Death of a Scholar

He smiled. Life was good, and he looked forward to it being even better. Smugly, he turned to his scholars, and told them the order in which he wanted them to process into the church. Unfortunately, both the Guild and the academics themselves had other ideas, and an unseemly spat began to blossom. A short distance away, three men watched as tempers grew heated. They were the University’s Chancellor and his two proctors.

‘I still cannot believe this happened so quickly,’ said the Senior Proctor, a plump Benedictine named Brother Michael. ‘I go to Peterborough for a few weeks, leaving you two to maintain the status quo, and I return to find Winwick Hall half built and its doors open to students.’

‘Its founder has a very devious way with words,’ said Chancellor Tynkell defensively. He was a timid, ineffectual man, and it was common knowledge that it was Michael, not he, who ran the University. ‘I found myself agreeing to things without realising the consequences.’

‘I did suggest you let me deal with him,’ said John Felbrigge, a stout, forceful individual who liked being Junior Proctor because it gave him the opportunity to tell other people what to do. ‘I would not have been bullied.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, not entirely approvingly. Felbrigge had not been in post for long, but had already managed to alienate an enormous number of people. Moreover, he had designs on the Senior Proctorship, and Michael disliked an ambitious underling snapping at his heels. ‘Having a ninth College does make our University stronger, yet I am uneasy about the whole venture.’

‘You worry needlessly,’ said Tynkell, comfortable in the knowledge that he would retire soon, so any trouble would not be for him to sort out. ‘Besides, would you rather John Winwick took his money to Oxford?’

‘Of course not!’ Michael hated the Other Place with every fibre of his being. ‘But I do not like the kind of men who have flocked here, hoping to study in Winwick Hall.’

‘True,’ agreed Felbrigge. ‘There have already been several nasty brawls with the townsfolk.’

‘Things will ease once term starts,’ said Tynkell, although with more hope than conviction. ‘These young men will either become absorbed in their studies, or Winwick Hall will decline to take them and they will leave.’

‘You are half right.’ Michael eyed him balefully. ‘Many will leave when their applications are rejected. However, some will win places, and as Winwick Hall is taking only the richest candidates, regardless of their intellectual ability, we shall have a lot of arrogant dimwits strutting around.’

All three looked towards Winwick’s Fellows. So far, there were five and a Provost, although provision had been made to add more during the year. They were resplendent in their new livery — blue gowns with pink hoods — a uniform far more striking than the sober colours favoured by the other foundations.

‘Provost Illesy,’ said Michael sourly. ‘Why not Master or Warden, like everywhere else? “Provost” implies that he has control of a collegiate church, and as Winwick Hall is in the parish of St Mary the Great, he might try to take the place over. And we work in that church.’

‘It is a concern,’ agreed Felbrigge. He lowered his voice to a gossipy whisper. ‘John Winwick said that he chose Illesy as Provost because he is the most talented lawyer in Cambridge. Yet I cannot forget that Illesy has represented some very unsavoury clients in the past — criminals, no less. However, I have taken steps to keep him and his College in their place.’

Michael was indignant at the presumption. ‘What steps?’

‘I am a member of the Guild of Saints, as you know,’ replied Felbrigge. He smirked superiorly: Michael and Tynkell would never be asked to join, as neither was sufficiently affluent. ‘And we have a say in what happens at Winwick Hall, because it could not have been built without our money. So I have used my influence to install one or two safeguards.’

‘Such as?’ demanded Michael.

‘I am afraid I cannot say, Brother. Blabbing about them will undermine their efficacy. But do not worry. Everything is under control.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But if it affects my University, I want to know what-’

‘Your University?’ interrupted Felbrigge insolently. ‘I thought it belonged to all of us.’

Michael was so unused to anyone challenging his authority that he was startled into silence. Then Winwick’s procession began to move, and his belated rejoinder was drowned out by shouts from onlookers — a few cheers, but mostly catcalls and jeers. He heard a hiss and a thump over the clamour, but thought nothing of it until Chancellor Tynkell issued a shrill shriek of horror.

He turned to see Felbrigge on his knees, an arrow protruding from his middle. He glanced around quickly, but the road was so full of buildings and alleys that the archer might have been anywhere. Pandemonium erupted. Scholars and spectators scrambled for cover, while Felbrigge slumped face-down on the ground. A physician hurried to help him.