King’s Hall was more fortress than College. Its walls and gatehouse were battlemented, there were arrow slits for archers, and a portcullis hung over the door. Such precautions were wise, as its brazen wealth and privilege made it vulnerable to attack by resentful townsfolk. A liveried porter opened the door, and Bartholomew was asked to wait in the courtyard while Dodenho was informed that he had a visitor. The physician was not left alone for long.
‘Good morning, Bartholomew,’ said a quiet, razor-witted scholar named Ufford. He was a son of the powerful Earl of Suffolk, so was destined for a glittering career at Court, where his intellectual talents would be wasted. ‘Is someone ill?’
‘I suppose it is this flux,’ said the man who was with him. William Rawby did not have influential kin to support him, but he was a gifted lawyer, and the connections he made at King’s Hall would help him to rise rapidly through the ranks of the judiciary. ‘I heard half the beadles are down with it.’
‘No one is ill,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have come to see Dodenho.’
Rawby raised his eyebrows. ‘Not to offer him your support in today’s election, I hope? We love him dearly, but our votes will go to Michael.’
Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. College loyalties ran especially deep in King’s Hall, and he was amazed that Rawby should openly express a preference for an outsider. Seeing his shock, Ufford began to explain.
‘The University is not what it was ten years ago. It is now larger, stronger and becoming a rival to the other place in Oxford. We need a charismatic leader, who will continue to drive us forward, and that man is not Dodenho, much as it pains me to say it.’
‘King’s Hall needs Michael,’ elaborated Rawby. ‘It is no good being Fellows at the most prestigious College in a second-rate university. We want to belong to the most prestigious College in the best university. Michael can make that happen, the others cannot.’
‘Does anyone else in King’s Hall feel the same?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished.
Rawby winced. ‘All of us. Poor Dodenho is entirely oblivious, and will have a nasty surprise at noon. But we will make it up to him. We like the man – we just do not want him as our Chancellor.’
Bartholomew was glad when the conversation was cut short by the return of the porter, as it was disconcerting to see scholars abandon their old ways and adopt new ones. Perhaps it was just as well this was his last term, he thought as he nodded a farewell to Ufford and Rawby and followed the porter across the yard, because he was finding it all very unsettling.
Dodenho was in his quarters, a pleasant suite of rooms overlooking the gardens. He was practising the speech he aimed to give that day, but although he loved to hear himself speak, he was not nearly as good an orator as he believed himself to be.
‘Ufford and Rawby suggested that I canvass support among the other Colleges last night,’ he told Bartholomew. ‘But I think I will win more votes with an erudite speech. It was good of them to encourage me to stand, but I know best.’
Bartholomew frowned his bemusement. ‘They encouraged you?’
‘Yes, after Donwich put his name forward. Some scholars are uneasy with the University’s recent rapid expansion, you see, and will vote for Donwich, because he has promised to put an end to it. But not everyone likes Donwich, so Ufford and Rawby said I should offer an alternative, as I would like to prevent unseemly progress, too.’
All became clear: Dodenho’s candidacy would ensure the anti-Michael faction was divided. Dodenho might be a fool, but he was a congenial one, and there would be many traditionalists who would baulk at voting for the unlikeable Donwich. Bartholomew changed the subject, unwilling for Dodenho to learn from him that he was being used.
‘Where was I during compline last night?’ said Dodenho, repeating the question to make sure he had understood it correctly. ‘In our refectory, working on my election speech.’
‘Can anyone confirm it?’
Dodenho wagged an admonitory finger. ‘I know what you are doing, Matthew – you aim to gauge its quality and report back to Michael. Well, for your information, it is perfect. Ask anyone. The Fellows were with me from dusk until midnight, and the students from midnight until we went to church this morning.’
‘So you had company from sunset onwards?’ pressed Bartholomew.
Dodenho preened. ‘Yes, because they all love my orations. They did ask me to keep my voice down a few times, but that was because they wanted me to save something new for them to enjoy today. But I must get back to it, if you will excuse me.’
Bartholomew bowed and left, and the students and Fellows he met on his way back to the porter’s lodge confirmed that Dodenho had indeed spent the entire night in the refectory. And, as none of them wanted him to be Chancellor, he had no supporters to shove Aynton off the bridge on his behalf. With a sense of satisfaction – albeit a modest one, as Dodenho was never a serious contender – Bartholomew crossed him off the list.
He asked the porter if Brampton was there – a perk of being a proctor was Brampton being allowed to live where he pleased, and he elected to sleep in his handsome Bridge Street house, although he still took most of his meals in King’s Hall.
The porter nodded. ‘He arrived an hour ago, but before you see him, Warden Shropham begs a word.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is he ill?’
‘No,’ replied the porter. ‘I think he wants to talk about Huntyngdon.’
‘Good,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘So do I.’
Shropham’s quarters were large but modestly furnished, as befitted an ex-soldier who disliked ostentation. He was entertaining guests. One was Brampton, which pleased Bartholomew, as it meant he would not have to waste time searching the College for him afterwards. The other was a man whose clothes and bearing suggested high birth. Sure enough, Shropham introduced him as Guichard d’Angle, the Earl of Huntyngdon, father of the missing scholar.
‘Do you have news of him?’ the Earl asked eagerly, when Shropham introduced Bartholomew, rather misleadingly, as Michael’s deputy.
When the physician shook his head, d’Angle demanded to know what was being done to find his son, and as Bartholomew had no answers, he gestured to Brampton.
‘Perhaps the Junior Proctor can tell you, My Lord. It is his enquiry now.’
‘Senior Proctor,’ corrected Brampton smugly, and indicated the document that lay on the table in front of him. ‘That arrived a few moments ago. Michael has resigned, and his last act in office was to appoint me as his successor.’
‘This monk must be very confident of victory,’ mused the Earl.
‘Oh, he is,’ Shropham assured him. ‘And with good cause. He has our support, and all the hostels like him. He will make a fine Chancellor.’
‘Then let us hope my son is here to see it,’ said the Earl sombrely.
There was a short, respectful silence, then Bartholomew began to ask his questions.
‘Chancellor Aynton told me that he gave Huntyngdon a letter to deliver the evening he disappeared. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Huntyngdon did mention a mission of some delicacy,’ nodded Shropham. ‘Indeed, it is why he went to the Cardinal’s Cap that night. He would say no more about it, but delivering a missive for the Chancellor would certainly fit the bill. What did this letter entail?’
‘We do not know,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But it was intended for Narboro.’
‘For Narboro?’ echoed Shropham in astonishment. ‘I cannot see him being the recipient of anything vital. The man is an ass – a very vain ass.’
‘Even so, Aynton wrote to him, and Huntyngdon was charged to deliver it. Aynton thought it was important, because he spoke of it with his dying breath.’
Bartholomew decided not to mention Aynton’s fear that the business had killed Huntyngdon until he knew more about it, out of consideration for the young man’s father.
The Earl gave a faint smile. ‘I am not surprised Aynton chose my son to oblige him. William is discreet, reliable and conscientious.’
‘He is,’ agreed Shropham, ‘which is why I am so concerned about him vanishing without a word. It is out of character.’
‘What about Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Would you say the same about him?’
Shropham nodded. ‘He is another respectable, steady young man. He has no College or hostel affiliation yet, so he lodges in the Cap. I shall offer him a Fellowship here next term.’
‘Would you like to see my son’s room?’ asked the Earl, standing abruptly. ‘As Michael’s deputy, you will be well qualified to read a man’s true nature from his quarters.’
Ignoring the derisive snort from ‘Senior Proctor’ Brampton, Bartholomew followed him to a building that overlooked the river. Huntyngdon’s room was small, but clean and neat. The book-loaded shelves suggested a man who was serious about his studies, and a glance at the table told Bartholomew that its occupant was writing a treatise on civil law.
‘There was no letter from the Chancellor here,’ said Shropham helpfully. ‘We would have found it when we scoured the place for clues as to where he might have gone. That means he either delivered it as charged, or it is still on his person – wherever that may be. Did you ask Narboro if it arrived?’
‘I will do it this morning,’ promised Bartholomew.
‘Thank you,’ said the Earl, and his face crumpled. ‘William is very dear to me, so please do all you can to find out what has happened to him. I am not a fool – I realise there may be an unhappy ending to the matter – but the uncertainty is unbearable.’
Moved to compassion, Bartholomew found himself promising to do all he could, but once away, he wished he had held his tongue. He could not afford to take on work that would keep him from teaching, and Brampton was clearly irked with him for agreeing to meddle in matters that came under the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction.
‘You will inform me if you uncover anything pertinent,’ he said coldly, as he escorted Bartholomew to the gate. ‘No reporting to the Earl or Shropham first.’
The curtness of the order made Bartholomew determined to ignore it. ‘Congratulations on your appointment,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘You must be pleased.’
‘It is no more than I deserve,’ shrugged Brampton. ‘And I shall be Chancellor when Michael goes on to become an abbot or a bishop.’
‘Will you indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew, amazed that Brampton thought he could step into Michael’s enormous shoes. In an effort to avoid saying so, he turned the conversation to Aynton, asking if Brampton had considered the Chancellor a friend.
‘I did not,’ replied Brampton shortly. ‘I had no respect for the man, and he should never have accepted the post, because he was entirely unequal to it. I will be much better.’
‘So will Michael,’ said Bartholomew, to remind him that the position was not his quite yet. ‘Better than your friend Donwich.’
Brampton gave an unfathomable smile. ‘Donwich does have much to learn before he can run a university. Rather like Aynton did, in fact.’
‘Is that why you spied on Aynton?’ asked Bartholomew baldly. ‘I know you eavesdropped on a quarrel between him and Chaumbre.’
Brampton’s expression became even more difficult to read. ‘I did witness a spat, although I cannot see how it is relevant to Aynton’s death. They were arguing about the dye-pits – specifically the fact that Chaumbre cannot be bothered to fill them in. Have you seen my sister today, by the way? We were meant to meet for breakfast.’
Bartholomew was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, but had the presence of mind not to blurt that she had opted for a glover’s company instead. ‘Not recently,’ he hedged.
‘I imagine she is engrossed in some aspect of your wedding,’ sniffed Brampton, ‘which is much more important to her than a mere brother.’
‘Only because she is unlikely to have one of her own,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.
‘Thanks to Narboro,’ spat Brampton, his small face turning hard and cold. ‘I will destroy him for what he did to her, or rather, to me, as it was my honour he impugned.’
‘Are you sure it might not be wiser to overlook–’
‘I would sooner die than ignore what he did,’ snarled Brampton. ‘His rejection of her was a public slap in the face for my family’s honour, and I shall never forgive it.’
Bartholomew was disconcerted by his vehemence, which he thought was disproportionate to the offence. He changed the subject before the new Senior Proctor could begin a rant. ‘Will you visit Peterhouse to ask if Huntyngdon delivered the letter to Narboro? Or would you rather we did it together?’
‘I would rather you went alone,’ replied Brampton shortly. ‘I am needed at St Mary the Great to help with the election. Report back to me as soon as you have finished.’
Bartholomew inclined his head, but he was not at Brampton’s beck and call, and decided that if the new Senior Proctor wanted information, he could go to Peterhouse and find it himself.