As people pushed in their haste to be across the bridge, the crush intensified. A pair of tinkers with handcarts became jammed at the narrow entrance, and their irritable altercation was soon joined by others, who just wanted them to shut up and move on. Bartholomew watched the unfolding scene uneasily. The Great Bridge was not the most stable structure in the town, and collapses were not unknown. It was in desperate need of renovation, and he wished the burgesses would stop discussing how expensive it would be and just mend the thing.
‘We will be late,’ said Michael loudly, annoyed by the delay. ‘And Gonville Hall might start eating without us.’
‘The bridge should not be subjected to this level of strain,’ said Bartholomew. His attention was fixed on the central arch, which he was certain was bowing under the weight of a brewer’s dray and its heavy barrels of ale. ‘It is not strong enough.’
‘Rougham told me that the meal at Gonville today will cost a whole groat for each person,’ fretted Michael, thinking about what he stood to lose if they took much longer to cross. ‘He says there is a side of beef to be shared between just ten of us, not to mention roast duck, fat bacon and half a dozen chickens. And there will be Lombard slices to finish.’
‘Did you see that?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pointing in alarm. ‘A spar just dropped from the left-hand arch and fell into the water!’
‘One of the carts knocked it off,’ said Michael dismissively. He reconsidered uneasily. ‘However, if it is going to tumble down, I hope it does not do so until we are over. I do not want to walk all the way around to the Small Bridges in order to reach Gonville. There will be nothing left to eat by the time we get there.’
Bartholomew regarded his friend askance, amazed that the monk could think about his stomach when they might be about to witness a disaster. Michael had always been big – tall, as well as fat – but his girth had expanded considerably over the last five years. Satisfaction with his lot as Senior Proctor – he was, by virtue of his own machinations, one of the most powerful men in the University – had occasioned a good deal of contented feeding. This meant that the tassels on the girdle around his waist hung a good deal shorter than they should have done, owing to the ever-expanding circumference they were obliged to encompass.
Michael had been to some trouble with his appearance that day, in honour of the debate and the meal that was to follow. His dark Benedictine habit was immaculate, and he wore a silver cross around his neck, in place of the wooden one he usually favoured. His plump fingers were adorned with jewelled rings, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his perfectly round tonsure.
By contrast, Bartholomew’s black curls had recently been shorn to an uncompromising shortness by an overenthusiastic barber, so he looked like one of the many mercenaries – relics of the King’s endless wars with France – who plagued Cambridge in search of work. His clothes were patched and frayed, but of reasonable quality, thanks to the generosity of a doting older sister. His hands were clean, his fingernails trimmed, and frequent College feasts had not yet provided him with a paunch like the ones sported by so many of his colleagues. His profession as a physician saw to that, giving him plenty of exercise as he hurried around the town to visit patients.
‘Here we are,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm as their part of the crowd suddenly surged forward, much to the chagrin of people who were waiting on the other side. There were indignant yells and a considerable amount of vicious shoving that saw more than one bloodied nose. The monk thrust the toll-fee into the hand of a grubby soldier without breaking his stride.
‘Walk near the edge, Brother,’ advised the soldier, assessing the monk’s bulk with a critical eye. ‘You are less likely to drop through there, than in the middle.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking the unnatural rocking motion under his feet as they began their traverse. ‘We should have hired a boat.’
‘They are all engaged,’ replied Michael, nodding to where the rivermen were running a brisk trade below. Even boys with home-made skiffs were busy, ferrying small animals and light packs across the green, filthy water.
The Great Bridge was not very big, despite its grand name, and it did not take long to cross it, as they were forced to move quickly by the press from behind. Once on the other side, most people continued straight down Bridge Street, aiming for the Market Square, although some went to homes in the maze of alleys and streets that radiated out from the town’s main thoroughfares. Bartholomew glanced behind him, still half expecting to see the bridge crumble beneath the mass of humanity. He noticed some folk entering the nearby Church of St Clement, and wondered whether they were going to offer thanks for a safe crossing.
‘There is Thomas Mortimer again,’ he said, as the miller’s cart clattered towards them at a speed that was far from safe. He leapt back as it passed uncomfortably close before lurching towards the High Street. ‘It is not yet noon. I know the Lilypot is popular with men who love their ale, but even they tend not to be drunk this early.’
‘It is because the Mortimer family is so prosperous at the moment,’ said Michael, aiming for Gonville Hall with single-minded purpose. ‘Thomas owns the only fulling mill this side of Ely and his brother runs the town’s biggest bakery. They are making a fortune, and Thomas has good cause to celebrate. Still, their success will cause trouble eventually: the other burgesses will resent their riches and there will be all manner of jealous rivalries. I am just glad it is not I who will be called upon to sort them out. I have my hands full with the upcoming debate.’
‘The one on Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew, increasing his pace to keep up with him. The monk did not usually walk fast, but was evidently prepared to make an exception when good food was waiting. ‘When Michaelhouse will compete with Gonville Hall in the end-of-term debate – the Disputatio de quodlibet? Why should that take your time?’
‘Because any large gathering of scholars means trouble for a proctor, as you well know. Even a serious academic occasion, like the Disputatio, may give rise to rioting or just plain bad behaviour.’ Michael grinned, pushing his concerns aside for a moment as he considered another aspect of the occasion. ‘Michaelhouse has not been invited to take part in a quodlibetical debate of this magnitude since the Death, and defeating Gonville will give me a good deal of pleasure. They are excellent scholars, and I shall enjoy pitting my wits against equal minds.’
‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, ignoring the monk’s arrogant confidence. ‘Mortimer has just driven into Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie. He cannot control his cart in that state. You must say something before he kills someone, Brother – regardless of jurisdiction.’
‘It is my jurisdiction now a scholar is involved,’ declared Michael grimly, hurrying towards Mortimer’s horses, which had been startled by the sudden and unexpected presence of a scholar under their feet, and were rearing and bucking.
Bartholomew hauled Warde away from the flailing hoofs, while Michael snatched the reins from Mortimer’s inept hands and attempted to calm the horses.
‘Watch where you are going!’ Warde shouted furiously, fright making him uncharacteristically aggressive. He leaned close to the miller, taking in the bloodshot eyes and glazed expression, before pointing an accusing finger. ‘You are drunk!’
‘I am not,’ slurred Mortimer. All three scholars were treated to a waft of breath thick with the fruity scent of ale as he spoke. ‘I have only rinsed the dust from my throat. Ferrying bales of cloth from the quays to my fulling mill is thirsty work.’
Michael was unimpressed. ‘Then rinse it with weaker ale,’ he snapped. ‘You cannot careen all across the street as if you are the only man using it.’