‘These patients do not have the plague: they died of completely separate causes,’ declared Nigellus confidently. He glanced up as an exhausted messenger staggered through the door, breathing hard. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Prior Norton needs you again,’ gasped the lad. ‘Another canon is ill, suffering identical symptoms to Wrattlesworth. You must come at once.’
‘“Completely separate causes”, Nigellus?’ asked Kellawe sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure,’ snapped Nigellus, nettled. ‘Norton is not a physician – he is not qualified to say whether the symptoms are identical or not.’
‘Then let us hope you are right,’ said Kellawe grimly.
Chapter 1
Cambridge, All Hallows’ Eve 1358
Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the University in Cambridge, had never liked the three-day festival of Hallow-tide. To him, it was a reminder that the warm reds and ambers of autumn were about to fade to the cold grey fogs of November, and that the days would soon grow depressingly short.
No one else at the College of Michaelhouse shared this opinion, however, and an atmosphere of happy expectation blossomed as the Master dismissed his scholars from the breakfast table. There would be a feast that night, and as such extravagance was rare, students, Fellows and servants alike could hardly contain their excitement. All Hallows’ Eve would be followed by All Saints’ Day and then All Souls, the latter of which was particularly important to Michaelhouse, as it was the anniversary of their founder’s death. Usually, they spent the day on their knees, saying masses for his soul, but things were going to be different that year.
‘I am not sure whether to be pleased or worried,’ said Brother Michael to the other Fellows as they repaired to the conclave – the comfortable chamber adjoining the hall that was off-limits to students. Michael was a portly Benedictine who taught theology, and was Bartholomew’s closest friend. ‘On one hand, I am delighted that we won the honour of hosting the reception after the All Souls’ debate this year, but on the other, it will cost a lot of money – money we do not have.’
‘It is an investment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, the Master. He had been chief henchman for an archbishop before deciding that life as a scholar would be more interesting, and still looked more like a warrior than an academic. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was fair and level-headed, and his Fellows had no complaints about his rule. ‘When the town’s wealthy elite see the princely show we put on, they will fall over themselves to give us money.’
‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He had never understood economics. ‘What if our ostentatious display makes them think we have too much already?’
‘It is a matter of confidence,’ explained Langelee. ‘No one wants to fund a venture that is on the brink of collapse – which describes us at the moment, unfortunately – but they will certainly want to be associated with one they think is flourishing.’
‘Because of their sin-steeped souls,’ elaborated Father William, a grubby Franciscan whose oily hair sprouted untidily around a tonsure that was never the same shape two days in a row. ‘Which need prayers if they are to escape Purgatory. The rich are eager to support foundations that will still be saying Masses for them in a thousand years, and our ruse will convince them that we are such a place. Our gamble will pay off, you can be sure of that.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew, less sanguine about the risks they were taking. If they failed, Michaelhouse would never repay the debts that were accumulating, and the College would be dissolved.
Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘I have invited a whole host of prosperous merchants to our feast tonight, in the hope that they will brag to their cronies about the lavish way in which they were entertained. And more of them will experience our generosity at the student debate–’
‘At the disceptatio, Master,’ corrected William. ‘It sounds more illustrious, and we should do all we can to stress the grandeur of the occasion.’ He grinned impishly. ‘Even if it is only one where a lot of youths pontificate on matters they do not understand.’
‘–when we shall provide refreshments fit for a king,’ finished Langelee. ‘Of course, we have other irons in the fire, too. Namely Prior Joliet and his fellow Austins.’
The Austin friars, unlike their monastic counterparts the Augustinian canons, lived in the town among the people to whom they ministered. The Order had arrived in Cambridge almost seventy years ago, and occupied a tract of land between the King’s Ditch and the Market Square.
‘They will give us money?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Priories did not usually extend their largesse to Colleges – they had their own communities to fund.
‘Not money,’ explained Langelee. ‘Labour. First, they have agreed to teach all the new theologians we enrolled last year–’
‘The ones we took to get the fees,’ put in William, lest the physician should have forgotten.
‘–and second, they are painting that lovely mural for us in the hall,’ finished Langelee.
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘They have not donated this labour – they expect to be paid! Prior Joliet was telling me only yesterday how he plans to spend what they earn. They give more alms than all the other convents combined, and if we default, it will be the poor who suffer.’
‘We will not default,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘We will pay the Austins the moment the benefactions start flowing in.’
‘Which they will,’ avowed William. ‘Thanks to the mural.’
Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How will the mural help?’
‘In two ways,’ replied Langelee. ‘By showing prospective patrons that our finances are healthy enough to afford such a luxury; and by demonstrating that we are men of great piety – it depicts St Thomas Aquinas, you see. The rich will certainly want prayers from our priests when they see that fresco.’
‘But what if this scheme fails?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.
‘It will not fail,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘It cannot.’
‘I am looking forward to the disceptatio this year,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could argue. ‘It is a great honour for Michaelhouse to be one of the two foundations chosen to take part.’ He shot the physician a grin. ‘As you and Wauter are on the committee that selects the topic, you can tell our lads what it is in advance. Then they can prepare, so will defeat Zachary with ease.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘How many more times must I say it? The subject will be announced on the day. No one will prepare, which is the point – to test the participants’ mental agility when dealing with an entirely new thesis.’
‘But Principal Irby has already told his scholars,’ said William crossly, ‘which means that Zachary will emerge victorious, while our boys end up looking like fools.’
‘No, he has not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He cannot – we have not chosen the question yet.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, frowning. ‘But the disceptatio is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Are you not leaving it a little late?’
‘A little,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot agree on a topic. But we are meeting again this morning, and I hope it will be decided then.’
‘Do not fret,’ said Langelee to William, who was red-faced and indignant. ‘If Bartholomew will not tell us, we shall have it out of Wauter. He will not be hobbled by foolish principles.’
He turned to where Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, John Wauter, was reading in the window. Wauter was an Austin and a geometrician, and it had been his idea to hire priests from his own Order to help teach Michaelhouse’s overly abundant theologians. He had cropped black hair and a ready smile. He became aware that he was the subject of discussion and looked up.