Matilde, the woman he was going to marry, had gone to fetch an elderly aunt to their wedding, and had taken his sister with her for company.
‘I wish I was with them,’ sighed Michael. ‘Of course, that would leave Chancellor de Wetherset unsupervised. I like the man, but he should let me decide what is best for the University, and it is a wretched nuisance when he tries to govern for himself.’
Bartholomew smothered a smile. Over the years, Michael had manipulated the post of Senior Proctor to the point where he, not the Chancellor, wielded the real power in the University. The last two incumbents had been his puppets, implementing the policies he devised and following his edicts. But the current holder, Richard de Wetherset, bucked under Michael’s heavy hand.
‘He ran the University well enough when he was Chancellor before,’ Bartholomew said, not surprised that de Wetherset had his own ideas about what the office entailed.
‘Yes, but times have changed since then, and I do not want him undoing all the good I have done. For example, he disapproves of me compromising when dealing with the town – he thinks we should best them every time, to show them who is in charge. He believes the only way forward is to fight until we are the undisputed rulers.’
‘And have sawdust in our flour, spit in our beer, and candles that smoke?’
‘Quite! Of course, none of it would be a problem if Suttone was still in post. Why did he not talk to me before resigning as Chancellor? I would have convinced him to stay, and then there would be no great rift opening between us and the town.’
‘Depose de Wetherset,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘You have dismissed awkward officials in the past, so I am sure you can do it again.’
‘It is tempting, but no,’ said Michael. ‘Not least because it would mean another election, and I am tired of fixing those. De Wetherset is not a bad man or a stupid one. We worked well together in the past, and I am sure we can do it again. He just needs a few weeks to adjust to my way of doing things.’
While the servants toted steaming pots and platters from the kitchens, Bartholomew looked around the place that had been his home for so many years – something he had taken to doing a lot since Matilde had agreed to be his wife. Scholars were not permitted to marry, so he would have to resign his Fellowship when he wed her at the end of term. He loved her, but even so, he was dreading the day when he would walk out of Michaelhouse for the last time.
The College comprised a quadrangle of buildings around a muddy courtyard, with the hall and the Fellows’ room – called the conclave – at one end, and two accommodation blocks jutting from them at right angles. The square was completed by a high wall abutting the lane, along which stood a gate, stables, sheds and storerooms. It had grounds that ran down to the river, and included an orchard, vegetable plots and a private pier.
Michaelhouse had never been wealthy, and bad luck and a series of unfortunate investments had resulted in it teetering on the verge of collapse more times than Bartholomew could remember. However, now Michael was Master, things had changed. New benefactors were eager to support a foundation with him at its helm, and his ‘election’ had attracted not just generous donations, but powerful supporters at Court, which combined to ensure the College a much more stable and prosperous future.
He had also appointed two new Fellows. The first was Bartholomew’s student John Aungel – young, energetic and eager to step into his master’s shoes. The second was Will Theophilis, a canon lawyer who had compiled a popular timetable of scripture readings entitled Calendarium cum tribus cyclis. Theophilis was ambitious, so Michael had also made him his Junior Proctor, which he promised would lead to even loftier posts in the future.
Michael had raised the College’s academic standing as well. He had written several sermons that were very well regarded in theological circles, while Bartholomew had finally published the massive treatise on fevers that he had been compiling for the past decade – a work that would spark considerable controversy if anyone ever read it. No one had attempted it yet, and the only comments he had received so far pertained to how much space it took up on a bookshelf.
But these were eclipsed by a stunning theosophical work produced by John Clippesby, a gentle Dominican who talked to animals and claimed they answered back. Michael had wasted no time in promoting it, and the College now basked in its reflected glory.
Clippesby’s thesis took the form of a conversation between two hens – one a nominalist, the other a realist. Although an eccentric way of presenting an argument, his logic was impeccable and the philosophy groundbreaking without being heretical. The whole University was gripped by the ‘Chicken Debate’, which was considered to be the most significant work to have emerged from Cambridge since the plague.
The two new Fellows filled the seats at the high table once occupied by Master Langelee and Chancellor Suttone. Master Langelee had gone to fight in France, where he was far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than he had ever been with a pen; Suttone had resigned the Chancellorship and disappeared to his native Lincolnshire. Bartholomew missed them both, and had liked the College more when they were there. Or was he just getting old and resistant to change?
‘Do you think Michael will excuse me tomorrow, Matt?’
The voice that broke into his thoughts belonged to Clippesby, who cradled a sleeping duck in his arms. The Dominican was slightly built with dark, spiky hair and a sweet, if somewhat other-worldly, smile.
‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew blankly.
‘Father William’s lecture,’ explained Clippesby. ‘He will attempt to explain why he thinks realism is better than nominalism, and I do not think I can bear it.’
One of William’s many unattractive traits was his passionate dislike of anyone from a rival Order. He particularly detested Dominicans, and was deeply jealous of Clippesby’s recent academic success. His determination to ridicule the Chicken Debate was why he had refused to let Michael cancel his lecture – he believed he could demolish Clippesby’s ideas, although he was wholly incapable of succeeding, and would likely be intellectually savaged in the process. Bartholomew was not surprised the kindly Clippesby was loath to watch.
‘I am sure Michael will understand if you slip away,’ he said. ‘I hope to miss it, too – with any luck, a patient will summon me.’
Clippesby wagged a cautionary finger. ‘Be careful what you wish for. It might come true.’
‘What might come true?’ asked Theophilis, coming to join them.
The new Junior Proctor had long black hair parted in the middle, and a soft voice that had a distinctly sinister timbre. Bartholomew had disliked him on sight, which was unusual, as he tended to find something to admire in the most deplorable of rogues. He considered Theophilis sly, smug and untrustworthy, although Michael often remarked how glad he was that the canon lawyer had agreed to be his deputy.
‘We were discussing wishes,’ explained Clippesby, laying an affectionate hand on the duck’s back. ‘Ada here expressed a desire for a large dish of grain, but when one appeared, greed made her ill. Now she is sleeping off her excesses.’
‘Goodness!’ murmured Theophilis, regarding the bird askance. ‘Perhaps she should have enrolled at King’s Hall instead – that is the College noted for overindulgence, not ours. Incidentally, have you thought about the questions I raised last night – the ones about Scotist realism and the problem of universals?’
He often asked the Dominican’s opinion on philosophical matters, although he demonstrated a polite interest in the answer only as long as Clippesby was within earshot; once the Dominican was away, he mocked his eccentric ways. This duplicity was another reason why Bartholomew had taken against him.