Cambridge would ultimately emerge richer and more powerful than her rival University.
Bartholomew knew that Heytesbury was under the impression that the monk wanted the information simply in order to secure himself
the post of Chancellor in a year or two. For all Bartholomew knew, there could be an element of truth in that, too.
Heytesbury was an influential figure in the academic world. He had written a number of books on logic and natural philosophy,
and was a leading proponent of nominalism. He was also a member of Merton, one of the largest and most powerful of Oxford’s
colleges. Bartholomew recalled listening to lectures given by Heytesbury during his own days there.
He studied the Oxford man with interest. In the flattering half-light of the fire and the lamps, it seemed the years had been
kind to Heytesbury. He had been an intense young man in his twenties when he had first started to make a name for himself
with his scholarship, and Bartholomew supposed he must now be nearing fifty. However, his face had retained its smooth skin
and his brown hair was unmarked by grey; these, combined with his slight, boyish build, had led many an academic adversary
to underestimate him in the debating chamber. Such opponents did not make that mistake a second time. But despite his superficially
youthful appearance, the physician in Bartholomew detected a certain pouchiness beneath Heytesbury’s eyes and a slight tremble
in his hands.
Heytesbury continued to smile at Michael. ‘My other work involved meeting one of your scholars with a view to taking him to
Oxford. It was nothing that would influence anything you and I have discussed, so do not be concerned.’
‘Poaching,’ said Michael immediately. ‘It might not affect our agreement, but as Senior Proctor I cannot stand by and watch
you entice away our best students.’
‘As luck would have it, he proved unsuitable,’ said Heytesbury. ‘I will not be taking him with me after all.’
‘What business could possibly bring a Cambridge monk and an Oxford philosopher together?’ asked Richard curiously. ‘Especially
since Master Heytesbury told me today that he had never been to Cambridge before.’
Then Heytesbury was lying, thought Bartholomew, listening to the philosopher explaining to Richard that the correspondence
between him and Michael had been by letter. Bartholomew remembered very clearly the last time he had seen Heytesbury – at
a clandestine meeting on some wasteland in Cambridge the previous year. Heytesbury had been trying to learn from a mutual
acquaintance whether Michael was a man to be trusted. Fortunately for Michael, the friend put allegiance to Cambridge above
an ancient friendship, and had encouraged Heytesbury to proceed in his negotiations with the monk. Heytesbury, quite rightly,
had been suspicious of an offer that seemed to favour Oxford, but the monk was hoping the man’s natural greed would encourage
him to sign anyway.
Bartholomew noted that Heytesbury was as vague about their business as Michael had been, and supposed such subterfuge came
naturally to men like them. He wondered what would happen if Heytesbury discovered that a number of people in Cambridge already
knew that something was afoot between Michael and the scholar from Merton. Michael had been discreet, but the news had been
announced the previous November – when Ralph de Langelee had wanted to make sure Michael was not elected Master of Michaelhouse
and had used the Oxford story to stain the monk’s reputation – and it had not taken long for the word to spread. But Michael
would not want Heytesbury to discuss the case with Richard, who knew that the monk was no bumbling incompetent whose sole
ambition was for personal power, but a skilled manager of intrigues who would best even a clever man like Heytesbury, given
the chance. Michael wanted Heytesbury lulled into a false sense of security, so that he would sign the
Bartholomew knew that Heytesbury was under the impression that the monk wanted the information simply in order to secure himself
the post of Chancellor in a year or two. For all Bartholomew knew, there could be an element of truth in that, too.
Heytesbury was an influential figure in the academic world. He had written a number of books on logic and natural philosophy,
and was a leading proponent of nominalism. He was also a member of Merton, one of the largest and most powerful of Oxford’s
colleges. Bartholomew recalled listening to lectures given by Heytesbury during his own days there.
He studied the Oxford man with interest. In the flattering half-light of the fire and the lamps, it seemed the years had been
kind to Heytesbury. He had been an intense young man in his twenties when he had first started to make a name for himself
with his scholarship, and Bartholomew supposed he must now be nearing fifty. However, his face had retained its smooth skin
and his brown hair was unmarked by grey; these, combined with his slight, boyish build, had led many an academic adversary
to underestimate him in the debating chamber. Such opponents did not make that mistake a second time. But despite his superficially
youthful appearance, the physician in Bartholomew detected a certain pouchiness beneath Heytesbury’s eyes and a slight tremble
in his hands.
Heytesbury continued to smile at Michael. ‘My other work involved meeting one of your scholars with a view to taking him to
Oxford. It was nothing that would influence anything you and I have discussed, so do not be concerned.’
‘Poaching,’ said Michael immediately. ‘It might not affect our agreement, but as Senior Proctor I cannot stand by and watch
you entice away our best students.’
‘As luck would have it, he proved unsuitable,’ said Heytesbury. ‘I will not be taking him with me after all.’
‘What business could possibly bring a Cambridge monk and an Oxford philosopher together?’ asked Richard curiously. ‘Especially
since Master Heytesbury told me today that he had never been to Cambridge before.’
Then Heytesbury was lying, thought Bartholomew, listening to the philosopher explaining to Richard that the correspondence
between him and Michael had been by letter. Bartholomew remembered very clearly the last time he had seen Heytesbury – at
a clandestine meeting on some wasteland in Cambridge the previous year. Heytesbury had been trying to learn from a mutual
acquaintance whether Michael was a man to be trusted. Fortunately for Michael, the friend put allegiance to Cambridge above
an ancient friendship, and had encouraged Heytesbury to proceed in his negotiations with the monk. Heytesbury, quite rightly,
had been suspicious of an offer that seemed to favour Oxford, but the monk was hoping the man’s natural greed would encourage
him to sign anyway.
Bartholomew noted that Heytesbury was as vague about their business as Michael had been, and supposed such subterfuge came
naturally to men like them. He wondered what would happen if Heytesbury discovered that a number of people in Cambridge already
knew that something was afoot between Michael and the scholar from Merton. Michael had been discreet, but the news had been
announced the previous November – when Ralph de Langelee had wanted to make sure Michael was not elected Master of Michaelhouse
and had used the Oxford story to stain the monk’s reputation – and it had not taken long for the word to spread. But Michael
would not want Heytesbury to discuss the case with Richard, who knew that the monk was no bumbling incompetent whose sole
ambition was for personal power, but a skilled manager of intrigues who would best even a clever man like Heytesbury, given
the chance. Michael wanted Heytesbury lulled into a false sense of security, so that he would sign the
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