Susanna Gregory: A Plague On Both Your Houses

Wilson walked ahead, and stood waiting at the graveside, head bowed and hands folded in his sleeves like a monk. The students lowered their burden to the ground and looked at Bartholomew expectantly.

He arranged some ropes, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. He nodded to Cynric and the other book-bearers to start to fill in the grave, and, taking a last look, he turned to go home.

'Friends and colleagues,' began Wilson in his rich, self-important voice, 'we are gathered together to witness the burial of our esteemed Master, Sir John Babington.'

Bartholomew froze in his tracks. The Fellows had agreed the night before that no words would be spoken: it was felt that there were none needed — for what could be said about Sir John's extraordinary suicide? It had been decided that the Fellows and the students should escort Sir John to his resting place in silence, and return to the College still in silence, as a mark of respect. Sir John had done much to bring a relative peace to his College in a city where the scholars waged a constant war with each other and with the townsfolk. A few of his policies had made him unpopular with some University authorities, especially those who regarded learning to be the domain of the rich.

'Sir John,' Wilson intoned, 'was much loved by us all.' At this, Bartholomew gazed at Wilson in disbelief.

Wilson had led the opposition to almost anything Sir John had tried to do, and on more than one occasion had left the hall at dinner red-faced with impotent fury because Sir John had easily defeated his arguments with his quiet logic.

' He will be sorely missed,' continued Wilson, looking down mournfully as Cynric shovelled earth.

'Not by you!' muttered Giles Abigny, the College's youthful teacher of philosophy, so that only Bartholomew could hear him. 'Not when you stand to gain so much.'

'May the Lord look upon his soul with mercy,'

Wilson continued, 'and forgive him for his iniquitous ways.'

Bartholomew felt the anger boil inside him. He thrust his clenched fists under his scholar's tabard so that they should not betray his fury to the students, and looked to see the reaction of the other Fellows. Abigny was positively glowering at Wilson, while Brother Michael watched with a sardonic smile. The other theologians, FatherWilliam and Father Aelfrith, were more difficult to read. Bartholomew knew that Aelfrith did not like Wilson, but was too politic to allow it to show. William, who had backed Wilson on many occasions against Sir John, now stood listening impassively. The last two Fellows, Roger Alcote and Robert Swynford, who taught the subjects of the Quadrivium, nodded at Wilson's words.

The book-bearers had almost finished filling in the grave. A miserable drizzle-laden wind swished through the trees, and somewhere a lone blackbird was singing.

Wilson's voice droned on with its platitudes for a man he had neither liked nor respected, and Bartholomew abruptly turned on his heel and strode away. He heard Wilson falter for an instant, but then continue louder than before so that the wind carried his words to Bartholomew as he walked away.

'May the Lord look kindly on the College, and guide her in all things.'

Bartholomew allowed himself a disgusted snort.

Presumably, Wilson's idea of the Lord guiding the College was to make him, Wilson, the next Master.

He heard footsteps hurrying behind him, and was not surprised that Giles Abigny had followed his lead and left the group.

'We will be in trouble, Matt,' he said with a sidelong grin at Bartholomew. 'Walking out on Master Wilson's carefully prepared speech.'

'Not Master yet,' said Bartholomew, 'although I imagine that will come within the week.'

They arrived back at the road and paused to scrape some of the clinging mud from their boots. It started to rain hard and Bartholomew felt water trickling down his back. He looked back across the field, and saw Wilson leading the procession back to the College. Abigny took his arm.

"I am cold and wet. Shall we see if Hugh Stapleton will give us breakfast at Bene't Hostel? What I need now is a roaring fire and some strong wine.' He leaned a little closer. 'Our lives at Michaelhouse will soon change beyond anything we can imagine — if we have a livelihood there at all. Let us make the best of our freedom while we still have it.'

He tugged at Bartholomew's sleeve, urging him back along the High Street towards Bene't Hostel.

Bartholomew thought for a moment before following.

Behind them, Wilson's procession filed through the town gate as he led the way back to Michaelhouse.

Wilson's lips pursed as he saw Bartholomew and Abigny disappear through the hostel door; he was not a man to forget insults to his pride.

As Bartholomew had predicted, Wilson was installed as the new Master of Michaelhouse within a week of Sir John's funeral. The students, commoners, and servants watched as the eight Fellows filed into the hall to begin the process of electing a new Master.

The College statutes ordered that a new Master should be chosen by the Chancellor from two candidates selected by the Fellows. Bartholomew sat at the long table, picking idly at a splinter of wood while his colleagues argued. Wilson had support from Alcote, Swynford and Father William. Bartholomew, Brother Michael and Abigny wanted Father Aelfrith to be the other candidate, but Bartholomew knew which of the two the Chancellor would select, and was reluctant to become too embroiled in a debate he could not win.

Eventually, seeing that it would divide the College in a way that neither Wilson nor Aelfrith could heal, Aelfrith declined to allow his name to go forward. Alcote offered to take his place, a solution that met with little enthusiasm from either side.

The Chancellor selected Wilson, who immediately began in the way he intended to continue, by having three students' sent down' for playing dice on a Sunday, sacking the brewer for drinking, and declaring that everyone

Fellows, commoners and students — should wear only black on Sundays. Bartholomew had to lend several of his poorer students the money to purchase black leggings or tunics, since they only possessed garments made of cheap brown homespun wool, which were harder-wearing and more practical than the more elegant black.

The day of Wilson's installation dawned clear and blue, although judging from the clatter and raised voices from the kitchen, most of the servants had been up with their duties all night. Bartholomew rose as the sky began to lighten, and donned the ceremonial red gown that marked him as a Doctor of the University.

He sat on the bed again and looked morosely through the window across the yard. Term had not yet begun, so there were only fifteen students in residence, but they made up for the deficit with excited shouting and a good deal of running. Through the delicate arched windows opposite, he could see Fathers William and Aelfrith trying to quieten them down. Reluctantly, Bartholomew walked across the dry packed earth of the yard for breakfast in the hall, a rushed affair that was clearly an inconvenience for the harried servants.

The installation itself was grand and sumptuous.

Dressed in a splendid gown of deep purple velvet with fur trimmings, and wearing his black tabard over the top, Wilson processed triumphantly through Cambridge, scattering pennies to the townsfolk. A few grubby urchins followed the procession, jeering insults, and several of the citizens spat in disdain. Wilson ignored them all, and throughout the long Latin ceremony at Michaelhouse in which he made his vows to uphold the College statutes and rules, he could scarcely keep the smug satisfaction from his face.

Many influential people were present from the University and the town. The Bishop of Ely watched the proceedings with abored detachment, while the Chancellor and the Sheriff exchanged occasional whispers. Some of the town' s officials and merchants had been invited too.