‘Voting!’ exclaimed Michael disdainfully. ‘This election will not be decided by voting.’
‘It will, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is how we elect Masters at Michaelhouse – by each Fellow writing the name of his preferred candidate–’
Michael made a dismissive sound. ‘And I accused Langelee of being unsubtle! The Mastership of Michaelhouse is far too important to leave to that sort of chance. And the issue will not be decided on Saturday, either. That is far too soon. I must see what can be done to delay matters.’
‘I do not want to hear this,’ began Bartholomew.
‘No,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘It is better that you do not know my plans in detail. I do not want you revealing them to the opposition.’
‘You mean you do not trust me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled and rather hurt.
Michael sighed. ‘I trust you in most things – more than I trust myself sometimes. But you do not have a clear grasp of University politics, and there is too much at stake to risk you inadvertently telling someone something he should not hear. But while we stand here, your patient is waiting. We should go before you dally so long that he needs my services rather than yours.’
As Bartholomew opened the door to his storeroom to collect his medicine bag, he saw three of his students in the courtyard and told them to read specific sections from Galen’s Prognostica to the others, ignoring their obvious disappointment at losing what they had anticipated would be a free afternoon following Kenyngham’s unexpected announcement.
‘None of the other masters are making their students work today,’ said Sam Gray sullenly, shoving his hands in his belt when Bartholomew tried to hand him the book.
‘None of the other masters have students who have failed their disputations as many times as you have,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘And, as I have told you before, there are plenty of students who will willingly take your place should you fail again.’
Gray said nothing, knowing that the shortage of physicians following the plague meant that newly qualified medics could pick and choose from the lucrative opportunities available, and that if he wanted to make his fortune, he would do well to stay with Bartholomew.
‘He will read to the fourth-years, and I will read to the others,’ said Tom Bulbeck, one of Michaelhouse’s brightest scholars, who would soon be leaving to take up a position as house physician to the powerful Bigod family in the city of Norwich – a prestigious appointment that made Sam Gray green with envy.
‘Or, if you like, I could show them how to dissect a rat – like you did last year,’ offered Rob Deynman, Bartholomew’s least gifted student. ‘I remember how to do it exactly. You take a rat and a sharp knife, then cut through the stringy stuff to reach the purple bits–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘Just listen to the Galen. And if any of my patients come, please fetch me – do not try to deal with them yourself.’
‘Yes,’ said Gray with spiteful glee. ‘Look what happened last time – Agatha the laundress’s teeth have been the talk of the town since you laid hands on them.’
Leaving them before that discussion could begin in earnest, Bartholomew hurried across the courtyard to the gate, where the Bene’t College porter was waiting for him. Michael, having donned a handsome fur-lined black cloak against the winter chill, was not far behind.
‘You took your time,’ grumbled the porter, who had been slouching against the wall. ‘Had to finish your meal, did you, while a man lies dying?’
‘We will have none of that insolence, thank you very much,’ said Michael sharply. He glared at the man, inspecting him closely as they walked up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street, where Bene’t College was located. ‘I know you. Our swords have crossed before.’
The man looked shifty. ‘You probably met my brother, Ulfo. People say there is an uncanny resemblance between us.’
But Michael was not an easy man to fool. ‘No, it is you I have encountered before.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I remember now! You pummelled a student half to death last winter, and he made an official complaint against you for grievous assault.’
‘I did not lay a finger on him,’ snarled the porter angrily. ‘He lied!’
‘So your College said,’ concurred Michael. ‘The case was dropped, if I recall correctly.’
‘Justice was done,’ said the porter unpleasantly, so that Bartholomew had the impression that justice had not been done at all – at least, as far as the battered student had been concerned.
Michael scratched his arm thoughtfully. ‘Osmun,’ he said. ‘That is your name.’
‘So?’ demanded Osmun aggressively. ‘What of it? What has my name to do with you?’
‘Let us hope it has nothing to do with me,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I do not want the likes of you warranting the attention of the Senior Proctor and his beadles again.’
His tone held a warning that Osmun was not so stupid as to ignore. He glowered at the monk, and began to walk more quickly as they neared Bene’t College, effectively ending all further conversation.
Bene’t was the newest of the University’s colleges, and had been founded the previous year by wealthy townsmen in the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary. Its official name was the College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, but most people called it Bene’t College because it stood on land that adjoined St Bene’t’s – or Benedict’s – Church.
The two guilds intended their foundation to rival splendid Colleges like the Hall of Valence Marie and King’s Hall, and masons and carpenters were busily erecting fine new buildings for the Master of Bene’t and his scholars. A hall and one wing had already been completed, but the range that bordered the High Street was still under construction, and comprised a precarious shell of four walls clad in a jumble of scaffolding, ropes, pulleys and platforms. Seeing its haphazard nature and its proximity to the road, Bartholomew was surprised that there had not been an accident before.
‘Bartholomew!’ came an urgent voice from a group of people who stood in a tight huddle at one corner of the unfinished building. ‘Here! Quickly.’
Bartholomew hurried forward when he recognised Master Lynton, the physician from Peterhouse. Lynton was a kindly man, with a halo of fluffy white hair that always reminded Bartholomew of a dandelion clock. He had done well for himself in his profession, and his patients were invariably the wealthiest and most influential people in the town – Lynton would never consider doctoring anyone unable to pay. His ideas on medicine, however, were conventional in the extreme, and he and Bartholomew seldom agreed on treatments or diagnoses. Bartholomew would have liked Lynton better had he been anything but a physician.
Bartholomew pushed his way through the fascinated onlookers, and crouched next to Lynton, who was trying without success to stanch the bleeding from a wound in the chest of a man who lay in the mud. Bartholomew took one look at the rapid, shallow breathing, the bluish lips and white face, and the awkward angle of the man’s legs that indicated a broken back, and knew Lynton’s efforts were futile.
Although there was nothing he could do to save the man who lay in a distorted heap at the base of the scaffolding that surrounded Bene’t College, Bartholomew tried to make his last moments on Earth as comfortable as possible. He dribbled a concoction of poppy juice and laudanum between the blue lips, and took a clean compress from his medicine bag – always carried looped over his shoulder – to stem the bleeding from the chest wound.
Lynton sat back with a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Bartholomew,’ he said, flexing his bloodstained fingers and wiping them on his tabard. ‘Now we should set about bleeding this poor fellow.’