memorable characteristic
is his smug pomposity; or the Archbishop of York’s spy-turned-academic, who is more lout than scholar, and who stoops to using
cheap tricks to eliminate the best man for the task?’
‘Michaelhouse will not thrive under the Mastership of any of them,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is a case of selecting
the least of three evils.’
‘I suggest we make our decision now, and then announce it after the admissions ceremony,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We are all present,
and I am sure we all know which candidate we want to elect.’
‘It is not my place to speak when I am not yet a Fellow,’ said Suttone, his red, cheery face serious. ‘But I feel I am not
in a position to make a decision of such importance to the College. If you will excuse me, I must abstain.’
‘Well,
I
will not abstain,’ said Clippesby, glaring at Suttone as though the Carmelite had tried to cheat him of something rightfully
his. ‘And it is obvious to me whom we should choose.’
‘Oh, Lord, Matt,’ groaned Michael under his breath.‘Another opinionated bigot! Why do they all have to come to Michaelhouse?’
‘Suttone seems a decent man,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He does,’ agreed Michael in a whisper. ‘But I do not like Clippesby!’
Clippesby glared around at the assembled Fellows, his oddly intense gaze lingering on the muttering Michael. ‘I do not want
a disgusting Franciscan as Master and I do not approve of men who smell of strong drink at breakfast – as Langelee did this
morning. So, I choose the lawyer.’
‘Well!’ drawled Michael, as an embarrassed silence greeted Clippesby’s statement. ‘You are a man who does not mince his words.’
‘Are all Fellows’ meetings this acrimonious?’ asked Suttone nervously. ‘Only I was led to believe that the hallowed halls
of the University of Cambridge were places of learned debate and enlightenment.’
‘Where on God’s Earth did you hear that?’ asked Langelee. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know! Oxford! Our rival scholars are trying
to make us sound tedious and dull! “Learned debate and enlightenment” indeed!’
The Michaelhouse Fellows processed into the hall in order of seniority. Master Kenyngham led the way, followed by Michael
and William, and then Bartholomew with Father Paul clinging to his arm. Langelee and Runham walked together, while Clippesby
and Suttone brought up the rear. The students were already standing at their places, waiting in tense anticipation to learn
which of the Fellows would be their new Master.
The inauguration of new Fellows was a special event, and an extravagant number of candles had been lit, so the hall was filled
with a golden glow. The fire blazed and crackled, sending flickering shadows across the painted ceiling. The usually bare
wooden tables were covered incloths – old, yellowed and stained ones, but cloths nevertheless – and the College silver was displayed on the high table.
To mark the occasion, some of the students had even washed and donned clean gowns. The atmosphere of tense expectation and
muted excitement reminded Bartholomew of Christmas. He wondered whether the students would look quite so cheerful when they
learned who had been elected Master. He suspected they would not.
‘We have gathered this evening to witness the swearing in of two new Fellows,’ intoned Kenyngham mechanically, gesturing for
everyone to sit. ‘I will read the founder’s statutes and the newcomers will be asked to obey these rules, and to defend zealously
the honour and usefulness of the house.’
Michael gave a huge, bored yawn, and reached out to take a handful of nuts from the silver cup that had been placed in front
of him. Langelee had somehow contrived to have his goblet filled with wine before anyone else, and was gulping it noisily.
Bartholomew saw his students, Gray and Bulbeck, exchange a look of amusement at Langelee’s tavern-style manners, while
is his smug pomposity; or the Archbishop of York’s spy-turned-academic, who is more lout than scholar, and who stoops to using
cheap tricks to eliminate the best man for the task?’
‘Michaelhouse will not thrive under the Mastership of any of them,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is a case of selecting
the least of three evils.’
‘I suggest we make our decision now, and then announce it after the admissions ceremony,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We are all present,
and I am sure we all know which candidate we want to elect.’
‘It is not my place to speak when I am not yet a Fellow,’ said Suttone, his red, cheery face serious. ‘But I feel I am not
in a position to make a decision of such importance to the College. If you will excuse me, I must abstain.’
‘Well,
I
will not abstain,’ said Clippesby, glaring at Suttone as though the Carmelite had tried to cheat him of something rightfully
his. ‘And it is obvious to me whom we should choose.’
‘Oh, Lord, Matt,’ groaned Michael under his breath.‘Another opinionated bigot! Why do they all have to come to Michaelhouse?’
‘Suttone seems a decent man,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He does,’ agreed Michael in a whisper. ‘But I do not like Clippesby!’
Clippesby glared around at the assembled Fellows, his oddly intense gaze lingering on the muttering Michael. ‘I do not want
a disgusting Franciscan as Master and I do not approve of men who smell of strong drink at breakfast – as Langelee did this
morning. So, I choose the lawyer.’
‘Well!’ drawled Michael, as an embarrassed silence greeted Clippesby’s statement. ‘You are a man who does not mince his words.’
‘Are all Fellows’ meetings this acrimonious?’ asked Suttone nervously. ‘Only I was led to believe that the hallowed halls
of the University of Cambridge were places of learned debate and enlightenment.’
‘Where on God’s Earth did you hear that?’ asked Langelee. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know! Oxford! Our rival scholars are trying
to make us sound tedious and dull! “Learned debate and enlightenment” indeed!’
The Michaelhouse Fellows processed into the hall in order of seniority. Master Kenyngham led the way, followed by Michael
and William, and then Bartholomew with Father Paul clinging to his arm. Langelee and Runham walked together, while Clippesby
and Suttone brought up the rear. The students were already standing at their places, waiting in tense anticipation to learn
which of the Fellows would be their new Master.
The inauguration of new Fellows was a special event, and an extravagant number of candles had been lit, so the hall was filled
with a golden glow. The fire blazed and crackled, sending flickering shadows across the painted ceiling. The usually bare
wooden tables were covered incloths – old, yellowed and stained ones, but cloths nevertheless – and the College silver was displayed on the high table.
To mark the occasion, some of the students had even washed and donned clean gowns. The atmosphere of tense expectation and
muted excitement reminded Bartholomew of Christmas. He wondered whether the students would look quite so cheerful when they
learned who had been elected Master. He suspected they would not.
‘We have gathered this evening to witness the swearing in of two new Fellows,’ intoned Kenyngham mechanically, gesturing for
everyone to sit. ‘I will read the founder’s statutes and the newcomers will be asked to obey these rules, and to defend zealously
the honour and usefulness of the house.’
Michael gave a huge, bored yawn, and reached out to take a handful of nuts from the silver cup that had been placed in front
of him. Langelee had somehow contrived to have his goblet filled with wine before anyone else, and was gulping it noisily.
Bartholomew saw his students, Gray and Bulbeck, exchange a look of amusement at Langelee’s tavern-style manners, while
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