Michael’s neighbour was a man named Geoffrey Dodenho, infamous for his unbridled bragging. Short, squat Dodenho was no more scholarly than Norton, although he considered himself a veritable genius and seldom hesitated to regale folk with his various theories, most of which were either untenable or poached from more able minds.
‘I gave an excellent lecture last week,’ he announced to the table at large. Several of his colleagues struggled to stifle sighs of irritation. ‘It was on the notion that the world was created by the self-diffusion of a point of light into a spherical form. It is complex, of course, but I have the kind of mind that can assay these matters.’
‘You concur with Grosseteste, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that Dodenho should lay claim to this particular theory. He was aware of smirks around the table, although it did not occur to him that his comment to Dodenho was the cause of them. ‘He first explained the Creation in terms of a diffusion of light into a specific form.’
‘Grosseteste did not pre-empt me,’ said Dodenho indignantly. Michael sniggered, while Paxtone looked uncomfortable, and Norton’s blank expression showed he had no idea what they were talking about – that Grosseteste might be a kind of cabbage for all he knew. ‘He proposed something entirely different. Where is Powys? I am hungry, and we cannot eat until he says grace.’
The Warden was walking slowly towards the dais. He was in earnest conversation with a young, fresh-faced man who sported half a faint moustache and whose boyishly wispy beard sprouted from odd and inconvenient places, bristles springing from under his chin rather than on it. Bartholomew supposed that, like many adolescents, he was so pleased to have grown any facial hair at all that he was loath to shave a single strand. The vague aura of femininity was enhanced by his long-lashed eyes and well-manicured fingernails.
‘Grosseteste talked about his particular notion in De luce,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to Dodenho. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Dodenho to take up the challenge in time-honoured academic fashion, but when he saw a reasoned answer was not to be forthcoming, he added, ‘We have a copy at Michaelhouse, if you would like to read it.’
‘I do not need to read it,’ cried Dodenho, offended. ‘The man’s logic will be inferior to mine in every way, and if it is the same, then he has copied from me.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has been dead for a hundred years.’
‘Well, he still cannot be compared to me,’ declared Dodenho uncompromisingly. ‘I am a scholar of great renown, and will be remembered longer than a mere century. My writings are-’
‘Good morning, Warden,’ interrupted Paxtone, as Powys and his companion approached. ‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew have agreed to join us for our humble refection this morning.’
This was not how Bartholomew thought the invitation had been inveigled, but was grateful to Paxtone for his gracious manners.
‘They are welcome. The good brother is looking particularly undernourished this morning, so we shall have to see what we can do to put some colour into his cheeks.’ Bartholomew gazed at Powys, trying to assess whether he was making a joke, while Michael inclined his head with quiet dignity. Then Powys indicated the young scholar at his side. ‘Have you met John Wormynghalle? He has been with us since the beginning of term, and we are glad to have him. He is an excellent philosopher and is also helping with the music curriculum.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone warmly. ‘Wormynghalle has already proved himself to be a valuable asset.’ He glanced at Dodenho and Norton, as though he would not have said the same about them.
‘Wormynghalle?’ asked Bartholomew. The name was familiar, but his sluggish mind refused to tell him why. Then it snapped into place. ‘There is another Wormynghalle in Cambridge at the moment.’
Wormynghalle nodded with a smile that revealed even but sadly stained teeth. ‘A tanner. I sought him out when I first heard about him, but we own no common ancestor, despite our shared name. He is from Oxford, while I hail from Buckinghamshire.’
‘You are fortunate,’ said Norton in distaste. ‘It would be dreadful for a decent man to learn he has relatives in the tannery business. Tanneries reek and so, invariably, do tanners.’
‘This one does not,’ replied Wormynghalle pleasantly. ‘But he said he is a burgess, so I imagine he no longer soils his own hands with skins. However, although I studied briefly in Oxford, I never came across him or his kin. He must be a relatively new member of the city’s government.’
‘I do not know him, either,’ said Dodenho, not liking a conversation that did not have him as its focus. ‘I spent last term at Merton College, but I never encountered any Wormynghalles. They must be inferior businessmen, or they would have been introduced to me.’
‘I may have run into him, now I think about it,’ said Norton, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘I stayed at Oxford Castle once, and I vaguely recall a common trader named Wormyngton or Wormeley or some such thing. But I was more interested in the hounds than in meeting local dignitaries.’
‘Why does that not surprise me?’ said Dodenho caustically. He turned to Michael and murmured, ‘Norton should never have been admitted to King’s Hall, given that he has not even attended a grammar school, but the King wanted him to “study” here – and no one refuses the King. Still, it does little for my reputation to belong to a College that appoints Fellows who can barely read.’
‘I doubt it makes much difference to a man like you,’ Michael whispered back, leaving Dodenho to ponder exactly what he meant.
‘My first love is philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle, his eyes shining at the mere mention of the subject. ‘But in my spare time I study music. When I was at Oxford I had the pleasure of visiting Balliol, where there are manuscripts ascribed to the theorist William Gray.’
‘I know all about Gray,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘I have been obliged to read him of late, in order to pass his wisdom to Clippesby’s students. His notions about plainsong and metrics are complex.’
‘But they are also logical when you think about them,’ said Wormynghalle. He flushed furiously when he realised he might have insulted Michael’s intelligence, and hastened to make amends. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to invite your lads to the lecture I intend to give on Gray next week?’
‘You most certainly may,’ said Michael, transparently relieved to share some of his responsibilities. ‘I shall attend, too, and perhaps then I will understand what the wretched fellow was getting at with his discant styles and reference pitches. But meanwhile . . .’ He rubbed his hands and gazed at the servants who were waiting to serve the meal.
‘Wormynghalle is doing well with our College choir,’ said Dodenho, before Powys could open his mouth to say grace. Michael grimaced. ‘Of course, he is not achieving as much as I did, when I was choral master, but that would be too much to ask.’
‘He has made vast improvements,’ said Powys, smiling encouragingly at Wormynghalle. ‘I know a good teacher when I see one. I spotted him when I was in Oxford, and I am afraid I resorted to poaching: I offered him a Fellowship. I am glad I did, especially now Hamecotes and Wolf are away.’
‘Richard de Hamecotes is my room-mate,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘We rent a large chamber, and I rattle around like a pea in a barrel without him. I hope he comes back soon.’
‘Speaking of peas,’ began Michael. ‘I-’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Dodenho. ‘Hamecotes is clean and tidy, but I share with Wolf, and he is a slut – clothes strewn across the floor, ink spots on the desks, parchment in untidy piles . . .’
‘A man with debts,’ said Norton disapprovingly. ‘You can never trust them not to run away without making good on what they owe.’
‘Wolf will pay,’ said Wormynghalle charitably. ‘His family were tardy in forwarding an inheritance, so he has doubtless gone to collect it in person. He lives in Suffolk, no great distance. I am sure he will return laden with gold soon, and prove his doubters wrong.’