Walcote said approvingly, ‘Occam was a great man – a nominalist, like me.’
‘You are a nominalist?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘What has induced you to follow a ridiculous notion like that?’
Walcote swallowed nervously, uncomfortable with Michael’s disapproval. ‘It makes sense. It is a good way of looking at the universe.’
‘So is realism,’ countered Michael.
Walcote immediately backed down in the way Bartholomew noted he always did when faced with serious opposition. It was an aspect of the Junior Proctor’s character that Bartholomew thought unappealing and Michael found aggravating. ‘I suppose it is. They both are.’
‘Actually, to be honest, I do not think one theory has any more to offer than the other,’ Michael went on pompously, also noting Walcote’s reluctance to stand up for what he believed. ‘They are both pathetic, desperate attempts that try to allow us to comprehend a world that was never created to be understood. What we are meant to understand is people – the lies they tell and the plots they hatch.’
‘As you say, Brother,’ said Walcote, chastened.
‘But we are not supposed to devise complex solutions to what are simple problems,’ said Bartholomew, trying to bring the discussion back to his original point. ‘That is the basis of Occam’s razor.’
‘What has Occam’s razor to do with Faricius’s death?’ asked Michael irritably. He seemed disheartened by Walcote’s meekness, and Bartholomew supposed he was questioning yet again the suitability of a man like Walcote to be a proctor.
‘It says that the conclusion with the fewest assumptions should always be taken over the one with more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The simplest, most parsimonious theory is always the right one. Therefore, I deduce that the Carmelites are lying because Lincolne does not want to appear as though he has no control over his friars. And that is all.’
‘Believe what you will, Matt,’ said Michael superiorly. ‘You will find that you are wrong and we are right. It is too late today, but tomorrow morning you must come with me to the Dominican Friary to see whether you can identify these six student-friars you saw near Faricius before he died.’
‘Do you not think it wiser to go now?’ suggested Walcote timidly. ‘Why wait?’
‘Two reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘First, it is almost dark and friars will be preparing for compline. And second, because I want these Dominicans to reflect on what they have done. It may make them more willing to confess.’
‘But what if they take the opportunity to run away from Cambridge?’ asked Walcote uneasily. ‘You may visit the Dominican Friary tomorrow and find they have fled.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘The beadles will detain anyone attempting to leave Cambridge under cover of darkness, and to flee is a clear statement of guilt. We will have them either way.’
‘If you say so, Brother,’ said Walcote unhappily.
The Dominican Friary lay outside the town gates, to the east of the King’s Ditch. The Ditch split away from the River Cam near the castle in the north, then it and the river encircled the town like a huge pair of pincers until they met again in the south near the Trumpington Gate. Not only were the waterways clear markers of the town’s boundaries, but they provided a certain degree of protection. Few people were inclined to wade or swim across the sluggish, sewage-filled channels, so most traffic entering or leaving Cambridge went through one of its two gates or crossed one of its two bridges.
The oval-shaped area enclosed by the Ditch and the river was full to overflowing with buildings and tofts. This part of the town was little more than half a mile in length, and yet it boasted ten churches, several chapels, three friaries, St John’s Hospital and six of the University’s eight Colleges. In addition, there were about thirty hostels and halls, and a large number of houses in which the townsfolk lived. Some of these were grand and spacious, like the one that Bartholomew’s sister and her husband owned, while others were little more than hovels, clinging to each other in a losing battle against gravity.
When the Dominicans had first arrived in Cambridge in the 1230s, they had decided against wedging themselves into a town that was already bursting at the seams, and had instead purchased a house and land on Hadstock Way. From these humble beginnings, the friary had grown into an assortment of handsome buildings enclosed by a sturdy wall. The wall was necessary partly because rival Orders occasionally physically attacked each other, and partly because the friary’s location outside the town rendered it vulnerable to the attentions of outlaws.
Like Michaelhouse, the friary was built of a honey-coloured sandstone that had been specially imported from the quarries at Barnack, near Peterborough. There was a refectory with long tables where the friars ate, with a chamber above that served as their sleeping quarters. Then there was a separate kitchen block with an attic that provided accommodation for the servants, stables, and an elegant chapel and suite of rooms in which the Prior resided. A sizeable portion of the garden had been set aside as a graveyard – which Bartholomew recalled had seen a lot of use during the plague – and nearby were well-tended vegetable plots that provided cabbages, peas and beans to supplement the friars’ meals.
It was mid-morning, and the sun was fighting against heavy grey clouds. A few bright rays had penetrated the east window of St Michael’s Church that Palm Sunday morning, but by the time Bartholomew and Michael had eaten breakfast, any evidence of the approach of the long-awaited spring had been smothered by clouds that had blown in from the south west.
Normally, Bartholomew would have been resentful that Michael’s request to help him solve a murder obliged him to miss teaching duties, but Palm Sunday heralded the beginning of Easter Week, when lectures were only scheduled for the mornings, ostensibly so that the scholars could spend more time in church. Students and masters alike were looking forward to Easter Sunday the following week, when they would celebrate the end of the forty days of Lent with a feast. As Lincolne had noted, all the University’s students were restless and fretful, and the masters were finding it increasingly difficult to force them to study or to hold their concentration.
When Bartholomew and Michael reached the Dominican Friary, the first thing they saw was a small group of sullen Carmelite student-friars, eyeing the tall walls resentfully and muttering to each other in low voices.
‘And just what do you think you are doing?’ demanded Michael, making several of the white-robed novices jump. They exchanged guilty looks.
‘Nothing,’ said the one with the missing teeth, whom Bartholomew recognised as Horneby. His friend, the freckle-faced Simon Lynne, was just behind him. ‘We are just taking the air.’
‘Well, you can “just take the air” inside your own friary,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Be off with you!’
Most of them, Lynne included, immediately began to slink away, but the fiery Horneby held his ground and the others hesitated, wanting to see what would happen.
‘It is not fair!’ Horneby burst out. ‘The Dominicans killed Faricius, and yet nothing has been done about it. You do not care!’
Michael sighed. ‘I can assure you that I have thought of little else but Faricius’s murder since yesterday, and I care very much that his killer is brought to justice. I have my own reasons for leaving the Dominicans alone until this morning – all my experience and instincts told me that I would stand a better chance of forcing the killer to confess by waiting, not rushing.’
‘We do not believe you,’ said Lynne, almost tearfully. ‘So, it is for us to avenge poor Faricius.’
‘It is for you to go home,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Hurry up, or I shall fine the lot of you for attempting to cause a riot.’
‘It is because he is a nominalist, like the Dominicans,’ said Horneby bitterly to Lynne, casting a resentful glare in Michael’s direction. ‘That is why he will do nothing about Faricius’s murder–’
‘What is nominalism, Horneby?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across Horneby’s angry wor
ds. ‘Explain it to me.’
Horneby gazed at him, and then shot a red-faced glance at his companions. Michael raised his eyebrows and hid a smile.
‘What do you mean?’ Horneby asked nervously.
‘Define nominalism,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘It is a perfectly simple request. Or tell me why you follow realism. I do not mind which.’
‘Why?’ demanded Horneby. ‘Will you summon the Devil to refute my arguments?’
‘I will refute nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will simply listen to what you say.’
He stood with his arms folded and waited. To one side, Michael leaned against the friary wall and watched the scene with amusement glinting in the depths of his green eyes. Horneby cast another agitated glance at his colleagues, hoping one of them would come to his rescue. None did.
‘It is about whether things do or do not exist,’ he stammered eventually. ‘Some things do exist, and some things do not.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘No,’ said Horneby. ‘I do not choose to be specific.’
‘I fail to see why everyone seems to have taken sides in a debate that so few people understand,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head in genuine mystification. ‘You are prepared to lurk outside a friary filled with hostile Dominicans over something you cannot even define.’
‘Prior Lincolne says that nominalism is heresy,’ said Horneby sullenly.
‘Lincolne is one of realism’s most vocal proponents,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Everyone knows his feelings on the matter. But I do not understand why you have also embraced the philosophy. Is it just because he tells you to?’
Horneby glowered at him. ‘God is on the side of the just,’ he declared hotly. ‘Numbers are irrelevant.’
‘They are not,’ Bartholomew pointed out practically. ‘If the Dominicans decided to come out now, you would find yourselves outnumbered at least five to one. Go home, Horneby, and take your friends with you. This is no place for you.’
Michael watched approvingly as the White Friars began to walk away. An unpleasant incident had been averted, although he sensed that his friend’s point was as lost on the Carmelites as it would have been on the Dominicans. As Bartholomew had explained to his sister the previous day, the debate itself was not important – it was simply an excuse for a fight.
‘We should make sure they do not come back,’ Michael said, beginning to follow them. ‘They were unable to answer your arguments, but that will not stop them attacking any Dominicans they meet.’
But the Carmelites were aware of the stern eyes of the Senior Proctor behind, and they returned to their friary without further incident. Michael looked grim as he watched the door close, then turned to walk back to the Dominican Friary. As they made their way along the High Street, Bartholomew spotted his sister. Her cloak was damp and tendrils of dark hair escaped from what had probably been a neat plait earlier that morning. She seemed breathless and rather bemused.
‘I have just ridden from Trumpington,’ she explained, referring to the small village two miles to the south of Cambridge where her husband owned a manor. ‘Richard accompanied me.’
‘From your windswept appearance, I take it that he did so at a rather more brisk pace than you are used to,’ said Michael, amused.
Edith nodded. ‘It was a compromise. He wanted to ride like the wind, I wanted to walk. We settled on a brisk trot, which suited neither of us. Next time, I will ask someone else to escort me.’
‘And how is Richard?’ asked Michael. ‘I have not seen him since his triumphant return to Cambridge with his new law degree.’
‘He is well,’ replied Edith, ‘although I do not approve of that ear-ring he has taken to wearing. It makes him look like a courtier.’
‘Perhaps that is the idea,’ said Michael. ‘I imagine most of our students would dearly love to sport gold bangles dangling from their lobes, but, fortunately, the University forbids such displays of fashion. It is a pity in a way: they would certainly provide a convenient handhold when their owners are arrested.’
Bartholomew winced at the idea. ‘Why are you in town today?’ he asked Edith. ‘And how did you manage to prise Richard from his bed before noon?’
She smiled. ‘I have come to collect butter for our dinner tomorrow celebrating Richard’s return. You are still coming, I hope, Matt? He will be disappointed if you do not.’
‘Of course I am coming,’ said Bartholomew, looking away, so that she would not be able to read in his face that he had forgotten all about her invitation. ‘What time did you say?’
‘Evening,’ said Edith. ‘But before sunset. You do not need me to tell you that outlaws make the roads unsafe for a lone man at night.’
‘What are you having to eat?’ asked Michael keenly, in a brazen attempt to inveigle an invitation. The students were not alone in becoming bored with the endless Lenten fare of bean stews and stale bread, and the monk knew that Edith would prepare something special in honour of her beloved only son. ‘Fish? Lombard slices?’
‘River trout stuffed with almonds, raisin bread, and I have been baking pastries most of this week,’ she replied, a little unsettled by the monk’s intense interest. ‘Meat is still forbidden, of course, but fish can be made interesting with a little imagination.’
‘It certainly can,’ agreed Michael vehemently. ‘What kind of pastries?’
‘There are your Benedictine friends,’ said Bartholomew, uncomfortable that Michael was quizzing his sister about what was supposed to be a family occasion. ‘Janius and Timothy.’
‘I will see you tomorrow,’ said Edith to Bartholomew. She nodded to the two Benedictines as they approached, and then was gone, carrying Michael’s hopes for a good meal with her.
Timothy and Janius greeted Michael warmly, and Janius sketched a benediction at him. Both carried large baskets and said they had been distributing bread to the town’s poor.
‘Have you found your killer yet?’ asked Timothy. ‘The scholarly Faricius did not deserve to die in such a manner.’
‘It is not pleasant to think of a killer walking the streets of our town,’ agreed Janius. ‘I hope it will not be long before he is apprehended.’
‘So do I,’ said Michael. ‘Matt and I are going to the Dominican Friary now, to see whether he can identify the students who were near Faricius yesterday afternoon.’
‘Can we do anything?’ offered Janius. ‘We remembered Faricius in our prayers, of course, but if we can do anything else, you must let us know.’
‘I tried to help yesterday,’ said Timothy, sounding uncomfortable at mentioning something that might sound boastful. ‘Because I was keen to do all I could to avert bloodshed, I accompanied Beadle Meadowman to the Carmelite Friary to ensure that Prior Lincolne would admit him – I was afraid a beadle would not be granted an audience with an important man like a Prior.’
‘I would fine any friary that denied access to my beadles,’ said Michael. ‘But thank you. I suppose the Carmelites could have declined to open the door.’
‘Fortunately, Lincolne was wiser than that,’ said Timothy. ‘I heard Meadowman deliver your order that all Carmelites were to remain within their friary until further notice, and then returned to my own hall as quickly as I could. I did not want to add to your troubles by providing a lone Benedictine for the Dominicans to vent their ire upon.’
‘Actually, the Dominicans and the Benedictines have a truce at the moment,’ said Janius. ‘We both accept nominalism as a basic truth. But I do not think most students really care about the realism – nominalism debate. It is just a convenient excuse for a good fight.’
‘That is certainly true,’ said Michael. ‘But I will have these six Dominicans under lock and key today, if I think they are responsible for Faricius’s death.’
‘Good,’ said Janius. ‘We will pray that justice is done. Now, in fact.’
He crossed himself vigorously and his blue eyes lit with pleasure as he sensed a cause that
was worthy of his religious attentions. He bade farewell to Michael, and began to stride towards the Church of St Andrew that stood just outside the Barnwell Gate. Timothy followed him, his head already bowed as he began his own pious meditations.
‘They are good men,’ said Michael warmly, watching them go. ‘And there are not many of those around these days.’
Chapter 2
ON THEIR WAY BACK TO THE DOMINICAN FRIARY, Bartholomew and Michael met Walcote, who offered to accompany them with a pack of beadles, in case the Dominicans took exception to the Senior Proctor arresting some of their number. With Walcote and the men at his heels, Michael strode up to the friary gate and hammered on it. It was answered almost immediately by a strange-looking man, whose hair stood in an uncertain halo around his tonsure and who had a wild look in his eyes.
‘Clippesby,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were at Michaelhouse, overseeing the polishing of our silver in preparation for Easter.’
‘I finished that,’ said Clippesby shyly. ‘Then I offered to help the cooks shred the cabbage, but they were afraid I might cut myself, so I went for a walk instead.’
Then the cooks had been very tactful, thought Bartholomew, hiding a smile. It was well known in the town that the Dominican John Clippesby, Michaelhouse’s master of music and astronomy, was not entirely in control of his faculties, and that he was always being given time-consuming and usually pointless tasks to keep him out of harm’s way. The cooks would certainly not want him in the kitchen with a sharp knife in his hands.
‘But what are you doing here?’ pressed Michael, suspecting that Clippesby had somehow slipped past the porters, and that the Master of Michaelhouse did not know he was at large.
‘I heard there was trouble between my Order and the Carmelites, so I thought I should come to see what was happening,’ replied Clippesby. ‘But I was just leaving, actually. For some reason, Prior Morden said he did not want me here, and suggested that I should go home.’
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