Excerpt
The Cardinal
Chapter 11482Tom was trying to concentrate. All around him, boys—most of them fifteen, four years older than he—were busy at their studies, but he was distracted by the noise of building works going on beyond the mullioned windows, and it was hard to drag his attention back to the Latin translation on which he was supposed to be laboring, for he was too busy thinking about the construction of the new buildings and wondering how such a project would be managed. How did one get all those men and materials in the right place at the right time? But the approach of the master, beak-nosed, cane in hand, had him bending, squinting, to his book and vigorously dipping his quill in the inkwell.
The master paused, peering over his shoulder, then nodded and passed along the form, presumably seeking out other victims. Tom had already seen how quick he was to lash out with that cane.
His translation was soon finished, but the other boys were still scratching away with their quills. Tom pretended to be reading over the passage, but in reality he was deciphering the graffiti carved into the desk, doubtless by past pupils steeped in misery. Learning, he thought, should be a pleasure, but the prospect of four years of this stern regime was daunting.
He had been so thrilled to be awarded a place at Oxford, had fallen in love at first sight with the city, its ornate colleges, its quads and spires and its teeming student population. He had yearned with a passion to delve deep into its famous libraries and immerse himself in the knowledge of centuries. But now he felt that the vibrant life of the university was passing him by, and he wondered if he would ever truly be a part of it.
The day yawned ahead. It was not yet seven o’clock, when they would all troop meekly to daily Mass, which would no doubt be followed by an interminable sermon exhorting them to virtuous behavior. Then there would be lectures until commons, where the fare was invariably beef broth, pottage, and weak ale, and after that, private study or tutorials until bed, which was at eight o’clock in winter and nine o’clock in summer. It was like being in a monastery, although monks and friars probably had more freedom.
It was just his luck to end up at an Oxford college run by a religious fanatic who was determined to purge boys of their natural instincts. It was all very well for Bishop Wayneflete. The old graybeard’s juices had long since dried up, and he had apparently forgotten what it was like to enjoy the rough and tumble of life with a horde of lads just on the cusp of adulthood, all eager to laugh, jest, and play pranks. Tom doubted that Wicked Wayneflete had ever played a prank in his life. No, he just enjoyed making their existence as miserable as possible, with his petty rules and his abhorrence of levity of any sort.
Tom had been shocked to find that he and his fellow scholars were not permitted to speak their mother tongue, apart from on feast days. They were made to converse in Latin, and woe betide any who lapsed into English. He winced at the memory of a beating he had received during his first week, when he had not quite realized how important the rule was. Of course, it wonderfully concentrated the mind. If they wanted to communicate effectively, the boys had to learn Latin quickly. Tom was deeply grateful for his innate talent for languages. Thanks to his grammar-school education, and his own quick mind, he was competent in Latin and fluent in French.
He had been beaten too for swearing. He had not thought he could be overheard, but the masters seemed to have ears like hunting dogs, always on the alert for transgressions.
The other boys had taken pity on him, for most were older than he was. When, at the end of his first arduous day, he had retreated to the dorter, ready to enjoy his limited leisure time, and taken his dice from his traveling chest, they had stared at him in horror.
“Put them away!” one boy cried. “We are not allowed to play games of chance. Old Beaky could look in at any time.”
“And you should cut your hair,” another said.
“I know,” said Tom. “They told me that when I arrived last night, but I haven’t had a chance.”
“You should not delay. If they see you with long hair, you’ll get the whip,” a slight youth said. “I’ll cut it for you.”
Tom was appalled to find himself quickly shorn of his chestnut locks, hacked none too tidily into obedience.
He’d been told off when he whispered to his neighbor during a lecture, and again for finding Caesar’s commentary on the Gallic Wars funny.
“No laughing in lectures!” the master thundered, then rounded on a boy who had arrived late, waving his cane at him.
“Sorry, sir, I was sick, sir,” the boy faltered, looking terrified, and a little green.
“You look perfectly well to me!” rapped Beaky, and gave him six lashes on the hand. Tom could see that the boy was trying not to cry.
When he himself had asked to be excused attendance in chapel because of a headache that had suddenly descended, it was refused. “It is mandatory that you be there,” he was told. “Don’t ask for leave of absence again. If you absent yourself, you will be flogged.”
Tom had bowed his head, trying to ignore its throbbing, and done his best to perform his devotions. He felt bruised, not wanting his masters to think him eager to miss chapel, for he loved God and desired to serve Him to the best of his ability.
But it was so easy to commit a transgression. Even now, after several weeks at college, he found himself breaking one of the many rules. Yesterday afternoon, he had left a beautifully illuminated manuscript from the college library open while he went to fetch more paper. Seconds later, there was Beaky, looking over his desk with a face like a storm.
“It is forbidden to leave costly books open!” he barked.
Tom shrank into himself, apologizing profusely and anticipating a beating. But a miracle happened: the master let him off. “Don’t do it again,” he commanded.
Tom was relieved to get to bed that evening. Lying beside his restless companion—boys under fifteen had to share a bed—he could not stop thinking of home. He supposed he was lucky and ought to be grateful, but right now he wished he was back in Ipswich.
His parents’ inn was not a poor abode by any means. It was solid, timbered, warm and welcoming. Father was a busy man who could, and often did, turn his hand to anything. He was the proprietor of both the inn and a butcher’s shop, and a yeoman farmer. He owned land out at Sternfield, where he grazed his animals. Ships from Ipswich carried his wool to the English market at Calais, where it was sold on to Burgundy, a trade that had made Ipswich prosperous. Tom had acquired an early understanding of how important the wool business was to England; it had been drummed into him. But Father was not a member of a guild, or a man of the standing of Uncle Edmund. Tom’s mother’s brother was a very important man, a rich merchant and a burgess who represented Ipswich in Parliament itself. Indeed, if it had not been for Uncle Edmund, Tom would not be here now, lying on a thin mattress in this chilly dorter. Robert Wolsey, by contrast, was too irascible and uncompromising to win the confidence of influential men. And for as long as Tom could remember, he had been in and out of the courts.
For all his faults, though, Tom loved his father, who clearly wanted the best for him, his older brothers, sickly Rob and sweet-natured William, and who was not above showing them affection. Impatient with others, he would take the time to teach them how to milk a cow, chop meat, or reckon bills; or he would take the whole family to the markets and fairs that were held on bustling Cornhill, where they lived. But Tom loved his mother more. He had heard it said, by people who probably thought he wasn’t listening, that Father had married above him, and he supposed it was true, for Mother’s family, the Daundys, were wealthy and influential yeoman stock from Thetford. Mother was not quite gentry, but she had gentle ways and there was a daintiness about her that other town wives lacked. She was kind, devout, and generous-hearted. Tom adored her.
Both she and his father were eager to see him do well, and Uncle Edmund was always there, saying that such a brilliant young mind must be nurtured.
