‘Is that why he wrote? To thank you?’
‘Yes and no. He has been singing my praises to the Holy Father, and wanted me to know that an opportunity for advancement might soon come my way.’
‘Not too soon, I hope,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have just lost our Chancellor, and we cannot afford to lose our Senior Proctor as well.’
‘Do not worry – I shall ensure that a suitable successor to Tynkell is appointed before I go anywhere. I have worked hard to build this University, and I will not leave it foundering.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Bartholomew, as it occurred to him that Tynkell’s death would bring about changes, not all of them pleasant. ‘There will have to be an election, and the last time we had one of those, there was mayhem, with scholars at each other’s throats and–’
‘Who said anything about an election? It would be best if I chose Tynkell’s replacement, and installed him quietly. I know what is needed; our colleagues do not.’
Bartholomew knew the University’s voting members would not be pleased to learn that they were about to be deprived of the right to select their own leader, but it was hardly the time or the place for a debate on the matter. He fetched the necessary accoutrements from the vestry, and began to lay Tynkell out himself, knowing it was what the Chancellor would have wanted. When he had finished, he found the parish coffin – a reusable box with sturdy clasps – lifted Tynkell into it, and fastened down the lid as tightly as he could. Then he charged two of Michael’s most trustworthy beadles to guard it.
‘No one looks inside, not even Michael,’ he instructed, then added a lie to ensure that his orders were followed. ‘Opening it would be dangerous, because there is a deadly miasma around the body.’
‘We know,’ said one man in distaste, holding his nose. ‘We can smell it from here.’
When Bartholomew stepped into the street shortly afterwards, he was nearly blown off his feet by the force of the gale. Yet despite the mighty gusts, people still thronged around the church, reluctant to leave after the excitement. This was convenient for Michael, as it allowed him to question witnesses. Unfortunately, everyone told him the same tale: that Tynkell and the Devil had disappeared for a moment, after which Lucifer had flown away.
‘You know that is impossible,’ the monk was saying irritably to William Thelnetham, a Gilbertine who liked to liven up the sober habit of his Order with outrageously colourful accessories; that day, he sported yellow hose, while a pink ribbon graced the hem of his cloak.
Thelnetham had been a member of Michaelhouse, but had resigned when another foundation had made him a better offer. When the new College had come to nought, he had expected to be reinstated at his old one, and had been astonished when his colleagues had refused to accept him back. He was an excellent teacher and a skilled orator, so there was no question that he raised Michaelhouse’s academic profile, but he was also acerbic and quarrelsome, and the other Fellows decided that they preferred life without him. He had been obliged to take up residence in the Gilbertine Priory instead, although he had not given up all hope that Michaelhouse would one day recant and invite him to return.
‘It sounds impossible,’ Thelnetham replied. ‘But it is what happened – I saw it with my own eyes. And you said yourself that no one else was on the roof when you arrived.’
‘What you saw take to the air was Tynkell’s cloak,’ argued Michael.
‘Nonsense,’ countered Thelnetham with considerable conviction. ‘I know the difference between a gown and the Devil. Unlike you, it seems.’
‘Satan does not go around stabbing folk,’ said Michael, speaking just as vehemently. ‘That is something people do.’
This remark was overheard by a Dominican named Thomas Hopeman, an unattractive individual with a low forehead and darkly glittering eyes, who promptly marched across to say his piece. He was another scholar who could not open his mouth without contradicting someone, although unlike Thelnetham, he did it without humour. He was always accompanied by a band of six or seven disciples, who were all much of an ilk – grim, unsmiling fanatics, who turned religion into something joyless and rather frightening.
‘Rubbish!’ he stated dogmatically. ‘Lucifer has long claws that he keeps honed for the express purpose of running people through.’
His acolytes surged forward to clamour their agreement. While Michael struggled to silence them, Thelnetham took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him aside.
‘What will happen now?’ he asked in a gossipy whisper. ‘I assume there will be an election, and Michael will put himself forward as Tynkell’s successor?’
‘I have no idea,’ lied Bartholomew.
Thelnetham grimaced. ‘He must have said something to you, Matthew. The University is growing fast at the moment, which means we cannot be without a titular head for long. Or will Michael just take the post without the bother of having himself voted in by his peers?’
‘You will have to ask him.’ Bartholomew tried to edge away.
‘I shall then. And if he agrees to a fair and open competition, I might stand myself.’
‘You will?’ Bartholomew was astounded. He had not imagined it was a post that anyone would want, given that Tynkell’s reign had seen it go from a position of great power to one with a hefty administrative load, an obligation to host lots of dull ceremonies, and no authority to make independent decisions. ‘Why?’
‘Because I love teaching, and I should like a say in the way it is managed. And when I do, substandard masters like your William can expect an end to their comfortable existences.’ Thelnetham glowered to where the Franciscan was chatting to some of his brethren. ‘Our students deserve better than the likes of him.’
It was difficult to argue with that. Students paid for their tuition, and it was unethical to fob them off with mediocre educators. However, it was not just William’s failings in the classroom that drew Thelnetham’s disapproval. When the Gilbertine had been a member of Michaelhouse, he and William had quarrelled constantly, and had loathed each other ever since.
Thelnetham flounced away at that point, so Bartholomew turned back to Michael and Hopeman. As he listened to them argue, he recalled that the Dominican was a member of Maud’s Hostel. Unlike Colleges, hostels had no endowment – no pot of money that paid salaries and kept buildings in good repair – so they tended to be smaller, poorer and less stable. Maud’s was the exception. It took only very wealthy students, and so was always flush with funds, although it had an unfortunate propensity to attract applicants of less than average intelligence. How lads with such short attention spans were persuaded to sit still for Hopeman’s famously protracted theological expositions had always been a mystery to Bartholomew.
Then another Maud’s man joined them, also keen to know what would happen now that Tynkell was dead. He was the elderly Richard Lyng, who had been Chancellor three times himself, and had been very good at it. He was a theologian of some repute, and Bartholomew had often wondered how he could bear lecturing to students who could not remember what they had been taught from one day to the next.
‘No, I shall not stand myself,’ replied Michael in response to Lyng’s polite enquiry. ‘However, organising an election takes time, so it will not happen this term and–’
‘I could arrange one in a trice,’ interrupted Hopeman. ‘All you have to do is set a date, tell everyone, then count a show of hands.’