Tulyet was appalled. ‘They are the candidates? Christ God! Hopeman will have us in flames within a week, Lyng is too old to be effective, while Thelnetham … well, you cannot have a Chancellor who wears pink bows on his shoes. I do not want to spend all my time quelling spats between jeering townsmen and affronted scholars.’
‘Perhaps others will agree to stand,’ said Michael. ‘I shall have a word with a few suitable puppets … I mean candidates later today.’
‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we had better see to Moleyns. Will you come now, Matt?’
‘Not until he has broken his fast,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘He cannot deal with corpses on an empty stomach, and nor can I.’
Michaelhouse was not noted for the quality of its fare, although the food on offer that morning was better than usual, because Candlemas was a Feast Day. There was pottage with pieces of real meat, although these were few and far between, followed by bread and honey. Like the processions to and from church, meals were meant to be taken in silence, so the scholars could fill their minds with religious thoughts as they ate. It was another rule the Fellows ignored, which made it difficult to enforce among the students, so it was not long before the hall was abuzz with lively conversation. Most revolved around the Chancellor.
‘Poor Tynkell,’ said Langelee, when he had intoned one of his ungrammatical Latin graces, and was devouring his pottage with every appearance of relish; he tended not to mind what he ate, as long as there was lots of it. ‘But Hopeman says his replacement will be in post within a week, which is good – it is risky to keep such an important office vacant.’
‘His replacement will not be elected until next term,’ countered Michael, who had emptied his bowl before most of the others had been served, and was already holding it out for a refill. ‘These matters cannot be rushed.’
‘Oh, yes, they can,’ argued Kolvyle, inspecting the contents of his own dish before pushing it away with a fastidious shudder. ‘The statutes say that if a Chancellor dies in office, there must be an election within a month. You have no grounds to postpone, Brother.’
‘Tynkell did not “die in office”,’ countered Michael shortly. ‘He was murdered. And I shall not appoint a successor until his killer is under lock and key.’
‘No, you will not appoint him,’ said Kolvyle challengingly. ‘Because he must be elected. And we will have a ballot soon, because I shall go to St Mary the Great today, and issue a demand for one to be held next Wednesday. Exactly a week from now.’
‘You cannot,’ said Michael irritably. ‘An election can only be called by the University’s senior theologian – who just happens to be me. If you have read the statutes as closely as you claim, you should know this.’
‘Except in extremis,’ argued Kolvyle with a triumphant smirk. ‘And I would say that the Chancellor’s murder constitutes desperate circumstances, wouldn’t you? So I shall make my announcement today, and most scholars will support it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Michael, his voice heavy with understanding. ‘You aim to stand yourself. Well, I am afraid that is out of the question, because you are not eligible.’
Kolvyle blinked his astonishment. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I am eligible.’
‘You are only a Bachelor,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘The Chancellor must be a Master or a Doctor.’
‘I am a Master,’ snapped Kolvyle crossly. ‘I completed all the requirements, and even gave a celebratory dinner last month – one you attended, Brother. The only thing lacking is a certificate, which Tynkell was supposed to have signed weeks ago, but he kept forgetting. It is a formality, no more.’
Michael smiled. ‘A formality that will be completed as soon as the new Chancellor is in office. Obviously, that cannot be you – you can hardly award yourself a degree.’
Kolvyle’s expression was murderous, but he realised that he was making a spectacle of himself, and hastened to smother his temper. He shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘Well, I am young, so there will be plenty of time for such honours in the future, unlike the rest of you. Meanwhile, I shall vote for Godrich from King’s Hall. He will make a splendid Chancellor. Better than Hopeman, Lyng or Thelnetham.’
‘Godrich plans to stand?’ frowned Michael.
Kolvyle smirked again, pleased to be in possession of information that the monk did not have. ‘He announced it last night. Did you not hear?’
‘Godrich will not make a very good Chancellor,’ predicted Suttone. He had dripped honey down the front of his habit, and his efforts to mop it up had left a sticky smear; a mat of breadcrumbs adhered to it. ‘He will favour King’s Hall at the expense of other foundations, and he is a dreadful elitist. He is not the man we want.’
‘Well, I like him,’ said Kolvyle defiantly. ‘He recognises promising young talent, and I shall rise through the University’s ranks more quickly with an enlightened man like him in charge.’
‘No self-interest here,’ murmured Bartholomew, prodding warily at a lump in his pottage. It looked suspiciously like part of a pig’s snout, complete with bristles.
‘The role of Senior Proctor has grown bloated,’ Kolvyle went on, ‘and it is time it was reined in. Godrich said that will be the first thing he does when he wins.’
‘You are rash, throwing in your lot with a rival foundation,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Their first allegiance is to each other, and you will find yourself out on a limb if you alienate us. And speaking of unsuitable acquaintances, I hear you were friends with Moleyns the criminal.’
Kolvyle regarded him with open dislike. ‘We knew each other from Nottingham. But my personal life is none of your affair, Master, and I will thank you to mind your own business.’
The response stunned Langelee and his Fellows into a gaping silence, during which Kolvyle stood and sailed out of the hall, head held high, blithely ignoring the rule that no one was supposed to leave the table before the Master, and certainly not before the final grace.
‘You chose him,’ said Bartholomew, the first to find his tongue. ‘I told you he would be difficult, but you refused to listen.’
‘Then you should have made your point more forcefully,’ snapped Langelee, eyeing him accusingly.
‘You should,’ agreed Michael. ‘I dislike this alliance with Godrich, too – another man with delusions of grandeur, as shown by his determination to be buried in the sort of style usually reserved for bishops and nobles.’
‘Godrich will make a terrible Chancellor,’ said Suttone. He had tried to rinse the honey from his robe with ale, and had made a greater mess than ever. ‘He is too lazy.’
‘Worse, he hates women,’ put in Langelee, shaking his head at such an unfathomable notion, ‘and would too rigorously enforce the rule that all scholars must shun them. Celibacy is all very well for some, but what about those of us with normal appetites?’
‘It would be a nuisance,’ agreed Suttone, who liked the company of ladies himself, despite the religious vows he had taken. Then he brightened. ‘But no one will vote for him once they know his stance on lasses. He will lose on that issue alone.’
‘He will not, because he has the support of King’s Hall, whose infractions he will overlook,’ countered Langelee, ‘while the clerics will applaud his miserable views.’ He glanced at Suttone. ‘Well, most of them.’
‘What a choice,’ muttered Michael. ‘Godrich, Lyng, Thelnetham or Hopeman.’
‘Lyng is a decent soul,’ said Langelee, ‘although I would be happier if he were not so old. He is not robust enough to withstand the rigours of office now.’