poor hostess. She seemed a melancholic and sickly woman, but I recalled what the rector had told me about their son; I had seen such symptoms previously in women who had lost a child, often years after the death, as if the mind itself had taken some wasting sickness from which it could not recover, and I felt profoundly sorry for her. It was hard to credit that such a forlorn creature could have been the author of the lively girl at the other end of the table.
The second half of the meal passed with considerably less interest than the first, now that I had been removed from Sophia’s company. My new dining companions introduced themselves: opposite me sat Master Walter Slythurst, the college bursar, a bony, thin-lipped man of my own age with narrow, suspicious eyes and lank hair that fell in curtains around his face. Beside him was Doctor James Coverdale, a plump man of about forty with a great sweep of dark hair, a close-cropped beard and an air of complacency, who explained that he was the proctor, the official responsible for the students’ discipline. To my right was Master Richard Godwyn, the librarian, who appeared older, perhaps fifty, and whose large, drooping features reminded me of a bloodhound, as though his skin were too big for his face, though his gloomy countenance was transformed when he allowed a brief smile to illuminate it as he shook my hand. All were courteous enough, but I could not help but wish I had been allowed to continue my discussion with Sophia. It was clear that the tenor of our conversation had angered her father; she was now seated next to him, on the same side of the table as me, so that I could not see her without rudely leaning around my neighbour Godwyn and drawing attention to myself.
‘I fear you have had to suffer the sharp end of William Bernard’s tongue up there, Doctor Bruno,’ said James Coverdale, leaning across the table.
‘He seems disappointed with the world as he finds it,’ I observed, checking to see that Bernard had been moved far enough away to be out of earshot.
‘It is often the way with old men,’ Godwyn said, with a sombre nod. ‘He has weathered a great many changes in his seventy winters, it cannot be easy.’
‘If he continues to speak his mind as plainly among the undergraduates as he does among his fellows, he will soon go the way of his friend,’ said Slythurst, in a clipped tone that suggested he would not be displeased at such an outcome. I do not like to judge men on appearance and so little acquaintance, but there was something about the bursar that did not invite respect. He had been staring at me intently from the moment I sat down, and I sensed that the look was not friendly.
‘His friend?’ I asked.
Coverdale sighed.
‘It is a sorry business, Doctor Bruno, and a source of shame to the college – the former sub-rector, Doctor Allen, was deprived of office last year after he was discovered to have …’ he hesitated, looking for a diplomatic expression ‘… perjured himself in swearing the Oath of Supremacy. It seemed he was still a devout communicant of the Roman Church.’
‘Really? How was he discovered?’
‘Denounced by an anonymous source,’ Coverdale said, as if relishing the intrigue. ‘But when his room was searched, he was found in possession of a quantity of banned papist literature. And of course the sub-rector holds the second highest office in the college, and is in charge whenever the rector is absent, so you may imagine the scandal. A number of us here had to testify against him in the Chancellor’s Court.’
‘The university holds its own legal sessions to enforce discipline,’ explained Godwyn the librarian in a lugubrious tone. ‘Though in a matter of such import the Privy Council also took an active interest. The Earl of Leicester – our chancellor, you know – has repeatedly charged the heads of colleges to rid themselves of all suspicion of popery so the rector had to be seen to strike swift and hard against Allen.’
‘Doctor Underhill was formerly the Earl of Leicester’s own chaplain, as he has no doubt boasted to you already,’ added Slythurst. ‘He could not have pardoned Allen and kept his own position.’
‘Yet Allen hoped for a pardon,’ Coverdale interjected. ‘And for better loyalty from his friends. In that he was badly disappointed.’
‘I think the rector did his duty with a heavy heart, James,’ Godwyn said, with a meaningful look at Coverdale. ‘Indeed it grieved all of us to have to bear public witness to his errors.’
‘Roger Mercer gave his testimony quickly enough,’ said Coverdale, glancing with barely concealed anger down the table to where Mercer was laughing merrily with Florio. I saw Slythurst roll his eyes, as if he had heard this grievance many times before. ‘And he was supposed to be Allen’s closest friend. Still, he got his thirty pieces of silver, did he not?’
‘Silver?’ I asked.
‘His testimony was crucial to condemning Allen, and for that he was given Allen’s position when he was deprived,’ Coverdale said bitterly.
‘Perhaps I should clarify for Doctor Bruno that, traditionally, it is the proctor who succeeds as sub-rector, just as the sub-rector goes on to become rector,’ Godwyn explained. ‘This is the way it has always been done – there is a congregation of the Fellows, of course, but the vote is really a formal seal of approval on the established succession.’
‘But since the present rector was placed here by the Earl of Leicester, to do his bidding,’ Coverdale hissed, hunching down in his seat so that he would not be heard, ‘he shows scant regard for tradition and appoints those he finds most pliable. And we all know why Leicester forced through Underhill’s election,’ he added significantly.
‘James,’ said Slythurst, a warning in his voice.
‘I understood it was to enforce propriety in religion,’ I said. ‘Cut out the canker of popery.’
‘Oh, that is the official reason.’ Coverdale waved a dismissive hand. ‘But the college owns substantial manors and parcels of profitable farmland in Oxfordshire, you understand – many of which are now leased at a most advantageous rate to friends of Leicester, are they not, Master Bursar?’
‘You forget yourself, James,’ Slythurst said smoothly. ‘Doctor Bruno here is a friend of the Earl of Leicester.’
‘Indeed, I have never met him,’ I said hastily. ‘I merely travel with his nephew.’
‘In any case,’ Coverdale continued, warming to his theme, ‘the college loses valuable profit and must struggle to make ends meet by admitting legions of these so-called gentlemen commoners – paying students who have neither the inclination nor the talent to be scholars and gad about the town wenching and gambling and bringing the university into disrepute.’
‘This is not an appropriate subject for the supper table,’ said Slythurst, in a voice thick with cold anger, bringing down his palm flat against the board just firmly enough to signal his displeasure. ‘There is nothing improper about those leases, moreover the disbursal of college funds can be of no interest to our guest. A little discretion, if you please, gentlemen.’
The Fellows looked down, embarrassed; an uncomfortable silence loomed.
‘Doctor Coverdale,’ I said, turning to the proctor with a diplomatic smile, ‘you were telling me about the trial of Edmund Allen – please do go on.’
Coverdale exchanged a look with Slythurst that I could not read, then folded his hands together.
‘I was saying only that Mercer’s testimony against Allen carried great weight in the trial, not least because he
