‘Witchery! Heresy! Those boys are chanting curses. I heard them.’
With horror, Bartholomew saw Pechem was pointing at Stasy and Hawick.
Pandemonium ensued. Naturally, a church full of scholars, many of whom were friars, monks and priests, reacted with horror at the notion that someone might be committing diabolical acts under their noses. Instinctively, Michael surged forward to lay hold of the culprits, but then recalled that he was no longer Senior Proctor. Brampton only watched with detached interest, and it took a sharp word from Warden Shropham to remind him of his duty.
Stasy and Hawick were in the north aisle, crouching between a pillar and the two barrels of wine, hidden from all but the most observant of eyes. Bartholomew hurried forward, ready to explain that his students might be fools for invading a Regents-only gathering, but they were certainly not heretics, when he saw a pentangle sketched in charcoal on the floor. He faltered uncertainly.
‘They were about to a lay curse on our wine,’ shouted Prior Pechem, beside himself with righteous rage. ‘I heard them summon a dark power.’
‘No!’ cried Hawick, frightened. ‘We never did – we were just guarding it from the men of Corner Hostel, who aimed to steal some before the ceremony was over.’
The accused men clamoured vigorous denials, although one quickly hid a mallet behind his back – the kind used to remove bungs from casks – which was an unusual object to have brought to an election.
‘Then explain that,’ screeched Pechem, pointing at the five-fingered star. ‘It is not a symbol that has any place in church, and you put it there.’
‘We never did,’ countered Stasy, far less flustered than his crony. ‘It was there when we arrived. Someone else drew it.’
‘Liar!’ spat Pechem. ‘But if you refuse to acknowledge the symbol, then what about the words I heard you chant – your petition to the Devil?’
‘You misheard,’ shrugged Stasy, although Hawick continued to look terrified.
‘There is nothing wrong with my ears,’ snarled Pechem, ‘and you will be damned for all eternity for lying in a church – a sacred place, where God and His angels are watching.’
Stasy did not look as concerned by this threat as he should have done, and Bartholomew began to worry that his two students had indeed been up to no good, especially in light of the curse he himself had heard Stasy recite just the previous evening. He had a sudden awful feeling that Pechem was right to accuse them of witchery.
‘I am not lying,’ retorted Stasy insolently. ‘You are.’
There was a collective intake of breath, as Regents were unused to students answering back. Bartholomew looked for Brampton, whose duty it was to end the confrontation before it escalated any further, but the new Senior Proctor just stood with his arms folded and made no attempt to take control. Bartholomew experienced a surge of anger towards him. It was his fault that Stasy and Hawick were in the church at all – the proctors were supposed to prevent unwanted invasions, and he should have put beadles on the doors to act as guards.
‘These boys are from your College, Chancellor,’ said Donwich, so gloatingly that Bartholomew wondered if he had put them up to it. ‘So what will you do? Fine them? Refuse them their degrees? Burn them in the Market Square?’
Michael was in an impossible position. He could not downplay an accusation of heresy when proof of it was on the floor for all to see. Nor could he defer the matter to another day, as that would smack of indecision and weakness. There was really only one option open to him. He drew himself up to his full height.
‘Stasy and Hawick,’ he boomed, ‘you are hereby expelled from the University.’
Stasy gaped at him. ‘But you cannot! We are due to graduate Saturday week.’
‘You will not be permitted to do so,’ declared Michael. ‘And if you had already won degrees, I would have revoked them. By your disgraceful antics today, you have forfeited all you have worked for these last few years.’
‘No,’ gulped Hawick unsteadily. ‘Please, Brother! We were not really chanting spells – it was just a jape. We see now that it was in poor taste. We are sorry!’
‘I am sure you are, but the damage is done,’ said Michael. ‘Brampton? Escort them home, where they will pack their belongings and be gone from Michaelhouse by nightfall.’
Stasy opened his mouth to argue, but Hawick knew better than to prolong the situation. He scuttled after Brampton with his head bowed and tears flowing down his cheeks. By contrast, Stasy’s face flared red with rage as he stalked down the nave, roughly shouldering stunned Regents out of his way.
‘Lock your doors tonight, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Stasy means to have his revenge. I can see it in his eyes.’
‘Let him try,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘However, I am more concerned with this challenge of Donwich’s. He cannot really think the Archbishop’s representatives will find in his favour, can he?’
‘I believe he does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Being voted Master of Clare Hall has opened the floodgates of his ambition.’
‘What an idiot!’ muttered Michael. ‘It will not end well for him, but we must go through the motions of his appeal, I suppose. Listen to him now – bawling that I am unfit to lead the University because I am unduly harsh. If I had opted for a lesser punishment he would have accused me of laxity.’
‘You had better talk to him, Brother. He is so puffed up with his own rectitude that he will explode unless you find a way to release some of the hot air.’
Oblivious to or uncaring of his colleagues’ hostility, Donwich began to give an impassioned speech about Michael’s shortcomings. It was a serious misjudgement on his part – the Regents objected to being informed that the candidate they had chosen was unsuitable. They reacted with catcalls and jeers, and before the situation grew any more unedifying, Michael ordered everyone home. No wine was offered, lest it encouraged them to linger.
‘You cannot dismiss anyone,’ snarled Donwich furiously. ‘I still have a lot to say, and you have no authority over me – over any of us. I do not acknowledge you as Chancellor.’
‘Then I suggest we continue this discussion in my office,’ said Michael with quiet dignity. ‘Such screeching is hardly commensurate with our status.’
And with that, he turned and sailed away, leaving Donwich shaking with impotent rage. The monk led the way to the handsome room in the nave, which had been the Chancellor’s until he had decided to take it for himself, relegating the University’s titular head to a small chamber near the back door.
Unfortunately, a whole host of scholars wanted to see more of the confrontation between the man they had elected and his challenger, and once they had all crammed themselves inside, the office was even hotter and more crowded than the nave had been. Present were Donwich and his two henchmen; Ufford, Rawby and Shropham from King’s Hall; all the Fellows from Michaelhouse and the Hall of Valence Marie; and the heads of roughly fifteen hostels. Then Brampton arrived with two clerks.
‘An official record must be made of this gathering,’ he announced importantly, as the secretaries fought for sitting space at the table. ‘For the vicars-general to see.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But you are meant to be minding Stasy and Hawick.’
‘Cynric is doing it,’ explained Brampton. ‘He said he would be better at it than me.’
That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew, relieved that the pair would be under a more reliable eye than the inept new Senior Proctor’s.
‘I am sorry about Stasy and Hawick, Matt,’ whispered Michael, as Donwich began another rant. ‘It probably was just some asinine prank, but what else could I do? I cannot believe they were so stupid!’