Langelee occupied the best chair, not because he was Master, but because he was strong and better equipped to seize it in the customary post-prandial scramble for seats. The elderly Gilbertine friar Kenyngham perched next to him, staring into the flames as he recited a prayer, wholly oblivious to the desultory conversations that were taking place around him. On Langelee’s other side, the gloomy Carmelite Thomas Suttone was informing Wynewyk that the plague would return in the next year or so, and kill everyone it had missed the first time round. Wynewyk was pretending to be asleep.
Bartholomew and Michael sat at a table together. Bartholomew was sharpening the knives he used for the surgery of which his colleagues so disapproved, while Michael studied the message Master Colton of Gonville Hall had written to Chancellor Tynkell regarding the death of Bishop Bateman, looking for inner meanings that were not there. Meanwhile, the Dominican John Clippesby, who was Master of Music and Astronomy, watched the physician intently, like a cat waiting at the hole of a mouse. It was common knowledge, not only at Michaelhouse but throughout the town, that Clippesby was insane, largely because he held frequent and public conversations with animals and dead saints. His insanity did not usually induce bouts of unwavering scrutiny, however, and Bartholomew found it disconcerting. He tried to ignore him.
‘How will Gonville pay for their fine chapel with Bateman dead?’ asked the Franciscan Father William with spiteful satisfaction. He was the last of the Fellows, and occupied a comfortable wicker chair opposite Clippesby. He answered his own question gleefully. ‘They will not, and they will be left with a scrap of bare land and a few foundations for ever.’
William had once been Michael’s Junior Proctor, but had performed his duties with such enthusiasm and vigour that even peaceful and law-abiding scholars were not safe from fines and imprisonment. Everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been ‘promoted’ to Keeper of the University Chest. However, while most scholars were relieved to see him occupying what they considered a harmless post, Bartholomew was concerned. It was William who had revived interest in the dubious Hand of Valence Marie, using his new authority to rescue the so-called relic from the depths of the Chest and bring it back to the public’s attention by putting it on display.
‘Gonville’s chapel will be a very grand building,’ said Wynewyk, interrupting Suttone’s tirade about the plague. ‘It will have similar dimensions to one I saw in Albi, in southern France.’
‘Pride is a terrible sin,’ proclaimed Suttone in his sepulchral voice. ‘It was pride that drove the scholars of Gonville to build themselves a chapel, and God is showing them the error of their ways by taking away the man who might have paid for it.’
‘I do not follow your logic,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from his knives. ‘Are you saying God does not approve of chapels being built? If that is the case we should raze St Michael’s to the ground, and conduct our offices in the graveyard instead.’
Suttone glared at him. ‘That is different. Michaelhouse men are not hedgerow priests!’
‘Neither are the scholars of Gonville. They are only doing what our founder did for us thirty years ago. What is wrong with a College wanting its own chapel? Would you like to be in a position where you had to vie for space with half a dozen other institutions in St Mary the Great?’
‘Gonville’s building is sinful,’ persisted Suttone staunchly. ‘And it is pride and false humility that will have the Death yapping at our heels again. You mark my words.’
‘It is a pity Warde declared Gonville the winner of the Disputatio yesterday,’ said Kenyngham, aiming to prevent a squabble. He abhorred discord and was always trying to keep the peace in his College – which was no mean feat when there were belligerent and opinionated men like William, Suttone and Langelee to contend with, to say nothing of the lunatic Clippesby. Bartholomew glanced up from his whetting and saw the Master of Music and Astronomy still staring at him. He went back to ignoring him, hoping the Dominican would soon fix his manic gaze on something else.
‘We were shamefully wronged by Warde,’ said William angrily. ‘Even the most stupid of mediators must have seen that we had superior arguments and that we debated with better skill.’
‘Warde is from Valence Marie, so what do you expect?’ said Suttone glumly. ‘I imagine Gonville bribed him to grant them the victory.’
‘They did not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing at the notion that Gonville would stoop to such a low trick – and that Warde would accept the offer. ‘It was a perfectly fair contest, and Warde was right: Gonville did outperform us yesterday.’
‘Gonville won because the Question was about law,’ grumbled William. ‘It was an unfair choice on Tynkell’s part, because all Gonville’s scholars, with the exception of Rougham, are lawyers.’
‘Gonville played us very fairly,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They used Rougham as one of their disputants – and he is not a lawyer, as you pointed out. They could have supplied three lawyers, not two and a physician. What is wrong, Clippesby?’ He was unable to stand the unblinking gaze any longer. ‘You are making me nervous, and I do not want to slip and cut myself.’
‘I do not know why you possess knives,’ said Clippesby coldly. ‘You are supposed to be a physician, not a surgeon, so you should not need such implements. The rats by the river told me that you severed the bargeman’s leg on Wednesday night. It is not natural.’
‘The rats are right, Matt,’ said Langelee from the hearth. ‘You should not perform surgery. First, it is forbidden for those in holy orders to practise cautery, and second, Robin of Grantchester will accuse you of poaching his trade again. We do not want a dispute between you and him to spill over and become a fight between scholars and townsfolk.’
‘I am not bound by the edicts of the Lateran Councils,’ said Bartholomew, referring to a writ of 1284 that forbade clerics to practise surgery. ‘I am not a monk or a friar. And what would you have had me do? Wait for Robin to finish his ale at the King’s Head, while Isnard bled to death?’
‘Isnard would be dead for certain if Robin had got at him,’ agreed Wynewyk. ‘Matt saved his life, so leave him alone, Clippesby.’
‘Now there are four physicians in Cambridge, you should be more careful, Matt,’ advised Michael, not for the first time. ‘You have an odd reputation with your penchant for knives, and you will lose more customers to Paxtone and Rougham if you do not watch out.’
‘What are they like?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘As medical men? I have met them both, of course, and Paxtone seems a decent fellow, although I did not take to Rougham.’
‘Rougham is ambitious and aggressive,’ stated William in his uncompromising manner. ‘I do not like him.’ He folded his arms, as if he considered the discussion over now that he had had his say. This was one of the reasons why he was never allowed to represent Michaelhouse at debates.
‘Paxtone is a good physician,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But Rougham tends to dismiss any theories that are not written down in Latin or Greek.’
‘Does he slice his patients up with sharp knives?’ asked Langelee meaningfully.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, becoming tired of pointing out that his most important duty was to save or cure a patient, and if that involved surgery, then it was his moral obligation to offer that choice. The patient could always decline the treatment, if he did not want it.
‘Then neither should you,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not want you accused of witchcraft. It would be embarrassing for the College if you were put to death or exiled for unseemly practices.’
‘I will bear it in mind,’ muttered Bartholomew, sharpening his knives more vigorously and sorely tempted to practise a little surgery on some of his colleagues.