recital
that would last throughout the meal. Sir John had
encouraged academic debate, and had chaired some
very lively discussions, all aimed to hone and refine the College’s reputation of academic excellence. Wilson was more traditional in approach, and considered it fitting for scholars to listen to tracts from the Bible while they ate, so that they could improve their spiritual standing.
Bartholomew studied his colleagues. Brother
Michael, on his right, hunched over his trencher,
greedily cramming pieces of meat into his mouth.
Bartholomew offered him the dish of vegetables seeped
in butter, and received, as always, a look of disbelief.
Michael firmly believed that vegetables would damage
his digestion and lived almost entirely on large quantities of meat, fish, and bread.
Bartholomew thought back to
Michael’s odd behaviour of the night before. Was it
illness as he had claimed, or did he know something
about Augustus’s death? Bartholomew had never seen
the fat monk in such a state, but whatever had upset
him was obviously not affecting his appetite now.
Aelfrith sat between Bartholomew and Father
William. When speaking was permitted at meals, the
Franciscans would usually discuss theology in Latin.
Bartholomew compared the two men. Aelfrith was tall
and thin, with a sallow face and grey eyes that were
often distant. Bartholomew did not find him a warm
man, but he was compassionate, discreetly generous to
many of Bartholomew’s poorer patients, and devoted to
his teaching. Father William was of a similar height, but much heavier. Like Aelfrith, he was in his late forties, but his hair was thick and brown. His eyes often burned with the passion of the fanatic, and Bartholomew could believe the rumours that he had been appointed to
search out heresy by his Order, and had been sent to
Cambridge because he was over-zealous.
Wilson was the oldest Fellow, probably just past
fifty, and was a singularly unattractive individual. His dry brown hair released a constant dusting of dandruff that adorned all his gowns, and his complexion was
florid with a smattering of spots that reached right
down to his array of chins. Swynford leaned towards
him and whispered. Swynford was distantly related to
the powerful Dukes of Norfolk, and held considerable
sway in University circles. In a place where a College depended on the seniority and authority of its Fellows and Master, Michaelhouse owed much of its influence
to Swynford. Wilson would need to keep him happy.
Swynford was a handsome man around the same age
as the Franciscans, but his bearing was more military
than monastic, his manner confident and assured. His
hair was grey, thick, and neat, and his beard always well groomed. He was the only Fellow, other than the Master, to have the luxury of a room and a servant of his own, and he paid the College handsomely for the privilege. Beside his impressive figure, Alcote looked like a small bird.
Bartholomew speared a slice of turnip on his knife
and chewed it thoughtfully. Alcote had said that the
porters and Agatha were prepared to swear that no one
had left the College, other than the guests, once the
gates had been locked after the Oliver brothers had
attempted to provoke the riot. This meant that, unless someone had entered the College early and stayed until after the gates were unlocked the following morning, the murderer was a College member. There were few places
to hide in Michaelhouse: all the rooms were occupied by students, Fellows, commoners, or servants, and all, except Swynford, shared a room with at least one other person.
It would be difficult to hide in a small room where two or more people slept. There had been students in the
hall and the conclave all night, which meant that no one could have hidden there, and the servants would have
noticed anything untoward in the kitchens and other
service rooms.
The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more
his instincts told him
that would last throughout the meal. Sir John had
encouraged academic debate, and had chaired some
very lively discussions, all aimed to hone and refine the College’s reputation of academic excellence. Wilson was more traditional in approach, and considered it fitting for scholars to listen to tracts from the Bible while they ate, so that they could improve their spiritual standing.
Bartholomew studied his colleagues. Brother
Michael, on his right, hunched over his trencher,
greedily cramming pieces of meat into his mouth.
Bartholomew offered him the dish of vegetables seeped
in butter, and received, as always, a look of disbelief.
Michael firmly believed that vegetables would damage
his digestion and lived almost entirely on large quantities of meat, fish, and bread.
Bartholomew thought back to
Michael’s odd behaviour of the night before. Was it
illness as he had claimed, or did he know something
about Augustus’s death? Bartholomew had never seen
the fat monk in such a state, but whatever had upset
him was obviously not affecting his appetite now.
Aelfrith sat between Bartholomew and Father
William. When speaking was permitted at meals, the
Franciscans would usually discuss theology in Latin.
Bartholomew compared the two men. Aelfrith was tall
and thin, with a sallow face and grey eyes that were
often distant. Bartholomew did not find him a warm
man, but he was compassionate, discreetly generous to
many of Bartholomew’s poorer patients, and devoted to
his teaching. Father William was of a similar height, but much heavier. Like Aelfrith, he was in his late forties, but his hair was thick and brown. His eyes often burned with the passion of the fanatic, and Bartholomew could believe the rumours that he had been appointed to
search out heresy by his Order, and had been sent to
Cambridge because he was over-zealous.
Wilson was the oldest Fellow, probably just past
fifty, and was a singularly unattractive individual. His dry brown hair released a constant dusting of dandruff that adorned all his gowns, and his complexion was
florid with a smattering of spots that reached right
down to his array of chins. Swynford leaned towards
him and whispered. Swynford was distantly related to
the powerful Dukes of Norfolk, and held considerable
sway in University circles. In a place where a College depended on the seniority and authority of its Fellows and Master, Michaelhouse owed much of its influence
to Swynford. Wilson would need to keep him happy.
Swynford was a handsome man around the same age
as the Franciscans, but his bearing was more military
than monastic, his manner confident and assured. His
hair was grey, thick, and neat, and his beard always well groomed. He was the only Fellow, other than the Master, to have the luxury of a room and a servant of his own, and he paid the College handsomely for the privilege. Beside his impressive figure, Alcote looked like a small bird.
Bartholomew speared a slice of turnip on his knife
and chewed it thoughtfully. Alcote had said that the
porters and Agatha were prepared to swear that no one
had left the College, other than the guests, once the
gates had been locked after the Oliver brothers had
attempted to provoke the riot. This meant that, unless someone had entered the College early and stayed until after the gates were unlocked the following morning, the murderer was a College member. There were few places
to hide in Michaelhouse: all the rooms were occupied by students, Fellows, commoners, or servants, and all, except Swynford, shared a room with at least one other person.
It would be difficult to hide in a small room where two or more people slept. There had been students in the
hall and the conclave all night, which meant that no one could have hidden there, and the servants would have
noticed anything untoward in the kitchens and other
service rooms.
The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more
his instincts told him
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