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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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Quenhyth in the kind of voice that indicated he considered it an immense favour. ‘But I was only trying
to help.’
‘Then go back to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And do not “help” without my permission again.’
‘I do not want
him
tampering with my personal places, thank you very much,’ said Isnard after Quenhyth had gone. ‘He can take his green camomile
and lard and shove them up his own arse.’
‘I am sorry, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot help with your itch, either. I do not know what can be done to alleviate
it.’
Isnard sat back with a grimace and folded his arms. ‘Do not worry about that, Doctor. I am already cured. The notion of that
boy loose on my bowels has quite put the itch out of my mind.’
CHAPTER 2
‘And there were doucettes and a rose pudding to follow,’ enthused Michael gleefully the following Saturday, as he walked with
Bartholomew and Michaelhouse’s Master of Civil Law, John Wynewyk, to the Church of St Mary the Great. ‘Along with more Lombard
slices than I have ever seen in one place, although I prefer the almond variety to the date.’
‘We will be late,’ warned Wynewyk, more interested in the debate they were about to engage in than his colleague’s detailed
analysis of the repasts he had enjoyed at various academic and religious institutions during the week. ‘I do not want Gonville
to win the
Disputatio de quodlibet
by default, just because we fail to arrive on time.’
‘All right,’ muttered Michael, not pleased to have his culinary reminiscences cut short. ‘I am going as fast as I can. I thought
you would be interested in what is eaten at the high tables of other Colleges, since you hold Michaelhouse’s purse strings
these days. Gonville keeps a remarkably fine table, and Michaelhouse … well, Michaelhouse does not.’
‘Langelee trusts me to spend our funds sensibly,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘That means peas for pottage and flour for bread, not
cream and sugars for custards.’
Although the monk complained constantly that Michaelhouse’s fare was inferior to that of other institutions, and his colleagues
had learned to take his grumbles with a grain of salt, Bartholomew thought his gripes were currently justified. For some unaccountable
reason the standard ofCollege food had plummeted dramatically during the last two weeks, and even the least discerning scholars had been prompted
to comment on it. Bartholomew supposed that Wynewyk had been obliged to use the funds usually earmarked for victuals for some
other – doubtless equally deserving – purpose, and just hoped the situation would not be permanent. It was not pleasant to
be hungry all the time.
He was about to ask, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them. With the memory of Isnard’s shattered leg fresh in his
mind, Bartholomew darted to one side of the road, with his friends not far behind; even the obese Michael could move quickly
when life and limb were under threat. A horse galloped past, too fast for a narrow thoroughfare like St Michael’s Lane. It
reached the end of the street and its rider wheeled it around, to return at a more sedate trot.
‘Rob Thorpe,’ said Michael heavily when he recognised the culprit. Wynewyk immediately raised his hood and bowed his head,
and Bartholomew saw that Thorpe’s reputation had gone before him. Even men like Wynewyk, who had not been in Cambridge when
the lad had embarked on his spree of violence, were unwilling to attract his attention. ‘So, it is true. You have indeed decided
to return to the town you used so badly.’
Thorpe had changed during the two years that he had been in exile. He was no longer a bony, gangly youth with immature fluff
framing a childish face. He was a man, with a man’s strength and a man’s confidence, even though he was not yet twenty. He
was clean shaven, and wore a close-cut quilted tunic with buttoned sleeves – called a
to help.’
‘Then go back to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And do not “help” without my permission again.’
‘I do not want
him
tampering with my personal places, thank you very much,’ said Isnard after Quenhyth had gone. ‘He can take his green camomile
and lard and shove them up his own arse.’
‘I am sorry, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot help with your itch, either. I do not know what can be done to alleviate
it.’
Isnard sat back with a grimace and folded his arms. ‘Do not worry about that, Doctor. I am already cured. The notion of that
boy loose on my bowels has quite put the itch out of my mind.’
CHAPTER 2
‘And there were doucettes and a rose pudding to follow,’ enthused Michael gleefully the following Saturday, as he walked with
Bartholomew and Michaelhouse’s Master of Civil Law, John Wynewyk, to the Church of St Mary the Great. ‘Along with more Lombard
slices than I have ever seen in one place, although I prefer the almond variety to the date.’
‘We will be late,’ warned Wynewyk, more interested in the debate they were about to engage in than his colleague’s detailed
analysis of the repasts he had enjoyed at various academic and religious institutions during the week. ‘I do not want Gonville
to win the
Disputatio de quodlibet
by default, just because we fail to arrive on time.’
‘All right,’ muttered Michael, not pleased to have his culinary reminiscences cut short. ‘I am going as fast as I can. I thought
you would be interested in what is eaten at the high tables of other Colleges, since you hold Michaelhouse’s purse strings
these days. Gonville keeps a remarkably fine table, and Michaelhouse … well, Michaelhouse does not.’
‘Langelee trusts me to spend our funds sensibly,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘That means peas for pottage and flour for bread, not
cream and sugars for custards.’
Although the monk complained constantly that Michaelhouse’s fare was inferior to that of other institutions, and his colleagues
had learned to take his grumbles with a grain of salt, Bartholomew thought his gripes were currently justified. For some unaccountable
reason the standard ofCollege food had plummeted dramatically during the last two weeks, and even the least discerning scholars had been prompted
to comment on it. Bartholomew supposed that Wynewyk had been obliged to use the funds usually earmarked for victuals for some
other – doubtless equally deserving – purpose, and just hoped the situation would not be permanent. It was not pleasant to
be hungry all the time.
He was about to ask, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them. With the memory of Isnard’s shattered leg fresh in his
mind, Bartholomew darted to one side of the road, with his friends not far behind; even the obese Michael could move quickly
when life and limb were under threat. A horse galloped past, too fast for a narrow thoroughfare like St Michael’s Lane. It
reached the end of the street and its rider wheeled it around, to return at a more sedate trot.
‘Rob Thorpe,’ said Michael heavily when he recognised the culprit. Wynewyk immediately raised his hood and bowed his head,
and Bartholomew saw that Thorpe’s reputation had gone before him. Even men like Wynewyk, who had not been in Cambridge when
the lad had embarked on his spree of violence, were unwilling to attract his attention. ‘So, it is true. You have indeed decided
to return to the town you used so badly.’
Thorpe had changed during the two years that he had been in exile. He was no longer a bony, gangly youth with immature fluff
framing a childish face. He was a man, with a man’s strength and a man’s confidence, even though he was not yet twenty. He
was clean shaven, and wore a close-cut quilted tunic with buttoned sleeves – called a
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