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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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handsome gift, but three of his finest students.’
Bartholomew winced, hoping Tuddenham would not embark upon any lengthy discussions with the woefully unacademic Rob Deynman. There was not another student in the entire University who was in Deynman’s league for atrocious scholarship, and even after three years of painstaking care and effort on Bartholomew’s part, Deynman remained as cheerfully ignorant as on the day he had arrived.
‘And is one of these fine students Unwin?’ asked Tuddenham, flattered, and treating Michael to a display of his long teeth. ‘The man who will become our new priest when the old one retires?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Unwin is keen to make your acquaintance as quickly as possible.’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Tuddenham, rubbing his hands together again. ‘This is all working out most agreeably.’
It was pleasant sitting in the sun and watching the revelry on the green. At noon, the sun became so warm that Bartholomew, drowsy from the ale, fell asleep, and did not wake until well into the afternoon. He looked around for his colleagues, and was disturbed to hear that Alcote and the students had still not arrived. He considered going to look for them, but Cynric did not seem to share his concern, suggesting that Alcote must have stopped for a meal at an inn along the way, and that they should give him a little longer.
While he had been asleep, a colourful awning had been erected over the Tuddenhams’ table, and Michael sat under it, regaling the knight and his family with stories of life in Cambridge, while devouring a plate of cakes that had been set in front of him. Seeing him awake, Isilia came to fill Bartholomew’s cup with yet more ale. To avoid being caught staring at her again, he studiously watched some jugglers on the green, only looking at her when she left, to admire the way her green dress clung to her slender hips.
When she had returned to her seat, Tuddenham took Michael’s arm, and led him to where Bartholomew leaned comfortably against the sun-warmed stones of the churchyard wall. William joined them, not wanting to be left out of any interesting discussions. Tuddenham glanced furtively at his wife and mother, both now conveniently out of earshot, and then turned his attention to the scholars.
‘Now you have taken some ale and slept a while, can you make a start on the advowson?’
‘Tomorrow would be better,’ said Michael, regarding the notion of immediate labour without enthusiasm. ‘We will be rested, and less likely to make mistakes that will later need to be rectified.’
Bartholomew agreed. Keen though he was to return to Cambridge, advowsons were invariably complicated documents, and mistakes made early in the proceedings usually resulted in delays later.
‘He wants to get rid of us as quickly as possible,’ said William to Bartholomew, in a whisper that Tuddenham would have to have been deaf not to hear. ‘I said seven scholars was too many.’
‘Then perhaps a little wine might help,’ said Tuddenham to Michael, beckoning to his wife to bring some. ‘Ale is no drink to stimulate the brain.’ When Isilia presented her guests with the wine, the goblets proved to be enormous, and Bartholomew did not know how he would finish his, as well as the ale, without becoming drunk. He need not have worried: Michael downed most of his own in a single gulp, and then furtively switched vessels with the physician in the hope that he would not notice.
Isilia sat next to Bartholomew and refilled the cup in front of him, while Father William – no more in the mood for writing legal texts that evening than Michael and Bartholomew – invented a host of spurious reasons why work on the advowson would be better undertaken the following day.
Isilia frowned thoughtfully before addressing Bartholomew. ‘Grundisburgh Church is a very rich living. Why did Michaelhouse appoint a student to be a priest, rather than a Fellow like you?’
She smiled at him,
Bartholomew winced, hoping Tuddenham would not embark upon any lengthy discussions with the woefully unacademic Rob Deynman. There was not another student in the entire University who was in Deynman’s league for atrocious scholarship, and even after three years of painstaking care and effort on Bartholomew’s part, Deynman remained as cheerfully ignorant as on the day he had arrived.
‘And is one of these fine students Unwin?’ asked Tuddenham, flattered, and treating Michael to a display of his long teeth. ‘The man who will become our new priest when the old one retires?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Unwin is keen to make your acquaintance as quickly as possible.’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Tuddenham, rubbing his hands together again. ‘This is all working out most agreeably.’
It was pleasant sitting in the sun and watching the revelry on the green. At noon, the sun became so warm that Bartholomew, drowsy from the ale, fell asleep, and did not wake until well into the afternoon. He looked around for his colleagues, and was disturbed to hear that Alcote and the students had still not arrived. He considered going to look for them, but Cynric did not seem to share his concern, suggesting that Alcote must have stopped for a meal at an inn along the way, and that they should give him a little longer.
While he had been asleep, a colourful awning had been erected over the Tuddenhams’ table, and Michael sat under it, regaling the knight and his family with stories of life in Cambridge, while devouring a plate of cakes that had been set in front of him. Seeing him awake, Isilia came to fill Bartholomew’s cup with yet more ale. To avoid being caught staring at her again, he studiously watched some jugglers on the green, only looking at her when she left, to admire the way her green dress clung to her slender hips.
When she had returned to her seat, Tuddenham took Michael’s arm, and led him to where Bartholomew leaned comfortably against the sun-warmed stones of the churchyard wall. William joined them, not wanting to be left out of any interesting discussions. Tuddenham glanced furtively at his wife and mother, both now conveniently out of earshot, and then turned his attention to the scholars.
‘Now you have taken some ale and slept a while, can you make a start on the advowson?’
‘Tomorrow would be better,’ said Michael, regarding the notion of immediate labour without enthusiasm. ‘We will be rested, and less likely to make mistakes that will later need to be rectified.’
Bartholomew agreed. Keen though he was to return to Cambridge, advowsons were invariably complicated documents, and mistakes made early in the proceedings usually resulted in delays later.
‘He wants to get rid of us as quickly as possible,’ said William to Bartholomew, in a whisper that Tuddenham would have to have been deaf not to hear. ‘I said seven scholars was too many.’
‘Then perhaps a little wine might help,’ said Tuddenham to Michael, beckoning to his wife to bring some. ‘Ale is no drink to stimulate the brain.’ When Isilia presented her guests with the wine, the goblets proved to be enormous, and Bartholomew did not know how he would finish his, as well as the ale, without becoming drunk. He need not have worried: Michael downed most of his own in a single gulp, and then furtively switched vessels with the physician in the hope that he would not notice.
Isilia sat next to Bartholomew and refilled the cup in front of him, while Father William – no more in the mood for writing legal texts that evening than Michael and Bartholomew – invented a host of spurious reasons why work on the advowson would be better undertaken the following day.
Isilia frowned thoughtfully before addressing Bartholomew. ‘Grundisburgh Church is a very rich living. Why did Michaelhouse appoint a student to be a priest, rather than a Fellow like you?’
She smiled at him,
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