Susanna GREGORY: A Bone of Contention

‘Stop that!’

Before Bartholomew could advise caution, or at least the summoning of the University beadles – the law- keepers who were under the orders of Brother Michael as Proctor – the monk had surged forward, and seized one of the young men by the scruff of his neck. Michael gave him a shake, as a terrier would a rat.

Immediately, there was a collective scraping sound as daggers were drawn and waved menacingly. Passersby stopped to watch, and, with a groan, Bartholomew went to the aid of his friend, rummaging surreptitiously in his medicine bag for the sharp surgical knife he always kept there. Two scholars had already been killed in street brawls over the last month, and it would take very little to spark off a similar incident. Bartholomew, although he abhorred violence, had no intention of being summarily dispatched by unruly students over some silly dispute, the cause of which was probably already forgotten.

His fingers closed over the knife, and he drew it out, careful to keep it concealed in the long sleeve of his scholar’s gown.

‘Put those away!’ Michael ordered imperiously, looking in disdain at the students’ arsenal of naked steel. He gestured at the growing crowd. ‘It would be most unwise to attack the University’s Senior Proctor within sight of half the town. What hostel are you from?’

The young men, realising that while student friars might be an easy target for their boisterous teasing, a proctor was not, shuffled their feet uneasily, favouring each other with covert glances. Michael gave the man he held another shake, and Bartholomew heard him mutter that they were from David’s Hostel.

‘And what were you doing?’ Michael demanded, still gripping the young man’s collar.

The student glowered venomously at the two friars and said nothing. One of his friends, a burly youth with skin that bore recent scars from adolescent spots, spoke up.

‘They called us cattle thieves!’ he said, blood rising to his face at the mere thought of that injustice.

Bartholomew suppressed a smile, hearing the thick accent which told that its owner was a Scot. He glanced at the friars, standing together, and looking smug at their timely rescue.

‘Cattle thieves?’ queried Michael, nonplussed. ‘Why? Have you been stealing cows?’

The burly student bristled, incensed further by an unpleasant snigger from one of the friars. Michael silenced the friar with a glare, but although his laughter stopped, Michael’s admonition did little to quell the superior arrogance that oozed from the man.

‘It is a term the English use to describe the Scots,’ muttered the student that Michael held. ‘It is intended to be offensive and spoken to provoke.’

Bartholomew watched the friars. The arrogant one stared back at him through hooded lids, although his companion blushed and began to contemplate his sandalled feet so he would not have to meet Bartholomew’s eyes.

Michael sighed, and released the Scot. ‘Give your names to my colleague,’ he said peremptorily, waving a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. He scowled at the friars. ‘You two, come with me.’

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at Michael’s retreating back. Being Fellows of the same college did not give Michael the right to commandeer him into service as some kind of deputy proctor. He had no wish to interfere in the petty quarrels that broke out daily among University members between northerners and southerners; friars and secular scholars; Welsh, Scots, Irish and English; and innumerable other combinations.

The Scots gathered around him, subdued but clearly resentful. Bartholomew gestured for them to put away their daggers, although he kept his own to hand, still concealed in his sleeve. He waited until all signs of glittering steel had gone, and raised his eyebrows at the burly student to give his name.

‘Stuart Grahame,’ said the student in a low voice. He gestured to a smaller youth next to him. ‘This is my cousin, Davy Grahame.’

‘My name is Malcolm Fyvie,’ said the student Michael had grabbed, a dark-haired man with a scar running in a thin, white line down one cheek. ‘And these two are Alistair Ruthven and James Kenzie. We are all from David’s Hostel. That is on Shoemaker Row, one of the poorer sections of the town. You would not want Scotsmen in Cambridge’s more affluent areas, would you?’

Ruthven shot Fyvie an agonised glance, and hastened to make amends for his friend’s rudeness.

‘He means no offence,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on the resentful Fyvie. ‘David’s is a very comfortable house compared to many. We are very pleased to be there.’

He looked hard at Fyvie, compelling him not to speak again. Bartholomew regarded the students more closely.

Their clothes and tabards were made of cheap cloth, and had been darned and patched. Ruthven knew that antagonising the Proctor and his colleagues would only serve to increase the fine they would doubtless have to pay for their rowdy behaviour that afternoon. They were probably already being charged a greatly inflated price for their lodgings, and did not look as though they would be able to afford to have the fine doubled for being offensive to the University’s law-keepers. Ruthven’s desire to be conciliatory was clearly pragmatic, as well as an attempt to present himself and his fellows as scholars grateful for the opportunity to study.

‘Is David’s a new hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, choosing to ignore Fyvie’s outburst. There were many hostels in Cambridge, and, because the renting of a house suitable for use as a hall of residence was largely dependent on the goodwill of a landlord, they tended to come and go with bewildering rapidity. New ones sprung up like mushrooms as townspeople saw an opportunity to make money out of the University – a bitterly resented presence in the small Fen-edge town. Many of the hostels did not survive for more than a term – some buildings were reclaimed by landlords who found they were unable to control their tenants, while others were so decrepit that they, quite literally, tumbled down around their occupants’ ears.

‘It was founded last year,’ said Ruthven helpfully, seizing on the opening in the conversation to try to curry favour. ‘There are ten students, all from Scotland. The five of us came last September to study, and we hope to stay another year.’

‘Then you should avoid street brawls, or you will not stay another week,’ said Bartholomew tartly.

‘We will,’ said young Davy Grahame with feeling. His cousin gave him a shove one way and James Kenzie the other, and Bartholomew immediately saw which of the five were in Cambridge to study and which were hoping to enjoy the other attractions the town had to offer: brawling, for instance.

‘Have you arranged masters and lectures?’ asked Bartholomew.

Ruthven and Davy Grahame nodded vigorously, while the others looked away.

‘Is there anything you wish me to tell the Proctor?’ Bartholomew asked, knowing who would answer.

Ruthven nodded, his freckled face serious, ‘Please tell him that it was not us who started the brawl. It was those friars. They think that their habits will protect them from any insults they care to hurl.’

‘But it takes two parties to create a brawl,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘If you had not responded, there would have been no incident.’

Ruthven opened his mouth to answer, but none came.

‘We don’t have to listen to such insults from those half-men!’ said Kenzie with quiet intensity.

‘You do if you want to remain in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Look, if you have complaints about other students, take them to your hostel principal; if he cannot help, see the proctors; if they cannot assist you, there are the Chancellor and the Bishop. But if you fight in the streets, no matter who started it, you will be sent home.’