The student, Sam Gray, reeled towards Bartholomew, with the dull-witted Rob Deynman, equally intoxicated, at his heels.
‘I hope it is you,’ he slurred. ‘You and Brother Michael are the only two Fellows who would make Michaelhouse any kind of Master. Any of the rest would be disastrous.’
‘Quiet, Sam!’ said Bartholomew, casting an anxious glance down the table to where his colleagues sat. ‘You will need to be a lot more prudent than that if you want a future here.’
Gray gazed at him in horror, his eyes suddenly focused and clear. ‘Do not tell me you did not stand!’ he breathed. ‘Do not tell me you would let your College go to the Devil, rather than take its reins yourself! You swore a sacred oath to do all you could for it.’
‘I think you had better sit down before you say something you might regret,’ said Bartholomew quickly, sensing Gray’s indiscreet opinions were about to land them both in trouble. ‘And take Deynman with you – he is about to pass out.’
Gray caught the staggering Deynman, and together they weaved their way back to their places. Gray dumped Deynman on the bench and sat talking in a low voice to Tom Bulbeck, who kept shooting nervous glances towards Runham, William and Langelee. Bartholomew knew they had good cause to be concerned: everyone would find Michaelhouse a different place once the lax rule of Kenyngham came to an end.
He rubbed his temples, feeling the onset of a dull headache from the wine he had consumed – not much by anyone else’s standards, but it was powerful stuff, and he was not used to it. Cynric slopped yet more of it in his master’s cup, his uncharacteristic clumsiness indicating that the servants had also availed themselves of the brew that flowed so freely from the cellars.
In the Master’s chair, Kenyngham was sound asleep, the fingers of one hand curled around his beloved psalter, and the fingers of the other clutching an empty goblet. Bartholomew stood unsteadily and went to wake him, because no one was permitted to leave the feast before the Master, and the Master looked set to sleep until the following morning. He wanted Kenyngham to announce his successor and quit the hall, so that Bartholomew could go to bed and leave the merrymaking to those with more robust constitutions.
Kenyngham opened bleary eyes and pulled himself together. A vague hush came over the hall as he stood, although not even his announcement was sufficient to rouse Deynman from his drunken slumber.
‘And now I am sure you are all keen to know who will be your next Master,’ said Kenyngham sleepily. Gradually the murmur of voices subsided, and even the servants clattering the dishes behind the screen at the back of the hall were quiet.
‘It was not an easy decision,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We had three excellent candidates who were prepared to stand – namely Father William, Master Runham and Master Langelee. Since the statutes say that a Fellow is not permitted to vote if he is a candidate, and Thomas Suttone decided to abstain, we were left with five Fellows eligible to vote.’
He stopped speaking for a moment, and leaned down to take a gulp from his goblet of wine. He was not the only one. Scholars all around the hall fortified themselves for the bad news they sensed was coming – how could there be good news with those three candidates up for selection? The atmosphere of tense anticipation was oppressive.
‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew voted for William; Father Paul voted for Langelee; and Master Clippesby and I voted for Runham.’
‘Paul should have voted for me,’ muttered William bitterly. ‘We are brother Franciscans.’
‘The statutes say that the candidate with the fewest votes should stand down and select one of the others. So, Langelee withdrew and voted for Runham. And Paul, freed from his first choice, selected William. But that meant a deadlock, with Runham and William having three votes each, so I was compelled to insist that Suttone make his choice.’
‘Then the new Master was effectively chosen by a man who does not know either candidate from Adam?’ whispered Gray, drink making him incautious. ‘That is a bad precedent!’
‘Suttone voted for Runham,’ said Kenyngham. ‘And so I declare that John Runham is now duly elected as the next Master of Michaelhouse, effective immediately.’
In the hall of Michaelhouse, the silence continued after Kenyngham had made his announcement. There was no cheering or exchange of pleased glances. Runham was a good teacher, but he was not liked, and his arrogance and smugness had alienated almost as many people as had his cousin’s before him. Runham either did not notice or did not care. He stood as Master Kenyngham sat, and produced a sheaf of notes. Bartholomew gaped, astonished that the man could be so confident of his success that he had prepared a speech.
‘That Dominican – Clippesby – will be sorry he voted for him,’ muttered William furiously in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘He will not enjoy being in Michaelhouse under the Mastership of a lawyer.’
He would have enjoyed it even less under a Franciscan, Bartholomew thought. William did not like Dominicans, and Dominicans usually did not like him. The physician rubbed his head again as the strong wine made the room reel and tip.
‘I do not think I can stand this,’ said Michael, eyeing Runham’s bundle of papers with dismay. ‘After what Langelee did to me, being forced to listen to Runham gloating over his success is more than any mortal should be forced to bear. If I pretend to faint, will you catch me?’
‘And then Father William can carry us both out insensible,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘You fainted and me crushed.’
‘Get ready then,’ said Michael, raising a hand to his forehead. With a shock, Bartholomew saw he was serious.
‘I cannot catch you, Brother,’ he whispered urgently. ‘You are far too heavy, and you will hurt yourself – and me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Michael. ‘Here I go.’
He started to raise his ponderous bulk from his chair, clutching at his head dramatically as he did so. Runham was clearing his throat and shuffling his parchments as he prepared to make his first official speech as Master of Michaelhouse. Michael had just opened his mouth to emit a groan, when there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. A porter was gesticulating urgently towards Cynric. The book-bearer listened to his message, and then pushed his way past the rows of students to the high table. Michael sat again, waiting with interest to see what was of sufficient import for Cynric to risk incurring the wrath of a Master about to make his inaugural speech.
‘One of your beadles is here,’ the Welshman whispered to Michael.
‘Now that I am Master, there will be no interruptions of meals,’ said Runham sharply. ‘And that goes for you, too, Bartholomew. You were late twice yesterday because you put other demands above your College responsibilities. Meals at Michaelhouse will be sacrosanct from now on – they are occasions when the Bible Scholar will read to us for the good of our souls, and when we will reflect in silence on our lives and how we must strive to make them better.’
‘How tedious,’ murmured Michael. ‘I certainly would not have inflicted that upon the good men of Michaelhouse.’
‘Perhaps Runham was not such a bad choice after all,’ said William, nodding approvingly.
‘I cannot wait until after meals, if I am summoned by a patient,’ said Bartholomew, appalled. ‘The person might be dead by the time we are finished.’
‘Then you will have to reconsider your vocation,’ said Runham harshly. ‘Your choice is clear: you either live here and abide by my rules or become a town physician. You cannot do both.’