Next to Runham was Clippesby, whose eyes darted around the room as though looking for hidden assassins. He ate like a bird, in jerky, pecking movements, almost as if he were afraid that if he devoted too much attention to his meal, something dreadful might happen to him. Technically, Clippesby should not have been sitting so near the Master: as one of Michaelhouse’s newest members, he was obliged to sit farthest from the seat of power. But no one else wanted Runham’s company, and when Clippesby had defiantly selected the seat, no one cared to wrest it from him.
Suttone looked as grave as his colleagues. His jovial face was glum, and the merry twinkle in his eyes, which Bartholomew had so liked at their first meeting, was gone. As if he sensed he was the object of scrutiny, he glanced up at Bartholomew. The physician indicated with a grimace that it was time the meal was brought to an end, and Suttone gave him a quick grin of agreement. The genial sunniness returned, and Bartholomew suspected that Suttone’s sombre expression had been cultivated to suit the timbre of the meal.
Runham read the grace in unnecessarily sepulchral tones, and the meal was over. The students scraped their benches on the flagged floor as they made their escape, returning to their rooms to collect pens, parchment and as many blankets as they could carry for a morning of teaching in the chilly hall. The few remaining servants ran to clear away the dishes, and then to dismantle the trestle tables and lean them against the screen at the far end of the room. The benches were left as they were, so that the masters could move them as they were needed.
‘My Carmelite brethren warned me that life as a scholar might be grim,’ said Suttone, walking across the yard with Bartholomew as they went to collect the books they would need that morning. ‘But I told him I was not going to some poor hostel with a dormitory-cum-refectory-cum-lecture-room-cum-laundry. I told them I was going to Michaelhouse, one of the greatest houses of learning in the country, where scholars live a life of respectable comfort, and where education is placed above all else.’
Bartholomew laughed.
‘I do not think teaching is among Runham’s principal objectives,’ Suttone continued. ‘I think his main aim is to create a glorious temple, where scholars can sit in neat little rows and shiver together, wishing they were somewhere else.’
‘I hope he changes his mind about the fires when it snows,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone will succumb to fevers and chills if there is nowhere to dry wet clothes and nowhere warm to sit.’
‘We will be losing our students to the more congenial atmosphere of the taverns,’ agreed Suttone. ‘But perhaps Runham will loosen his stranglehold when he learns he does not need to prove his power to us at every turn.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But Michaelhouse still has many advantages over the hostels. We have some faithful servants – Harold, Ned …’
‘All dismissed,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘What else?’
‘Well, not the food,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And our wines leave something to be desired.’
‘They certainly do,’ laughed Suttone. ‘I did not think that any respectable establishment would stoop to provide Widow’s Wine for its members. When I first tasted it, I thought someone was playing a practical joke on us newcomers. But then I saw the rest of you drinking it, and I felt obliged to follow suit. Nasty stuff, that. My priory in Lincoln keeps it for cleaning the drains.’
‘That bad, is it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just rough wine.’
‘Very rough wine,’ corrected Suttone.
Bartholomew continued with his list of Michaelhouse’s virtues, not wanting the genial Suttone to leave the College and allow Runham to appoint a man of his own choosing in his place. ‘We have a fine collection of grammar and rhetoric texts, and there will be plenty of opportunity for academic debate when things have settled down.’
‘Who with?’
‘Well, there is Langelee,’ began Bartholomew. He saw the dubious expression on Suttone’s face and hurried on. ‘Runham is a clever lawyer who argues brilliantly when the mood takes him; Kenyngham understands the scriptures better than anyone else I know, and will certainly give you cause for contemplation; Father Paul–’
‘Paul is dismissed.’
‘Right. Michael’s logic is flawless, and he is an entertaining sparring partner.’
‘And there is you,’ said Suttone, smiling again. ‘I would like to hear more of the theories that everyone seems to believe are so heretical. In my experience, heretical notions often need only a little tweaking here and there to render them acceptable to the general populace. Perhaps I will stay a while, even if only to learn from you how simple water can cause so many diseases and how horoscopes are irrelevant to a person’s well-being.’
Bartholomew smiled back. ‘And since Brother Michael often accuses me of having a poor grasp of logic, perhaps I can learn from your lectures on the subject, too.’
Suttone clapped him on the back. ‘Once Master Runham sits a little more easily in the saddle of power, Michaelhouse will be a better place to live, and then you and I shall spend many happy hours discussing medicine and logic.’
Bartholomew sincerely hoped Suttone’s gentle optimism was not misplaced.
During the morning’s teaching, Bartholomew was summoned by a patient with a badly crushed hand; the injury was so severe that it necessitated the removal of two fingers. He was surprised to see the surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, already there, lurking in the shadows with his terrifying array of black-stained implements. Physicians were not supposed to practise surgery, and amputations were Robin’s domain, although Bartholomew personally would rather have died before allowing the surgeon anywhere near an injury of his own. Surprisingly, Robin demurred and watched silently while Bartholomew deftly removed the useless digits from the howling man and sutured the stumps. When the patient had been bandaged and dosed with a pain-killing draught, Bartholomew and Robin left the house together.
‘Why did you not operate?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High Street. ‘It was a straightforward case. Was it because he could not pay you?’
‘I was paid,’ said Robin, showing him six pennies. ‘That is why they had no money left for you.’
‘But you did not treat the man, so why did you take his money?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘I charge for consultations,’ said Robin loftily. ‘I asked for sixpence and then advised him to contact you. I am banned from surgery until this wretched Saddler case is resolved, you see.’
‘You were arrested because he died after you amputated his leg,’ Bartholomew recalled. ‘But most people die after you cut off their limbs. Why is this one different?’
‘His family are wealthier than most,’ said Robin mournfully, not in the slightest offended by Bartholomew’s brutal summary of his medical skills. ‘I spent three nights in Sheriff Tulyet’s prison with criminals for company – including one with that ruffian Osmun, the porter from Bene’t College.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘He was arrested for fighting in the King’s Head. Vile man! I spent the whole time awake clutching my cutting knives in anticipation of being robbed by him.’