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.'
Alexander solicitously escorted Augustus towards the north wing of the College where the commoners lived. As they went, Bartholomew could hear Augustus telling Alexander that he would not need any supper as he had just eaten a large rat he had seen coming out of the hall.
Swynford put his hand on Bartholomew's shoulder and turned him towards St Michael's. 'Tend to him later, Matt. We should take our places in the church.'
Bartholomew assented, and together they walked up St Michael's Lane to the High Street. Throngs of people milled around outside the church, attracted no doubt by hopes of more scattered pennies.
They elbowed their way through the crowd, earning hostile glances from some people. The last fight between the scholars and the townspeople had been less than a month before, and two young apprentices had been hanged for stabbing a student to death. Feelings still ran high, and Bartholomew was glad when he reached the church doors.
Father William had already begun to celebrate the mass, gabbling through the words at a speed that never failed to impress Bartholomew. The friar glanced across at the late-comers as they took their places at the altar rail, but his face betrayed no sign of annoyance. Brother Michael, for all his mumblings during the College ceremony, had rehearsed his choir well, and even the clamour of the people waiting outside lessened as angelic voices soared through the church.
Bartholomew smiled. Sir John had loved the choir, and often gave the children extra pennies to sing while he dined in College. Bartholomew wondered whether Master Wilson would spare a few pennies for music to brighten the long winter evenings. He stole a glance at Wilson to see if there was any indication that he was appreciating the singing. Wilson's head was bowed as he knelt, but his eyes were open and fixed on his hands. Bartholomew looked closer, and almost laughed aloud. Wilson was calculating something, counting on his fat, bejewelled fingers. His mind was as far from Michael's music or William's mass as Augustus's would have been.