‘But you see no problem in representing them?’ asked Michael.
‘Not really,’ replied Pulham. ‘The Mortimers have been appealed by the Millers’ Society, and they need legal representation. That is the sum of our relationship with them: they are clients. We do not accept or decline folk on the basis of their moral standing; that is for God to decide.’
‘Damn it all!’ exclaimed Ufford, who had been gazing out of the window. ‘He is here. Who gave him a key?’
Bartholomew went to look, rashly handing his still-brimming goblet to Michael to hold. He saw Thorpe open the gate and saunter across the yard, whistling to himself. If the young man knew his new colleagues did not like him, he did not seem to care. He strutted confidently to the library door.
‘I did,’ said Rougham defensively. ‘He is entitled to one, because of the fees he pays. He is not here often anyway, so it does no harm. Make yourself scarce, if you want to avoid him.’
Ufford scowled, not liking the notion that he should be obliged to ‘make himself scarce’ because his colleagues had decided to house a ruffian. But he was in no condition to fight, and it was not long before he slunk out of a door at the back, clearly furious.
‘Thorpe,’ said Michael, as the man entered the library. He lifted Bartholomew’s cup in mock salute and downed its contents in a single swallow. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
Thorpe was not pleased to see Michael. He pulled a disagreeable face, then went to sit at the carrel he had been allocated, slouching against the wall and ignoring the philosophical text that lay open in front of him. He shuffled restlessly for a few moments, then abandoned his pretence at scholarship, and started for the door. Bartholomew wondered if he had come with the express purpose of baiting Ufford, since he had clearly not come to study.
‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, as he watched Thorpe return the book to its shelf. ‘Is that the sum of your learning for the day? You will not pass your disputations like that!’
‘My disputations are not until summer,’ replied Thorpe. ‘That is a long way in the future.’ The expression on his face indicated he felt a lot could happen before then, and that he thought it unlikely Michael would ever have the opportunity to savage him in the debating hall.
‘Why do you want to become a scholar?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Are you attracted to philosophy or the sciences? Or do you simply enjoy the company of erudite men, like me?’
‘No, I do not enjoy the company of men like you,’ replied Thorpe ambiguously.
‘Your father must be proud,’ probed Michael, knowing that mention of the kin who had disowned him would annoy Thorpe.
‘He has not said so,’ replied Thorpe stiffly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Where is our new altar cover?’ demanded Rougham, breaking into their discussion. ‘You have not shown us the cloth you intend to use yet, and it might not be suitable.’
‘In time,’ said Thorpe coolly. ‘There are more pressing matters to attend first.’
He left as abruptly as he came, leaving Bartholomew uneasy and unsettled. Thorpe had not enrolled at Gonville to study, so he obviously had something else in mind. The possibilities were many and all unpleasant.
‘I do not like that young man,’ said Pulham worriedly. ‘Brother Michael is right: we should tell him to leave. Everyone says he is dangerous, so why should we have him in our College?’
‘I do not like him, either,’ said Thompson the priest, speaking for the first time. ‘There is something about him I find distasteful. I do not judge others on rumour and speculation, so I base my assessment on my own interpretation of his character: he is not a good man, and he will bring us trouble we cannot afford. I recommend we repay his fees and ask him to go.’
‘We have already spent his fees on timber for the chapel,’ replied Rougham shortly, displeased to be outvoted on all sides. ‘He must remain until at least the summer. So, since we cannot undo what has been done, I suggest we abandon this tedious subject and discuss something more appropriate for learned men in a Cambridge College.’
‘Then you can tell me why you are convinced of the authenticity of the Hand of Valence Marie,’ suggested Michael. ‘I cannot understand how you, intelligent men, should believe that thing is real.’
‘I have already told you: we do not,’ said Pulham. ‘Only Rougham and Ufford are believers. Thompson, Deschalers and I see it for what it is: the illegally severed limb of Peterkin Starre.’
‘No one is saying it did not come from Peterkin,’ replied Rougham impatiently. ‘However, Father William – a devout Franciscan from your own College, Brother – says Peterkin was a saint.’
‘Does he?’ asked Pulham, aghast. ‘I thought he had more sense than to fabricate tales like that. Who knows where they will lead? You should stop him, Brother.’
‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Michael with grim determination.
‘The Hand is holy,’ persisted Rougham. ‘It effects miraculous healings.’
‘Name one,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Other than Ufford’s “leprosy”.’
‘There was an incident just today,’ flashed Rougham. ‘Una the whore petitioned for an end to the ache in her guts, and was rewarded by a cure that was virtually instant.’
‘I gave her medicine this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She must have felt better after taking it.’
‘An Arab potion, I presume,’ said Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘Well, I can tell you for a fact that that rubbish would not have worked. What was in it, anyway?’
‘Charcoal and chalk, which are hot and moist to counteract the cold dryness of black bile, mixed with poppy juice. It is not an Arab potion, but one known to English physicians for centuries.’
‘You gave her burned wood and stones?’ demanded Rougham in horror. ‘My God, man!’
‘They are ingredients recommended by Dioscorides,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Not to mention Galen and Hippocrates.’
‘Did you actually see her take your “remedy”?’ asked Rougham, not wanting to argue against the great Greeks, so changing the line of his attack. ‘Because, if you did not, then I imagine she took one look at it, and decided against pouring it in her innards.’
‘I left Redmeadow and Quenhyth to do that.’
‘Redmeadow!’ spat Rougham. ‘He is as loathsome a vermin as I have ever encountered. I would never have accepted such a student at Gonville!’
‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the man’s vehemence. Redmeadow did not usually induce a strong dislike in people.
‘He is inefficient and careless,’ snapped Rougham. ‘I gave him a penny to fetch me some catmint from Lavenham the apothecary. But he brought me calamint instead. Fool!’
‘They are both used for similar ailments,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Rougham was over-reacting. ‘A confusion between calamint and catmint is unlikely to prove overly disastrous. Bacon said that–’
‘Bacon!’ Rougham pounced with distaste. ‘A heretic!’
‘He was not a heretic,’ said Bartholomew. He reconsidered. ‘Although, I confess I am sceptical of his theories regarding the secretum secretorum – the fabled remedy for all ills, which is also alleged to restore youth to the aged. That seems a little fabulous to me.’
‘Really,’ said Rougham flatly. ‘You only mentioned that because you know it is the only aspect of Bacon’s work that I find remotely believable.’
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, who had known no such thing. ‘The notion of a secretum secretorum flies in the face of all reason! How could there be such a phenomenon? All empirical evidence indicates that it is nothing more than wishful fancy.’
‘Your contention does not surprise me, given that you also dismiss the holy power of relics,’ said Rougham icily. ‘But you came to discuss Bottisham, not the Hand.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. He took a deep breath, knowing the unpleasant part of the interview could be postponed no longer. ‘Were any of you aware that Bottisham and Deschalers knew each other?’