It was not sympathy for Bartholomew’s classes that prompted the remark, but guilt: William had spent his day dozing in the orchard, and the physician’s dedication to his duties made him feel lazy.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘They paid for a year’s teaching, so that is what they will get. We do not want them claiming that they have not had their money’s worth.’
‘Your lads can have no cause for complaint on that score,’ said Clippesby, who was in a corner, surrounded by roosting hens. ‘You have crammed more inside their heads this term than the last five years combined.’ One of the birds clucked, and he smiled. ‘Indeed, Ethel has just informed me that no Michaelhouse students have ever worked so hard.’
‘There is still so much more that they should know,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Yet in a few days, some will be licensed to ply their skills on real people. Would you want Stasy or Hawick to tend you if you were ill?’
‘Certainly not,’ declared William firmly. ‘I shall continue to be looked after by you, even after you are wed.’
‘Will you?’ asked Aungel stiffly. ‘Then what about me?’
John Aungel, until recently a student himself, had been appointed to teach medicine when Bartholomew left. He was young, eager and conscientious, but everyone knew he could never fill his former master’s shoes.
‘We shall use you both,’ said Clippesby, ever the peacemaker. ‘For different things.’
‘You are better at horoscopes,’ said William, and jerked a dirty thumb at Bartholomew. ‘Whereas he thinks the stars have no effect on a man’s health, and refuses to calculate them.’
Aungel allowed himself to be mollified. ‘Then I shall provide them free of charge for anyone from Michaelhouse.’
‘I should think so,’ said Will Zoone, the last and newest of the Fellows. He was a tall, languid man with black hair, who taught arithmetic. He also designed bridges, castles and siege engines, although there tended not to be much call for these in the University. ‘We are colleagues, and I would never think of charging you for my services.’
There was a short silence, as the other Fellows tried to think of something Zoone had that Aungel might want. Then Bartholomew went back to his book, aware that the conclave was stiflingly hot. The windows were open, but there was not so much as a whisper of breeze to move the air. In the stillness of the evening, he heard church bells chiming to announce the end of compline. Shortly after, Michael arrived, all important huffing and puffing as he settled in his favourite chair.
‘All is set for tomorrow,’ he reported. ‘The church is ready, and we shall have our election at noon. Donwich, Narboro and Dodenho will doubtless spend tonight preparing their speeches, but I shall just speak from the heart.’
‘You will win,’ predicted William gleefully, ‘and Michaelhouse will be home to yet another Chancellor. Our College continues to go from strength to strength.’
‘Although this election has been sprung on us with almost indecent haste,’ put in Zoone worriedly. ‘It smacks of intrigue.’
‘Of course there is intrigue,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘It is the University.’
They began to discuss the other candidates, so Bartholomew returned to his reading. When he had finished, and was sitting back to rub his tired eyes, the conversation had moved to the two missing scholars.
‘I know Martyn and Huntyngdon,’ Aungel was saying. ‘They are steady, reliable men, who take their University duties seriously. They are not absconders.’
‘But one lodged in the Cardinal’s Cap,’ said Zoone disapprovingly. ‘And the other visited him there. We all know that taverns are forbidden to scholars.’
‘The Cap is different,’ explained Michael. ‘It is where learned men from different foundations gather for intelligent debate. There is never any trouble, so I tell my beadles to turn a blind eye. And yes, the missing men did meet there just before they disappeared – they discussed metaphysics, and left an hour later. Neither has been seen since.’
‘Have you questioned the sentries on the town gates and bridges, Brother?’ asked Aungel. ‘Perhaps Huntyngdon and Martyn did slip away that night, although if so, I am sure they will have a legitimate reason. They are not men for reckless jaunts.’
‘I questioned the guards twice,’ replied Michael. ‘They are certain that no scholars left that evening or the following day. And before you ask, yes, we can trust them – they have been vigilant since the fright we had with the threat of a French invasion earlier this year.’
Aungel raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Then if they did not leave, they must still be here. But where? There are not many places one can hide for days on end.’
‘They are not hiding,’ declared Clippesby confidently. ‘The College cat would have heard if that were the case, but she assures me that there has been no news on that front.’
At that point, there was a knock on the door and Cynric appeared.
‘You are needed, boy,’ the book-bearer told Bartholomew. ‘By Sheriff Tulyet. There has been an accident on the Great Bridge.’
Bartholomew looped his medical bag over his shoulder. ‘What sort of accident?’
‘A nasty one,’ replied Cynric. ‘Perhaps you should come, too, Brother, because the casualty is thought to be Chancellor Aynton.’
Chapter 2
The Great Bridge was in the north of the town, and spanned the Cam at a point where it was narrow but deep. The piers and spandrels were stone, but the top part was wood and so in constant need of repair. Despite it being a vital part of the town’s infrastructure, no one wanted to pay for its upkeep – Mayor Morys thought the Crown should do it; the Sheriff argued that it was the burgesses’ responsibility; and the University thought it should be done by anyone except scholars.
As a result, repairs tended to be only grudgingly made, and it was not uncommon for bits to fall off before any action was taken. The situation was more precarious than ever that summer, as the bridge had been badly damaged by spring floods. Money had been squeezed from the merchants to mend it, and there had been great anger and dismay when Burgess Baldok had made off with some of it in June. Most people considered his subsequent murder to be divine justice, and confidently waited for the money to reappear with God’s compliments. It never had, and its whereabouts continued to remain a mystery.
Bartholomew and Michael hurried up the High Street, both grateful for Cynric’s reassuring presence at their heels. The town was rarely safe after dark, but it was worse when hot nights drove thieves and robbers out of their beds. Moreover, a large number of beadles were ill with the flux, and without them to keep law and order, trouble was never far away.
‘I hope the bridge will be completely rebuilt in stone,’ said Michael as they trotted along. ‘It will be a lot safer, and will require much less maintenance.’
‘Morys promised it would be,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, that was when he wanted to get elected. Now he is nearing the end of his year in office, he need not bother.’
‘Actually, he does,’ countered Michael, ‘because the King approved the tax that was levied to pay for it, and he keeps writing to Morys, demanding updates on its progress.’
‘Someone should tell him that Baldok stole the money.’
‘Morys did, but His Majesty just ordered him to collect some more. Then he sent one of his own builders to assess whether the bridge should be rebuilt in stone or patched up with wood. This man will present his findings at the guildhall on Friday, following which the council will make a decision about it.’