‘Things have a common nature indeed!’ he scoffed when Clippesby had gone. ‘What nonsense! He should be locked up, where he can do no harm.’
‘If you really think that,’ said Bartholomew icily, ‘why do you spend so much time with him?’
Theophilis shrugged. ‘It amuses me. Besides, there is no harm in making friends, even with lunatics. But speaking of friends, I have been invited to St Radegund’s Priory tomorrow, to hear a nun pontificate on sainthood. I have permission to bring a guest, so would you care to join me? It will allow you to escape William’s tirade.’
Bartholomew flailed around for an excuse to decline, as even listening to William was preferable to a jaunt with Theophilis. ‘I may have patients to attend,’ he hedged. ‘You will be better off asking someone else.’
‘Perhaps another time, then,’ said Theophilis, all amiability.
Bartholomew hoped not.
A short while later, the bell rang to announce that the food was ready to be served. The students aimed for the body of the hall, while Michael and his five Fellows stepped on to the dais – the raised platform near the hearth where the ‘high table’ stood. The Master’s chair occupied pride of place in the middle, with benches for Bartholomew, Clippesby and Aungel on his right, and William and Theophilis to his left.
Michael waited until everyone had reached his allotted place, then intoned a Grace. It was neither too short nor too long, and each word was beautifully enunciated, so that even William, whose grasp of Latin was questionable, could follow. As Michael spoke, Bartholomew reflected on the other Masters he had known during his tenure – dear old Kenyngham, who had been overly wordy; the smarmy Wilson cousins; and Langelee, whose Graces had been brief to the point of irreverence. Michael did everything better than any of them, and he wondered why he and his colleagues had not elected him sooner.
When the monk finished, everyone sat and the servants brought the food from behind the serving screen. There was bread – not white, but not rye bulked out with sawdust either – and a stew containing a good deal of meat and no vegetables, just as Michael liked it. As a sop to Bartholomew’s insistence on a balanced diet, there was also a small dish of peas.
Meals were meant to be eaten in silence, with no sound other than the Bible Scholar’s drone, but Michael considered this a foolish rule. Students spent much of the day listening to their teachers, so it was unreasonable to expect them to stay quiet during meals as well. A few were monks or friars, used to such discipline, but most were not, and needed to make some noise. Moreover, many were eager to discuss what they had learned that day, and Michael hated to stifle intelligent conversation.
The students were not the only ones who appreciated the opportunity to talk. So did Bartholomew, because it allowed him to collar Aungel and issue yet more instructions about how the medical students were to be taught after he left. He was about to launch into a monologue regarding how to approach the tricky subject of surgery – physicians were supposed to leave it to barbers, but he liked to dabble and encouraged his pupils to do likewise – when his attention was caught by what Theophilis was saying in his slyly whispering voice.
‘The Chancellor granted the stationer special licence to produce more copies of the Chicken Debate this morning. All profits are to go to the University Chest.’
Michael gaped his shock. ‘But de Wetherset cannot decide how and when that treatise is published, and he certainly cannot pocket the proceeds for the University! They belong to Clippesby – and, by extension, to Michaelhouse.’
‘He told me that Clippesby had agreed to it,’ explained Theophilis. ‘The Vice-Chancellor arranged it with him, apparently.’
He glanced at the Dominican, who was feeding wet bread to the two hens he had contrived to smuggle into the hall. As a relative newcomer, Theophilis still found Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies disconcerting. The other Fellows were used to animals and birds joining them for dinner, although Bartholomew had banned rats in the interests of hygiene and cows in the interests of safety.
‘Well, Clippesby?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Did you treat with Vice-Chancellor Heltisle behind my back?’
Heltisle was the first ever to hold the office of Vice-Chancellor, a post de Wetherset had created on the grounds that the University was now too big for one man to run. De Wetherset was right: it had doubled in size over the last decade, and involved considerably more work. Appointing a deputy also meant that Michael could not swamp him with a lot of mundane administration, as he had done with his puppet predecessors – a ploy to keep them too busy to notice what he was doing in their names. De Wetherset passed such chores to Heltisle, leaving him free to monitor exactly what the monk was up to.
Clippesby nodded happily. ‘He told me that the money would be used to build a shelter for homeless dogs. How could I refuse?’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Your dogs will not see a penny, and you are a fool to think otherwise. Heltisle loathes Michaelhouse, because we are older and more venerable than his own upstart College. He will do anything to harm us.’
Clippesby smiled serenely. ‘I know, which is why I added a clause to the contract. It states that unless the kennel is built within a week, he will be personally liable to pay me twice the sum raised from selling the treatise.’
The other Fellows gazed at him in astonishment. Clippesby was notoriously ingenuous, and was usually the victim of that sort of tactic, not the perpetrator.
‘And Heltisle signed it?’ asked Michael, the first to find his tongue.
Clippesby continued to beam. ‘I do not think he noticed the addendum when he put pen to parchment. He was more interested in convincing me that it was the right thing to do.’
Michael laughed. ‘Clippesby, you never cease to amaze me! Heltisle will be livid.’
‘Very probably,’ acknowledged Clippesby. ‘But the dogs will be pleased, and that is much more important.’
‘I hope you do not expect me, as Junior Proctor, to draw Heltisle’s attention to this clause when the week is up,’ said Theophilis uneasily.
‘I shall reserve that pleasure for myself,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming in anticipation.
For the rest of the meal, the monk made plans for the unexpected windfall – the gutters on the kitchens needed replacing, and he wanted glass in the conclave windows before winter.
While Michael devised ways to spend Clippesby’s money, Bartholomew studied Theophilis. Because Michael had given him his Fellowship and started him on the road to a successful academic career, Theophilis claimed he was in the monk’s debt. In order to repay the favour shown, he had offered to spy on the Chancellor and the Vice-Chancellor on Michael’s behalf. It was distasteful, and Bartholomew wondered yet again if Michael was right to trust him.
‘Heltisle will not have fallen for your ruse,’ warned Father William, a burly, rough-looking man with a greasy halo of hair around an untidy tonsure. His habit had once been grey, but was now so filthy that Bartholomew considered it a health hazard. ‘He will have added some clause of his own – one that will make us the losers.’
‘He did not,’ Clippesby assured him. ‘I watched him very closely, as did the robin, four spiders and a chicken.’
‘Which chicken?’ demanded William, eyeing the pair that pecked around Clippesby’s feet. ‘Because if it is the bird that expounded all that nominalist nonsense, then I submit that its testimony cannot be trusted.’
‘She, not it,’ corrected Clippesby with one of the grins that made most people assume he was not in his right mind. He bent to stroke one of the hens. ‘Gertrude is a very sound theologian. But as it happens, it was her sister Ma who helped me to hoodwink Heltisle.’