Susanna GREGORY - Death of a Scholar

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Simon Hemmysby was a diffident theologian, who spent half his time teaching in Cambridge, and the other half as a canon in Waltham Abbey. Bartholomew could not imagine him aggravating spats.

‘William preached a sermon saying that Waltham is home to the Devil,’ explained Langelee. ‘So now Hemmysby joins with Thelnetham in deploring William’s excesses, and clamours at me to dismiss him on the grounds of bigotry. Can I, Brother? I would do anything for peace.’

Michael considered; he loved the minutiae of College rules. ‘Unfortunately, William has been a Fellow too long for us to object to his character now. If we dismiss him for extremism, he will appeal the decision and will probably be reinstated – after which he will be more insufferable than ever. However, there is a statute that says all disputes are to be adjudicated by the Master–’

‘I know,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘You were rash enough to mention it in front of them once, and I have been plagued by demands to arbitrate ever since. I have better things to do than sort out their quarrels. They come to me two or three times a day, and I am at the end of my tether.’

‘What do they argue about?’ asked Bartholomew.

Langelee regarded him askance. ‘That is a question only a man with his head in a corpse would pose! They squabble about everything – who should have which part of the hall for teaching, who should stand where in church, who should have first loan of a book from the library–’

‘How many students should be admitted next term.’ Michael took up the list, having also been dragged into their rows. ‘Whether we should use white tablecloths on Sundays. Whether we should apologise to Ovyng Hostel for the racket made by our porter’s pet peacock. Whether Hemmysby should be a member of the Guild of Saints–’

‘Why should he not?’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘It is a body of people committed to worthy causes. It is good for us to be associated with it, and all the Fellows of Winwick have joined.’

‘William claims it is only open to very wealthy folk, and he disapproves of elitism,’ explained Langelee. ‘Hemmysby is rich, what with his stipend here and what he earns at Waltham. I suppose Winwick’s Fellows must be similarly affluent.’

‘Actually, they were admitted because their founder wants as close a connection between the Guild and his new College as possible,’ said Michael. ‘They are members by default, although I doubt they mind – its functions are very lavish. But the real reason why William objects to Hemmysby’s involvement is because he was not invited to join – he is jealous.’

‘He is not a man to rejoice in the good fortune of others,’ sighed Langelee. ‘However, what worries me more are his mad views on apostolic poverty, which is a deeply contentious subject.’

Michael agreed. ‘Have you heard what is happening in Oxford because of it? The debate has inspired so many fanatical theologians to air their opinions that some bishops refuse to let men from their dioceses study there. The King has been forced to issue an edict forbidding anyone from discussing it, but too late – the whole studium generale is already seen as a hotbed of heresy.’

‘Yet apostolic poverty has been chosen as the subject for tomorrow’s Cambridge Debate,’ remarked Bartholomew.

‘It is a calculated gamble on my part,’ explained Michael. ‘We get the matter out in the open, but in strictly controlled conditions and before most of our students arrive back. Then it will become a banned topic until further notice.’

‘Do you think Oxford’s current reputation for dissent is why John Winwick chose to found his new College here?’ asked Langelee.

‘I am sure of it,’ replied Michael. ‘Especially after what happened to Linton Hall.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael pursed his lips in disapproval.

‘You have not heard? Its members defied the King’s edict and wrote a tract challenging the most recent papal bull on apostolic poverty. In response, His Majesty dissolved their hostel, and His Holiness excommunicated all its scholars.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘That seems harsh!’

‘Pope and King have decreed that other foundations will suffer the same fate if they follow Linton’s example. I do not want my University sullied by that sort of thing, so the subject will be off limits once term starts, and anyone who does not like it can go and study somewhere else.’

‘You had better tell William, then,’ said Langelee. ‘Because his beliefs will be just as radical as those of Linton Hall. Personally, I fail to understand why a subject so tedious can excite such fervour. I am sick of hearing about it.’

‘You will not be at St Mary the Great to hear us discuss it, then?’ asked Michael wryly. ‘I shall speak myself, of course. I cannot wait to put those uppity friars in their place.’

‘If you do, William will never forgive you,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘While Thelnetham will be intolerable if he thinks he has your support.’

‘He is right, Brother. Please watch what you say.’ Langelee sighed wearily. ‘Incidentally, the trustees of the Stanton Hutch – namely me, William and Thelnetham – are due to meet after dinner.’

Hutches were chests containing money that could be borrowed by College members. In return for coins, they could leave something of equal or greater value, such as a book or jewellery, and if the loan was not repaid by a specified date, the hutch kept whatever had been deposited. Michaelhouse had several, although the Stanton was by far the richest.

‘They will quarrel,’ the Master went on. ‘And I need some excuse to keep them apart, or I shall be hard-pressed not to run them through. Can you think of anything?’

‘How about attending the meeting unarmed?’ joked Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps I had better,’ sighed Langelee without the flicker of a smile, causing Bartholomew and Michael to regard him in alarm. Weapons were forbidden to scholars, and although Langelee had always ignored this particular stricture, he was at least usually discreet about it. ‘I do not want to be arrested for murder, although they would try the patience of a saint.’

‘Is the Stanton Hutch doing well?’ asked Michael, after a short silence during which he decided that he was not equal to disarming the head of his College that day. ‘Matt and I manage the Illeigh Chest, but that is virtually dead. We have dozens of useless baubles, but no coins at all.’

‘The Stanton is loaded with money,’ said Langelee gloomily. ‘Because if William supports an application, Thelnetham vetoes it, and vice versa. We have not made a loan in months. They will not even let me have one, and a few marks would help enormously with the expenses we always incur at the beginning of the academic year.’

‘The statutes forbid its use for that sort of thing,’ preached Michael. ‘And rightly so. If we did not have the facility to lend our students money, some would never pay their tuition fees.’

Langelee waved the remark away and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I understand you make remedies for Thelnetham’s biliousness. How well do you know your toxins?’

‘I sincerely hope you are jesting,’ said Bartholomew, although looking at Langelee’s disagreeable expression, he suspected not.

Langelee scowled when he saw he was not going to be rid of the problem so easily. ‘I do not want William or Thelnetham in my College. Now I know how Henry the Second felt when he had to manage turbulent clerics.’

‘So Langelee views himself as a beleaguered monarch,’ mused Michael when the Master had gone. ‘No wonder he walks around armed to the teeth and wants you to poison his enemies.’