‘You need not be concerned,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Tom Orwelle died of the plague. His father only wanted a kind word from you about him – the sharing of a fond memory. You have changed, Richard, and I do not like what you have become.’
Richard’s jaw dropped. ‘But I…’ he began.
It was too late. Bartholomew was already riding away up the High Street towards Michaelhouse, leaving his nephew stuttering an unheard apology.
Still angry, Bartholomew rode past the recently founded College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, or Bene’t College as it was known to most people because it stood next to St Bene’t’s Church. Work still continued on the College, which seemed to grow larger every time Bartholomew passed it. It already had two courtyards and a handsome hall building, and was being furnished with more accommodation wings and a substantial kitchen block.
The church was an ancient monument with a square, almost windowless tower that many people believed had been built before William the Conqueror had claimed the English throne in 1066. It was set in a grassy graveyard, and its amber stones were shaded by yew trees. Diagonally opposite it was the Brazen George, a large tavern known for good food and clear ale, which was a favourite of Michael’s. Rows of town houses followed, some grand and well maintained, like the one belonging to the locksmith and his family, and some in sore need of a new roof and a coat of paint, like the one where Beadle Meadowman lived.
Beyond that, the great golden mass of St Mary’s Church rose out of the filth of the High Street. Its new chancel gleamed bright and clean, elegant tracery reaching for the sky like stone lace. Its tower was a sturdy mass topped by four neat turrets that could be seen from many miles away. In a room below the bells was a great chest in which the University stored its most precious documents. To many, the sumptuous church represented all they did not like about the University, and the building was often the target of resentful townspeople.
A short distance from St Mary’s was St Michael’s, a church that had been specially rebuilt by Michaelhouse’s founder Hervey de Stanton to be used by the scholars of the College he had established. Next to the dazzling splendour of St Mary’s, with its Barnack stone and intricate tracery, St Michael’s was squat and grey. It had a low tower, barely taller than the nave, and tiny porches to the north and south. Its chancel was almost as large as its nave, a deliberate feature on Stanton’s part, because he intended Michaelhouse’s scholars to pray in the chancel, while any congregation or members of other Colleges or hostels would use the nave.
Bartholomew considered St Michael’s chancel one of the finest in Cambridge. Its tracery lacked the delicate quality of St Mary’s, but possessed a clean simplicity that Bartholomew loved. The great east window allowed the early morning light to flood in, although for much of the day the church was dark and intimate. A tiny extension to the south was called the Stanton Chapel, and housed the tomb of Stanton himself. Other tombs and monuments lay in peaceful silence among the shadows, with still figures in stone gazing heavenwards, occasionally lit by the odd beam of dusty sunlight.
Just to the left was St Michael’s Lane, a muddy track that led down to the wharfs on the river. On the corner was the handsome red-roofed Gonville Hall, where scholars were already gathering in the street to process to St Mary’s, to celebrate the beginning of a new day with a mass. Some of them nodded to Bartholomew as he passed. Usually, members of different Colleges tended to regard each other with hostility, but Master Langelee of Michaelhouse had recently sold Gonville Hall a piece of property for a very reasonable price, and the scholars of Gonville and Michaelhouse had established a truce. Bartholomew was grateful that at least some factions within the University were not at each other’s throats.
The horse slowed when it was faced with the muck of St Michael’s Lane, picking its way carefully and skilfully around the larger potholes and piles of rubbish. The walls of Gonville loomed to Bartholomew’s left as he turned down the small runnel, appropriately named Foule Lane, on which the mighty front gate of Michaelhouse stood. He hammered on the door, and was admitted by a porter who took the horse, grumbling about the amount of mud that clung to the animal, which would have to be cleaned off.
Michaelhouse’s scholars were already assembling in the yard to process to the mass at St Michael’s, most of them yawning and still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. At their head was Master Langelee, a large, heavy man with no neck, who had decided to become a scholar because life as a spy for the Archbishop of York was not sufficiently exciting. Given that his predecessor had been murdered after attempting to oust Langelee himself from his Fellowship because of an annulled marriage, he had probably been right.
Langelee called an affable greeting to Bartholomew, then strode briskly along the line of scholars to ensure they were sufficiently smart to represent Michaelhouse on the streets of Cambridge. Bartholomew did not much like the burly philosopher, whose belligerence and single-mindedness also made him unpopular with the students, but he had to admit that standards had risen since Langelee had assumed the Mastership. Michaelhouse scholars were inspected each morning, and any student whose tabard was not clean and tidy and whose shoes did not shine to Langelee’s satisfaction was fined fourpence. Scholars who could not afford or declined to pay were put to work as copyists, to add to Michaelhouse’s expanding library.
It was not only outward appearances that had improved. Lectures always started on time, and meals were served promptly. Previously, evenings had been free for the students, but Langelee had initiated a series of discussion sessions that the Fellows took it in turn to lead. The students were obliged to attend at least four each week, and Langelee kept a careful record of anyone who absented himself without permission. The topics were usually light-hearted ones, such as whether worms when cut in half were two animals or one, or whether ale tasted better in the morning or the evening, but nevertheless were valuable practice for the more serious disputations that were a major part of academic life. As long as Langelee did not take part in the discussions himself – he was not possessed of the sharpest mind in the University, and even the rawest, most inexperienced student invariably bested him – Bartholomew felt the students were benefiting enormously. There was also the fact that their busy schedules allowed very little time for causing mischief in the town. It had been many months since the proctors had paid a visit to Michaelhouse in pursuit of a student who had misbehaved.
The Michaelhouse Fellows were already waiting in their places at the front of the procession. The fanatical Franciscan Father William was first, nodding approvingly as Langelee berated one student for having hair that was too long. William’s habit was easily the filthiest garment in Michaelhouse, but even Langelee’s heavy-handed hints could not induce the friar to wash it. Like all Franciscans’ robes, the habit was grey, but William’s was so dark that he was occasionally mistaken for a Dominican. William detested the Black Friars, and Bartholomew found it extraordinary that he would risk being misidentified just because he had an aversion to hygiene.
Standing next to William, and already muttering prayers that would prepare him spiritually for the mass that was to come, was the gentle Gilbertine Thomas Kenyngham. Kenyngham had performed the duties of Master for several years, and had been a kindly and tolerant leader. However, Bartholomew was rapidly coming around to the opinion that the students fared better under the sterner hand of Langelee, although he was amazed to find it so.
Michael waited next to them, the dark rings under his eyes indicating that the previous night had not been an easy one for him. He gave Bartholomew a wan smile as the physician stepped into his place.