charge of the guards. The sergeant waved cheerfully at Bartholomew, who had once set his broken leg, and then rearranged his face into a black scowl as he turned his attention back to the trader who was being refused admittance. Michael nodded approvingly as the sergeant sent the man packing: he did not like pardoners.
Once outside the gate, it grew quieter. The buildings gradually petered out to give way to narrow strips of fields tilled by the villagers who lived on the manor of Sir Roger de Panton. Opposite, water meadows rolled down to the River Cam, a peaceful swath of grass lined with trees, where people grazed their cattle – or did before it had become swamped and boggy from the rain.
Bartholomew stopped walking and looked up at the Hall of Valence Marie looming in front of him. ‘The last thing I feel like doing now is celebrating an installation.’
‘Me too,’ said Michael, pulling the hood of his black cloak further over his head against the chill. ‘I was looking forward to this, but giving last rites to a child has blunted my desire to enjoy myself.’
They stood in silence for a moment as they looked up at the powerful walls of the young College. It was a splendid building, comprising four ranges around a central courtyard, protected by powerful walls and a squat gatehouse tower. Founded only six years before, it enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, who ensured her College had the best architects and building materials money could buy.
‘So why did you decide not to accept the position of Master of Valence Marie when it was offered to you last year?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject from the poisoned wine but still making no move to enter. ‘You would have made them a fine Master.’
Michael looked sly. ‘I felt I was too young for such a position,’ he replied, bending down to brush at the mud on his habit.
‘Nonsense, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What was your real reason?’
Michael gave a short bark of laughter and slapped his friend on the back. ‘You know me too well. Perhaps far too well for a man destined for great things.’
‘I assume you mean you, not me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling an absent greeting to one of his patients, who waved before disappearing down one of the alleyways that led to the huddle of shacks near the King’s Mill.
Michael drew himself up to his full height. He had grown fatter during the last few months, despite his endless complaints about the paucity and poor quality of food since the plague, and his bulk and height made him a formidable size. ‘I spoke at length with my Lord the Bishop about that,’ he said, referring to Thomas de Lisle, the churchman who had jurisdiction over the See of Ely and the University of Cambridge within it. ‘He intimated my career would be better served by my remaining Senior Proctor.’
‘And how might chasing errant students in taverns in the dead of night help your career, rather than being Master of a new and wealthy College?’ asked Bartholomew with raised eyebrows. He was being unfair, he knew. There was more to Michael’s duties than policing the undergraduates, although keeping the rowdy, undisciplined students out of fights with the townspeople was vital to the smooth running of the town. Michael had amassed considerable power as the University’s Senior Proctor, and recently had started to undertake duties usually performed by the Chancellor himself – much to the offended disapproval of the Vice-Chancellor, who considered such duties should have been delegated to him.
‘I will be of more use to the Bishop while my attentions are not divided between his interests and those of a College,’ said Michael, favouring Bartholomew with a superior look. ‘He promised to look to my advancement when the time is right.’
‘And you trust him?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously. Bartholomew’s own experiences with the Bishop had taught him that although the Bishop was the spiritual leader of a large part of East Anglia, he had not attained his exalted position by being pleasant, honest and reliable. Bartholomew would not have trusted any promise made by the Bishop any more than he would one made by the Chancellor.
‘I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He needs me every bit as much as I need him. Since the Death, when he lost half his monks, he has been desperately short of intelligent, able men he can trust with his business. He cannot afford to lose someone like me.’
‘Modestly put, Brother,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘Has he promised to make you Chancellor one day? Or is it his own position you crave?’
‘Either would do nicely, Matt,’ said Michael comfortably. He looked again at the clean yellow-white stone of Valence Marie. ‘This is a fine building,’ he said, almost wistfully.
Bartholomew agreed. ‘I heard that the election of Thomas Bingham as its new Master – after you declined the honour – was hotly contested,’ he said. ‘It all but tore the College in half.’
Michael’s eyes glittered as he recalled the intrigues and rumours that had abounded during the race to elect Valence Marie’s new Master. The previous incumbent had been sent to York in disgrace after some unsavoury business involving a fraudulent relic the previous year, and his unexpected departure – as much a shock to him as to his College – had thrown the Fellowship into disarray.
‘I heard that considerable sums of money changed hands before Bingham finally secured the majority of votes,’ said Michael somewhat gleefully. ‘Rumour has it that James Grene, his rival, is bitterly resentful.’
‘It will not be easy for Bingham to rule Valence Marie if it is so divided,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether such a feat would be even remotely possible given the plotting and intrigues that festered and bubbled, even when a College or hostel was in a state of relative harmony, let alone when there was a serious division among members.
‘Quite,’ said Michael smugly. ‘Another reason for declining the Chancellor’s generous offer to have Valence Marie handed to me on a plate – neither Grene nor Bingham would have allowed me to run the College without fighting me at every turn, because they would have deeply resented my appointment. And on top of their ambitions, Valence Marie remains in turmoil over the bones Thorpe found last year. Some of the Fellows still think that the hand he dredged from the King’s Ditch was that of a saint.’
‘Thorpe is in no position to benefit from their loyalty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of how the aloof Master had been transferred to a post at an obscure grammar school to punish him for his foolish belief in the bones’ authenticity. The new post had been ‘offered’ by the King himself, leaving Thorpe no choice but to pack up his belongings and go.
They stood for a moment longer, thinking about Thorpe and his relic, and then entered Valence Marie through its handsome front gate – Bartholomew with reluctance, Michael with a growing enthusiasm, fired by the discussion of the uncertain, insalubrious world of University politics.
The physician had just handed his soggy cloak and the three bottles of poisoned wine – he could hardly take them with him to the festivities in the hall and then the church, and there was no time to take them to Michaelhouse first – to a curious porter, when a messenger arrived, leaning breathlessly against the doorjamb. He was one of a family of tinkers who lived near the river and whose family Bartholomew had recently treated for winter fever. The tinker’s sharp eyes darted everywhere, taking in the elegant tapestries that hung on the walls in the entrance hall and the highly polished brass handles on the doors. Bartholomew wondered if he were sizing it up for a future burglary. Apparently, the porter thought the same, for he bundled the tinker out of the door and demanded to know his business.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the tinker, ignoring the porter and addressing the physician. ‘You are needed urgently at Master Constantine Mortimer’s house. He has been struck down with pains in the stomach and asks that you attend him immediately.’
‘But he is not my patient,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is in the care of Father Philius. Do you know Philius? He is Master of Medicine at Gonville Hall. You need to contact him, not me.’
‘You are far too honest,’ said Michael reprovingly. ‘Go to Mortimer, man! He is one of the wealthiest merchants in the town and a burgess, too. He will pay you handsomely for making you miss the installation. To the Devil with Philius!’
‘I know Philius,’ said the tinker. ‘But he is unwell himself, and Mistress Mortimer told me to fetch you instead. You had better hurry, because she told me she thought he might be dying.’
‘It seems you are destined not to see Master Bingham take his oath of allegiance to Valence Marie, Matt,’ said Michael, trying to rub away the spatters of mud that clung around the hem of his fine new habit. He straightened and gave Bartholomew a wink, leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially. ‘You can always just come for the food later. That will be the best part anyway. I have been told there will be roast boar!’
Bartholomew did not much mind the summons that took him from the tedious Latin investiture ceremony to
