students’ responsibility to provide. Falconer poked his head in Peter Mithian’s cell. It was he whose duty it was that week to arise first. He must have done so as the regent master’s water had been outside his door. But clearly tiredness had overtaken the clerk again as soon as he had performed that early duty. He lay on a bare plank bed innocent of any mattress. On the floor around him were scattered two books, a candlestick bearing the nub of a candle, a gimlet, a hornpipe and a wooden spoon. Amongst all these, his worldly possessions, Mithian was fast asleep. Falconer stirred him with his boot.
‘Get up and pay your way, boy,’ he grumbled. The few shillings Falconer earned annually in fees for teaching were supplemented by the commons paid for ten or a dozen students lodging in Aristotle’s Hall. But even after he had paid his landlord, Oseney Abbey, its rent, the money didn’t stretch very far. Especially as Falconer took a few poor students on who had a begging licence from the university. Their passage through the university was made possible by working for the richer students and living off their scraps. Peter Mithian was one of those beggar clerks, and though Falconer hated it, he needed to keep the boy up to the mark. He would find no other way out of his poverty and needed his qualifications.
Peter Mithian yawned, stretched, then realized who had roused him and why. Blushing deeply across his chubby, boyish features, he scrambled off his bed.
‘I am sorry, master. I was conning my texts until the early hours with a candle Tom gave me.’
Tom Youlden was one of the rich students in Falconer’s hall. His generosity, however, seemed not to run to providing a mattress for Peter. Falconer was mortified that he had not noticed before that one of his charges was sleeping on bare boards.
‘Where is your mattress, Peter? Did you not have one when you came?’
Mithian cast his eyes to the ground and mumbled some words Falconer did not understand.
‘What, boy? Speak up.’
‘I sold it to buy these books.’ He snatched the two precious books up from the floor where they had fallen when he had finally lost his battle with staying awake the night before. Falconer gently took them from his grasp and examined them. One was the Topics of Boethius and the other Priscian’s De constructione – both basic texts for the clerks at university. He carefully gave them back to Peter.
‘You should have come to me. I can lend you any books you may want. And as for the mattress, I believe there is an old one in the shed in the yard. It will need mending and airing by the fire, mind. And talking of the fire, you had better get last night’s embers going before we all freeze to death.’
Peter Mithian responded to Falconer’s final peremptory tones and scuttled from his cubicle to attend to his duties. Meanwhile, the regent master foraged for himself and found some dry bread that he moistened with ale from the barrel in the hall. With the fire downstairs not yet providing any heat, he retreated to his own solar, wrapping himself in the still-warm blanket from his bed until such time as the sun struck through the window and warmed the room. Behind him, high on his perch, his owl, Balthazar, ruffled its feathers and stared impassively down. Night-time was its time for activity, and the day was for sleeping.
‘You are lucky, bird. You can sleep the day away wrapped in your own down blanket while others have to toil for a living.’
Falconer’s grumble was interrupted by a tentative knock at his door. He called out for whoever it was to come in. Peter Mithian poked his head round the door, a scared look in his eyes. He didn’t like inflicting his presence on the regent master, preferring to remain unnoticed. By doing so, he was less likely to be picked on when it came to awkward questions about logic and grammar. But this morning had put him in the full light of day, so he had decided to take advantage of
‘Get up and pay your way, boy,’ he grumbled. The few shillings Falconer earned annually in fees for teaching were supplemented by the commons paid for ten or a dozen students lodging in Aristotle’s Hall. But even after he had paid his landlord, Oseney Abbey, its rent, the money didn’t stretch very far. Especially as Falconer took a few poor students on who had a begging licence from the university. Their passage through the university was made possible by working for the richer students and living off their scraps. Peter Mithian was one of those beggar clerks, and though Falconer hated it, he needed to keep the boy up to the mark. He would find no other way out of his poverty and needed his qualifications.
Peter Mithian yawned, stretched, then realized who had roused him and why. Blushing deeply across his chubby, boyish features, he scrambled off his bed.
‘I am sorry, master. I was conning my texts until the early hours with a candle Tom gave me.’
Tom Youlden was one of the rich students in Falconer’s hall. His generosity, however, seemed not to run to providing a mattress for Peter. Falconer was mortified that he had not noticed before that one of his charges was sleeping on bare boards.
‘Where is your mattress, Peter? Did you not have one when you came?’
Mithian cast his eyes to the ground and mumbled some words Falconer did not understand.
‘What, boy? Speak up.’
‘I sold it to buy these books.’ He snatched the two precious books up from the floor where they had fallen when he had finally lost his battle with staying awake the night before. Falconer gently took them from his grasp and examined them. One was the Topics of Boethius and the other Priscian’s De constructione – both basic texts for the clerks at university. He carefully gave them back to Peter.
‘You should have come to me. I can lend you any books you may want. And as for the mattress, I believe there is an old one in the shed in the yard. It will need mending and airing by the fire, mind. And talking of the fire, you had better get last night’s embers going before we all freeze to death.’
Peter Mithian responded to Falconer’s final peremptory tones and scuttled from his cubicle to attend to his duties. Meanwhile, the regent master foraged for himself and found some dry bread that he moistened with ale from the barrel in the hall. With the fire downstairs not yet providing any heat, he retreated to his own solar, wrapping himself in the still-warm blanket from his bed until such time as the sun struck through the window and warmed the room. Behind him, high on his perch, his owl, Balthazar, ruffled its feathers and stared impassively down. Night-time was its time for activity, and the day was for sleeping.
‘You are lucky, bird. You can sleep the day away wrapped in your own down blanket while others have to toil for a living.’
Falconer’s grumble was interrupted by a tentative knock at his door. He called out for whoever it was to come in. Peter Mithian poked his head round the door, a scared look in his eyes. He didn’t like inflicting his presence on the regent master, preferring to remain unnoticed. By doing so, he was less likely to be picked on when it came to awkward questions about logic and grammar. But this morning had put him in the full light of day, so he had decided to take advantage of
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