To Kill or Cure (2 page)

Restlessly, the Fellows and their students milled about, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for her to finish. Delicious
scents began to waft across the yard, almost obliterating the usual aroma of chicken droppings and stagnant water. To pass
the time, Bartholomew looked around at the buildings that had been his home for the best part of thirteen years.

The heart of Michaelhouse was its hall, a handsome structure with oriel windows gracing its upper storey; the smaller, darker
chambers on the ground floor were used as kitchens, pantries and storerooms. At right angles to the hall were the two ranges
that comprised the scholars’ accommodation. The northern wing boasted twelve small rooms, arranged around three staircases,
while the newer, less-derelict southern wing had eleven rooms with two staircases between them. Opposite were the main gate,
porters’ lodge and stables. Combined, the buildings formed a square, set
around a central yard, all protected by sturdy walls. Cambridge was an uneasy place at the best of times, and no academic
foundation risked being burned to the ground by irate townsmen for the want of a few basic defences.

That morning the sun was shining, and it turned Michaelhouse’s pale stone to a light honey-gold, topped by the red tiles of
its roofs. Agatha had planted herbs in the scrubby grass outside the kitchens, and their early flowers added their own colour
to the spring day. Hens scratched contentedly among them, jealously guarded by a scrawny cockerel. Also present was a peacock,
which was owned by Walter the porter. Walter’s surly temper was legendary, and Bartholomew suspected the only reason he had
formed an attachment to the magnificent but deeply stupid bird was its unpopular habit of screaming in the night and waking
everyone up.

Eventually, Bartholomew’s book-bearer, Cynric, walked towards the bell, intending to chime it and announce the meal was ready.
He could have saved himself the effort. The moment he reached for the rope, there was a concerted dash for the hall. Students
jostled each other as they tore up the spiral staircase; Fellows and commoners – young hopefuls who helped with teaching,
or ‘retired’ men too old to work – followed a little more sedately, although only a very little. It was not just the junior
members who were hungry that morning.

The hall had been transformed since Bartholomew had seen it the night before. Its floor had been swept, and bowls of dried
roses set on the windowsills to make it smell sweet. Its wooden tables had been polished, and the usual battered pewter had
been replaced by elegantly glazed pots and the College silver. A fire flickered in the hearth and braziers glowed on the walls,
lending the room a welcoming cosiness – the Easter benefaction included an allowance
for fires
and
lamps, which was a rare luxury for anyone. Some of the food was stacked near the hearth, being kept warm – or drying out,
depending on whose opinion was asked – while the rest sat on platters behind the serving screen at the far end.

The Fellows trooped to the high table, which stood on a dais near the hearth, and the students and commoners took their places
at the trestle tables and benches that had been placed at right angles to it. Michaelhouse was a medium-sized foundation.
Its Master presided over seven Fellows, although two were currently away, and there were ten commoners and thirty students.

‘A whole sheep!’ crowed Brother Michael, rubbing his hands together in gluttonous anticipation. He was a Benedictine monk,
and by far the fattest of the Fellows, despite shedding some weight the previous year. ‘And I count at least two dozen fowl.’

‘Oh, dear,’ whispered Father Kenyngham, the oldest member of the gathering. He had been Michaelhouse’s Master until four years
before, when he had resigned to concentrate on his teaching and his prayers. He was a Gilbertine friar, whose gentle piety
was admired throughout the University, and many believed he was a saint in the making. ‘How are we supposed to eat all this?’

‘I foresee no problem,’ said Father William, a sour Franciscan famous for his bigoted opinions and dogmatic theology. He was
as unpopular as Kenyngham was loved. ‘In fact, I would say there is less here this year than there was last. Prices have soared
since the Death, and a penny does not go far these days.’

‘Do not harp on the plague
today
,’ hissed Michael irritably. ‘You will upset the students or, worse, encourage Matt to wax lyrical about it. Then his lurid
descriptions will put us off our food.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but closed it sharply when his colleagues murmured their agreement. However, he thought
Michael’s accusation was still unfair. The plague had shocked him to the core, because all his medical training had proved
useless, and he had lost far more patients than he had saved. As a consequence, the disease was a painful memory, and certainly
not something to be aired over the dinner table.

‘My point remains, though,’ said William, who always liked the last word in any debate. He wiped his dirt-encrusted hands
on his filthy grey habit – a garment so grimy that his students swore it could walk about on its own – and began to assess
which of the many dishes he would tackle first. Some strategy was needed, because Michael was a faster eater than he, and
he did not want to lose out for want of a little forethought. ‘Everything costs more these days.’

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.’