Bartholomew had no desire to debate the matter further. He changed the subject, and began to talk about the experiments he was conducting with his medical colleagues instead. They were trying to develop fuel for a lamp that would burn at a constant and steady rate, which they hoped would let them see what they were doing when patients summoned them at night.
‘We added myrrh yesterday,’ he said, blithely unaware that Michael was not very interested. The monk might have been, had the medici made progress occasionally, but they were no further towards their goal than they had been when the project had started some months earlier.
‘Your colleagues are an unprepossessing crowd,’ Michael said, brusque because the previous discussion had reminded him that he was still sulking over the fact that his closest friend had defied him at the Convocation. ‘Gyseburne’s obsession with urine is sinister; Rougham is arrogant; Meryfeld is stupid; and Vale is sly.’
‘And our new surgeon – Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, rather taken aback by the monk’s vehemence. ‘Do you dislike him, too?’
‘Yes. Although, his arrival has meant that you no longer perform those nasty techniques yourself, which is not a bad thing.’
Bartholomew said nothing. He had saved a number of patients with surgery, but it was the domain of barber-surgeons, and virtually everyone disapproved of his unconventional talent for it. He started to change the subject a second time, but they had arrived at St Mary the Great, where the Convocation was about to begin.
Bartholomew and Michael walked into the church to find it full. Chancellor Tynkell heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the monk. The election of a Junior Proctor was not a contentious piece of business, but most of those present were actually there to reiterate their opinions of the Common Library, and he knew he would be unable to keep the peace once the more rabid of the Regents began to hold forth.
‘I bid you all welcome,’ he said nervously to the assembly, after he had intoned a rambling and somewhat incoherent opening prayer that betrayed the depth of his unease. ‘We are here to see about the election of another Junior–’
‘I am here to express my displeasure about this wretched library,’ cut in Teversham hotly. His Bene’t colleagues were at his shoulder, nodding vehement agreement. ‘Work is proceeding far too fast, and it is unseemly.’
‘We are trying to finish by Corpus Christi,’ explained William Walkelate, the erudite, amiable architect from King’s Hall, who had been given the task of transforming Newe Inn from run-down tavern to functional library. The appointment had made him unpopular with his colleagues, however – King’s Hall was one of the project’s fiercest detractors. ‘Dunning has set his heart on–’
‘It is all wrong,’ snapped Teversham. ‘The wealthier foundations, such as my own, already have repositories for books, and so do the convents. We do not need another.’
‘But what about those scholars who are not members of rich Colleges or religious houses?’ asked Walkelate with quiet reason. ‘It is all but impossible for them to gain access to books, and a Common Library will transform their lives.’
‘I do not care about them,’ spat Teversham. ‘I care about what will happen to my College now that this ridiculous grace has been passed – namely donors giving their collections to it, and Bene’t being overlooked. Then we shall be impoverished!’
There was a rumble of agreement from the Colleges and convents, which tended to be well endowed with reading matter, and cries of ‘shame!’ from the hostels, which were not.
‘If Bene’t finds itself short of books, it can use the Common Library like everyone else,’ said a philosopher named Sawtre, once the hubbub had died down. He was also from King’s Hall, and disbelieving glances were exchanged between his colleagues at this disloyal remark. ‘And quite rightly. As matters stand, the hostels are at a serious disadvantage, and it is hardly fair.’
‘What does fairness have to do with anything?’ asked Teversham, genuinely puzzled. ‘It is the natural order of things that some of us have access to books, and some do not. We have managed without a general library for hundreds of years, so why foist one on us now?’
There was another growl of approval from the Colleges and convents, while the Regents from the hostels clamoured their objections.
‘Has our University existed for hundreds of years?’ asked Chancellor Tynkell, more to himself than to the assembly. ‘I thought it was established during the tenth year of King John, which makes it roughly a hundred and fifty–’
‘Treachery!’ shrieked Teversham. ‘It was founded by King Arthur, and to say otherwise means that Oxford is older than us and therefore superior. And none of us believe that!’
There was a chorus of unanimous appreciation: on this point, everyone was agreed.
‘Quite so,’ said Michael. ‘Now let us return to the matter in hand. We must appoint a Junior Proctor as soon as possible, because I shall need help at Corpus Christi, and–’
‘You only need help because of this vile library,’ said Teversham bitterly. ‘Allowing a townsman to come along and tell us that we should have one is a dangerous precedent, and I advise you to bring an end to the scheme while you can.’
‘We voted, and the grace was passed,’ said Michael sharply. ‘I was not very pleased, either, but we are bound by the decision, and there is no more we can do.’
‘That ballot was tainted,’ stated Coslaye, his stentorian bellow cutting through the frenzy of objections and cheers. ‘I was nearly murdered after it was taken, so I demand another.’
Everyone had assumed that Coslaye would die when he had been injured during the last Convocation, but Bartholomew had relieved the pressure on his brain by drilling holes in his skull. Now, six weeks later, the only visible evidence of his brush with death was the fact that the hair on one side of his head was shorter than the other, on account of it being shaved off. Unfortunately for Bartholomew, his success with what had been widely viewed as a hopeless case still did not alter the fact that physicians were not supposed to demean themselves with surgery, and his colleagues, medical and lay alike, roundly condemned him for what he had done.
‘Oh,’ said Tynkell, swallowing uncomfortably. ‘I see your point. Well … I suppose …’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly, before the Chancellor could agree to something untenable. ‘It is undemocratic to demand another poll because you do not like the result of the first. The losers must accept the will of the majority.’
‘Three votes is not a majority,’ argued Coslaye. ‘It means we are split down the middle. Ergo, we should give the matter further consideration.’
‘No,’ said Michael again, struggling to make himself heard over the rising clamour of voices. ‘The vote must stand. Our statutes are quite clear on this point.’
‘But this horrible library will be a cuckoo in our midst,’ wailed Teversham. ‘A cuckoo that will steal books from the Colleges, and that will reside in a house that Dunning had already pledged to two other foundations.’
‘It will not be a cuckoo,’ argued Walkelate, offended. ‘It will be a magnificent eagle, one that will allow our scholars – all our scholars – to soar into the lofty firmament of learning.’
‘Eagles are evil predators that prey on the helpless,’ flashed Teversham. ‘And so is anyone who supports this wicked notion.’
‘I agree,’ bawled Coslaye. ‘Dunning’s offer should have been rejected.’
‘But you run a hostel, Coslaye,’ Sawtre pointed out reproachfully. ‘You should support a scheme that will give your scholars the same access to books as College men.’