Death of a Scholar

‘I quite agree,’ said Knyt soothingly. ‘Personally, I do not believe that Potmoor is the culprit, and I spoke not to rebuke you, but to warn you — there are folk who think you are to blame, so be on your guard. We cannot afford to lose the only physician who helps the poor.’

‘Lawrence helps the poor.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Knyt. ‘But not to the same extent. Still, he is better than the other medici, who do nothing at all. Especially Surgeon Holm, who refuses point blank when I ask him to tend deserving cases. Incidentally, he seems to have taken a rather violent dislike to you.’

Bartholomew blushed. Holm’s antipathy stemmed from the fact that Bartholomew was in love with his wife. The surgeon was naturally indignant, but his homosexuality meant he was not in a strong position to win her back. The couple had reached an understanding about the friendships each wished to pursue, but that did not mean that Holm was happy about being cuckolded.

‘Will you be at the Cambridge Debate tomorrow?’ asked Knyt when there was no reply to his observation. ‘The Guild has agreed to sponsor the refreshments afterwards.’

‘I will not,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘The topic is apostolic poverty, with monks arguing that friars should denounce all property and privileges, and friars arguing that they should be allowed to keep them. I am neither a friar nor a monk, and do not want to be drawn into it.’

‘The monks have a point: friars are meant to live like Christ, simply and modestly. They are not supposed to lounge in luxurious convents, eating and drinking like princes. Monks, however, live contemplative lives, which you cannot do effectively with a growling stomach.’

Bartholomew laughed, amused by the simplification of a row that was threatening to tear the Church apart. ‘I would not repeat that to a friar if I were you. You would never hear the end of it.’

Michaelhouse was the third College to be founded at Cambridge, and had recently celebrated its thirty-fourth birthday, although opinions were divided as to whether it would see its thirty-fifth. Its founder had endowed it with a pleasant hall, land in the centre of town, several houses and a church, not to mention the tithes of four parishes. Unfortunately, mismanagement and a series of unwise investments meant it was currently on the brink of ruin.

Bartholomew opened the gate and paused for a moment to survey the place that had been his home for more years than he could remember, and that he would miss horribly should the pessimists be right about the seriousness of its financial problems.

The courtyard had once been grassed, but was now an expanse of mud. On the far side was the hall, a large but shabby building with kitchens below and two large chambers above. The bigger room was the refectory, which boasted a pretty but glassless oriel window and a sizeable hearth; trestle tables were set out for meals, then stacked away when it was time for lessons. The other room was the conclave, exclusive domain of the Master and his Fellows.

At right angles to the hall were the two accommodation blocks. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated wing, where he had been allocated two rooms. He shared one with his students, while the second, no more than a cupboard, was used for storing medicines. He sometimes slept there, as the other was a tight fit at night when all the students unrolled their mattresses.

He arrived to find his pupils involved in an angry-voiced discussion that stopped the moment he opened the door. His current senior student, a red-haired, merry-faced lad named Aungel, quickly began to read aloud from the copy of Theophilus’s De urinis that lay on his knees, although his guilty expression suggested the quarrel had been about something else entirely — probably the results of their illicit gambling ring, or the proscribed delights of the town’s prostitutes.

‘I do not see why we should study before term begins,’ said John Goodwyn, a haughty newcomer who was older than the rest. Bartholomew had not chosen to teach him — indeed, he would have rejected the lad had he interviewed him himself — but the Master had been bribed with the offer of double fees. Bartholomew was not pleased: Goodwyn was a disruptive influence, leading the others to grumble when they normally would have been compliant.

‘Sitting in a tavern would be much more fun,’ agreed Aungel wistfully.

‘Taverns are forbidden to scholars.’ Bartholomew raised his hand to quell the immediate objection that Goodwyn started to make. ‘And do not say you will not be a scholar until next week, because you became one when you signed our register.’