as a bequest to the college a remarkable collection of literary and classical texts, many of which he copied in his own hand. He studied in Italy, you know, and brought many manuscripts back from the corners of Europe at the end of the last century,’ he added.
‘Really? I should very much like to see your collection,’ I said, my pulse quickening. ‘Do you know if Dean Flemyng visited Florence at all during his travels? Around the 1460s?’
The rector gave a little swagger with his shoulders. ‘He certainly did – a number of books in our collection bear the inscription of the great Florentine bookseller Vespasiano da Basticci, dealer to Cosimo de’ Medici, as I’m sure you know. Does this period particularly interest you?’
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my face neutral, and clasped my hands together so that their trembling would not betray my excitement.
‘You know, every Italian scholar must be fascinated by Cosimo’s library – at that time he had envoys travelling through all Europe and the Byzantine empire in search of undiscovered texts to augment his collection. I knew a descendant of Vespasiano once, in Paris,’ I added lightly. ‘I should be extremely interested to see which of these rare treasures Dean Flemyng brought back to Oxford with him, if I may.’
Was it my imagination, or did the rector look slightly uncomfortable?
‘Well, you must ask Master Godwyn, our librarian, to show you the collection – he will be delighted to share his knowledge, I’m sure. But for now you must be longing to change your clothes and take supper. And if you want to have a shave first –’ here he cast a critical eye over my hair and beard – ‘we have a barber in the college. The porter will let you know where to find him. Usually the senior Fellows and I dine in hall with the undergraduates, but it is a noisy affair and for your first evening in Oxford I thought you might prefer something more sedate. Therefore I would like to invite you to join my family and a few select guests to dine in my own lodgings, which you see there next to the hall, abutting the south range.’
‘Your family?’ I said, surprised. ‘You are not a bachelor, then?’
‘We are no longer a community of clerics here in Oxford, Doctor Bruno,’ he said with a modest laugh. ‘Priests of the Church of England may marry – in fact, Her Majesty positively encourages them to do so, to further distinguish themselves from those of the Roman faith – and likewise for the heads of colleges here, though I admit we are still very much in the minority. I suspect it is not a life to tempt many wives – university society is somewhat limited for ladies – but my dear Margaret is a rare woman and professes to have been happy enough here these past six years, excepting …’ Here he broke off and it was as if a cloud passed over his face, before he resumed, in a lighter tone. ‘She does not dine with us in hall, according to the regulations, so she is always delighted to be able to entertain guests in our own rooms. I shall go now and tell her you are arrived, and call a servant to show you to your room. Perhaps in an hour you would like to make your way over – just go through that right-hand archway beside the hall and you will see a wooden door off the passage.’
We had no sooner moved out from the shelter of the gatehouse arch to venture through the rain across the quadrangle than we were interrupted by an urgent cry.
‘Rector! Rector Underhill – wait, I pray you!’
From the north side of the quadrangle a figure was running towards us, a tattered black scholar’s gown fluttering behind him, with a paper in his hand which he brandished as if there were some imminent emergency. I noticed the rector’s face set tight for a moment in annoyance. The young man slid to a halt in front of us on the wet flagstones and I saw that he was perhaps twenty years of age, and very shabbily dressed, his shirt and breeches patched and his shoes thin and worn through at the toe. He looked from me to the rector with an expression of great anxiety and said, breathlessly,
‘Rector Underhill, is this your esteemed visitor from the court? I beg you, give me leave to speak to him.’
‘Thomas,’ the rector looked supremely irritated, ‘this is neither the time nor the place. Kindly show some decorum before our guest.’
To my surprise, the boy then turned to me, dropped to his knees there on the wet ground and clutched the hem of my cloak in one hand, pressing his scrap of paper into my hand with the other.
‘My lord, I beseech you, take pity on one whom God has forgotten. Give this letter to your uncle, I beg of you, and ask him to pardon my poor father and let him return, please, my lord, if you have any Christian compassion, grant me this favour and take his suit to the earl, tell him Edmund Allen repents of his sins.’
There was a wildness in his eyes, and his evident distress moved me. Guessing his misunderstanding. I laid a hand gently on his head.
‘Son, I would gladly help, but my uncle was a stonemason in Naples, I cannot imagine he would be much use to you. Come.’ I took his hand and helped him to his feet.
‘But …’ He started at my accent, then his face reddened violently and he looked at me in an anguish of confusion as he realised his mistake. ‘Oh. I beg your pardon, my lord. You are not Sir Philip Sidney?’
‘Alas, no,’ I said, ‘though I am flattered you should mistake us – he is a good half-foot taller than I, and six years younger. But I will see him tomorrow, most likely – is there some message I might convey to him?’
‘Thank you, Doctor Bruno, that is kind but it won’t be necessary, this is no more than an impertinent intrusion,’ the rector cut in brusquely. Then he turned to the boy with barely suppressed anger. ‘Thomas Allen, have some care for your manners. I will not have you assaulting guests of the college. Must you be disciplined again? Do not forget how fragile is your position here. Back to your studies, Master Allen – or else I’m sure you must have some servant’s duties to attend to. You will not trouble Doctor Bruno again during his stay, do you understand my meaning?’
The boy nodded miserably, lifting his eyes briefly to see if I was in agreement with the rector’s harsh words. I tried to convey my sympathy in my face.
‘And look to your dress, boy,’ the rector called after him as he sloped away, defeated. ‘You shame the college looking like a beggar as you do.’
The boy turned then, mustered what little scrap of dignity remained to him and said, with his head high,
‘I cannot afford new clothes, Rector Underhill, and you well know why, so do not ask me to apologise for what is no fault of my own.’ Then he disappeared into one of the staircases on the west range.
The rector stood looking after him for a moment, perhaps shamed by his own severity.
‘That poor boy,’ he said eventually, shaking his head.
‘Why poor?’ I asked, curious. ‘Who is he?’
‘Let us step inside your staircase here, it will not do for you to have another soaking,’ he said, motioning to the furthest archway on the south range. We ducked into its shadows out of the rain. ‘It is a sad story, that boy has suffered much for one so young. I am sorry you were troubled by him.’
I shook my head; I was intrigued by the boy’s words.
‘His name is Thomas Allen. His father, Doctor Edmund Allen, was a Doctor of Divinity here in Oxford and my sub-rector in the college last year.’
‘Are all the Fellows permitted to live with
