‘Then I am afraid he must bear it as well as he can,’ said Michael, unmoved, ‘because you are needed here. Now, remember – seat all the Dominicans at the back, where they cannot hit the speaker, and separate the Franciscans from the Carmelites. Keep your wits about you at all times, and be ready to intervene if the situation looks set to turn violent.’
‘You think a lecture on theology will end in fisticuffs?’ gulped Theophilis, alarmed.
‘Only a man who has never heard William sounding off would ask that question,’ muttered Michael as he walked away.
Although it was May, the weather was unseasonably warm. Unusually, there had been no snow or frost after January, and the first signs of spring had started to appear before February was out. By April, the countryside had exploded into leaf. Farmers boasted that they were more than a month ahead of schedule, and predicted bumper harvests. It was so mild that even the short walk from the College was enough to work up a sweat, and Michael mopped his face with the piece of silk that he kept for the purpose.
Cambridge was attractive if one did not look too closely. It boasted more than a dozen churches, each a jewel in its own right, and a wealth of priories, as most of the main religious Orders were represented – Franciscans, Dominicans, Carmelites, Austins and Gilbertines. And then there were the eight Colleges, ranging from the palatial fortress that was King’s Hall to little Peterhouse, the oldest and most picturesque.
There were also two hospitals. One was St John’s, a venerable establishment that accommodated some of the town’s elderly infirm. The other was a new foundation on the Trumpington road named the Hospital of St Anthony and St Eloy, although everyone usually just called it ‘the Spital’. It was to have housed lepers, but incidence of that particular disease had declined over the last century, so it had opened its doors to lunatics instead.
The High Street was pretty in the early summer sunlight, the plasterwork on its houses glowing gold, pink, blue and cream. There was a busy clatter as carts rattled to and from the market square, interspersed with the cries of vendors hawking their wares. Above it all rose the clang of bells, from the rich bass of St Mary the Great to the tinny jangle of St Botolph, calling the faithful to prayer.
Despite the beauty, Bartholomew sensed a darkly menacing atmosphere. So far, the heightened tension between town and University had been confined to words and the occasional scuffle, although everyone knew it would not be long before there was a full-scale brawl. The College that bore the brunt of the town’s hostility was King’s Hall – massive, ostentatiously wealthy, and home to the sons of nobles or those destined to be courtiers or royal clerks. By contrast, Michaelhouse was popular because Bartholomew treated the town’s poor free of charge, while Michael ran the choir, a group of supremely untalented individuals who came for the free bread and ale after practices.
‘I hope there will be no trouble while the nuns are here,’ the monk said, watching a group of apprentices make obscene gestures at two Gonville Hall men, who had rashly elected to don tunics that were currently fashionable in France. ‘I hope to secure a couple of abbesses as benefactors, so I shall be vexed if they witness any unseemly behaviour.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘What nuns?’
Michael shot him a weary glance. ‘The ones who are here for the conloquium. Do not pretend to be ignorant, because I have spoken of little else since the Bishop’s letter came.’
‘Our Bishop?’ asked Bartholomew, vaguely recalling that a missive had arrived, although it had been some weeks back, so he thought he could be forgiven for having forgotten. Moreover, Michael had been the prelate’s emissary for years, keeping him informed of what was happening in the University, and the Bishop was always writing to thank him. As a result, letters bearing the episcopal seal were nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Of course our Bishop,’ said Michael crossly. ‘Surely you cannot think I would arrange such an event for another one?’
Gradually, Bartholomew remembered what Michael had told him about the conloquium. It was a once-in-a-decade event, when leading Benedictine nuns gathered for lectures, discussions and religious instruction. He recalled being surprised that Michael had agreed to let it happen in Cambridge, given that he had his hands so full already. He said as much again.
‘I did it because the Bishop is on the verge of recommending me to the Pope as his successor,’ explained Michael. ‘I cannot afford to lose his goodwill by refusing to let a few nuns get together, not after all my dedicated grovelling these last ten years.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, amused by the naked ambition. ‘But if I recall aright, the conloquium was supposed to be in Lyminster Priory this time around.’
‘It was, but Lyminster is near the coast, and the King felt it would represent too great a temptation for French raiders. He is right: not only would there be rich pickings for looters, but high-ranking delegates could be kidnapped and held to ransom.’
‘Would the Dauphin risk such an assault? We have his father in the Tower of London – a father who will forfeit his head if the son attacks us again.’
‘You can never trust the French to see sense, Matt. Our King certainly does not, or he would not have issued the call to arms. Anyway, His Majesty wanted the conloquium held inland, so our Bishop recommended St Radegund’s. I agreed to organise everything, and the delegates began arriving a fortnight ago. It has gone well, and will end in just over a week.’
‘St Radegund’s,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Was there nowhere more suitable to hold it?’
He phrased the question carefully, because that particular foundation had been the subject of several episcopal visitations, after which even the worldly Bishop had declared himself shocked by what went on there. The present incumbent was irreproachable, but the convent’s reputation remained tarnished even so. Ergo, it was not a place he would have chosen for a gathering of the country’s female religious elite.
‘It has a large dormitory, a refectory big enough for everyone to eat together, and a huge chapel for their devotions. The Bishop was right to suggest it – it is the perfect venue.’
As the monk had elected not to understand his meaning, Bartholomew let the matter of the foundation’s dubious past drop. ‘How many nuns are here?’ he asked instead.
‘Two hundred or so – the heads of about fifty houses and their retinues. St Radegund’s cannot accommodate them all comfortably, so I put ten in the Gilbertines’ guesthouse and twenty in the Spital. The lunatics were not very pleased to learn they were to have company, but it could not be helped.’
‘You brought two hundred women here?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘In term time, when we have students in residence?’
He did not need to add more. Women were forbidden to scholars, but it was a stricture few were inclined to follow, especially the younger ones.
‘They are nuns, not ladies of the night,’ retorted Michael. ‘Besides, the delegates have a full schedule of interesting events, so are far too busy for romantic dalliances. The only ones you will see in town are those going to or from their lodgings with the Gilbertines or at the Spital.’
‘Yes, but some of these “interesting events” are open to outsiders – Theophilis was invited to a lecture. Moreover, it is unreasonable to expect these women to go home without seeing something of the town.’
‘Then I shall encourage them to leave promptly – hopefully before they witness anything unedifying, especially the ones I aim to make Michaelhouse benefactors.’
‘Good luck with that! Mischief is in the air, and has been ever since we heard about Winchelsea and the King ordered everyone to train to arms. Not to mention the murders of Paris the Plagiarist and now Bonet the spicer.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael unhappily. ‘There will be a battle sooner or later, despite my efforts to prevent one. All I hope is that these rich – and hopefully generous – nuns do not see it.’