Death of a Scholar by Susanna Gregory Page A

their
studium generale
,’ gloated Holm. ‘And next week’s ceremony is just the start. Winwick will soon be the largest College in Cambridge, and by controlling it, we shall control the University.’
    ‘Take no notice,’ murmured Julitta, squeezing Bartholomew’s hand as her husband strutted away. ‘He is in a bad mood because he had a row with Hugo Potmoor. It was over the Michaelhouse Choir if you can believe it.’
    The choir in question was Michael’s concern, a body of spectacularly untalented individuals who attended practices solely for the free bread and ale afterwards. They had a reputation for performances so loud that they could be heard miles away, and Bartholomew had never understood why Michael, an accomplished musician, steadfastly refused to accept that they were a lost cause.
    ‘Michael wants to use them in the ceremony,’ Julitta elaborated. ‘Hugo thinks it is an excellent idea, but Will has heard them sing. Will does not
want
to argue with the son of a man who is … well, suffice to say,
I
should not like to cross a Potmoor.’
    Bartholomew continued his journey, wishing with all his heart that Julitta’s father had not betrothed her to Holm. Then he would have wed her, and Matilde would not have re-entered his life to create such a turmoil of conflicting feelings. Of course, it would have meant giving up the teaching he loved, as scholars were not permitted to marry. Then a vision of Goodwyn came to mind, along with all the lectures he needed to prepare, and a change of career suddenly seemed rather appealing.
    He arrived to find the Tulyet house in uproar, which was not uncommon when Dickon had hurt himself – he was the kind of lad who wanted everyone else to suffer, too. The servants had retreated to the back of the house for safety, and Dickon himself was in the kitchen, bawling at the top of his very considerable voice.
    ‘Dickon, please!’ his mother was begging. ‘What will your father think when he hears about the fuss you have made?’
    ‘He will have forgotten by the time he comes home,’ yelled Dickon. He had thick, heavy features, and bore no resemblance to either of his slim, graceful parents; it was widely believed that his mother had entertained the Devil the night he had been conceived. ‘Which might be weeks yet. He said so in the last letter he wrote to you – the one you keep in your little purple box.’
    ‘You poked about in my personal things?’ cried Mistress Tulyet, shocked. ‘Dickon!’
    ‘Go away!’ howled the boy when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Or I shall stab you with my sword.’
    The weapon was on the table, and the physician’s lunge towards it was marginally quicker than Dickon’s. The boy’s eyes widened in fury when he saw the blade in the hands of his opponent.
    ‘Give it to me,’ he ordered between gritted teeth.
    ‘Behave yourself, Dickon,’ commanded his mother. Her voice was so unsteady with shock and distress that it carried scant conviction. ‘Or I shall tell Deputy de Stannell.’
    The boy sneered. ‘He is not a
real
soldier. He pretends to be like Father, but he cannot even ride. I watched him all last night in the castle – he is taking secret lessons from Sergeant Helbye, so he will not make an ass of himself when he sits on a horse in town processions.’
    ‘You should have been in bed,’ said Mistress Tulyet weakly. ‘And what have I told you about spying on people?’
    Needless to say, Dickon was unmoved by the reprimand. ‘It was fun. The lesson started at midnight, and finished at dawn. Poor Helbye was exhausted by the end of it, although de Stannell still cannot ride. But what can you expect from a man who looks like a monkey?’
    ‘He is very good at administration,’ said Mistress Tulyet, somewhat feebly. ‘And that is more important than horsemanship while your father is away.’
    Tiring of the discussion, Dickon made a grab for the sword, obliging Bartholomew to raise it above his head where it could not be