now I know how
to get under the skin of this arrogant man.
Wilson recovered his composure quickly. “I hope you
are not so poor a doctor as to confuse plague with
old age,’ he said, putting his elbows on the table and placing together flabby hands shiny with grease from
his dinner.
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Let us hope not, for all our
sakes,’ he replied. ‘And now, sirs, I bid you good-night,’
and with a small bow took his leave of the new Master.
If Wilson really did doubt his skills, Bartholomew hoped he would spend some restless nights wondering whether
he was as safe as he might be from the plague that was rumoured to be devastating the West Country.
He paused to ask Aelfrith if he would keep vigil over
Augustus. The friar looked straight ahead of him while Bartholomew imparted his news, and then rose and left
the hall without a word.
Bartholomew walked back past Brother Michael and
heard the monk follow him out into the cool night air.
‘Are you well, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked, trying
to sound casual.
‘Now, yes. I do not know what happened to me in
there. Something about the old man’s face. I am sorry
I left in a rush, but I thought I was going to be sick,’
Michael had looked sick in the room. Perhaps he had
over-eaten at the feast. It would not be the first time the monk had made himself ill with his greed for food and
wine. “I think some of the students will be sick in the morning, by the look of them now,’ said Bartholomew,
with a smile. “I am willing to wager that none of them attend your lecture at six tomorrow morning.’
‘And neither will I,’ replied Michael. ‘Our fine new
Master has given all Michaelhouse scholars and masters tomorrow off. Is this the way he intends to continue the academic tradition of Michaelhouse?’
‘Michael!’ laughed Bartholomew. ‘You are too incautious by far. Watch what you say, for shadows may have
sharp hearing.’
Brother Michael’s fat face suddenly became serious.
‘More than we think, Matt. Heed your own words!’
With that, he hurried over to the stairs that led up
to his room, leaving Bartholomew standing in the
courtyard alone.
Bartholomew rose with the first grey light of dawn the next morning to find that a small core of students were still enjoying Wilson’s wine; he could hear them singing in the hall. Many had not been in their beds for more
than two or three hours, Abigny among them. The
philosopher lay sprawled on his back snoring loudly
as Bartholomew went to find some breakfast.
As he walked across the courtyard, Bartholomew
breathed in deeply. The air was cold and fresh, quite
different from how it would be later when the hot sun
would make the flies swarm over the putrid ditches that criss-crossed Cambridge.
He walked slowly along the cobbled footpath that
ran around the courtyard, savouring the early morning, and admiring, as he often did, the fine building
that was the centre of Michaelhouse. The north
wing, in which Bartholomew lived, was the newest
part, and was two storeys of dark yellow stone with
slender arched windows. Regularly spaced along the
front were three doorways leading to barrel-vaulted
porches. Each porch contained doors leading to the
two rooms on the lower floor, and a wooden staircase
leading to two more rooms on the upper floor. The
rooms were small, cramped, and in short supply, and
Bartholomew felt himself fortunate that he shared his
room with Abigny, and not three students, as did Father William.
The oldest part of Michaelhouse was the south wing,
where the commoners, William, Swynford, and Aelfrith
lived, and was, Bartholomew thought, the finest building.
It was also built around three staircases and contained twelve rooms of different sizes on two floors, but the original simple arched windows had been recently replaced
by larger, wider ones that filled the scholars’ rooms with light. Delicate traceries in stone had been carved at each
to get under the skin of this arrogant man.
Wilson recovered his composure quickly. “I hope you
are not so poor a doctor as to confuse plague with
old age,’ he said, putting his elbows on the table and placing together flabby hands shiny with grease from
his dinner.
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Let us hope not, for all our
sakes,’ he replied. ‘And now, sirs, I bid you good-night,’
and with a small bow took his leave of the new Master.
If Wilson really did doubt his skills, Bartholomew hoped he would spend some restless nights wondering whether
he was as safe as he might be from the plague that was rumoured to be devastating the West Country.
He paused to ask Aelfrith if he would keep vigil over
Augustus. The friar looked straight ahead of him while Bartholomew imparted his news, and then rose and left
the hall without a word.
Bartholomew walked back past Brother Michael and
heard the monk follow him out into the cool night air.
‘Are you well, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked, trying
to sound casual.
‘Now, yes. I do not know what happened to me in
there. Something about the old man’s face. I am sorry
I left in a rush, but I thought I was going to be sick,’
Michael had looked sick in the room. Perhaps he had
over-eaten at the feast. It would not be the first time the monk had made himself ill with his greed for food and
wine. “I think some of the students will be sick in the morning, by the look of them now,’ said Bartholomew,
with a smile. “I am willing to wager that none of them attend your lecture at six tomorrow morning.’
‘And neither will I,’ replied Michael. ‘Our fine new
Master has given all Michaelhouse scholars and masters tomorrow off. Is this the way he intends to continue the academic tradition of Michaelhouse?’
‘Michael!’ laughed Bartholomew. ‘You are too incautious by far. Watch what you say, for shadows may have
sharp hearing.’
Brother Michael’s fat face suddenly became serious.
‘More than we think, Matt. Heed your own words!’
With that, he hurried over to the stairs that led up
to his room, leaving Bartholomew standing in the
courtyard alone.
Bartholomew rose with the first grey light of dawn the next morning to find that a small core of students were still enjoying Wilson’s wine; he could hear them singing in the hall. Many had not been in their beds for more
than two or three hours, Abigny among them. The
philosopher lay sprawled on his back snoring loudly
as Bartholomew went to find some breakfast.
As he walked across the courtyard, Bartholomew
breathed in deeply. The air was cold and fresh, quite
different from how it would be later when the hot sun
would make the flies swarm over the putrid ditches that criss-crossed Cambridge.
He walked slowly along the cobbled footpath that
ran around the courtyard, savouring the early morning, and admiring, as he often did, the fine building
that was the centre of Michaelhouse. The north
wing, in which Bartholomew lived, was the newest
part, and was two storeys of dark yellow stone with
slender arched windows. Regularly spaced along the
front were three doorways leading to barrel-vaulted
porches. Each porch contained doors leading to the
two rooms on the lower floor, and a wooden staircase
leading to two more rooms on the upper floor. The
rooms were small, cramped, and in short supply, and
Bartholomew felt himself fortunate that he shared his
room with Abigny, and not three students, as did Father William.
The oldest part of Michaelhouse was the south wing,
where the commoners, William, Swynford, and Aelfrith
lived, and was, Bartholomew thought, the finest building.
It was also built around three staircases and contained twelve rooms of different sizes on two floors, but the original simple arched windows had been recently replaced
by larger, wider ones that filled the scholars’ rooms with light. Delicate traceries in stone had been carved at each
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