The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 4

Peterhouse was an ancient foundation located outside the Trumpington Gate. It harboured no ambitions to rival other Colleges in terms of size and wealth, and its Fellowship was small, although it still produced lawyers and theologians of outstanding quality. Bartholomew was conducted into its hall, which, as at Michaelhouse, doubled as lecture room and refectory. All the Fellows were seated at their high table, except the one he wanted to see.

‘Narboro never dines with us,’ said a quiet, intelligent priest named John Gayton. ‘So I assume he is in his quarters.’

Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, as attendance at meals tended to be obligatory in Colleges – communal dining was seen as a good way to forge bonds of scholarship and lasting loyalty. Gayton read his mind and gave a thin smile.

‘Eating together is compulsory, but we do not enforce the rule with him. To be frank, we prefer it when he is not here.’

‘You do not like him?’ fished Bartholomew.

‘Not particularly,’ replied Gayton. ‘Especially after his scandalous treatment of Lucy Brampton. Her brother would never have sued him if he had broken the marriage contract quietly and discreetly. Instead, he bellowed offensive remarks about his betrothed’s teeth. Of course Brampton leapt to defend her.’

‘She is better off without Narboro,’ declared a very old Fellow named Stantone. ‘He has nothing to commend him, other than perhaps a perfect coiffure. However, a contract is a contract, and I dislike men who break their word. They can never be trusted.’

‘No,’ agreed Gayton. ‘Which is why I shall vote for Michael today. Narboro may be a member of Peterhouse, but he will not make a very good Chancellor.’

So yet another College aimed to reject its own candidate, thought Bartholomew in astonishment, as a murmur of agreement rippled around the other Fellows.

‘Chancellor Aynton wrote Narboro a letter,’ he said, moving to another matter, ‘and he asked Huntyngdon to deliver it. I need to know if it arrived.’

The Fellows exchanged glances of mystification. ‘Why would Aynton write to Narboro?’ asked Gayton. ‘I cannot imagine they had much to say to each other.’

‘Unless Aynton wanted advice on hair care,’ put in Stantone acidly. ‘Narboro is good for nothing else.’

‘He must have some desirable qualities,’ said Bartholomew, feeling their dislike was painting a picture that was almost certainly unfair. ‘He was a royal clerk for ten years, and such posts are competitive. He would have been dismissed if he was inept or stupid.’

‘Perhaps he taught the Court popinjays how to nurture their tresses,’ sniffed Stantone. ‘Because I cannot believe what he told us: that he was the King’s favourite clerk.’

There was a rumble of agreement from the others.

‘What will he do now he has decided not to marry?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Stay here?’

‘He will not,’ declared Gayton fervently. ‘His Fellowship expires at the end of term and will not be renewed. We cannot recall what he was like ten years ago, but we deplore what he has become today.’

‘But to answer your original question,’ said Stantone, ‘we know nothing of any letter from Aynton, and Huntyngdon was never here, delivering messages or anything else.’

‘Has there been any news of him or Martyn?’ asked Gayton, and grimaced when Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Pity. I like Martyn in particular. He lectures here on occasion, and is very good.’

‘He is,’ agreed Stantone. ‘I had business in Bottisham this week, so I took the liberty of visiting his family on my way home. They have had no word of him either, and are at a loss as to where he might be. There is a rumour that he and Huntyngdon were killed by a drunken townsman, but I do not believe it. Neither were men for a brawl.’

‘I imagine you want to ask Narboro about this letter in person,’ said Gayton, heaving himself to his feet. ‘I shall take you to Hoo Hall, where he lives.’

Hoo Hall was located on the edge of a marshy area called Coe Fen, and could be reached in one of two ways: along a tiny causeway across the bog, which was only practical in very dry weather, or via a lane leading off the Trumpington road. Bartholomew would have chosen the lane, but Gayton elected to use the more direct route over the swamp. It was an unpleasant journey, as every step they took disturbed hordes of biting insects. There was not so much as a breath of wind, and the air was full of the reek of rotting vegetation.

‘Our students hate Hoo Hall,’ confided Gayton flapping furiously at the flies that swarmed around his head. ‘They spent one year there, and threatened to defect to another College unless we offered them alternative lodgings.’

‘What is wrong with it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It is wet and cold in winter, you can only reach it by boat when there is heavy rain, and you cannot sleep for the insects that invade during summer,’ explained Gayton. ‘Moreover, Morys’s mill is noisy and sometimes operates at night.’

‘But Narboro does not mind these problems?’

A sly expression crossed Gayton’s face. ‘It was the only place available when he returned here, demanding his rights and privileges as a Peterhouse Fellow. But it has one advantage – he has the place all to himself.’

‘It is a handsome building,’ said Bartholomew, admiring the tile roof and stone walls, and thinking that most scholars would give their eye-teeth to live in such a place, regardless of its defects.

‘Hoo was our very first Master,’ said Gayton. ‘Although I cannot see him being pleased to have a house in a bog named after him. It was originally a warehouse for goods arriving by river, but it became redundant when the dams were built to make the Mill Pond. We should have let it fall down, because it was a mistake to convert it into student housing.’

The notion of Narboro’s company was evidently too distasteful for Gayton, because he escorted Bartholomew to the door and left without another word. Bartholomew knocked, and when there was no reply, he walked in, thinking to search Narboro’s quarters on the quiet if the Fellow was out.

The house was simple, with a hall on the ground floor and a dormitory above. Because it had originally been used to store perishable goods, the hall was lower than the ground outside, like a cellar, and had no windows. As a result, it was dark, cool and musty.

It was nicely furnished, though, with long tables, polished benches, and shelves for books. As Narboro was not there, Bartholomew aimed for the upper floor, which was reached via a flight of stone steps built up the opposite wall. At the top of the stairs was a door. It was open, so he walked through it into a long room with large windows. It was beautifully light, but stiflingly hot, and he appreciated why the students had not liked it.

Narboro stood at one of the windows. He held a mirror in his hand, and turned his head this way and that as he checked his hair.

‘I am busy,’ he said curtly, his eyes not moving from his reflection.

‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I want to ask you about–’

‘Can it not wait?’ snapped Narboro. ‘I shall be elected Chancellor in an hour, and I am not happy with the lie of my fringe.’

‘It looks all right to me,’ said Bartholomew.

Narboro tore his gaze away from himself and studied the physician, whose black mop was damp with sweat and had not seen a comb in days.

‘You are not qualified to judge,’ he determined, returning to his primping. ‘And appearance is important, given that a Chancellor will mingle with kings, princes and bishops.’

Bartholomew turned to his questions, keen to leave the dormitory before he melted. ‘Chancellor Aynton sent you a letter, which was delivered by Huntyngdon. May I see it?’

Narboro frowned. ‘I received no letter from Aynton. Of course, it does not surprise me that he wrote. I am a favourite of the King, and many men clamour for my acquaintance.’

‘How well did you know Aynton?’

‘I met him once, when I informed him of the high standing that I enjoy with powerful members of Court. I could tell he was impressed. Then he asked for the name of my barber.’

Aynton had been a polite, friendly man, and Bartholomew suspected he had posed a question that he knew Narboro would enjoy answering – it had not sprung from a genuine desire for information. However, it did not sound as if the conversation had been one to warrant further correspondence in writing.

‘Did you know Huntyngdon?’

‘I exchanged words with him twice,’ replied Narboro crisply. ‘Both times to admire what he was wearing. He responded politely enough, but made it clear that he was more interested in philosophy than clothes.’

‘Then did you ever meet his friend Martyn?’

‘I saw him at the Cardinal’s Cap on occasion, but all he wanted to do was debate metaphysics, so we had nothing in common.’ Narboro lowered his voice. ‘He is like my Peterhouse colleagues, who prefer scholarship to sourcing a decent haircut. And forgive my impertinence, but you could do with paying some attention to your personal appearance yourself. Look in this – you will see what I mean.’

He handed Bartholomew his mirror. It was of surprising weight and quality, and when the physician examined it more closely, he saw a painting of a woman on the back, resplendent in a green hat with yellow feathers. The image was almost worn away – rubbed off, because its user preferred the reflection on the other side.

‘Lucy Brampton owns a hat like that,’ he mused, then wished he had held his tongue when he recalled how they were acquainted.

‘She gave me this when we first became betrothed,’ said Narboro, taking it back. ‘It was a thoughtful gift, and has been very useful.’

‘A “lovers’ mirror”,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I saw those in Venice. They represent unity – one face reflected and the other painted, but both on the same object. However, I think men usually give them to women, not the other way around.’

Narboro smiled. ‘Lucy knew how to please me. Unlike her brother. Have you heard that he aims to sue me?’

Bartholomew nodded, and tried to bring the conversation back to the letter. ‘Did you–’

‘Hopefully, he will drop his case when I am elected Chancellor. I pray he does, because I cannot pay the kind of money he wants for “causing offence to his family”.’ Narboro’s face turned ugly with contempt. ‘But the insult was to me. How dare he expect me to marry a woman I do not love – with rotten teeth into the bargain!’

‘The letter,’ said Bartholomew forcefully. ‘Are you sure you never received it?’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Narboro. ‘Now, do you want anything else from me? If not, I must set out for St Mary the Great, or I will be late.’

‘Aynton was murdered during compline last night,’ said Bartholomew, opting for bluntness when he saw the interview was about to be terminated. ‘Where were you then?’

Narboro regarded him in astonishment. ‘I hope you are not accusing me of killing him. I barely knew the man, so why would I do such a thing?’

‘Because someone did, and those aiming to fill his shoes are our prime suspects.’

Narboro eyed him coolly. ‘The news of his resignation was all over the University hours before compline, so you cannot say I killed him in order to take his place. But speaking of taking his place, are Dodenho, Michael and Donwich on your list, or do you confine your nasty insinuations to me alone?’

‘Michael was with a dozen monks, reciting his daily offices, while Dodenho has alibis in a large number of colleagues. How about you?’

‘I was here,’ replied Narboro, gesturing around the empty room. ‘Applying curling devices to my fringe in readiness for my victory at St Mary the Great today.’

‘Can anyone else verify this?’

Narboro smiled thinly. ‘No – you must take my word for it, as a man of honour.’

A man of honour who broke promises, thought Bartholomew, watching Narboro stalk towards the door, and wondering whatever had possessed the intelligent Lucy to accept him as a suitor in the first place. Or had he changed radically during his ten years away?

As he still had a little time before the election at noon, Bartholomew went to the Cardinal’s Cap, where Martyn had lodged and where the missing men had last been seen. It was a quiet, respectable inn, where senior scholars often went for intelligent conversation. It was popular among those with friends in rival foundations, who wanted to meet them in a place where they would not be glowered at by less liberal-minded colleagues.

Unfortunately, most of its regulars had already gone to St Mary the Great, and all the landlord could remember about the night in question was that Huntyngdon had tied a red sash around his waist before he left, which was odd enough to have stuck in his mind.

‘I have reviewed that evening again and again,’ he said unhappily, ‘but nothing unusual happened, other than the sash. I can only repeat what I told Brother Michael – that Martyn is the perfect lodger. He is clean, quiet and always pays on time.’

He showed Bartholomew the scholar’s room, a pleasant chamber at the back of the building. Bartholomew went through it carefully, but there was nothing to tell him what had happened to its occupant.

‘Was Aynton here that night?’ he asked, following the landlord back down the stairs.

‘The Chancellor? Yes, he spent a few moments talking to Huntyngdon and Martyn, and then he left. They went out a short time later – not so quickly as to suggest they were following him, but as soon as they had finished their drinks.’

‘Did you see him give them anything?’

‘No, but it was busy that night, and all my attention was on keeping my patrons supplied with ale. He might have done, but if he did, I did not notice.’

Bartholomew hurried home, and washed in water that was warm, faintly malodorous, and did nothing to refresh him. He donned a clean shirt, then struggled into the thick woollen robes that were obligatory attire for formal occasions like elections. Feeling he might expire in them, he trotted out into the yard, where he found Michael waiting for him. The monk set off at once, moving at a leisurely pace so as not to arrive looking like a beetroot.

‘Well, Matt?’ he asked. ‘Is Aynton’s killer safely behind bars?’

Bartholomew shot him an irritable glance. ‘I can report that Dodenho has alibis galore, so we can cross him off our list. He does not have any passionate supporters, so we can eliminate that avenue of enquiry, too.’

‘Fair enough. What else?’

‘Narboro was alone in Hoo Hall. I could not gain his measure at all, Brother. He cannot really be as vain as he makes out. If he were, Peterhouse would never have accepted him as a Fellow ten years ago.’

‘People change, Matt. I vaguely recall him back then, proposing to Lucy. However, I have no recollection of him being obsessed with his appearance.’

‘Are you ready for today?’ asked Bartholomew, as they turned into the High Street, and a group of scholars from Gonville Hall cheered when they saw him.

Michael smiled. ‘Of course. And now the hour has come, I am looking forward to being Chancellor in name, as well as doing all the work.’

St Mary the Great was Cambridge’s most prestigious church, and the only building in the town large enough to hold every Regent Master – scholars eligible to vote – at the same time. This was necessary whenever they met to make important decisions, or for ceremonies like the one at the end of the academic year, when successful students were formally awarded their degrees. No townsman had been surprised, a century before, when scholars at the fledgling University had informed them that they were taking it for themselves. Of course, that did not mean they were happy about it, and resentment had festered ever since.

Elections for Chancellor were significant events, and no Regent Master wanted to miss one, so the church was packed. Many surged forward to shake Michael’s hand or express their good wishes as he sailed through the door, making it abundantly clear who would win that day. Even so, there was an order of ceremony to follow: an opening prayer; a summary of the rules by the Senior Proctor, who then introduced each candidate; speeches by each hopeful; the vote; the formal announcement of the result; and the winner’s victory bray.

Michael had always run elections with such smooth efficiency that no one could remember them being any other way. Brampton’s performance that day made everyone realise that they had taken the monk for granted. First, he was so nervous that he forgot the prayer, which had to be slotted in after his stammering explanation of electoral procedure. Then he had a moment of panic when he could not remember Narboro’s name. And finally, he fled the podium before announcing which candidate was to speak first.

‘It is a pity he is not as good at proctoring as he is at suing his sister’s suitor,’ muttered Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall disparagingly. ‘No man will ever look at Lucy again, and she will end her days as a spinster in his house.’

‘Perhaps he wants a companion for when he is in his dotage,’ shrugged Father Aidan of Maud’s Hostel. ‘She is clever and amusing, so I can see why he wants to hang on to her.’

As Brampton had no idea how to decide the order in which the four candidates would address the gathering, he suggested they drew lots. It was hardly dignified, and resulted in disapproving mutters from those who were close enough to see what was happening. Dodenho’s straw was the shortest, so he went first.

His splendid voice filled the church, but he said nothing original or interesting, and as the church was stifling and the Regents were uncomfortable in their ceremonial robes, they grew increasingly restless as he boomed on. Eventually, they began to lob scrunched-up balls of parchment in the hope of making him stop. When someone exchanged parchment for a shoe, Warden Shropham hastened to drag him off the podium before he was hurt.

Narboro went next, and made much of the noble and royal connections he had forged during his time at Court. He directed most of his remarks to a spot near the altar, and when Bartholomew eased around a pillar to see if he had singled out a friend, he saw a shiny brass plaque: Narboro preferred to address his own reflection than any of his learned colleagues.

When Narboro finished, Donwich strutted forward, and did not endear himself to his audience by starting with a snide remark about the stench of sweat and cheap wool. It was intended for his small but avid cluster of supporters, but the podium was in a part of the church that amplified sounds, so his words carried to others as well. A murmur of offended indignation rippled down the nave.

Eventually, it was Michael’s turn. He won instant approval by announcing that he saw no need to make everyone stand in a hot church on his account, because there was not a man among them who did not know him, and he would not insult them by listing his skills.

Once the speeches were over, every scholar was instructed to approach one of three tellers, and whisper the name of his preferred candidate. The tellers then recorded his choice in writing. Within moments, Michael had so many votes that the tellers ran out of space on their parchment, and more had to be fetched. It did not take long to assess the result: three-quarters of the ballot went to Michael, while the rest was divided more or less equally between Donwich and Dodenho. The only vote won by Narboro was his own.

‘Will you make a victory speech, Brother?’ asked Brampton. ‘It is your right.’

‘No, it is too hot,’ said Michael, much to everyone’s relief. ‘And everyone here knows that I will do my best.’

‘Congratulations, Brother,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, coming to grasp the monk’s hand. ‘Although I shall give you a run for your money next time. I shall try again, you know.’

‘Dodenho has a hide like old leather,’ whispered Gayton to his Peterhouse colleagues. ‘Anyone else would have been mortified – slunk home in shame. But not him!’

‘Look at Narboro,’ spat Stantone in disgust. ‘He is stunned by his defeat, because he cannot believe that everyone prefers a competent leader over one with a few friends at Court. What a fool he is!’

Brampton declared the ceremony closed, and everyone turned to leave, keen to be out in fresher air, but an imperious voice rang through the church, stopping them all in their tracks. It was Donwich, standing on the podium with one hand raised for attention. His henchmen, Gille and Elsham, stood on either side of him.

‘This election was illegal,’ he declared. ‘And I shall write to Canterbury today, ordering the Archbishop to launch an enquiry. Until we hear from him, Michael must stand down.’

There was a startled silence, which lasted until Michael chuckled good-naturedly. ‘Nice try, Donwich, but I am afraid there is nothing to contest. Everything was done according to the statutes. Ask any lawyer here.’

‘Clare Hall disagrees,’ shouted Gille, the shorter and more pugilistic of Donwich’s two minions. ‘So you must step aside until the Archbishop gives his official ruling. Until then, I declare Donwich to be Chancellor, as he had the next-largest number of votes.’

‘You will embarrass yourselves if you persist with this,’ warned Michael. ‘I know the statutes, and none were broken today.’

‘I challenge the result on two points of order,’ stated Donwich haughtily. ‘First, the election was arranged with unseemly haste, so your rivals had insufficient time to prepare. And second, it was rigged and that proves it.’

He pointed to two casks of wine, which were waiting to be carried outside and served to any Regent who wanted some. As Bartholomew looked at them, he spotted Stasy and Hawick nearby – students were not allowed to attend elections, so they had no right to be there. They scuttled out of sight when everyone began to turn in their direction.

‘What are you talking about, Donwich?’ demanded Stantone impatiently. ‘How can barrels of wine invalidate an election?’

‘Because he brought them in expectation of victory,’ snarled Donwich, jabbing an accusing finger at Michael. ‘It means the outcome was known before the vote was taken.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Michael, affronted, while Bartholomew recalled Clare Hall’s victory feast the night before, and wondered how Donwich thought that was different. ‘The wine is provided because it is hot and we are all wearing heavy robes. It is to be shared by us all, regardless of who won.’

‘It will not be shared today,’ declared Donwich, ‘because there has not been an official election – not if I contest it. If you refuse to step down, Brother, the University will have two Chancellors, because I am going nowhere.’

‘Michael is Chancellor as far as most of us are concerned,’ shouted Ufford of King’s Hall. ‘So if you refuse to withdraw, you will be known as the Anti-Chancellor. It is not a title any sane man would accept – it sounds sinister.’

‘It does,’ agreed his friend Rawby. ‘And if you persist with this nonsense, Ufford and I will ride to Ely, and tell the Bishop what you have done. He will not approve of you making trouble in the University.’

Donwich smirked triumphantly. ‘Bishop de Lisle is not in Ely – he is with the Pope in Avignon, trying to evade charges of murder, kidnapping, assault and theft. Our prelate is nothing but a common felon.’

‘And he is Michael’s close friend,’ put in Gille slyly. ‘It is common knowledge that the monk is his spy, and sends him reports on all our doings.’

‘Of course I send him reports,’ said Michael irritably. ‘He is our Bishop, regardless of what crimes he may or may not have committed. Ergo, there is a legal requirement for me to keep him informed. Read the statutes – they set it out quite clearly.’

‘Well, I care nothing for de Lisle’s opinion,’ said Donwich loftily. ‘I shall only accept one – that of the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Michael’s smile was rather wolfish. ‘Then you are in luck, because his vicars-general are in Ely as we speak. They will hear your claim on his behalf.’

‘Rawby and I will ride there at once,’ declared Ufford. ‘We shall fetch these vicars, and they will be here tomorrow.’

Donwich’s face fell. ‘Tomorrow? But I was expecting a delay of several weeks to prepare my case and gather support. Besides, I want the Archbishop himself, not his lackeys.’

‘Vicars-general are not lackeys,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘They are men appointed by him to make rulings in his name. And even if they had not been nearby, he would have sent them to deal with your quibble anyway. It is the way these matters work.’

‘You would be wise to reconsider, Donwich,’ advised Gayton quietly. ‘You will make an ass of yourself if you persist. We do not want you – we want Michael.’

‘Besides, your challenge looks like sour grapes,’ put in Father Aidan. ‘And no one likes a bad loser.’

Donwich glared at them. ‘I will not give up my claim. There are grounds for appeal. Call me Anti-Chancellor if you will, but if you do, I shall remember it when the vicars-general find in my favour. Be warned, all of you.’

But before anyone could respond, there was an outraged screech from Prior Pechem of the Franciscans, a dour, unsmiling man with no sense of humour.

‘Witchery! Heresy! Those boys are chanting curses. I heard them.’

With horror, Bartholomew saw Pechem was pointing at Stasy and Hawick.

Pandemonium ensued. Naturally, a church full of scholars, many of whom were friars, monks and priests, reacted with horror at the notion that someone might be committing diabolical acts under their noses. Instinctively, Michael surged forward to lay hold of the culprits, but then recalled that he was no longer Senior Proctor. Brampton only watched with detached interest, and it took a sharp word from Warden Shropham to remind him of his duty.

Stasy and Hawick were in the north aisle, crouching between a pillar and the two barrels of wine, hidden from all but the most observant of eyes. Bartholomew hurried forward, ready to explain that his students might be fools for invading a Regents-only gathering, but they were certainly not heretics, when he saw a pentangle sketched in charcoal on the floor. He faltered uncertainly.

‘They were about to a lay curse on our wine,’ shouted Prior Pechem, beside himself with righteous rage. ‘I heard them summon a dark power.’

‘No!’ cried Hawick, frightened. ‘We never did – we were just guarding it from the men of Corner Hostel, who aimed to steal some before the ceremony was over.’

The accused men clamoured vigorous denials, although one quickly hid a mallet behind his back – the kind used to remove bungs from casks – which was an unusual object to have brought to an election.

‘Then explain that,’ screeched Pechem, pointing at the five-fingered star. ‘It is not a symbol that has any place in church, and you put it there.’

‘We never did,’ countered Stasy, far less flustered than his crony. ‘It was there when we arrived. Someone else drew it.’

‘Liar!’ spat Pechem. ‘But if you refuse to acknowledge the symbol, then what about the words I heard you chant – your petition to the Devil?’

‘You misheard,’ shrugged Stasy, although Hawick continued to look terrified.

‘There is nothing wrong with my ears,’ snarled Pechem, ‘and you will be damned for all eternity for lying in a church – a sacred place, where God and His angels are watching.’

Stasy did not look as concerned by this threat as he should have done, and Bartholomew began to worry that his two students had indeed been up to no good, especially in light of the curse he himself had heard Stasy recite just the previous evening. He had a sudden awful feeling that Pechem was right to accuse them of witchery.

‘I am not lying,’ retorted Stasy insolently. ‘You are.’

There was a collective intake of breath, as Regents were unused to students answering back. Bartholomew looked for Brampton, whose duty it was to end the confrontation before it escalated any further, but the new Senior Proctor just stood with his arms folded and made no attempt to take control. Bartholomew experienced a surge of anger towards him. It was his fault that Stasy and Hawick were in the church at all – the proctors were supposed to prevent unwanted invasions, and he should have put beadles on the doors to act as guards.

‘These boys are from your College, Chancellor,’ said Donwich, so gloatingly that Bartholomew wondered if he had put them up to it. ‘So what will you do? Fine them? Refuse them their degrees? Burn them in the Market Square?’

Michael was in an impossible position. He could not downplay an accusation of heresy when proof of it was on the floor for all to see. Nor could he defer the matter to another day, as that would smack of indecision and weakness. There was really only one option open to him. He drew himself up to his full height.

‘Stasy and Hawick,’ he boomed, ‘you are hereby expelled from the University.’

Stasy gaped at him. ‘But you cannot! We are due to graduate Saturday week.’

‘You will not be permitted to do so,’ declared Michael. ‘And if you had already won degrees, I would have revoked them. By your disgraceful antics today, you have forfeited all you have worked for these last few years.’

‘No,’ gulped Hawick unsteadily. ‘Please, Brother! We were not really chanting spells – it was just a jape. We see now that it was in poor taste. We are sorry!’

‘I am sure you are, but the damage is done,’ said Michael. ‘Brampton? Escort them home, where they will pack their belongings and be gone from Michaelhouse by nightfall.’

Stasy opened his mouth to argue, but Hawick knew better than to prolong the situation. He scuttled after Brampton with his head bowed and tears flowing down his cheeks. By contrast, Stasy’s face flared red with rage as he stalked down the nave, roughly shouldering stunned Regents out of his way.

‘Lock your doors tonight, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Stasy means to have his revenge. I can see it in his eyes.’

‘Let him try,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘However, I am more concerned with this challenge of Donwich’s. He cannot really think the Archbishop’s representatives will find in his favour, can he?’

‘I believe he does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Being voted Master of Clare Hall has opened the floodgates of his ambition.’

‘What an idiot!’ muttered Michael. ‘It will not end well for him, but we must go through the motions of his appeal, I suppose. Listen to him now – bawling that I am unfit to lead the University because I am unduly harsh. If I had opted for a lesser punishment he would have accused me of laxity.’

‘You had better talk to him, Brother. He is so puffed up with his own rectitude that he will explode unless you find a way to release some of the hot air.’

Oblivious to or uncaring of his colleagues’ hostility, Donwich began to give an impassioned speech about Michael’s shortcomings. It was a serious misjudgement on his part – the Regents objected to being informed that the candidate they had chosen was unsuitable. They reacted with catcalls and jeers, and before the situation grew any more unedifying, Michael ordered everyone home. No wine was offered, lest it encouraged them to linger.

‘You cannot dismiss anyone,’ snarled Donwich furiously. ‘I still have a lot to say, and you have no authority over me – over any of us. I do not acknowledge you as Chancellor.’

‘Then I suggest we continue this discussion in my office,’ said Michael with quiet dignity. ‘Such screeching is hardly commensurate with our status.’

And with that, he turned and sailed away, leaving Donwich shaking with impotent rage. The monk led the way to the handsome room in the nave, which had been the Chancellor’s until he had decided to take it for himself, relegating the University’s titular head to a small chamber near the back door.

Unfortunately, a whole host of scholars wanted to see more of the confrontation between the man they had elected and his challenger, and once they had all crammed themselves inside, the office was even hotter and more crowded than the nave had been. Present were Donwich and his two henchmen; Ufford, Rawby and Shropham from King’s Hall; all the Fellows from Michaelhouse and the Hall of Valence Marie; and the heads of roughly fifteen hostels. Then Brampton arrived with two clerks.

‘An official record must be made of this gathering,’ he announced importantly, as the secretaries fought for sitting space at the table. ‘For the vicars-general to see.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But you are meant to be minding Stasy and Hawick.’

‘Cynric is doing it,’ explained Brampton. ‘He said he would be better at it than me.’

That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew, relieved that the pair would be under a more reliable eye than the inept new Senior Proctor’s.

‘I am sorry about Stasy and Hawick, Matt,’ whispered Michael, as Donwich began another rant. ‘It probably was just some asinine prank, but what else could I do? I cannot believe they were so stupid!’

‘It is not your fault, Brother,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is Brampton’s, for letting them sneak inside in the first place.’

‘Better blame the flux then,’ said Michael. ‘Half the beadles are laid low with it, so none were available to stand watch at the doors. The fit ones are needed to keep order among a lot of students who think that the looming end of term gives them licence to run riot.’

At that point, their attention was snagged by a growing spat between Donwich and the men from King’s Hall.

‘… your mistress,’ Ufford was saying accusingly. ‘Oh, yes, we know all about your nocturnal visits to Bridge Street, Donwich. No wonder you are such good friends with our new Senior Proctor! His house provides the venue for your trysts with his sister.’

Bartholomew blinked his astonishment. ‘Are they saying that Donwich has taken Lucy as a lover?’ he breathed. ‘I do not believe it! For a start, Matilde would have told me.’

‘I imagine she considers it none of your business,’ replied Michael, an answer which told Bartholomew that the revelation was not news to him. ‘But why the shock? Why should Lucy not form an attachment to someone else, now she is free of Narboro?’

‘Lucy is not my mistress,’ yelled Donwich, so full of red-faced rage that he could barely speak. ‘She is a friend. There is nothing in the statutes that forbids me from visiting respectable townswomen.’

‘Read them again,’ drawled Rawby. ‘You will find there is.’

‘Does Brampton know about this relationship, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew in a low voice, then answered the question himself. ‘I suppose he must, if they meet in his house. And he condones it?’

‘Perhaps he feels she deserves a chance to snag herself a spouse,’ shrugged Michael.

‘But if Brampton and Donwich collude to facilitate that sort of thing, it means they are closer than we thought,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘You may not be able to trust your Senior Proctor when you are Chancellor.’

‘Brampton knows where his loyalties lie.’

For his sake, Bartholomew hoped he was right. At that moment, he happened to glance at Gille, who had been pushed up against the table by the press of scholars who crowded in behind him. It allowed the Clare Hall Fellow to palm one of Michael’s pretty jewelled ink-pots, a gift from a grateful Bishop of Ely. It happened so fast that Bartholomew wondered if his eyes had deceived him.

‘Why do you support the monk over me?’ Donwich demanded of the trio from King’s Hall. ‘You have never sided with Michaelhouse before, and our two Colleges have always been allies. Reconsider your position, and I shall reward you well.’

‘That is a good point,’ whispered Father William to the other Michaelhouse Fellows. ‘Why are Ufford and Rawby so keen to help Michael? It is suspicious if you ask me.’

‘They simply support the better candidate,’ replied Zoone. ‘And this challenge of Donwich’s is ridiculous. There is nothing in the statutes to say that Michael must acknowledge the pitiful claims of a defeated rival, so why does he?’

‘It is odd,’ agreed Clippesby, cuddling a hedgehog. ‘But perhaps he has been listening to the badgers, who are democratic to a fault. Their elections are always–’

‘Hush!’ hissed William, looking around in alarm. ‘No peculiar animal-inspired opinions here, if you please. It will reinforce the rumours that you are barking mad.’

‘We should go, if we are to reach Ely by nightfall,’ said Ufford to Rawby, and turned to Michael. ‘Do we have your permission to leave, Chancellor?’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Bring the vicars-general as soon as possible.’

‘You can rely on us,’ said Rawby, and then he and Ufford were gone, shouldering their way through the throng and treading on not a few enemy toes on the way.

‘Yes, bring them quickly,’ called Donwich to their retreating backs. ‘Because Michael’s reign will soon degenerate into chaos. Nearly all his beadles have the flux, so he no longer has a personal army to support him.’

Michael stepped forward and addressed the gathering in a voice that was eminently calm and reasonable, which made Donwich look petty and ill-mannered by comparison.

‘Master Donwich has lodged his complaint and we have all heard it. All that remains now is to put it in writing. He and I will nominate two men to witness the deed, after which we will sign it and affix our seals. The rest of you may as well go home.’

Donwich opened his mouth to argue, but most scholars had had enough of being squashed and sweaty, so there was a murmur of agreement and a concerted move towards the door. Bartholomew was about to follow when Michael grabbed his arm.

‘Donwich will be tied up here for a while, so go to Clare Hall and find out where he, Gille and Elsham were when Aynton died. At the moment, they head my list of suspects. I would do it myself, but you will appreciate why that would not be a good idea.’

Bartholomew did indeed.