded Julianna indignantly. ‘He is a man, is he not?’

‘Not all men are available for marriage,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘And if Ralph de Langelee married you, he would have to resign his Fellowship and he would lose the opportunity to make a name for himself by teaching philosophy — and perhaps even to be the Master of the College himself one day.’

‘God forbid!’ muttered Michael under his breath. ‘And the name he would make for himself by teaching philosophy would not be one I would repeat in a church!’

‘Why should I resign?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Why can I not marry Julianna and keep my Fellowship as well?’

‘It is against the rules,’ said Kenyngham. ‘No Fellows are allowed to marry. But the choice is yours: marry and have a happy and fulfilled life with children and a wife who loves you, or stay at Michaelhouse and take part in the shaping of young minds or perhaps tread in the footsteps of others before you and become an emissary to the King or the Pope.’

‘Really?’ asked Langelee, intrigued. ‘Scholars from Michaelhouse have become emissaries to popes and kings?’

‘Not very many,’ said Michael quickly. ‘And the opportunities are few and far between, and very competitive.’

‘We would have such fun,’ whispered Julianna, leaning against him seductively. ‘We could set up business together and become rich beyond our wildest dreams.’

Langelee was silent, thinking. All Bartholomew could hear in the dark church was the splattering of sleet against the window shutters and the sound of Langelee’s heavy breathing as he pondered his dilemma.

‘Well,’ said the philosopher eventually. ‘Now, let me see …’