The Master of Michaelhouse stood behind his wooden throne, watching the students shuffle into place in the body of the hall. Ralph de Langelee was a large, barrel-chested man with scant aptitude for scholarship and an appalling grasp of the philosophy he was supposed to teach. To the astonishment of all, he was proving to be a decent administrator, and his Fellows were pleasantly surprised to find themselves content with his rule. The students were happy, too, because, as something of a reprobate himself, Langelee tended to turn a blind eye to all but the most brazen infractions of the rules. His policy of toleration had generated an atmosphere of harmony and trust, and Bartholomew had never known his College more strife-free.
One of Langelee’s wisest decisions had been to pass the financial management of his impecunious foundation to a lawyer called Wynewyk, who was the last of the Fellows present. Wynewyk was a small, fox-faced man, who loved manipulating the College accounts, and Michaelhouse would have been deeply in debt were it not for his ingenuity and attention to detail. That morning, he was basking in the compliments of his colleagues for purchasing such an impressive quantity of food with a comparatively small sum of money.
‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Michael, as Langelee waited for old Kenyngham to reach his allocated seat. ‘I am starving.’
‘Do not make yourself sick, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew. The monk was his closest friend, and he felt it his duty to dissuade him from deliberate overindulgence. The warning was not entirely altruistic, though: Bartholomew did not want to spend his afternoon mixing remedies to ease aching stomachs. ‘The statutes do not stipulate that we should devour everything today. We are permitted to finish some of it tomorrow.’
‘And the day after,’ added Kenyngham.
Michael shot them an unpleasant look. ‘I shall eat whatever I can fit in my belly. This is one of my favourite festivals, and I am weary of fasting and abstinence. Lent is over, thank God, and we can get back to the business of normal feeding.’
Before they could begin a debate on the matter, Langelee intoned the grace of the day in atrocious Latin that had all his Fellows and most of the students wincing in unison, then sat down and seized a knife. The servants, who had been waiting behind the screen, swung into action, and the feast was under way. Michael sighed his satisfaction, William girded himself up to ensure he did not get less than the portly monk, Langelee smiled benevolently at his flock, and Kenyngham, who was never very impressed with the Master’s famously short prayers, began to mutter a much longer one of his own. Bartholomew looked around at his colleagues, and thought how fortunate he was to live in a place surrounded by people he liked – or, at least, by people whose idiosyncrasies were familiar enough that he no longer found them aggravating.
Because it was a special occasion, Langelee announced that conversation was permitted. Normally, the Bible Scholar read aloud during meals – the Michaelhouse men were supposed to reflect and learn, even while eating. It was some time before anyone took the Master up on his offer, however, because Fellows, commoners and students alike were more interested in what was being put on their tables than in chatting to friends they saw all day anyway. Silence reigned, broken only by Agatha’s imperious commands from behind the screen and the metallic click of knives on platters.
‘Can we use the vernacular, Master?’ called one man eventually, once he had satiated his immediate hunger and was of a mind to converse. Bartholomew was not surprised that the question had come from Rob Deynman, the College’s least able student. Deynman would never pass the disputations that would allow him to become a physician, and should not have been accepted to study in the first place. Yet whenever Langelee tried to hint that Deynman might do better in another profession, the lad’s rich father showered the College with money, which always ended with the son being admitted for one more term. Bartholomew was acutely uncomfortable with the situation, and did not see how it would ever be resolved – he would never agree to fixing a pass, because he refused to unleash such a dangerous menace on an unsuspecting public, but he doubted even the wealthy Deynman clan would agree to paying fees in perpetuity.
‘It should be Latin,’ objected William pedantically. ‘Or French, I suppose.’
Langelee overrode him, on the grounds that he did not enjoy speaking Latin himself, and his French was not much better. ‘English will make a pleasant change, and we do not want our dinner-table chat to be stilted. I am in the mood to be entertained.’
‘I am glad you said that, Master,’ said Michael. He beamed around at his colleagues. ‘I anticipated the need for a little fun, so I invited the choir to sing for us.’
There was a universal groan. The monk worked hard with the motley ensemble that called itself the Michaelhouse Choir, but there was no turning a pig’s ear into a silken purse. It was the largest such group in Cambridge, mostly because Michael provided free bread and ale after practices. Most of the town’s poor were members, and he accepted them into his fold regardless of whether they possessed any musical talent.
‘How could you, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk reproachfully. ‘They will wail so loudly that it will not matter what language we use – we will not hear anything our neighbour says anyway.’
‘And we shall have to share the food,’ added William resentfully.
‘We will,’ said Kenyngham, when Michael seemed to be having second thoughts; the monk was rarely magnanimous where his stomach was concerned. ‘But it will be the only meal most of them will enjoy today, so I do not think we should begrudge it.’
Michael inclined his head, albeit reluctantly. ‘Do not worry about the noise, Wynewyk. I have been training them to sing quietly.’
‘Here they come,’ warned Bartholomew, as the choristers marched into the hall, caps held in their right hands. They were a ragged mob, mostly barefoot, and Deynman was not the only scholar to rest his hand on his purse as they trooped past him. In the lead was Isnard the bargeman, who hobbled on crutches because Bartholomew had been forced to amputate his leg after an accident two years before. He was a burly fellow with an unfortunate tendency to believe anything he was told, especially after he had been drinking, which was most nights.
‘You can lead the music today, Isnard,’ said Michael, barely glancing up from his repast. ‘You are here earlier than I expected, and I am still eating.’
‘Me?’ asked the bargeman, stunned and flattered by the unexpected honour. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael, reaching for more chicken.
‘Right,’ said Isnard gleefully, turning to his fellow musicians. ‘Ready? One, two, three, go!’
And they were off. Unfortunately, he had not told them what to perform, as a consequence of which half began warbling one tune, while the remainder hollered another. Jubilantly, they seized the opportunity to out-sing each other in a bit of light-hearted rivalry. The result was not pleasant, but Michaelhouse was used to cacophonies where the choir was concerned, and most scholars thought it no different from the racket they made when they were all trilling the same piece.
‘Did you hear about Robert Spaldynge?’ yelled Bartholomew to Michael, to take the monk’s mind off the fact that all his careful instructing had obviously been a waste of time. On the physician’s other side, Kenyngham closed his eyes and began to pray again, perhaps for silence. ‘He is accused of selling a house that did not belong to him. It was owned by his College – Clare.’
Michael nodded. He was the University’s Senior Proctor, which meant he was responsible for maintaining law and order among the disparate collection of Colleges and hostels that comprised the studium generale at Cambridge. He had an army of beadles to help him, and very little happened without his knowledge. ‘He claims he had no choice – that he needed money to buy food. It might be true, because his students are an unusually impoverished group. Clare is furious about it, but not nearly as much as I am. Spaldynge’s actions have put me in an impossible position.’
Bartholomew was struggling to hear him. The
singers had finished their first offering, and had started an old favourite that, for some inexplicable reason, included a lot of rhythmically stamping feet. He was sure the monk had not taught them to do it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that his antics have come at a difficult time. The University is currently embroiled in a dispute about rents with the town’s landlords – you should know this, Matt; I have talked of little else this past month – and I issued a writ ordering all scholars to keep hold of their property until it is resolved. If we lose the fight, we will need every College-owned building we can get our hands on, to house those scholars who will suddenly find themselves with nowhere to live.’
The monk had held forth about a ‘rent war’ on several occasions, but Bartholomew had taken scant notice. The previous term had been frantically busy for him, because two Fellows on a sabbatical leave of absence meant a huge increase in his teaching load, and he had not had time to think about much else. ‘Spaldynge’s is only one house, Brother.’
Michael regarded him balefully. ‘You clearly have not been listening to me, or you would not be making such an inane remark. The landlords are refusing to renew leases, and we have dozens of homeless scholars already – scholars I need to house. Thus every building is important at the moment. Did you know the one Spaldynge sold was Borden Hostel? He was its Principal.’
‘Borden?’ asked Bartholomew, a little shocked. ‘But that has been part of the University for decades. It is older than most Colleges.’
Michael’s face was grim. ‘Quite. Unfortunately, the landlords have interpreted its sale to mean that if stable old Borden can fall into their hands, then so can any other foundation. As I said, I am furious about it – Spaldynge has done the whole University a disservice.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘You say he sold his hostel to buy food, but where does he intend to eat it, if he has no home? He has solved one problem by creating another.’
‘He is a Fellow of Clare, so he and his students have been given refuge there. He said he made the sale to underline the fact that most hostels are desperately poor, but we collegians do not care.’
Bartholomew looked at the mounds of food on Michael’s trencher. ‘Perhaps he has a point.’
‘Perhaps he does, but it still does not give him the right to sell property that does not belong to him. Did I tell you that these greedy landlords are demanding that all rents be trebled? As the law stands, it is the University that determines what constitutes a fair rent – and that rate was set years ago. It means these treacherous landlords are questioning the law itself!’
‘But the rate was set before the plague,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘And times have changed since then. Perhaps your “fair rent” is fair no longer.’
Michael did not hear him over the choir’s caterwauling. He speared a piece of roasted pork with uncharacteristic savagery. ‘If the landlords win this dispute, it could herald the end of the University, because only the very wealthy will be able to afford accommodation here. At the moment, nearly all our students live in town-owned buildings; only a fraction of them are lucky enough to occupy a scholar-owned College like ours.’
Bartholomew decided he had better change the subject before the monk became so weighed down with his concerns that it would spoil his enjoyment of the feast. He said the first thing that came into his head, before realising it was probably not much of an improvement. ‘Clare seems to be causing you all manner of problems at the moment. How is your investigation into the death of that other Fellow of theirs – Wenden?’
‘Solved, thank God. Wenden was deeply unpopular when he was alive, but he is even more so now he is dead.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘His colleagues endured his unpleasant foibles for nigh on thirty years, on the understanding that Clare would be his sole beneficiary when he died. However, when his will was read, it transpired that he had left everything to the Bishop of Lincoln instead.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘He bequeathed his College nothing at all?’
‘Not a penny. I might have accused his colleagues of killing him, but for the testimony of the friend he had been visiting that night. Wenden had forgotten his hat, and Honynge was chasing after him to give it back. Honynge saw a tinker lurking about, and heard a bow loosed moments later.’
‘A tinker?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not the one we fished from the river a few days ago?’
‘The very same. You ascertained that he fell in while he was drunk – an accident – and I found Wenden’s purse hidden among his belongings. So, the case is closed.’
Michael turned his full attention to his food, and Bartholomew winced when the choir attempted a popular dance tune, delivered in a ponderous bellow at half-speed. Meanwhile, Kenyngham opened his eyes at last, and began to fill his trencher with slivers of roasted goose.
‘Our musicians are discordant today,’ he said, in something of an understatement. ‘Wait until they finish this song, then offer them some ale. That should shut them up.’
It was a good idea, and the physician supposed someone should have thought of it before they had started in the first place. He went to oblige, assisted by a commoner called Roger Carton. Carton was a short, plump, serious Franciscan, and had come to Michaelhouse to help Wynewyk teach the burgeoning numbers of law students – lawyers tended to make more money than men in other vocational professions, so law was currently the University’s most popular subject. When Bartholomew and Carton approached the choir with jugs of ale, the clamour stopped mid-sentence, and the singers clustered eagerly around them. A blissful peace settled across the hall.
‘Will you visit your Gilbertine colleagues later?’ Bartholomew asked of Kenyngham, when he was back in his place. ‘You usually spend at least part of Easter at their convent.’
‘Not this time.’ Kenyngham patted his hand, and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that the friar’s skin had developed the soft, silky texture of the very elderly. ‘I am too tired. Your students are laughing – what a pleasant sound!’
The source of the lads’ amusement was a medical student named Falmeresham, who was intelligent but mischievous and unruly. Bartholomew doubted Kenyngham would be amused if he was let in on the joke, because it was almost certain to be lewd, malicious or both.
‘Michael is pale,’ said Kenyngham in a low voice. ‘The rent war is worrying him more deeply than you appreciate, so you must help him resolve it.’
‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the suggestion. ‘It is the proctors’ business, and none of mine. He has a deputy to manage that sort of thing for him.’
‘Yes, but his current assistant is neither efficient nor perspicacious, and Michael will only win the dispute if he is helped by his friends. Good friends, not crocodiles.’
‘Crocodiles?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.
‘Crocodiles,’ repeated Kenyngham firmly. ‘Timely men with teeth. And you must oppose false prophets. Like shooting stars, they dazzle while they are in flight, but they burn out and are soon forgotten. Crocodiles and shooting stars, Matthew. Crocodiles and shooting stars.’
Bartholomew had no idea what he was talking about, but Kenyngham had closed his eyes and his face was suffused with the beatific expression that indicated he was praying again. There was no point trying to question him when he was in conversation with God, and Bartholomew did not try. He turned to Michael, and was about to comment on the baked apples, when the choir resumed their programme. Fuelled by ale, they were rowdier than ever. Gradually, they veered away from the staid ballads Michael had taught them, and began to range into the uncharted territory of tavern ditties. The lyrics grew steadily more bawdy until even the liberal-minded Langelee was compelled to act. He stood to say grace, and Fellows and students hastened to follow his example. There was a collective scraping of benches and chairs, and then everyone was on his feet. Except one man.
‘Give Kenyngham a poke, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. ‘He seems to h
ave fallen asleep again. It must be the wine.’
‘Or the restful music,’ added Wynewyk caustically.
The physician obliged, then caught the old man as he started to slide backwards off his seat. After a moment, he looked up. ‘I cannot wake him this time,’ he said softly. ‘He is dead.’
Space was in short supply for University scholars, and only the very wealthy could afford the luxury of a room to themselves – and sometimes even then, no purse was heavy enough to overcome the need to cram several men into a single chamber. Bartholomew was uncommonly lucky in his living arrangements. He was obliged to share his room with only one student – and Falmeresham preferred to be with his friends than with his teacher, so was nearly always out. It meant the physician had a privacy that was almost unprecedented among his peers.
He occupied a pleasant ground-floor chamber with two small arched windows looking across the courtyard, and had a tiny cupboard-like room across the stairwell where he kept his remedies and medical equipment. The bedchamber was sparsely furnished: it contained a single bed, with a straw mattress for Falmeresham that was rolled up each morning and stored underneath it; a row of pegs and a chest for spare clothes; and a pair of writing desks.
Michael, meanwhile, shared his quarters with two Benedictines from his Mother House at Ely, but spent most of his daylight hours at the proctors’ office in the University Church, commonly called St Mary the Great. It was generally acknowledged that he was by far the most powerful scholar in Cambridge, because Chancellor Tynkell was a spineless nonentity who let him do what he liked. The monk’s friends often asked why he did not have himself elected as Chancellor, and claim the glory as well as the power, but Michael pointed out that the current arrangement allowed him to make all the important decisions, while Tynkell was there to take the blame if anything went wrong.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 2