the occasion by decking
themselves out in their best clothes and strolling along the town’s main thoroughfares. It was a time for visiting family
and friends, for enjoying bright sunshine and street performers. Strictly speaking, entertainment was forbidden on such a
holy day, but neither the University nor the town made any effort to enforce the rule, and the narrow lanes were full of singers,
dancers, magicians, fire-eaters and jugglers. The streets echoed withrattling drums, trilling pipes and the babble of excited conversation.
It was not just townsmen who were making the best of a mild spring day and some free time. Students wearing the distinctive
uniforms of their foundations were out in force. Normally, the presence of so many liveries would have resulted in brawls,
as ancient grievances between Colleges and hostels were resurrected. This year, however, the scholars had laid aside their
differences to concentrate on a common enemy: the town. The rent war was seen as an attempt to suppress their
studium generale
, and the more alarmist among them were braying that it was the greatest threat academia had yet faced. If the town won, they
said, and rents were indeed trebled, other privileges would disappear, too – such as affordable ale, bread and fuel, the prices
of which were also kept artificially low by the University Statutes. Michael did his best to control the rumours, but it was
like trying to stem the flow of a river. The scholars believed they were under attack, and the uncompromising stance taken
by the landlords was doing nothing to dispel the illusion.
The hostels were bearing the brunt of the dispute. Landlords declined to carry out essential repairs until their tenants agreed
to the new terms, so students were forced to leave when conditions became intolerable. Alternatively, when leases expired,
the owners refused to renew them, so scholars suddenly found themselves ousted from houses they had inhabited for years. Naturally,
the University fined the landlords for their audacity, but the landlords were refusing to pay up – and the University was
astonished to learn that it did not know how to make them.
‘Look at the way those lads from King’s Hall are glaring at the mason’s apprentices,’ panted Michael as he waddled along at
Bartholomew’s side. The fat monk wasnot built for moving at speed. ‘They would dearly love to fight.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the students of Rudd’s and Margaret’s hostels, who have hated each other for years, have joined forces
to menace those pot-boys from the Angel.’
‘But they are still outnumbered,’ said Michael. He heaved a sigh of relief when the scholars backed down and moved away. Immediately,
the pot-boys broke into a chorus of jeers and catcalls, but the students showed admirable restraint, perhaps because the Senior
Proctor was watching.
He and Bartholomew, with Falmeresham and Carton in tow, hurried along Milne Street, a major thoroughfare named after the mills
that thumped and creaked at its southernmost end. First, they passed Ovyng Hostel with its rotting timbers and dirty plaster,
then the back of Gonville Hall, a small but wealthy institution that specialised in training lawyers. Then came Trinity Hall
and Clare, both with high walls protecting them from the ravages of resentful townsmen – and the ravages of rival foundations.
Beyond Clare lay the little church of St John Zachary, and in the distance were the thatched roofs and gables of the Carmelite
Friary.
Sandwiched between the University’s property, mostly on the eastern side of the road, were the homes and shops of merchants.
Elegant pargeting and glazed windows indicated that Cambridge was a thriving commercial centre, as well as a place of learning
and education. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, owned one of the grandest, although he preferred to live outside
the town, using his Milne Street premises