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contrary to orders, too. They include Vale of Gonville Hall; the London brothers from the stationer’s shop; Sawtre and Walkelate from King’s Hall; and, I am ashamed to say, Northwood from our own Order. All are traitorous wretches who should be made to pay.’
    ‘They should,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘But most will have realised the folly of their ways by now, so you must call another Convocation, Brother. I imagine the result will be very different next time. How about July? That is a lovely month for making decisions.’
    Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘Most hostels close during July. Scholars from the Colleges and the religious Orders will still be here, but the others will have gone home.’
    ‘Will they really?’ asked Riborowe, feigning surprise. ‘What a pity that their voices will not be heard, then. Still, I suppose that is democracy for you.’
    ‘All our members should have equal access to books,’argued Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘And as a University, we have a moral obligation to see that they do.’
    ‘These are dangerous principles, Matthew,’ warned Etone. ‘I cannot say I approve.’
    ‘They are not dangerous principles,’ came a voice from behind them. Sawtre, the gentle philosopher from King’s Hall, had overheard the remark as he was passing, and had stopped to join the debate. He was a clever, likeable man with a shiny bald head. ‘They are enlightened principles.’
    ‘Enlightened is another word for heretical,’ countered Riborowe. ‘And your opinion counts for nothing anyway, because
you
are another dissenter.’
    Sawtre smiled with kindly patience, unruffled by the friar’s hostility. ‘And how does having a mind of my own negate my opinion, exactly?’
    Riborowe knew he was unlikely to win a battle of logic with a scholar of Sawtre’s standing, so he continued to rail at Bartholomew instead. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson about unorthodoxy by now. It is said in the town that you are a warlock.’
    Bartholomew winced. He did not need reminding that his medical successes had resulted in a tale that said a pact with the Devil was responsible. His patients – mostly the town’s poor – did not care as long as he made them better, but he disliked the reputation he had acquired. It was especially galling as he had been to some trouble to avoid controversy over the last few years, keeping his ideas and theories to himself, and only practising surgery as a last resort.
    ‘He is not a warlock,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And as most of you White Friars are his patients, I am astonished to hear such remarks from your lips.’
    ‘You are right,’ said Prior Etone, after a brief momentof contemplation. ‘Matthew is the only
medicus
who brings relief to my chilblains. Where would I be if he took umbrage and declined to tend me? So I hereby retract my objection to his foolish opinions about libraries.’
    ‘There are other
medici
in Cambridge,’ said Riborowe sullenly. ‘And our Order should not use one who communes with the Devil, anyway. No matter how good he is with chilblains.’
    ‘Perhaps not, but I would not recommend employing Vale in his place,’ said Jorz fervently. ‘He is more interested in inventing a universal cure-all than in treating real patients. Did I tell you that I showed him my haemorrhoids, and he laughed?’
    ‘Who first mooted the idea of having a Common Library?’ asked Etone, in the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘I cannot imagine Dunning coming up with it on his own.’
    ‘It was Chancellor Tynkell,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He said he wanted to do something “worthwhile” before he retires from office next year.’
    ‘Then you must bear some responsibility for the situation, Brother,’ said Riborowe nastily. ‘Of course Tynkell will be keen to be remembered as something other than your puppet!’
    ‘If he were my puppet, we would not be having this discussion,’ growled Michael, ‘because a