‘Not this time,’ he said, standing up and shaking his hands to dry them. ‘And I have had enough of medicine for today anyway.’
‘You tended the man who fell from the scaffolding and died?’ asked Edith.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Were you there, then, among the onlookers?’
‘No, but I heard people talking about it at the Trumpington Gate. Bene’t should be forced to make that scaffolding safe. I said to Oswald only yesterday that someone was bound to injure himself on it soon. But you look as though you need a diversion from this, not a discussion of it. How is life at Michaelhouse?’
Bartholomew sighed, not certain that the change of topic was for the better. ‘Kenyngham plans to resign on Saturday, which means that we will have to elect someone else as Master. I dread to think who it will be.’
Edith agreed wholeheartedly in the blunt fashion he found so endearing. ‘Men of integrity and honour are a bit thin on the ground at Michaelhouse. Who will stand, do you think?’
‘Michael already sees himself as the victor. Meanwhile, I am sure William, Langelee and Runham intend to provide him with some stiff competition. Fortunately, I imagine Paul knows he is too old, and the two Fellows due to be admitted the day after tomorrow are too new.’
‘You would make a good Master,’ said Edith fondly.
‘I would make a terrible Master,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at her loyalty to him. ‘I would spend all our money on new cesspits, better drains and clean rushes for the floors, and have us bankrupt within a month. But I wish Kenyngham had waited. Thomas Suttone, one of the newcomers, seems a pleasant man, and may make a better Master than William, Langelee or Runham.’
‘And Michael?’ asked Edith curiously. ‘He is your closest friend. Surely you will support him?’
Bartholomew hesitated. Michael had certainly assumed so, but Michael was a man who thrived on intrigue and subterfuge, and Bartholomew had always hoped that Michaelhouse would provide him with a haven from that sort of thing. Under Michael’s Mastership, the College was likely to be the focus of more connivance and treachery than Bartholomew cared to imagine. But the alternatives offered by any of the others were almost too awful to contemplate.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I will vote for Michael.’
‘Well, I hope his other supporters are a little more enthusiastic,’ she said wryly. ‘If his dearest friend has such obvious reservations, what chance does he have of securing the confidence of those who see only his pompous and selfish exterior?’
‘He is a good man,’ said Bartholomew, immediately defensive. ‘Well, most of the time.’
‘He is not popular with everyone,’ Edith pointed out. ‘Not only that, but Oswald has heard that he has been indulging in secret meetings with scholars from the University of Oxford.’
‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Michael has always been very firm about his disdain for our rival university, and anyway, he has far too much to do in Cambridge to indulge in plots with Oxford. And what is wrong with Oxford, anyway? I studied there, and so does your son.’
‘I have no feelings about the place one way or the other; I am only repeating what I was told. But do not look so gloomy, Matt. At least we can be sure that no one will be stupid enough to vote for that horrible Runham.’
‘Langelee would be worse,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I am not so sure,’ said Edith. ‘But if you choose not to support Michael, you should vote for William. He will agree to anything when he is drunk – if you can bear to listen to his gruesome stories about the Inquisition – and all you will need to do, if you want something, is to ply him with wine each night. You need not even invest in a good-quality brew, because William will drink anything.’
Bartholomew laughed, enjoying his sister’s easy company. He took her arm and began to walk with her along the High Street. He could have returned to his duties in the College, but Kenyngham’s announcement had dismayed him, and he did not want to be plunged back into the intrigues that would be brewing as ambitious hopefuls lobbied their colleagues for votes. Instead, he strolled with Edith to the Market Square, where they bought hot chestnuts that they ate as they watched the antics of a knife-thrower.
‘How does he do that?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to gain a better position to see the nature of the trick he was certain was involved. ‘It is not possible to be so consistently accurate.’
‘Oh, Matt! Must you be so analytical?’ cried Edith, poking him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Just enjoy the spectacle. And speaking of enjoyment, have you seen Matilde recently?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have seen very little of her since I returned from Suffolk in June. Kenyngham gave me an additional six students this year, and I have been struggling to try to fit in all the lectures they should have. I cannot recall ever having been so busy.’
‘There were rumours that you were sent to Suffolk in the first place because of your friendship with Matilde,’ said Edith bluntly.
‘A friendship with a prostitute is not something the University encourages,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the stories held a grain of truth, and that his colleagues had indeed contrived to send him away from the town to allow time for his relationship with the pretty courtesan to cool. ‘It is particularly frowned on for Fellows, who are supposed to be setting a good example to the students.’
‘It seems to me that these additional six students are no accident, Matt. Your friends are trying to keep you occupied, so that you will have no time to pursue a life outside their stuffy halls.’
Bartholomew realised she was probably right, and smiled at himself for being so naïve, knowing he should have seen through his colleagues’ machinations.
‘You should marry, Matt,’ said Edith, regarding him critically. ‘Or you will turn into one of those dreary old men who are only interested in the food and drink they devour at high table.’
‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘Michaelhouse is not noted for the quality of its fare. I should be in a sorry state indeed if I lived only for that.’
She shot him an anxious, sidelong glance. ‘You are not thinking of taking the cowl, are you, as Michael is always trying to persuade you to do?’
‘No,’ he said, turning his attention back to the knife-thrower. ‘I would not make a good monk.’
‘Then give up this life at the University, and practise medicine in the town – with real people, not drunkards, gluttons and power-mongers, who either loathe women or like them too much. And marry! You are a handsome man, and it is a waste for you to be celibate.’
‘But in order to marry, there needs to be a compliant woman, and there do not seem to be many of those around.’
‘Then I shall find you some,’ said Edith, sensing a challenge. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, knowing from past experience that the ladies Edith was likely to consider would be wholly unacceptable. It was not that he was fussy – he was an easygoing man who invariably found something to enjoy in most people’s company – but he did not want to spend his evenings in stilted conversation with someone who had nothing to discuss but the price of fish or the state of her wardrobe.
‘I can think of several,’ said Edith, ignoring his objection.
‘Please do not try to pair me off with the first available female you encounter,’ he pleaded. ‘Michaelhouse may have its disadvantages, but I am happy there. I do not want to be trapped in a loveless marriage.’
Edith pursed her lips. ‘You should put more trust in me, Matt. I know what I am doing.’