‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You are not the one about to be scolded like an errant schoolboy.’
‘That stupid grace passed by three votes,’ said Riborowe, his thin face flushed with irritation. ‘Three! If you and one other Regent had shown a shred of decency, it would have been defeated.’
‘Bartholomew is not the only one who betrayed us,’ chirped Jorz. ‘Others voted contrary to orders, too. They include Vale of Gonville Hall; the London brothers from the stationer’s shop; Sawtre and Walkelate from King’s Hall; and, I am ashamed to say, Northwood from our own Order. All are traitorous wretches who should be made to pay.’
‘They should,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘But most will have realised the folly of their ways by now, so you must call another Convocation, Brother. I imagine the result will be very different next time. How about July? That is a lovely month for making decisions.’
Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘Most hostels close during July. Scholars from the Colleges and the religious Orders will still be here, but the others will have gone home.’
‘Will they really?’ asked Riborowe, feigning surprise. ‘What a pity that their voices will not be heard, then. Still, I suppose that is democracy for you.’
‘All our members should have equal access to books,’ argued Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘And as a University, we have a moral obligation to see that they do.’
‘These are dangerous principles, Matthew,’ warned Etone. ‘I cannot say I approve.’
‘They are not dangerous principles,’ came a voice from behind them. Sawtre, the gentle philosopher from King’s Hall, had overheard the remark as he was passing, and had stopped to join the debate. He was a clever, likeable man with a shiny bald head. ‘They are enlightened principles.’
‘Enlightened is another word for heretical,’ countered Riborowe. ‘And your opinion counts for nothing anyway, because you are another dissenter.’
Sawtre smiled with kindly patience, unruffled by the friar’s hostility. ‘And how does having a mind of my own negate my opinion, exactly?’
Riborowe knew he was unlikely to win a battle of logic with a scholar of Sawtre’s standing, so he continued to rail at Bartholomew instead. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson about unorthodoxy by now. It is said in the town that you are a warlock.’
Bartholomew winced. He did not need reminding that his medical successes had resulted in a tale that said a pact with the Devil was responsible. His patients – mostly the town’s poor – did not care as long as he made them better, but he disliked the reputation he had acquired. It was especially galling as he had been to some trouble to avoid controversy over the last few years, keeping his ideas and theories to himself, and only practising surgery as a last resort.
‘He is not a warlock,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And as most of you White Friars are his patients, I am astonished to hear such remarks from your lips.’
‘You are right,’ said Prior Etone, after a brief moment of contemplation. ‘Matthew is the only medicus who brings relief to my chilblains. Where would I be if he took umbrage and declined to tend me? So I hereby retract my objection to his foolish opinions about libraries.’
‘There are other medici in Cambridge,’ said Riborowe sullenly. ‘And our Order should not use one who communes with the Devil, anyway. No matter how good he is with chilblains.’
‘Perhaps not, but I would not recommend employing Vale in his place,’ said Jorz fervently. ‘He is more interested in inventing a universal cure-all than in treating real patients. Did I tell you that I showed him my haemorrhoids, and he laughed?’
‘Who first mooted the idea of having a Common Library?’ asked Etone, in the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘I cannot imagine Dunning coming up with it on his own.’
‘It was Chancellor Tynkell,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He said he wanted to do something “worthwhile” before he retires from office next year.’
‘Then you must bear some responsibility for the situation, Brother,’ said Riborowe nastily. ‘Of course Tynkell will be keen to be remembered as something other than your puppet!’
‘If he were my puppet, we would not be having this discussion,’ growled Michael, ‘because a grace to found a Common Library would never have been proposed in the first place. Tynkell arranged the whole thing slyly, without my knowledge. I was outraged when I found out that he had been making arrangements behind my back.’
‘I am sure you did your best to thwart it,’ said Etone kindly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Jorz. ‘It is not your fault that you were betrayed by your closest friend and other vipers like him. Speaking of vipers, there seems to be a profusion of them this year. We killed three in our grounds only yesterday.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Why? They are harmless if left alone.’
Jorz regarded him askance, while Riborowe crossed himself. ‘You defend serpents? The beasts whose forked tongues caused our expulsion from the Garden of Eden? That is heresy!’
Sawtre smiled rather patronisingly. ‘You have overlooked the concept of free will, Jorz. Shall we debate the matter? I happen to be free for the next five or six hours and–’
‘We should go home, or there will be nothing left to eat,’ snapped Jorz, turning abruptly and walking away before the philosopher, who was known to be wordy, could claim the rest of his day. Riborowe followed, although not before treating Bartholomew to a final glower.
‘My apologies,’ said Etone with a pained smile. ‘They have been trying to invent a fast-drying ink, and it is weariness that renders them testy. They are usually perfectly amiable.’
‘You see, Matt?’ asked Michael, when Etone and Sawtre had gone. ‘Your silly library is causing all manner of dissent among our members. But we had better visit this corpse before any more of the day is lost.’
Bartholomew had not been inside Newe Inn since it had ceased to be a tavern, and looked around with interest as he entered. It was cool, dark and smaller than might have been expected from the street, because, in typical Norman fashion, its walls were hugely thick. It was simple in design: the ground floor comprised a large, low-ceilinged basement that would be used for storage, while the upper floor had two chambers where the precious books would be kept.
As the storeroom was deserted, Michael aimed for the stairs, to look for someone who could tell them why they had been summoned. Cynric was at his heels, while Bartholomew lagged behind, reluctantly acknowledging to himself that perhaps Newe Inn was unsuitable for a library – it was gloomy, cool even on a warm summer day, and definitely damp.
‘Personally, I suspect Dunning is glad to be rid of this place,’ muttered Cynric disparagingly. ‘Donating it to the University brings a princely number of masses for his soul when he is dead and a free tomb in St Mary the Great. He has done well out of the bargain.’
They arrived at the upper chambers to find them in a flurry of activity. Walkelate could have shoved up a few shelves and been done with it, but he had taken his assignment seriously, and the result was a masterpiece. The walls were panelled in light beech, and the bookcases were of different heights and depths to accommodate variation in the size of the tomes they would hold. They were all exquisitely carved with classical and biblical images.
When he saw he had visitors, the architect came to greet them.
‘Welcome,’ he cried jovially. ‘I know we are all sawdust and muddle at the moment, but the chaos is superficial. The main work is finished, and it is just details now. We shall certainly be ready by Corpus Christi.’