‘That is not exactly right,’ said Bartholomew, as Michael turned away in disgust.
‘Yes, it is,’ snapped William. ‘So there.’
‘Aristotle and Plato believed that the world contains abstract concepts – like the quality of blueness or beauty – that are actually real,’ began Bartholomew, determined that if the Franciscan were prepared to take a stand on the issue, then he should know what he was talking about. ‘They called these things “universals”. They also believed that the world contains individual things that are blue or beautiful – like a blue flower – which they called “particulars”.’
‘I know, I know,’ muttered William, who clearly did not. He regarded Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘But what have Aristotle and Plato to do with nominalism?’
Michael sighed heavily at his lack of knowledge. ‘They were the first realists. You should know this. It is what you claim is the non-heretical thing to think.’
‘Nominalists believe that universals have no real existence,’ explained Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s outburst. ‘They say that blue things exist – like the sky, that bowl on the table, the stone in Michael’s ring – but the quality of blueness is an abstract and does not exist. So, universals are imaginary concepts, and only particulars are real.’
‘Oh,’ said William flatly, so that Bartholomew could not tell whether he had grasped the essence of the argument or not. ‘Why are they called nominalists, then? This makes no sense.’
‘It does. The word “men” describes a group of people. It is a name, a nomen. Nominalists say that “men” is not a thing that has an actual existence, it is only a name describing a group of individuals. A “man” is a real thing – a particular – and so exists; but “men” is a universal and so does not.’
William blew out his cheeks. ‘This is all very complicated, Matthew. If you are going to explain it to your students, you will need to simplify it a good deal.’
Bartholomew caught Michael’s eye and willed himself not to laugh. He had already simplified the debate and had not even begun to explain its ramifications for the study of logic, grammar and rhetoric. When the Dominican Kyrkeby gave his lecture on nominalism for the University debate the following Sunday, Bartholomew was certain the Franciscans would not be sending William to refute his arguments.
‘And Plato and Aristotle thought all this up, did they?’ asked William, after a moment.
‘No, Plato and Aristotle were realists,’ said Bartholomew patiently, not looking at Michael. ‘Nominalism was revived a few years ago by William of Occam, who was a scholar at Oxford.’
‘Shameful man,’ pronounced William. ‘He should have left things as they were.’
‘Occam was a student of Duns Scotus,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Duns Scotus was a strong believer in realism, but Occam gradually came to disagree with his master.’
‘Duns Scotus was a Franciscan,’ said William smugly. ‘That is why I know realism is right and nominalism is wrong. But I cannot spend all day lounging in here with you when there is God’s work to be done. I have teaching to do. Let me know this afternoon what you want me to do to help you catch Walcote’s killer.’
‘You have wasted your time, Matt,’ said Michael in disgust when the Franciscan had gone. ‘You tried to teach him the essence of the argument, but he simply clung to his own bigoted notions that realism was propounded by a Franciscan and so must be right.’
‘He is not the only one to hold views like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect that most people can argue a little more coherently.’
‘I hope so. But he was right about one thing,’ said Michael, standing and reaching for the cloak that lay across the bottom of his straw mattress. ‘We should not be wasting time here when we have murderers to catch.’
‘Before we visit Barnwell Priory to examine Walcote’s body, I think I had better see Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. ‘I do not want William visiting the man and demanding to be made Junior Proctor before I have informed him who to appoint.’
‘You told William that Tynkell already has someone else in mind,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He does,’ replied Michael with a grin. ‘Only he does not know it yet.’
The Chancellor of the University occupied a cramped office in St Mary’s Church, although he fared better than his proctors, who were relegated to a room that was little more than a lean-to shed outside. Tynkell glanced up as Michael walked into his chamber, and smiled a greeting. He was a thin man, who Bartholomew understood took some pride in the fact that he had never washed, being of the belief that water was bad for the skin. His office certainly suggested that there might be some truth in the rumour, because it was imbued with a sour, sickly odour. Tynkell attempted to disguise his unclean smell by dousing himself with perfumes, although Bartholomew thought he should use something much stronger, and seriously considered offering to find out from whom Richard Stanmore purchased his powerfully scented hair oil. The Chancellor laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, transferring a long smear of ink on to one cheek. Bartholomew wondered how long it would remain there.
‘I suppose it is too soon for you to have any news about the murder of Will Walcote?’ he asked. ‘You have not had time to begin your investigation.’
‘But I have thought of little else since last night,’ said Michael. ‘We are on our way to Barnwell Priory, to inspect his body and to ask among his colleagues whether he had any enemies.’
‘I thought you would have known that, Brother,’ said Tynkell. ‘If Walcote had enemies, they were made while carrying out his duties as your deputy.’
‘Speaking of my deputy, I would like you to appoint one of the Benedictines from Ely Hall as Walcote’s replacement. Either Timothy or Janius would be acceptable.’
‘Timothy,’ said Tynkell immediately, taking up his pen and beginning to write the order. ‘Beadle Meadowman informs me that Timothy was a soldier before he took the cowl, and that is exactly the kind of man we need as a proctor. Janius would also be good, but he is smaller and thus less able to wrestle with burly young students in their cups.’
‘He is stronger than he appears,’ said Michael. ‘And he is very good at talking sense to people. On balance, I suspect he would be better than Timothy, who is slower and milder.’
‘But Janius is so… religious,’ said Tynkell, frowning.
‘He is a monk,’ interjected Bartholomew. ‘He is supposed to be religious.’
But despite his flippant words to Tynkell, Bartholomew knew what the Chancellor meant. Janius could scarcely utter a sentence without mentioning matters holy, and even Bartholomew, who was usually tolerant of other people’s beliefs and habits, found the force of Janius’s convictions unsettling.
‘There is a difference between the religion we all practise and the religion that Janius promotes,’ said Tynkell. ‘Janius always wears that serene smile that makes him appear as though he has been in direct contact with God, and that he knows something the rest of us do not.’
‘Master Kenyngham is like that,’ said Michael.
‘It is not the same,’ insisted Tynkell. ‘Janius’s religion is so intense and… preachy. I cannot think of another word to describe it. It makes me feel acutely uncomfortable and rather inferior.’
Bartholomew understood his sentiments perfectly. Kenyngham’s devoutness was much more humble than that of Janius, and the elderly Gilbertine certainly did not give the impression that he knew he was bound for the pearly gates, although Bartholomew imagined he was more likely to be admitted than anyone else he knew. Janius, however, exuded the sense that he already had one foot and several toes through the heavenly portals, and that he felt sorry for everyone else because they did not. Timothy had a similar attitude, although it was less flagrant.
‘You have a point,’ said Michael. ‘I always feel I should not swear when I am with Janius, which could prove tiresome in some circumstan
ces. Very well: Brother Timothy it is. I shall go to Ely Hall immediately, and inform him of his good fortune.’
‘Do you not think you should ask him first?’ said Bartholomew, thinking that he would not be very pleased to be presented with a writ informing him that his days would now be spent visiting taverns to ensure they were free of undergraduates, or trying to suppress riots.
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He will be delighted to do his duty. Come, Matt. Let us go and give him the happy news.’
Ely Hall, where the Benedictines lived, was a large, two-storeyed house on Petty Cury, overlooking the Market Square and St Mary’s Church. It was a timber-framed building, the front of which had been plastered and then painted a deep gold, so that it added a spot of colour to an otherwise drab street. The door was bare, but the wood had been scrubbed clean, and someone had engraved a cross and a rough depiction of St Benedict in the lintel.
Michael’s knock was answered by Janius, whose blue eyes crinkled with pleasure when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. He ushered them inside, then preceded them along a narrow passageway to a large chamber at the back of the building, which served as a refectory and conclave. A flight of wooden stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew knew from his previous visit had been divided into six tiny chambers where the masters and their students slept.
Several black-robed monks were in the refectory that morning, most of them reading or writing. Through a window that overlooked a dirty yard at the rear of the house, Bartholomew could see a lean-to with smoke issuing through its thatched roof; cooking often started fires, and the Benedictines, like many people in the town, had opted to do most of theirs outside their house. Meanwhile, a merry blaze burned in the hearth of the refectory, and there was an atmosphere of good-natured industry.
Brother Timothy was in one corner, reading a battered copy of William Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. He frowned slightly, concentrating on what was a difficult text. Janius had apparently been sitting at the table making notes on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, a text that, along with the Bible, formed the basis of theological studies at Cambridge. Sitting by the fire was another familiar face, that of Brother Adam, an ageing monk whom Bartholomew treated for a weakness of the lungs. They all looked up as Michael and Bartholomew entered the room. Timothy stood, and came to touch Michael on the shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.
‘We were so sorry to hear about Will Walcote. We will say a mass for his soul later today.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘But I came here to ask you whether you would take his place as Junior Proctor.’
‘Me?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘But I could not possibly undertake such a task.’
‘I told you,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot expect people to abandon everything on your command.’
‘To be called to perform such duties is a great honour for the Benedictines,’ said old Adam from his fireside chair. ‘You should accept Michael’s offer, Timothy.’
Timothy shook his head, flushing red. ‘I could never fulfil such duties as well as Michael has. I would be a disappointment to him.’
‘It is true you would have high standards to aim for,’ said Michael immodestly. ‘But I feel you would be the ideal man for the post, and so does Chancellor Tynkell.’
‘The Chancellor?’ whispered Timothy, flushing more deeply than ever. ‘But I scarcely know him. What have I done to attract his attention?’
‘Accept, Brother,’ said Janius, his eyes shining with the light of the saved. ‘God has called you and you cannot deny Him.’
‘I thought Michael had called you,’ muttered Adam from the fireside. ‘It is hardly the same thing, no matter what Michael thinks of himself.’
Janius ignored him, and gripped Timothy’s arm. ‘God wants you to serve Him and our Order. To have a senior and a junior proctor who are Black Monks will be excellent for the University, and it will go a long way to setting us above the disputes between the friars.’
Bartholomew was not so sure about that, and suspected that many people would see Timothy’s appointment as favouritism on Michael’s part, and as a deliberate move to secure the best positions in the University for men in his own Order.
‘I cannot accept,’ said Timothy, shaking his head and refusing to look at Michael.
‘There is always Father William,’ muttered Bartholomew wickedly in Michael’s ear.
Michael’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. ‘Very well. If you have teaching that you cannot escape, or other duties that are important, then there is nothing I can do to persuade you.’
‘You misunderstand,’ said Timothy. ‘I cannot accept because I will not be good enough.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Michael relieved. ‘Give me a week, and I will prove that you are perfect for the task. In fact, I anticipate that you will be the best Junior Proctor I have ever had – and I have had a few, believe me.’
Timothy still hesitated, and it was Janius who spoke up. ‘We will undertake Timothy’s teaching duties when necessary, and will do all we can to support both of you. It is God’s will.’
Timothy sighed and then smiled at Michael. ‘When would you like me to start?’
‘Now,’ said Michael briskly, apparently deciding that Timothy should be allowed no time to reconsider. ‘I knew a Benedictine would be a good choice. The ink is barely dry on the parchment, and yet you are prepared to abandon your personal duties to help me in this difficult situation.’
While they were talking, Bartholomew crouched down next to Brother Adam. The monk was small and wizened, and the murky blue rings around his irises suggested failing eyesight, as well as extreme old age. A few hairs sprouted from the top of his wrinkled head, but not nearly as many as sprouted from his ears.
‘How are you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is good to see you out of your bed.’
The old monk grinned with toothless gums. ‘The brethren do not normally permit themselves the indulgence of a fire during the day, but Janius always has one lit when he thinks I might come downstairs. He imagines I have not guessed why there is always a blaze in the hearth just when I happen to leave my room. His religion can be a little unsettling from time to time, but he is a good man, to think of an old man’s pride.’
‘And your lungs?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you breathing easier now?’
‘Your potion helps,’ said Adam, ‘although I long for warmer weather. Spring is very late this year, and Lent has been interminable. Still, as I am elderly and ill, Brother Timothy insists that I be fed meat at least three times a week.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Timothy was an enlightened man not to demand that the restrictions of Lent be kept by the old and infirm. Although the Rule of St Benedict suggested more lenient guidelines for the sick, not everyone accepted them. He was sure Father William would not be so compassionate. ‘I hope you do not refuse it because meat is forbidden in Lent.’
The old monk raised his eyebrows and regarded him in amusement. ‘I am no martyr, Doctor. If I am commanded to eat meat, then eat it I shall. And my brethren have always been good to me. I will not burden them by insisting on doing things that are bad for me and that make me ill. It would be very selfish.’
‘I wish all my patients had that attitude,’ said Bartholomew fervently. He stood as Michael and Timothy made for the door.
‘If you are going to Barnwell, then I shall accompany you,’ said Janius, reaching for a basket that stood in a corner. ‘I have eggs and butter to take to the nearby leper hospital, so I can do God’s work and enjoy your company at the same time.’
He took a cloth from a rack where laundry was drying, and covered the basket to protect its contents from the rain, then set out after the others.
Chapter 4
WALCOTE’S BODY LAY IN THE CONVENTUAL CHURCH AT the Austin canons’ foundation at Barnwell. Barnwell was a tiny settlement outside Cambridge, comprising a few houses and the priory itself. Beyond it was another small
hamlet called Stourbridge, famous for its annual fair and its leper hospital.
The priory was reached by a walk of about half a mile along a desolate path known as the Barnwell Causeway. Once the town had been left behind, and the handsome collection of buildings that belonged to the Benedictine nuns at St Radegund’s had been passed, Fen-edge vegetation took over. Shallow bogs lined the sides of the track, and stunted elder and aspen trees hunched over them, as if attempting to shrink away from the icy winds that often howled in from the flat expanses to the north and east. Reeds and rushes waved and hissed back and forth, and the grey sky that stretched above always seemed much larger in the Fens than it did elsewhere. As they walked, more briskly than usual because it was cold, ducks flapped in sudden agitation in the undergrowth, and then flew away with piercing cackles.
‘Damned birds!’ muttered Michael, clutching his chest. ‘No wonder people like to poach here. I would not mind taking an arrow to some of those things myself! That would teach them to startle an honest man.’
The Fens were known to be the haunt of outlaws, and Bartholomew kept a wary watch on the road that stretched ahead of them, as well as casting frequent glances behind. Since the plague had taken so many agricultural labourers, the price of flour had risen to the point where many people could not afford bread. Three well-dressed Benedictines and a physician with a heavy satchel over one shoulder would provide desperate people with a tempting target.
Michael seemed unconcerned by the prospect of attack, and was more interested in outlining the duties of Junior Proctor to Timothy. Timothy himself was more prudent, and carried a heavy staff that Bartholomew was sure was not a walking aid. Janius was also alert, and Bartholomew could see that he possessed the kind of wiry strength that was easily able to best larger men. While Michael continued to regale Timothy with details of his new obligations, Janius fell behind to walk with the physician.
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