Narboro went next, and made much of the noble and royal connections he had forged during his time at Court. He directed most of his remarks to a spot near the altar, and when Bartholomew eased around a pillar to see if he had singled out a friend, he saw a shiny brass plaque: Narboro preferred to address his own reflection than any of his learned colleagues.
When Narboro finished, Donwich strutted forward, and did not endear himself to his audience by starting with a snide remark about the stench of sweat and cheap wool. It was intended for his small but avid cluster of supporters, but the podium was in a part of the church that amplified sounds, so his words carried to others as well. A murmur of offended indignation rippled down the nave.
Eventually, it was Michael’s turn. He won instant approval by announcing that he saw no need to make everyone stand in a hot church on his account, because there was not a man among them who did not know him, and he would not insult them by listing his skills.
Once the speeches were over, every scholar was instructed to approach one of three tellers, and whisper the name of his preferred candidate. The tellers then recorded his choice in writing. Within moments, Michael had so many votes that the tellers ran out of space on their parchment, and more had to be fetched. It did not take long to assess the result: three-quarters of the ballot went to Michael, while the rest was divided more or less equally between Donwich and Dodenho. The only vote won by Narboro was his own.
‘Will you make a victory speech, Brother?’ asked Brampton. ‘It is your right.’
‘No, it is too hot,’ said Michael, much to everyone’s relief. ‘And everyone here knows that I will do my best.’
‘Congratulations, Brother,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, coming to grasp the monk’s hand. ‘Although I shall give you a run for your money next time. I shall try again, you know.’
‘Dodenho has a hide like old leather,’ whispered Gayton to his Peterhouse colleagues. ‘Anyone else would have been mortified – slunk home in shame. But not him!’
‘Look at Narboro,’ spat Stantone in disgust. ‘He is stunned by his defeat, because he cannot believe that everyone prefers a competent leader over one with a few friends at Court. What a fool he is!’
Brampton declared the ceremony closed, and everyone turned to leave, keen to be out in fresher air, but an imperious voice rang through the church, stopping them all in their tracks. It was Donwich, standing on the podium with one hand raised for attention. His henchmen, Gille and Elsham, stood on either side of him.
‘This election was illegal,’ he declared. ‘And I shall write to Canterbury today, ordering the Archbishop to launch an enquiry. Until we hear from him, Michael must stand down.’
There was a startled silence, which lasted until Michael chuckled good-naturedly. ‘Nice try, Donwich, but I am afraid there is nothing to contest. Everything was done according to the statutes. Ask any lawyer here.’
‘Clare Hall disagrees,’ shouted Gille, the shorter and more pugilistic of Donwich’s two minions. ‘So you must step aside until the Archbishop gives his official ruling. Until then, I declare Donwich to be Chancellor, as he had the next-largest number of votes.’
‘You will embarrass yourselves if you persist with this,’ warned Michael. ‘I know the statutes, and none were broken today.’
‘I challenge the result on two points of order,’ stated Donwich haughtily. ‘First, the election was arranged with unseemly haste, so your rivals had insufficient time to prepare. And second, it was rigged and that proves it.’
He pointed to two casks of wine, which were waiting to be carried outside and served to any Regent who wanted some. As Bartholomew looked at them, he spotted Stasy and Hawick nearby – students were not allowed to attend elections, so they had no right to be there. They scuttled out of sight when everyone began to turn in their direction.
‘What are you talking about, Donwich?’ demanded Stantone impatiently. ‘How can barrels of wine invalidate an election?’
‘Because he brought them in expectation of victory,’ snarled Donwich, jabbing an accusing finger at Michael. ‘It means the outcome was known before the vote was taken.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Michael, affronted, while Bartholomew recalled Clare Hall’s victory feast the night before, and wondered how Donwich thought that was different. ‘The wine is provided because it is hot and we are all wearing heavy robes. It is to be shared by us all, regardless of who won.’
‘It will not be shared today,’ declared Donwich, ‘because there has not been an official election – not if I contest it. If you refuse to step down, Brother, the University will have two Chancellors, because I am going nowhere.’
‘Michael is Chancellor as far as most of us are concerned,’ shouted Ufford of King’s Hall. ‘So if you refuse to withdraw, you will be known as the Anti-Chancellor. It is not a title any sane man would accept – it sounds sinister.’
‘It does,’ agreed his friend Rawby. ‘And if you persist with this nonsense, Ufford and I will ride to Ely, and tell the Bishop what you have done. He will not approve of you making trouble in the University.’
Donwich smirked triumphantly. ‘Bishop de Lisle is not in Ely – he is with the Pope in Avignon, trying to evade charges of murder, kidnapping, assault and theft. Our prelate is nothing but a common felon.’
‘And he is Michael’s close friend,’ put in Gille slyly. ‘It is common knowledge that the monk is his spy, and sends him reports on all our doings.’
‘Of course I send him reports,’ said Michael irritably. ‘He is our Bishop, regardless of what crimes he may or may not have committed. Ergo, there is a legal requirement for me to keep him informed. Read the statutes – they set it out quite clearly.’
‘Well, I care nothing for de Lisle’s opinion,’ said Donwich loftily. ‘I shall only accept one – that of the Archbishop of Canterbury.’
Michael’s smile was rather wolfish. ‘Then you are in luck, because his vicars-general are in Ely as we speak. They will hear your claim on his behalf.’
‘Rawby and I will ride there at once,’ declared Ufford. ‘We shall fetch these vicars, and they will be here tomorrow.’
Donwich’s face fell. ‘Tomorrow? But I was expecting a delay of several weeks to prepare my case and gather support. Besides, I want the Archbishop himself, not his lackeys.’
‘Vicars-general are not lackeys,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘They are men appointed by him to make rulings in his name. And even if they had not been nearby, he would have sent them to deal with your quibble anyway. It is the way these matters work.’
‘You would be wise to reconsider, Donwich,’ advised Gayton quietly. ‘You will make an ass of yourself if you persist. We do not want you – we want Michael.’
‘Besides, your challenge looks like sour grapes,’ put in Father Aidan. ‘And no one likes a bad loser.’
Donwich glared at them. ‘I will not give up my claim. There are grounds for appeal. Call me Anti-Chancellor if you will, but if you do, I shall remember it when the vicars-general find in my favour. Be warned, all of you.’
But before anyone could respond, there was an outraged screech from Prior Pechem of the Franciscans, a dour, unsmiling man with no sense of humour.