‘You might fare better getting his sister to do it,’ said Bartholomew acidly. ‘Lucy is arranging my wedding with terrifying efficiency, so hunting missing scholars will be no kind of challenge at all for her. It is a pity the siblings are not reversed – she should meddle less, and he should do it more.’
‘I shall promote him to Senior Proctor tomorrow,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is–’
‘But you are Senior Proctor!’ blurted Bartholomew, shocked to learn that Michael was planning to vacate a post that afforded him so much power. He lowered his voice, aware that students were turning to listen. ‘Or is this your way of announcing that your ambitions have been realised at last, and you have been awarded an abbacy or a bishopric?’
Michael smiled. ‘Not yet, although it is only a matter of time. However, Aynton plans to resign as Chancellor tomorrow, and I have decided to take his place. I cannot be Chancellor and Senior Proctor at the same time, so Brampton must step into my shoes.’
Bartholomew blinked, startled anew. ‘Aynton is leaving? But he has only been in post for a few weeks!’
‘More than enough time for him to realise that he is unequal to it.’
‘How can that matter, when you are Chancellor in all but name?’ Bartholomew was unsettled by the news, feeling his entire world was beginning to shift and change, and he did not like it. ‘I cannot imagine there is much for him to do.’
‘Unfortunately, there is,’ sighed Michael. ‘We are far larger and more prosperous than we were a decade ago, so there is a lot to handle, even for a figurehead. And Aynton is unequal to the task. He is a pleasant fellow, but he is disorganised, feeble and inept, and it has been a struggle for me to manage his duties, as well as my own.’
‘So you are glad he is going?’
‘I am not,’ replied Michael grimly. ‘I would rather he acquired a backbone and a modicum of common sense, and worked with me to drive our University into the future. I much prefer directing from the sidelines, as it gives me greater freedom to act. I do not want to be elected Chancellor tomorrow.’
Bartholomew gaped yet again. ‘You plan to hold an election tomorrow? Is that not rather hasty? You usually claim that these things take months to organise.’
‘As they should,’ said Michael. ‘But we cannot be without a titular head over the summer, as there are several very important matters pending that will require a Chancellor’s seal. Aynton has done us a serious disservice by deciding to leave so precipitously.’
‘But tomorrow!’ breathed Bartholomew, still stunned. ‘Why not next week?’
‘Because we must be quorate for the vote to be legal, and some of our Regent Masters are already slipping away – they are supposed to wait until the end of term, but we all know this rule is regularly broken. Ergo, I have no choice.’
‘So why will you stand? Why not remain Senior Proctor, and find a Chancellor you can manipulate, as you have always done before?’
‘If only I could,’ sighed Michael. ‘Unfortunately, as soon as Aynton announced his retirement, three men raced forward to nominate themselves as his replacement. None are suitable, and would damage the University that I have worked so hard to build.’
‘Which three?’
‘John Donwich of Clare Hall, who is a diehard traditionalist, resistant to change; Richard Narboro of Peterhouse, who cannot walk past a shiny surface without stopping to admire himself; and Geoffrey Dodenho of King’s Hall, whose brain is smaller than a pea.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I see what you mean. Donwich and Narboro would be a disaster. But surely you can bend Dodenho to your will? He is too dim-witted to know what was happening, and would present all your ideas as his own.’
‘I considered it, but I cannot have him involved with the complex negotiations that are scheduled over the summer. He would destroy everything just by opening his mouth.’
‘But what happens if you lose tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.
Although Michael had done more for the University than any scholar in living memory, there were some who resented his success and would vote against him out of jealousy and spite. It would be none of Bartholomew’s business soon, but that did not mean he would stop caring about the studium generale and its future.
‘I will not lose.’ Michael shrugged confidently. ‘I am the best candidate. Besides, not only will the others have no time to gather any meaningful support, but it is the Feast of St Benedict on Friday. The founder of my Order will ensure that I am where I need to be on the morning following tomorrow’s election.’
‘Will he?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully, aware that Michael did not always keep the vows he had made at his ordination, so might not be as favoured as he imagined.
‘Of course.’ Michael smiled as he wiped his greasy fingers on a piece of linen. ‘It will be your last vote as a Regent Master. And perhaps the most important of them all.’
It was always difficult to teach during the last few days of the summer term, when disputations were over, the results were pinned on the door of St Mary the Great, and the students itched to go home to their families. A few slipped away early, ignoring the obligation to ‘keep term’ – to spend a specific number of nights in Cambridge during the academic year. The rest, however, grew rowdier and more restless with each passing day, especially those who were due to graduate, who felt their studies were now complete.
Most Fellows did not try to give lectures and left their lads free to do what they liked. Bartholomew was the exception, and persisted with a full teaching schedule, as he felt there was still so much more for his students to learn. He drove them hard, ignoring their resentful glares as the College’s lawyers, grammarians, philosophers and theologians strolled off to lounge in the orchard or play ball games in the yard.
He kept his pupils at their studies until the bell rang for the noonday meal. While they hurried away to snatch some fresh air before eating, he decided to visit Isnard, to make certain that the bargeman really was suffering from a cold and not the flux. He looked around for a couple of students to take with him, feeling it was a good opportunity to continue their education. His eye lit on Stasy and Hawick, who were by the gate, where the College’s assorted poultry had also gathered.
‘You want us to go with you now?’ asked Hawick in dismay, when Bartholomew told them that they had been chosen for some additional tuition. ‘But dinner is nearly ready.’
‘And it is too hot for traipsing after customers anyway,’ added Stasy, fanning himself with a grimy hand. ‘Let Isnard come to us if his complaint is urgent.’
‘You will not keep many patients with that attitude,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And what are you doing among these birds anyway? Whatever it is, they do not like it.’
‘They do not,’ agreed a quiet voice, and Bartholomew jumped as John Clippesby, the College’s gentle Dominican, emerged from the shadows.
It was generally assumed that Clippesby was either insane or a saint in the making. He talked to animals, and insisted that he understood every grunt, squawk, moo, bleat, bark, mew, cluck or oink directed back at him. What he claimed they told him often made a lot more sense to Bartholomew than the ramblings of his allegedly rational colleagues.
‘What are you doing, lurking in the dark?’ demanded Stasy, his tone impertinent for a student addressing a Fellow. ‘Listening to that gossipy peacock again?’
He exchanged a smirk with Hawick, and Bartholomew bristled. He was fond of Clippesby, and was not about to stand by while Stasy mocked him, but Clippesby spoke while the physician was still devising a suitable rebuke.