Susanna GREGORY - Death of a Scholar

He groped his way to the cellar, the cool vaulted chamber below the hall that should have been full of ale, wine and food for the coming term. When he thought about all he had lost, his temper boiled again, and he thumped a wooden post with all the force he could muster, wishing it were Michael, Illesy, Lawrence, Nerli or Bartholomew instead.

But for once his poor vision worked against him, and he did not know that the strut was one that had been inserted to shore up the roof until it could be dismantled safely. Bon’s blow knocked it from its moorings, and it crashed to the floor. For a second nothing happened, then the ceiling caved in. It happened so quickly that Bon was barely aware of it. One moment he was standing in silent fury, and the next he was buried under tons of masonry.

There was only one witness to his death. Clippesby had been appalled by the loss of life at Winwick Hall, and had gone there to pray for the souls of the dead. Unnoticed, he watched Bon slouch to the cellar, and his keen ears caught the bitter curses hissed into the darkness. Then he heard Bon strike the post, and knew from the sound of the resulting collapse that the man would not be coming out again. He bowed his head, and added another name to his prayers.

Winwick Hall’s desirable location on the High Street meant it was not long before the site was sold. One parcel of land was purchased by Nerli, who decided to settle in Cambridge once Bartholomew had made it clear that he would not try to discuss mutual acquaintances at Salerno. Nerli had been appalled when the well-intentioned Lawrence had tried to initiate the conversation, sure he was going to be exposed as an imposter, as not only had he never been to the place from which he claimed his impressive string of degrees, but he had no qualifications whatsoever. He had read widely, though, and knew he was more than a match for more formally trained minds.

His land contained the collapsed cellar, but the rubble was nicely packed, so he used it as the foundation for his new home, a pretty cottage that he named Knyt Hostel, in honour of the murdered Secretary of the Guild of Saints. He only ever took three students at a time, but he trained them with such meticulous diligence that kings and bishops clamoured to hire them when they graduated. He ran Knyt Hostel for the next six decades, and was much mourned when he died just short of his hundredth birthday.

Beneath him, Bon’s bones gradually turned to dust, and although Michael continued to hunt, no trace of the blind lawyer was ever found. It was generally believed that he had fled to the Fens and had drowned in one of its treacherous marshes. Only Clippesby knew different, but he saw no reason to disturb the dead.