Death of a Scholar

The physician arrived at the home of his first patient — a carpenter with a broken hand. Technically, this was Holm’s domain, but Bartholomew did not trust him, and regularly performed procedures that were traditionally the prerogative of surgeons. It was unorthodox, but he felt his patients deserved the best treatment available — which would not be forthcoming from an incompetent like Holm. He set the bones carefully, half listening as he was regaled with complaints about the number of matriculands who had arrived that year. The next two visits saw him bombarded with vitriol about the Guild of Saints, which had decreased the amount of charity it dispensed after Stanmore had died, and was expected to cut back even further now that Knyt was no longer in charge.

‘Father Heyford told us so in a sermon,’ confided a resentful rat-catcher. ‘The Guild used to support beggars and needy widows, but now it gives all its money to Winwick Hall.’

Bartholomew broke away from paupers to make a visit to King’s Hall, where a scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic abilities were not as great as he thought they were, was suffering from a swollen knee. Dodenho had no complaints about the Guild of Saints or the number of matriculands, but he had a great deal to say about the unseemly speed with which Winwick Hall had come into being.

‘King’s Hall does not approve. It took us twenty years to go from a writ to a fully fledged College, but that place did it in a few days. It is not right, and there will be trouble.’

‘Probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Flex your knee now. Does that hurt?’

‘No. And all the while, the hostels laugh at us, because they think we are jealous. We are not: we are concerned. Did you know that John Winwick has not even sorted out its endowment yet, owing to some legal hiccup? Without it, his foundation is not really a College at all.’

‘I suppose not. What about this? Is that sore?’

‘No. Winwick Hall is beneath us in other ways, too. It does not have royal connections, like we do. Or the support of powerful churchmen, like Michaelhouse. It cannot even claim to have been founded by the town, like Bene’t. It is a cuckoo, and one established by a lawyer into the bargain.’

‘Stand up. Is there any pain when I push here?’

‘No. John Winwick might be Keeper of the Privy Seal, but he hails from common stock and his hall will attract common members. It is not to be borne.’ Dodenho jerked away suddenly. ‘God’s blood, Bartholomew! That hurt!’

One call took the physician to the sparsely populated area north of the river, once a thriving community but wiped out in a few days by the plague that had swept across the country a decade before. Again, there was talk about the increasing miserliness of the Guild of Saints. On his way back, he passed St Clement’s, where Heyford was sweeping his porch.

‘No, I am not well,’ the vicar snapped in reply to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘I have a headache. Someone sent me a jug of very powerful wine yesterday, and it made me sick.’

‘You made yourself sick,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘No one forced you to drink it.’

‘I was thirsty,’ said Heyford tetchily. ‘As the villain doubtless knew I would be after I had given that long sermon about the wickedness of the Cambridge Debate.’

‘Why do you consider it wicked? Because the subject is apostolic poverty?’

‘Do not be ridiculous! Apostolic poverty is an excellent topic for discussion. No, my objections stem from the fact that I was not invited.’

Bartholomew was nonplussed. ‘Why would you be? You are not a member of the University.’

‘Of course not — I would never deign to join such a vile institution. But I still have a right to speak, and I have views about the greedy excesses of monks. And speaking of greedy monks, what is Brother Michael doing to catch the arsonist who tried to incinerate me?’

‘I thought it was an accident. A candle falling over while you were dr- while you slept.’

‘That is what everyone was meant to think, but the villain set light to my altar deliberately. He sent me that strong wine, too, to ensure that I would die in the resulting inferno. And why? Because I am honest and say what I think. Someone probably took offence at something I preached — a scholar from that diabolical Winwick Hall, perhaps. Or Potmoor.’

Bartholomew did not grace the claim with a response, but it did not matter, because the vicar’s attention had already turned to something else that was not to his liking: a party of young men. All were older than the lads who usually applied to study at the University, and Bartholomew did not like the fact that they were armed with swords.

‘They are here for Winwick Hall,’ Heyford said darkly. ‘But if they are rejected — and not even that bloated abomination can accept them all — they will find themselves a master and establish a hostel. We shall be knee-deep in lawyers, and our poor town will be like a foretaste of Hell!’