‘What has started?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘The tour of the library for future benefactors,’ explained Alfred impatiently. ‘I am sure you will be a donor, because you are very rich.’
‘I am?’ Bartholomew was astonished to hear so.
Alfred nodded. ‘Of course, or you would not have been able to provide my little brother with milksops and free medicine all winter.’
Michael grinned. ‘Now I shall know whom to approach when I need to borrow some money. But I would not mind participating in this tour, and we have enough time before dinner.’
They arrived to find Walkelate standing on the stairs, addressing a group of men and women. There were perhaps thirty of them, and they included Chancellor Tynkell, burgesses from the Guild of Corpus Christi and a number of senior scholars. Tynkell was alarmed when he saw Michael, and sidled through the assembly towards him. The Chancellor rarely looked healthy, mostly because of his unfortunate aversion to hygiene, but he seemed especially pallid that day.
‘Please do not make any remarks that will put them off, Brother,’ he begged. ‘It will not be much of a library without books, and that is the purpose of this gathering – to secure donations.’
‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why was I not told about it?’
‘Because I was afraid you would cause trouble,’ explained Tynkell bluntly. ‘A few well-chosen words from you will see these would-be benefactors turn tail and run.’
‘Do you really consider me so petty?’ Michael was indignant.
The Chancellor did not deign to answer.
‘And now, if you will follow me upstairs, I shall show you the library proper,’ announced Walkelate, beaming at the throng and clearly delighted to be showing off his work.
The visitors began to shuffle up the steps, cooing at the carved handrail and the decorative corbels. The hammering and sawing that had been echoing around the garden promptly stopped. Bartholomew, Tynkell and Michael joined the end of the party.
‘It is a remarkable achievement,’ Bartholomew said, looking around appreciatively and noting in particular the lifelike features of Aristotle. ‘The craftsmen have worked wonders.’
‘It is beautiful,’ conceded Michael grudgingly. ‘The hostel men will enjoy coming here, although such splendour is wasted on them. Is that Dunning over there, talking to Weasenham?’
The Chancellor nodded. ‘He is often here, checking on progress, while Weasenham has promised us several very expensive books and a large number of exemplars. They are both vital to the success of this scheme, so please be nice to them, Brother.’
‘I shall be my usual charming self,’ promised Michael, surging forward.
‘That is what I was afraid of,’ said Tynkell worriedly to Bartholomew. ‘So I had better ingratiate myself with the Frevill clan. Several are wealthy, and their kinsman works here, so perhaps they will provide us with books, should Michael’s “charming self” do any damage.’
Bartholomew watched him approach several tall, well-built gentlemen, one of whom was the carpenter he had met before. Frevill saw Bartholomew looking at him, and came to talk.
‘We cannot really afford to stop work and deal with visitors,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Not if we are to finish in the allotted time. But Walkelate says securing well-wishers is important, so …’
‘You look tired,’ said Bartholomew, seeing lines of weariness etched deep into the man’s face.
‘So do you,’ countered Frevill, smiling. ‘But I am well, although I worry about Kente. He suffers from dizzy spells, and I am sure it is the long hours he keeps. Will you speak to him?’
As he followed Frevill into the adjoining room, Bartholomew heard Michael ask Weasenham – loudly – whether he had recovered from his mishap in the paper vat. The question brought a gale of laughter from those who heard it, and Tynkell winced at Weasenham’s furious glare.
The room containing the libri concatenati stank of the oil that had been used to stain the wood. It was not unpleasant, but it was strong, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Kente was light-headed. The craftsman was sitting atop the cista, treating an exquisitely carved lectern to a liberal smothering of brown grease.
‘This will make it shine like burnished gold,’ Kente said, glancing up when Frevill and Bartholomew approached. He was pale, but there was genuine pleasure in his face. ‘I am looking forward to the opening next week.’
‘Your paste reeks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Frevill says you have not been feeling well.’
‘Nothing that a few days’ rest will not cure,’ said Kente, waving his concerns away. ‘And I shall have those next week, once this place is finished. We are very close now.’
‘Try to go outside occasionally,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘For fresh air.’
‘I do not need fresh air,’ stated Kente scornfully. ‘I have been inhaling this lovely oil all my life, and I like its scent.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Tomorrow, or the day after, we shall close this room to keep it pristine while we add the finishing touches to the libri distribuendi next door. That chamber is slightly behind schedule, but nothing we cannot rectify with a bit of hard work.’
There was little that Bartholomew could do if Kente declined to listen to him. He shrugged to Frevill, and began to wander, smiling when he saw Michael’s chubby features in a carving depicting the feeding of the five thousand. He half listened to the discussions of the benefactors around him, pleased when he heard several begin to compete with each other’s generosity.
‘My entire collection of breviaries,’ declared Stanmore to the head of the Frevill clan.
‘The complete works of Bradwardine,’ countered Frevill. ‘Religious and philosophical.’
‘And I shall donate my bestiary,’ said a quietly spoken scholar from Bene’t College named Rolee.
‘You will?’ blurted Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Does your College not have an opinion about that? Bene’t is one of this place’s most fervent opponents.’
Rolee nodded. ‘I know, and I voted against it myself, as I was ordered. But now I see it, I wish I had given it my support. It is a grand venture, and one that is a credit to our studium generale. When my colleagues see it for themselves, they will think the same.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘And that they are won around soon. Michael said it caused a fight between your College and Essex Hostel last night.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rolee ruefully. ‘But even if they do remain antagonistic, they will not mourn the loss of my bestiary. They consider it a waste of space, and say our shelves would be better graced with tomes on theology or law.’
Bartholomew browsed a little longer, and was about to leave when he spotted his sister talking to Ruth and Julitta. As he went to pay his respects, a shaft of sunlight pierced the room and bathed Julitta in its golden rays. It turned her eyes to sapphire and her skin to the purest alabaster. When she turned to smile a greeting at him, he found himself gazing at the face of an angel.
‘Ruth asked whether you had heard what happened to her husband, Matt,’ said Edith loudly, pinching his arm to gain his attention. He blushed when he realised they had been speaking to him for several moments, but he had not heard a word of it.
‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I mean yes.’
Julitta laughed. ‘Your brother seems discomfited by the presence of so many ladies. University men are not used to us, so perhaps we had better leave him in peace.’
They had gone before Bartholomew could say he was perfectly happy to be discomfited by her, then was glad she had not given him the chance when he saw Holm nearby. The surgeon was regarding him coolly, and Bartholomew felt his face grow red a second time.