A Plague on Both Your Houses (2 page)

‘ He will be sorely missed,’ continued Wilson, looking down mournfully as Cynric shovelled earth.

‘Not by you!’ muttered Giles Abigny, the College’s

youthful teacher of philosophy, so that only

Bartholomew could hear him. ‘Not when you stand

to gain so much.’

‘May the Lord look upon his soul with mercy,’

Wilson continued, ‘and forgive him for his iniquitous

ways.’

Bartholomew felt the anger boil inside him. He

thrust his clenched fists under his scholar’s tabard so that they should not betray his fury to the students, and looked to see the reaction of the other Fellows. Abigny was positively glowering at Wilson, while Brother Michael watched with a sardonic smile. The other theologians,

FatherWilliam and Father Aelfrith, were more difficult to read. Bartholomew knew that Aelfrith did not like

Wilson, but was too politic to allow it to show. William, who had backed Wilson on many occasions against Sir

John, now stood listening impassively. The last two Fellows, Roger Alcote and Robert Swynford, who taught the

subjects of the Quadrivium, nodded at Wilson’s words.

The book-bearers had almost finished filling in the

grave. A miserable drizzle-laden wind swished through

the trees, and somewhere a lone blackbird was singing.

Wilson’s voice droned on with its platitudes for a man he had neither liked nor respected, and Bartholomew

abruptly turned on his heel and strode away. He heard

Wilson falter for an instant, but then continue louder than before so that the wind carried his words to Bartholomew as he walked away.

‘May the Lord look kindly on the College, and guide

her in all things.’

Bartholomew allowed himself a disgusted snort.

Presumably, Wilson’s idea of the Lord guiding the

College was to make him, Wilson, the next Master.

He heard footsteps hurrying behind him, and was not

surprised that Giles Abigny had followed his lead and

left the group.

‘We will be in trouble, Matt,’ he said with a sidelong grin at Bartholomew. ‘Walking out on Master Wilson’s

carefully prepared speech.’

‘Not Master yet,’ said Bartholomew, ‘although I

imagine that will come within the week.’

They arrived back at the road and paused to scrape

some of the clinging mud from their boots. It started to rain hard and Bartholomew felt water trickling down his back. He looked back across the field, and saw Wilson

leading the procession back to the College. Abigny took his arm.

“I am cold and wet. Shall we see if Hugh Stapleton

will give us breakfast at Bene’t Hostel? What I need now is a roaring fire and some strong wine.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Our lives at Michaelhouse will soon change beyond anything we can imagine - if we have a livelihood there at all. Let us make the best of our freedom while we still have it.’

He tugged at Bartholomew’s sleeve, urging him

back along the High Street towards Bene’t Hostel.

Bartholomew thought for a moment before following.

Behind them, Wilson’s procession filed through the

town gate as he led the way back to Michaelhouse.

Wilson’s lips pursed as he saw Bartholomew and Abigny

disappear through the hostel door; he was not a man to forget insults to his pride.

As Bartholomew had predicted, Wilson was installed

as the new Master of Michaelhouse within a week

of Sir John’s funeral. The students, commoners, and

servants watched as the eight Fellows filed into the

hall to begin the process of electing a new Master.

The College statutes ordered that a new Master should

be chosen by the Chancellor from two candidates

selected by the Fellows. Bartholomew sat at the long

table, picking idly at a splinter of wood while his

colleagues argued. Wilson had support from Alcote,

Swynford and Father William. Bartholomew, Brother

Michael and Abigny wanted Father Aelfrith to be the

other candidate, but Bartholomew knew which of the

two the Chancellor would select, and was reluctant to

become too embroiled in a debate he could not win.

Eventually, seeing that it would divide the College in a way that neither Wilson nor Aelfrith could heal, Aelfrith declined to allow his name to go forward. Alcote offered to take his place, a solution that met with little enthusiasm from either side.

The Chancellor selected Wilson, who immediately

began in the way he intended to continue, by having three students’ sent down’ for playing dice on a Sunday, sacking the brewer for drinking, and declaring that everyone

Fellows, commoners and students - should wear only

black on Sundays. Bartholomew had to lend several of his poorer students the money to purchase black leggings or tunics, since they only possessed garments made of cheap brown homespun wool, which were harder-wearing and

more practical than the more elegant black.

The day of Wilson’s installation dawned clear and

blue, although judging from the clatter and raised voices from the kitchen, most of the servants had been up

with their duties all night. Bartholomew rose as the

sky began to lighten, and donned the ceremonial red

gown that marked him as a Doctor of the University.

He sat on the bed again and looked morosely through

the window across the yard. Term had not yet begun, so there were only fifteen students in residence, but they made up for the deficit with excited shouting and a good deal of running. Through the delicate arched windows

opposite, he could see Fathers William and Aelfrith trying to quieten them down. Reluctantly, Bartholomew walked

across the dry packed earth of the yard for breakfast in the hall, a rushed affair that was clearly an inconvenience for the harried servants.

The installation itself was grand and sumptuous.

Dressed in a splendid gown of deep purple velvet with

fur trimmings, and wearing his black tabard over the

top, Wilson processed triumphantly through Cambridge,

scattering pennies to the townsfolk. A few grubby urchins followed the procession, jeering insults, and several of the citizens spat in disdain. Wilson ignored them all, and throughout the long Latin ceremony at Michaelhouse in

which he made his vows to uphold the College statutes

and rules, he could scarcely keep the smug satisfaction from his face.

Many influential people were present from the

University and the town. The Bishop of Ely watched the proceedings with abored detachment, while the Chancellor and the Sheriff exchanged occasional whispers. Some

of the town’ s officials and merchants had been invited too.

They stood together, displaying a magnificent collection of brilliant colours and expensive cloth. Bartholomew

saw Thomas Exton, the town’s leading physician, dressed in a gown of heavy blue silk, surrounded by his enormous brood of children. Near him was Bartholomew’s

brother-in-law, Sir Oswald Stanmore, who owned estates to the south of Cambridge, and had made a fortune in

the wool trade. He was flanked by his younger brother, Stephen, and Bartholomew’s sister Edith.

Giles Abigny had refused to attend, announcing that

he had a disputation to organise with Hugh Stapleton,

the Principal of Bene’t Hostel. Brother Michael made

his disapproval of Wilson known by muttering loudly

throughout the proceedings, and by coughing, apparently uncontrollably, in those parts that should have

been silent. Bartholomew did what was expected of

him, but without enthusiasm, his thoughts constantly

straying back to Sir John.

Bartholomew looked at Wilson in his finery seated

in the huge wooden chair at the head of the high table in Michaelhouse’s hall, and suddenly felt a surge of

anger against Sir John. He had done so much to bring long-standing disputes between the University and the town to a halt, and, as a brilliant lawyer and stimulating teacher, had attracted many of the best students to

the College. His lifelong ambition had been to write

a book explaining the complexities of English law for

students, a book that still lay unfinished in his rooms.

Everything had been going so well for Sir John and

for the College under his care, so why had he killed

himself?

Bartholomew, Father Aelfrith, and Robert Swynford

had dined with Sir John the night before his death, and he had been in fine spirits then, full of enthusiasm for starting a new section of his book, and looking forward to a sermon he had been invited to give at the University Church. Bartholomew and the others had left Sir John

around eight o’clock. Cynric had seen Sir John leave the College a short time later, the last to see him alive. The following morning, Sir John’s body had been found in

the water-wheel.

As a practising physician and the College’s Master

of Medicine, Bartholomew had been summoned to the

river bank, where the white-faced miller stood as far away as he could from the corpse. Bartholomew shuddered

as he thought about Sir John’s body that morning. He

tried to concentrate on Father William’s rapid Latin in the ceremony that would install Thomas Wilson as the

new Master of Michaelhouse.

Finally, Father William nodded to Cynric, who began

to ring the bell to proclaim that the College ceremony was over. Noisily, the students began to clatter out of the hall, followed rather more sedately by the Fellows and commoners, all moving towards St Michael’s Church,

where the College would ask God’s blessing on Wilson’s appointment. Bartholomew paused to offer his arm to

Augustus of Ely, one of the commoners, who had taught

law at the University for almost forty years before old age made his mind begin to ramble, and he had been

given permission by Sir John to spend the rest of his days housed and fed by the College. Michaelhouse had ten

commoners. Six were old men, like Augustus, who had

given a lifetime’s service to the University; the others were visiting scholars who were using Michaelhouse’s

facilities for brief periods of study.

Augustus turned his milky blue eyeson Bartholomew

and gave him a toothless grin as he was gently escorted out of the dim hall into the bright August sunshine.

‘This is a sad day for the College,’ he crowed to

Bartholomew, drawing irritable looks from some of the

other scholars.

‘Hush, Augustus,’ said Bartholomew, patting the

veined old hand. ‘What is done is done, and we must

look to the future.’

‘But such sin should not go unpunished,’ the old

man continued. ‘Oh, no. It should not be forgotten.’

Bartholomew nodded patiently. Augustus’s mind

had become even more muddled after the death of

Sir John. ‘It will not be forgotten,’ he said reassuringly.

‘Everything will be well.’

‘Fool!’ Augustus wrenched his arm away from

Bartholomew, who stared at him in surprise. ‘Evil is

afoot, and it will spread and corrupt us all, especially those who are unaware.’ He took a step backwards, and

tried to straighten his crooked limbs. ‘Such sin must not go unpunished,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Sir John was going to see to that.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘Sir

John had begun to guess,’ said Augustus, his

faded blue eyes boring into Bartholomew. ‘And see what happened.’

‘The man is senile.’ Robert Swynford’s booming

voice close behind him made Bartholomew jump.

Augustus began to sway back and forth, chanting a

hymn under his breath. ‘See? He does not know what

rubbish he speaks.’ He put his arm over Augustus’s

shoulders and waved across for Alexander the Butler

to come to take him back to his quarters. Augustus

flinched away from his touch.

“I will take him,’ said Bartholomew, noting the old

man’s distress. ‘He has had enough for today. I will make a posset diat will ease him.’

‘Yes, all the pomp and ceremony has shaken his mind

even more than usual,’ said Swynford, eyeing Augustus

with distaste. ‘God preserve us from a mindless fool.’

‘God preserve us from being one,’ snapped Bartholomew, angered by Swynford’s intolerance. He was

surprised at his retort. He was not usually rude to

his colleagues. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself

that Wilson’s installation and old Augustus’s words had unsettled him.

‘Come, Matt,’ said Swynford, dropping his usual

bluff manner. ‘It has been a hard time for us all. Let us not allow the ramblings of a drooling old man to spoil our chances of a new beginning. The man’s mind has

become more unhinged since Sir John died. You said

so yourself only yesterday.’

Bartholomew nodded. Two nights before, the entire

College had been awakened by Augustus, who had locked

himself in his room and was screaming that there were

devils trying to burn him alive. He had the window

shutters flung open, and was trying to crawl out. It had taken Bartholomew hours to calm him, and then he had

had to promise to stay in Augustus’s room for the rest of the night to ensure the devils did not return. In the morning, Bartholomew had been prodded awake by an

irate Augustus demanding to know what he was doing

uninvited in his quarters.

Augustus stopped swaying and looked at Bartholomew,

a crafty smile on his face. ‘Just remember,

John Babington, hide it well.’

Swynford tutted in annoyance. ‘Take him to his bed,

Alexander, and see that one of the servants stays with him. The poor man has totally lost the few remaining

wits he had.’