Everyone except William glared at Bartholomew, who spread his hands helplessly. His colleagues were not the only ones who had been landed with additional duties; Bartholomew himself had been given the responsibility of looking after Clippesby’s astronomers, and fitting them into his already crowded schedule was far from easy. ‘I am sorry but, as his physician, I am under an obligation to do what is best for him. He is ill, and he needs to be somewhere he can recover.’
‘We are better off without him,’ declared William airily. He alone of the Michaelhouse Fellows had escaped the burden of extra teaching, because his fanatical hatred of Black Friars was certain to cause offence to Clippesby’s Dominican students. ‘And we should throw away the key to his cell. The man is mad, and he is where he belongs.’
‘I suppose we are lucky Brother Paul agreed to take him in,’ said Langelee, finishing his meal and wiping his lips on the back of his hand. Michael ate faster, seeing the final grace was not far off and there was still plenty to be devoured. ‘Most hospitals refuse to accept madmen, because they can be disruptive, and we can hardly treat him here.’
‘No,’ agreed William. ‘The man truly believes he can commune with the beasts, you know.’
‘He communes with them a good deal better than he does with his students,’ said Michael, cheeks bulging. ‘His musicians have not read half the texts they should have learned this term, while Matt says his astronomers are sadly deficient in even the most basic methods of calculation.’
‘That is irrelevant,’ said Langelee, not a man to be fussy about the academic standards of others when his own were so sadly lacking. ‘I just want him back. It is not just the teaching – he is also wine steward and manages our loan chests. I have enough to do, without adding his work to my burden. When can we expect him home, Bartholomew?’
‘When he is well again.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that Clippesby might never recover.
‘He is not the only one enjoying a life of leisure while the rest of us toil,’ said Suttone, sanctimoniously disapproving. ‘Two King’s Hall masters left Cambridge in the last few days, too – right in the middle of term, and when us teachers are at our most busy.’
‘Richard de Hamecotes and Robert de Wolf,’ said Michael immediately, to show that the Senior Proctor knew all about unofficial leaves of absence. ‘Hamecotes left a note to say he was going away on King’s Hall business, but Wolf simply vanished. They will both face heavy fines when they reappear.’
‘That is what comes of accepting Fellows who are deficient in Latin,’ said William, blithely unaware that most of his colleagues considered his own grasp of the language somewhat below par, too. ‘Hamecotes and Wolf are men with heavy purses, who think a few months at our University will advance their careers at Court. The Warden of King’s Hall takes anyone who can pay these days, and cares nothing that his scholars do not understand a word of the lectures they are obliged to attend.’
‘They are not alone in wandering off without the requisite permission,’ Suttone went on. ‘Doctor Rougham – that surly physician from Gonville Hall – has gone home to Norfolk, and sent a letter informing his colleagues that he would return “when he could”. All I can say is that I am glad such presumptuous behaviour is not permitted here, at Michaelhouse.’
‘Rougham is a terrible medicus,’ announced Langelee in the dogmatic tone of voice that suggested disagreement was pointless. ‘I would not want him anywhere near me, should Bartholomew be unavailable. I would sooner die.’
‘You probably would die, if Rougham touched you,’ said Suttone cattily.
‘Clippesby’s sin must be very great,’ said William, reverting to a topic that held more interest for him. ‘Madness is caused by an imbalance of the humours and, in Clippesby’s case, this imbalance is a direct result of an unnatural enthralment with all seven of the deadly sins. It is the only explanation.’
‘Is it indeed?’ said Bartholomew, wishing William would keep his bigoted ideas to himself. The students were listening, and he did not want them to think badly of a man who was simply ill.
‘Reason is the thing that ties us to God,’ William went on. ‘And all lunatics have wilfully alienated themselves from Him by purposely destroying their powers of reason with wickedness. A soul weakened by sin is easy prey for the Devil. Ergo, Clippesby is the Devil’s agent.’
‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly, unwilling to allow such a statement to pass unchallenged, even though he knew from experience that there was no changing William’s mind once it was set: it was as inflexible and unyielding as baked clay. ‘His humours are in temporary disorder, but they are being restored by diet and rest. He is not the Devil’s agent. On the contrary, he is a kinder, better man than many I know.’ He was tempted to add that these included William.
‘We all croon to the College cat when it comes to sit in our laps,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘But Clippesby claims it talks back, and that is what makes him so different from the rest of us. However, insanity is a small price to pay for the work he does, and I am prepared to overlook it. I want him back, Bartholomew, preferably before the Visitation next week.’
‘I am looking forward to Archbishop Islip’s visit,’ said William keenly. ‘He will want to come to Michaelhouse – the best of all the Cambridge colleges – and he will certainly insist on meeting me.’
‘God forbid!’ muttered Langelee, standing to say the final grace. ‘If he thinks all Michaelhouse men are like you, then we will never persuade him to become one of our benefactors.’
Summer had definitely arrived, Bartholomew realised, as he walked along the High Street with Michael. He had been so preoccupied over the past ten days – not only with Matilde, but with the additional teaching made necessary by Clippesby’s illness – that he had not noticed the trees were fully clothed in thick, green leaves, that flowers provided vibrant bursts of colour in unexpected places, and that the sun shone benignly in a clear blue sky. It was warm, too, and many of the casual labourers, who had been hired to make the town beautiful for the Visitation, had dispensed with tunics and presented pale, winter-white skin for the sun to touch as they enjoyed their day of rest.
As they passed the Jewry, Bartholomew stole a furtive glance along Matilde’s lane. Her door was closed, and he hoped she was managing to catch up on some of the sleep she had missed the previous night. He smothered a yawn, and wished he could do the same. Neither the glance nor the yawn escaped the attention of the observant Michael.
‘It will not be long before the whole town knows. I thought you liked life at Michaelhouse, but if you are caught defying the University’s prohibition against women you will lose your Fellowship and your students. You will be reduced to practising medicine in the town and nothing else.’
‘That would not be so bad,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about the mountain of academic work that loomed ahead of him until term ended. His third-year students had not finished Galen’s De criticis diebus, while he was still dissatisfied with the lectures his postgraduates intended to deliver on Hippocrates’ Liber aphorismorum for their inceptions. The Regent Master who would examine them was his arch-rival Doctor Rougham, who would not grant them their degrees unless they were perfect.
‘You would starve,’ said Michael brutally. ‘Your Fellowship provides you with a roof over your head, regular meals and funds to squander at the apothecary’s shop. Most of your patients are too poor to pay for their own medicines, and without Michaelhouse you would not be able to help them. So, think of them as you brazenly stride away each night to frolic with Matilde.’