‘But then I would have had to marry her,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And I am not sure that is what I wanted.’
Michael chuckled. ‘You prefer the lovely Matilde these days, I suppose. Well, whatever you think, it will be interesting to see Philippa again and to assess what you have missed by allowing her to slip through your fingers.’
Bartholomew nodded absently. He stood in the middle of Michaelhouse’s yard, with Michael sniggering lustfully beside him, and wondered how the sudden and unexpected arrival of someone who had played such an important part in his past would affect his future.
CHAPTER 2
Bartholomew woke in an uneasy mood the next morning, with Philippa Abigny at the forefront of his thoughts. It was the last day of Advent – the period of fasting and prayer before Christmas – and the time when people readied themselves for Christmas. Long before dawn, Michaelhouse buzzed with activity. Servants scurried here and there, carrying pots, pans and supplies of various kinds, watched over by the critical, all-seeing eyes of that most illustrious and feared of College servants, Agatha the laundress.
Women were rarely employed by the University, because it was a domain inhabited by men, many of whom had taken priestly vows of celibacy. In order to avoid unnecessary temptation, the University ensured that contact between scholars and ladies was minimal, and its beadles patrolled assiduously, aiming to prevent long-deprived students from straying to taverns or other town venues where they might encounter members of the opposite sex.
Laundresses, however, were a necessity, and to surmount the problem, the University stipulated that any ladies hired should be so physically unattractive that they would repel even the most desperate of scholars. Ugly, but competent, washer-women were highly prized commodities, and Colleges and hostels guarded them jealously. Michaelhouse had Agatha, a mountain of a lady with a bristly chin, powerful arms, mighty hips and an unshakeable conviction that she had survived the plague because she was a favourite of God’s. She took her College duties seriously, and, as the Twelve Days approached, no member of Michaelhouse could expect to find himself exempt from running her errands or from becoming embroiled in her frenzied arrangements.
The scholars left the early-morning chaos and attended mass. On the way back Michael fretted that the fuss was likely to mean a delayed breakfast, but he had underestimated Agatha, who was quite capable of producing meals and overseeing festive preparations at the same time. The undercook rang the bell to announce the beginning of breakfast at precisely seven o’clock, just as Master Langelee was leading his scholars through the gate into Michaelhouse’s yard.
When the College had been founded in 1324, no expense had been spared by Hervey de Stanton in establishing the institution that he hoped would pray for his soul in perpetuity. It comprised a pair of accommodation wings, each two storeys high, linked by a central hall. Below the hall were kitchens and a selection of storerooms and pantries. The servants’ wing stood behind these, along with outbuildings that included a barn, a brewery, a bakery and a series of sheds that were used for storage. Thirty years had taken their toll, however, and some of the once fine buildings were in dire need of repair. The north wing, where Bartholomew lived, had a leaking roof and faulty guttering, so that students and their masters were regularly doused with icy water in wet weather, and the walls were so slick with damp that mould marched up them in thick green columns.
While Bartholomew studied some loose tiles on the stable roof, Michael headed for the hall, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the door beyond which his breakfast was waiting. He was not happy to find his progress interrupted by the appearance of Beadle Meadowman. Meadowman was looking flustered. In one hand he held the arm of a student, while the other gripped a smirking woman. The woman was called Una, and she was one of the town’s prostitutes, while the student was one of Bartholomew’s aspiring physicians. Bartholomew regarded the lad with weary resignation. Martyn de Quenhyth was always in some kind of trouble, although the physician thought that even dealing with Quenhyth’s silly scrapes was preferable to dwelling on his impending encounter with Philippa.
Quenhyth had arrived in Cambridge the previous September, determined to become a physician. Langelee had accepted him at Michaelhouse because he was able to pay the requisite fees, but Bartholomew had been less than impressed, and found Quenhyth arrogant, intense and joyless. The lad was no more popular with his fellow students, and was constantly the butt of their practical jokes. Bartholomew suspected that the teasing would stop if Quenhyth made an effort to be pleasant, but Quenhyth was just not the pleasant type.
He was tall and gangly, with long, ink-stained fingers that were tipped with gnawed nails. A thatch of brown curls had been hacked with a knife to reduce it to the length required of scholars, and his uniform was worn exactly according to the College’s prescription. He possessed a mean, thin nose and a pair of pallid eyes that he turned accusingly on a group of his classmates, who just happened to have gathered nearby to study a psalter – something that immediately aroused Bartholomew’s suspicions. He guessed they had adroitly manoeuvred themselves into a position where they would be able to hear what was happening. Among them were Sam Gray, a bright student with a cruel sense of humour, and Rob Deynman, a dull-witted lad who was tolerated at Michaelhouse because his wealthy father paid double fees.
‘What have you done this time?’ Bartholomew asked of Quenhyth, glancing at Una and hoping it was nothing too indecent. She giggled and winked at him.
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ declared Quenhyth primly. ‘I am sure you know who is to blame, and it is not me!’ He cast another venomous glower in the direction of the sniggering lads who vied for positions around the psalter. ‘Your other students do not appreciate that I am here to learn, not to take part in their pranks. They are always trying to get me into trouble.’
‘And what have they done now?’ enquired Michael, giving Gray and Deynman a glare of his own to indicate what he thought about behaviour that kept him from his breakfast.
‘They put a whore in my bed while I was asleep,’ replied Quenhyth resentfully, giving Una a look that was every bit as black as the ones he had given the students. ‘She was there when I awoke this morning.’
‘I am not a whore,’ objected Una hotly. The amused smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of righteous indignation. ‘We call ourselves “Frail Sisters” these days. That means I have a trade, and am every bit as good as any other craftsmen. Lady Matilde – you know her, Doctor.’ Here she gave Bartholomew a lascivious leer. ‘She organised us into a proper guild, and said we should not let people look down at us when we are only earning an honest crust.’
‘Frail Sisters?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Una uncertainly. ‘I have not heard that expression before.’
‘It is nicer than “whore”.’ She glowered at Quenhyth.
‘The Honourable Fraternity of Frail Sisters should have told you that scholars are off limits for your many charms,’ said Michael drolly. ‘And so are the insides of Colleges and hostels.’
Una waved a dismissive hand. ‘We are in and out of those all the time, Brother. Why should Michaelhouse be any different?’
‘Because it is the place where both the Senior and the Junior Proctor reside,’ replied Michael mildly. ‘And unless you want to lose your night’s earnings in fines, you would do well to remember that.’ He snapped his fingers at the sniggering Gray. ‘See the Frail Sister off the premises, Sam. And if I catch her here again, I shall hold you personally responsible.’