One hand on his rebellious stomach, Bartholomew walked across the yard, thinking he would pass the hour or so before dawn with some quiet reading. The College ‘library’ comprised a corner of the hall that had been provided with shelves and two lockable chests. The books were either chained to the wall or stored in the boxes, depending on their value and popularity.
Although it did not possess many tomes, Michaelhouse had a Librarian. The post had actually been created to prevent its current holder from qualifying as a physician and venturing out among an unsuspecting public: Robert Deynman had been accepted as a student because his father was rich, not for any academic talent, and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been persuaded to abandon medicine for librarianship. As the position was funded by his proud family, the College was even spared the need to pay him – a blessing when money was so tight.
Bartholomew climbed the spiral staircase, then stopped in surprise when he saw a lamp burning. Deynman was there, and although it was not unusual for Fellows to study at night – it was often the only time they had to themselves – the Librarian was not in the habit of depriving himself of sleep to perform his duties.
‘Rob?’ Bartholomew called softly. ‘Why are you here? Are you unwell?’
Deynman jumped. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
‘I could not sleep.’ Bartholomew frowned when he saw Deynman’s red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. ‘What is the matter? Is your father ill? Or your brother?’
‘They are well,’ sniffed Deynman. ‘It is something else that is destroying my happiness.’
Bartholomew sat next to him, supposing he was about to be regaled with some tale of unrequited love. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said kindly. ‘Tell me what–’
‘You can do nothing,’ said Deynman bitterly. ‘You were one of the villains who voted for it.’
‘The Common Library?’ Bartholomew was bemused, but then understood what was bothering the lad. ‘You are afraid it will render your post obsolete! Well, you need not worry. Master Langelee told me only yesterday that there was no one he trusted more with our books.’
Deynman was unconvinced. ‘But if the likes of you have their way, we shall have no books.’ He ran a loving finger across the one that lay in front of him; its leather cover had been buffed to within an inch of its life, and shone rather artificially. ‘They will all be in this Common Library, where undergraduates will be able to get at them.’
‘But that is a good thing,’ said Bartholomew, struggling not to smile at the disapproval Deynman had managed to inject into the word ‘undergraduates’. ‘They are here to learn, and access to the works they are required to study is–’
‘But they do not need to handle them!’ cried Deynman, distraught. ‘They can listen to a master reading. Or, if they must see the words themselves, they can hire an exemplar. They do not need to see the original texts. To touch them.’ He shuddered at such a terrible notion.
‘But books are meant to be read,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And–’
‘They are meant to be cherished, not mauled by grubby students. You should have voted properly at the Convocation – you were Michaelhouse’s only dissenter. And you should be careful, because I heard what happened to Northwood, Vale and the Londons.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Deynman pursed his lips. ‘Vale voted against the wishes of his Gonville colleagues; the London brothers voted against their friends at Batayl; and Northwood voted against his Carmelites. All supported that evil Common Library. And now they have been murdered for their perfidy.’
Bartholomew supposed that all four had backed the grace to found the Common Library, but that had been six weeks ago, and he was inclined to believe it was coincidence.
‘We do not know for certain that they have been murdered,’ he said, although without much conviction. ‘I have not examined them yet.’
‘Well, when you do, you will find that they are dead by the hand of someone who deplores traitors,’ said Deynman firmly. Then his expression changed from angry to concerned. ‘Are you unwell, sir? You are very pale, and you keep gripping your stomach. Perhaps I had better fetch you some milksops from the kitchens. Do not look alarmed. I shall not poison them.’
‘I did not think you would,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the notion. ‘And I do not need anything to–’
But Deynman had gone, leaving Bartholomew wondering whether he should have voted against the Common Library after all. It would have meant going against his principles, but he compromised those all the time – when he failed to tell people that his more successful medical techniques had been learned from his Arab teacher; when he opted not to share innovative theories with his fellow physicians because he did not want to be accused of heterodoxy; and when he concealed his reliance on certain ‘heretical’ texts. And opposing the library would certainly have made for a more peaceful life.
He was not feeling much better when dawn came and the bell rang to tell Michaelhouse’s scholars that it was time to attend their morning devotions. He trudged wearily into the yard.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Father William, a grimy Franciscan whose habit was generally considered to be the filthiest garment in Christendom. He also possessed some deeply repellent beliefs, and although Bartholomew had grown used to his ways and had learned to ignore them, the newer Fellows found him difficult to take. ‘You look terrible.’
‘You do,’ agreed Thelnetham, one of the more recent arrivals. ‘Very wan.’
He was a Gilbertine canon and a celebrated scholar of law. He was also brazenly effeminate, and was known for livening up the plain habit of his Order with flamboyant accessories. That morning, there was a purple bow tied around his waist in place of a simple rope cingulum. He and William could not have been more different, and had become bitter and implacable enemies the moment they had set eyes on each other.
‘Shall I fetch you some wine, Matt?’ offered Ayera, a tall, intelligent geometrician who liked horses, dogs and outdoor pursuits. Other than a deep and – to Bartholomew’s mind, at least – irrational aversion to anatomy, he was easy and congenial company, and the physician liked his ready wit, wry humour and dedication to his students.
‘Will your indisposition prevent you from teaching today?’ asked Suttone, the College’s only Carmelite, when Bartholomew shook his head to the offer of strong drink so early in the day. He was a plump man in a creamy white habit. ‘If so, I decline to mind your class in your absence. The last time I obliged you, they rioted.’
‘Only because you told them the plague would return within the year,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘They tend to believe what senior scholars say, and were worried. When I came back, I was hard pressed to prevent them from leaving Cambridge to warn their loved ones immediately.’
‘But it will return within the year,’ declared Suttone. ‘I know I have been saying that for a decade, but this time I am right. I feel it in my bones.’
‘Then let us hope your bones are wrong,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I remember spending the entire time being extremely frightened.’
‘You were right to be,’ declared William loftily. ‘It was God’s judgement on the wicked. I shall survive if it returns, naturally, because I am saintly. However, the same cannot be said for the rest of you miserable sinners.’
He shot a disparaging glance at Thelnetham’s purple bow, then treated every other Fellow to a similarly haughty glare. Except Bartholomew. He had publicly accused the physician of being a warlock the previous summer, and had later been sorry. Guilt and a determination to make amends meant the physician could do no wrong. It would not last, but Bartholomew was finding it pleasant while it did.