Death of a Scholar by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

mild that morning, they were thrown wide open, and sunlight streamed in, bright and cheering.
    He stood behind his seat at the high table, and watched his colleagues take their places. The Master was in the centre, with Father William on one side and Michael on the other. Bartholomew was next to Michael, with the College’s Dominican, John Clippesby, next to him. Clippesby was generally deemed to be insane, because he talked to animals and claimed they answered back. Yet he was gentle, honest and patient with his students. Hemmysby was at the end, quiet, priestly and in desperate need of a haircut – his normally neat curls had been allowed to blossom into a thick thatch that was faintly ridiculous.
    Unfortunately, the rules of seniority put Thelnetham next to William, something that might have been avoided if Suttone the Carmelite had been willing to move. Suttone refused, on the grounds that he had no wish to have one adversary on either side of him, predicting – probably justifiably – that they would just continue to argue across him.
    With eight days still to go before the start of term, the hall was only half full, as many students had yet to return. Bartholomew was the only Fellow who insisted that his pupils begin studying the moment they arrived, although Michael’s sombre theologians were hard at work of their own volition, as were a number of youthful first-years, eager to make a good impression.
    When everyone was standing behind his seat and the clatter of conversation had died away, Langelee intoned one of his peculiar graces, which comprised half-remembered clips from other prayers, all jumbled together without reference to content or meaning. He spoke with a booming confidence that impressed anyone who had no Latin but bemused those who did, after which everyone sat, and waited for the servants to bring the food.
    Meals were supposed to be taken in silence at Michaelhouse, the only voice that of the Bible Scholar reading the scriptures. In reality, Fellows were a talkative horde, and rarely paid heed to this particular rule. The students followed their example, so it was not long before the hall was full of animated banter. At the high table, Michael began to list all the Colleges, hostels and houses that had been burgled of late – cleverly executed crimes that neither he nor the Deputy Sheriff had been able to solve. Thelnetham cut across him.
    ‘I really must complain, Master. William has stolen the ale I bought for the paupers in the choir. It is a disgusting act of selfishness.’
    Thelnetham – refined, fastidious and with a penchant for enlivening the plain habit of his Order with outrageously colourful accessories; there were yellow bows on his shoes that day – was one of the most able scholars in the University, and it was inevitable that he and the grubby, dim-witted William should fall out.
    ‘I thought it was there for everyone, and I was thirsty,’ objected William, using the loud, hectoring tones he reserved for spats with Thelnetham. He had originally been with the Inquisition, but had been ousted because his cronies had deemed him too zealous. Bartholomew and Michael were used to his idiosyncrasies, but the newer Fellows found him difficult to take. He was physically repellent, too: his Franciscan habit rarely saw the laundry, and he had thick, greasy hair that sprouted untidily around a lopsided tonsure.
    ‘We shall observe silence today,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘It is the Feast Day of Saint Gratinule, and we should all reflect on his martyrdom.’
    ‘Saint who?’ Thelnetham narrowed his eyes. ‘I hope you have not invented him, because you decline to address my complaint.’
    ‘How did he die?’ asked William ghoulishly.
    ‘He choked on a walnut,’ replied Langelee, seeing a bowl of them on the table in front of him.
    ‘That is hardly martyrdom, Master,’ said William, doubtfully. ‘And—’
    ‘He perished while giving the Host to the King of Rome,’