But it was more than a status symbol to Bartholomew: it was a haven from the hectic round that comprised his life, and the final resting place of many much-loved colleagues. Heart in his mouth, he raced towards it, hating the notion that it might be lost. ‘Thank God,’ gasped Michael, when they arrived to find the bonfire blazing merrily but the church unscathed. ‘I was sure disaster had struck.’ Bartholomew nodded as he leaned against a buttress to catch his breath, thinking sourly that there had been no need for the townsfolk to have built their pyre quite so high. Perhaps they did hope it would damage University property, which was galling, as Michaelhouse had tried hard to win their affection. Not only did he physick many of them without charge, but Michael ran a choir that was essentially an excuse to provide the needy with free food, while the other Fellows gave money they could ill afford to charitable causes or said free Masses for anyone who asked. ‘People have short and selective memories,’ said Michael soberly, reading his friend’s thoughts.
