‘Then I shall encourage them to leave promptly – hopefully before they witness anything unedifying, especially the ones I aim to make Michaelhouse benefactors.’
‘Good luck with that! Mischief is in the air, and has been ever since we heard about Winchelsea and the King ordered everyone to train to arms. Not to mention the murders of Paris the Plagiarist and now Bonet the spicer.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael unhappily. ‘There will be a battle sooner or later, despite my efforts to prevent one. All I hope is that these rich – and hopefully generous – nuns do not see it.’
St Mary the Great was the University’s centre of power, as all its senior officers worked there. It was a handsome church, occupying a commanding position on the High Street, and was the only building in the town that could accommodate every scholar at the same time.
The largest and most impressive room should have been the Chancellor’s, but Michael had appropriated that years before, leaving the University’s titular head with a rather poky chamber near the back door. De Wetherset had tried to reclaim it while Michael was in Suffolk, but the beadles were devoted to their Senior Proctor and refused to allow it. Thus Michael’s domain remained his own.
Bartholomew glanced through its door as he and Michael hurried past. It was sumptuously decorated, with wool rugs and fine furniture. It had two desks, both set to catch the light from the beautifully glazed windows. The ornate, oaken one was Michael’s, piled high with documents bearing the seals of nobles or high-ranking churchmen. The other was Junior Proctor Theophilis’s, neat to the point of obsessional.
By contrast, de Wetherset’s room was dark, plain and smelled of damp. It was also cramped, as the Vice-Chancellor and Commissary worked there, too – Michael had declined to oust his clerks and secretaries to make room for the newly created officials, claiming that de Wetherset should have considered such practicalities before appointing anyone.
‘Ah, here you are,’ said de Wetherset, as Michael strutted in without knocking. Bartholomew hovered on the threshold, uncertain whether to follow suit, but the Chancellor beckoned him inside. ‘Good.’
He was a solid man of late-to-middle years, whose physical strength was turning to fat. He had iron-grey hair, small eyes, and wore Tyled Hostel’s uniform of a dark green academic tabard, which fitted him like a glove. Although he seemed honourable, there was something about him that had always made Bartholomew wary. Perhaps it was the aura of power that emanated from him, or his sharp, sometimes unkind tongue. Regardless, he was not someone the physician would ever consider a friend.
He had been Chancellor for years before the stress of the post had forced him to resign. To recover, he had gone on a pilgrimage to Walsingham, and had returned bursting with vitality. He claimed his good health was a miracle, although Bartholomew suspected he had just benefited from fresh air, regular meals and plenty of exercise. He had bought a pilgrim badge when he had reached the shrine, which he always wore pinned proudly on his hat.
As usual, the men he had appointed were with him. Tall, haughty, elegant Vice-Chancellor Heltisle was immaculately clad in a gold-trimmed gipon with his uniform tabard – in Bene’t College’s royal blue – over the top. His shoes were crafted from soft leather, and he wore a floppy hat that most townsfolk would automatically assume was French. He had always been wealthy, but additional funds had come his way after he had invented a metal pen. These had quickly become status symbols, with scholars scrambling to buy them, even though they were indecently expensive. Matilde had given one to Bartholomew, although he had found it more trouble than it was worth and never used it.
Commissary Aynton was a stooped, gangling man with a benign smile and dreamy eyes, so that Bartholomew sometimes wondered if he was fully aware of what was going on around him. His clothes were expensive, but he wore them badly, so he always looked vaguely disreputable. Bartholomew liked him because he often made discreet donations of medicine for the poor, something Heltisle would never do.
‘I am glad to see you, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset, one hand clasped to his paunch. ‘Do you have that remedy for a griping in the guts? I thought I was cured of my delicate innards – this is the first trouble I have suffered since Walsingham.’
‘Do not trust him to give you relief, de Wetherset,’ said Heltisle nastily. ‘You should have sent for Rougham. He is a much better physician, and does not waste time washing his hands with such irritating regularity.’
‘Oh, come, Heltisle,’ chided Aynton with a pleasant smile. ‘Matthew has a rare skill with griping guts, as you know perfectly well. Or were you the only member of your College who did not swallow his remedy after the feast that made everyone vomit?’
Heltisle’s red face provided the answer to that question, but he was not a man to recant, so he went on another offensive to mask his discomfiture. ‘If you are going to physick him, Bartholomew, hurry up. We are busy, and cannot wait for you all day.’
Bartholomew was tempted to leave there and then, but de Wetherset was looking decidedly unwell, and the physician was not in the habit of abandoning those who needed him. He indicated that de Wetherset was to lie on a bench – the Chancellor probably had indigestion, but it would be remiss not to examine him before prescribing a tonic.
‘These nuns, Brother,’ said Aynton, watching Bartholomew palpate the Chancellor’s ample abdomen. ‘Are you sure it was a good idea to bring them here? I have heard alarming stories about what St Radegund’s was like in the past.’
‘You mean when it was a delightful place to visit?’ asked Heltisle with a leer that made Bartholomew dislike him even more. ‘As opposed to now, when it is full of women who only want to pray? Of course, you had no right to arrange a conloquium here, Brother. It should have been de Wetherset’s decision.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘No, it should not. First, St Radegund’s does not come under the University’s jurisdiction. Second, de Wetherset was not Chancellor when the Bishop made his request. And third, the Bishop approached me because the delegates are from my own Order.’
Heltisle sniffed. ‘Well, do not blame me if our students take advantage of the fact that thousands of nubile young ladies lie within their grasp.’
Michael laughed. ‘There are only two hundred, and few are nubile.’
‘Nor are they within anyone’s grasp,’ put in Bartholomew, not liking the notion of someone like Heltisle marching out there in the hope that he would receive the kind of welcome he had evidently enjoyed when standards had been different.
Heltisle rounded on him. ‘And you would know, of course. You have no right to be a scholar while you have a woman waiting to wed you.’
‘He breaks no statute – not in the University and not in Michaelhouse,’ retorted Michael sharply. ‘And do not accuse him of enjoying illicit relations, because Matilde is away.’ He turned away before Heltisle could argue and addressed de Wetherset, who was sitting up to sip the tonic Bartholomew had poured. ‘Why did you send for me, Chancellor?’
‘To discuss the call to arms,’ explained de Wetherset, some colour returning to his plump cheeks. ‘The town has two knights to monitor its training, but we have no one – our scholars just arrive at the butts, loose a few arrows and go home. We need someone who can teach them how to improve.’
‘Cynric,’ said Aynton, smiling at Bartholomew. ‘He is a very good archer, and I am sure you will not mind lending him out. Beadle Meadowman will help.’
‘Not Meadowman,’ said Michael immediately, loath to lose his favourite henchman when he was needed to prevent brawls.
‘Nonsense,’ stated Heltisle. ‘He and Cynric will oversee matters, and your Junior Proctor can record the name of everyone who attends. Then we can identify those who think they are too important to sully their hands with weapons, and inform them that they are not.’