The atmosphere in the church was one of excited anticipation. Every scholar from Michaelhouse was present, standing on the left of the dais. To the right were the scholars of Gonville, who were mostly priests dressed in habits of brown or white. Bartholomew glanced at the assembled faces in the nave, recognising many; some were friendly, others were not. None were indifferent: everyone had chosen a side. The end-of-term Disputatio was an important occasion, because students had been scarce since the plague and the College that won it could expect more applicants. It was not just simple intellectual rivalry that made this particular debate such an intense affair: there were financial considerations, too.
Someone waved to Bartholomew, making encouraging gestures. It was Thomas Paxtone, who had recently arrived at King’s Hall to take up an appointment as Regent Master of Medicine. After so many years with only the conservative Peterhouse medic Master Lynton, it was a pleasure to have Paxtone in Cambridge. Bartholomew wished he felt as positive towards the second arrival, Rougham of Gonville; although they both maintained an outward show of cordiality towards each other, there was active dislike festering beneath their veneer of civility.
Chancellor Tynkell ascended to the dais when he saw all parties were present, and an expectant hush fell over the assembled scholars. Bartholomew was some distance away, but he could still detect the stale odour that always emanated from the University’s figurehead. Tynkell believed that any form of washing was dangerous, and avoided contact with water if he could. It was rumoured that he did not even like Holy Water on his skin, a tale that had given rise to some wild speculation about his religious beliefs. Bartholomew knew nothing about Tynkell’s personal theology, but he did know that the man was plagued by all manner of digestive complaints. When he had had the temerity to suggest that if the Chancellor rinsed his hands before meals he might lead a more healthy life, Tynkell had promptly dismissed him and hired Rougham instead.
‘Good morning,’ announced Tynkell in his reedy voice. He rubbed his stomach, indicating that he was suffering from whatever he had last eaten. ‘This is the last of our public debates this term, and the outcome of today’s Disputatio de quodlibet will determine which of the Colleges may lay claim to owning the University’s strongest and best disputants. You will be aware that the “Scholars of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St Michael” and the “Scholars of the Hall of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin—”’
‘If he means Michaelhouse and Gonville, then why does he not say so – simply?’ demanded Deynman in a loud whisper that had the scholars of Gonville howling in derisive laughter and his Michaelhouse colleagues ready to teach them a lesson for their poor manners. Langelee went to silence Deynman, to ensure he did not embarrass them with further outbursts.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I hope this does not degenerate into a brawl. Being Senior Proctor is not easy at the best of times, but it is worse when we have five hundred war-thirsty scholars packed into a confined space.’
‘You cannot ban public debates because scholars squabble,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Michael would like to do just that. ‘And not everyone is spoiling for a fight, anyway. Some are here because they want to hear a good argument.’
‘Have you heard what the Question might be?’ whispered Wynewyk, as Tynkell launched into a tedious account about who had won quodlibetical disputations in the past. ‘It would be beneficial to think out some of our arguments in advance.’
‘I have not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘That would be cheating. You know perfectly well that the Question is kept in strictest secrecy, and that Tynkell is very careful about it. Believe me, I had a good look in his office last night after he had gone home, but I could find nothing.’
‘I have decided that Master Warde of Valence Marie will preside,’ intoned Tynkell. This was no surprise. Warde was considered one of the best mediators the University had, and was known for his integrity and even-handedness. He was a good choice.
Warde had apparently anticipated that he would be selected, because he was already waiting. When he heard his name, he climbed stiffly on to the dais and stood next to the Chancellor. Bartholomew saw him wince when he moved, and supposed he was still bruised from when Thomas Mortimer had knocked him down the previous Wednesday. He recalled the flailing hoofs and the miller’s drunkenness, and supposed Warde should consider himself lucky to be alive, given what had happened to Lenne and Isnard a few moments later. Warde began to cough, and Tynkell was obliged to hammer on his back until he stopped.
‘What is the Question?’ called Langelee, bored with the ponderous preliminaries and keen for the event to begin in earnest. ‘What will they be discussing?’
‘Damn this tickle!’ rasped Warde. There were shocked intakes of breath from those scholars in religious Orders who disapproved of cursing in church. ‘It is driving me to distraction.’
‘It is driving us to distraction, too,’ mumbled a grey-haired Fellow called Thomas Bingham, also from Valence Marie. ‘You keep us awake at night with it, and it disrupts our teaching during the day.’
‘The Question is as follows,’ announced Tynkell. There was absolute silence in the nave. He took a breath, relishing the fact that he had everyone’s attention: it was not often that academics listened en masse. ‘Frequens legum mutato est periculosa.’
‘A too frequent change in the law is dangerous,’ translated Bartholomew under his breath. ‘I am not the best person to take part in this particular affray. Most of what I know of the law I find contemptible. It fails to prosecute Thomas Mortimer for killing Lenne, and it sells pardons to convicted felons.’
‘You cannot withdraw,’ said Wynewyk in alarm. He gestured to the other Michaelhouse Fellows who had gathered to discuss the topic in low, excited voices. ‘Father William, Clippesby or even Langelee himself might offer to take your place. And then Gonville would defeat us for certain.’
‘This is a good topic for you,’ said Michael to the lawyer. He shot Bartholomew a stern look. ‘But you must keep your opinions about our legal system to yourself. We will lose points if you launch into a tirade, no matter how much you long to expose the law’s idiosyncrasies. But do not worry: the three of us will do the subject justice.’ He sniggered. ‘If the words “justice” and “law” can be uttered in the same sentence, that is.’
‘We will lose for sure if you make jokes like that,’ said Wynewyk irritably. ‘Do not—’
Tynkell clapped his hands. ‘Commence!’
Wynewyk was the first to speak, and Bartholomew was impressed, as always, by his colleague’s precise logic. The scholar from Gonville who stepped forward to refute his points was Bottisham, the kindly Carmelite lawyer who had visited Isnard two days before. He spoke well, without recourse to the scornful viciousness some scholars employed when attacking their opponents’ reasoning. Michael argued against Bottisham, and in turn was refuted by Gonville’s second speaker, Richard Pulham. Pulham was a fussy little Cistercian, with the largest ears Bartholomew had ever seen on a man. When the Master of Gonville was away from Cambridge, which he was most of the time, the running of his College usually fell to Pulham, who held the post of Acting Master.
Then it was Bartholomew’s turn. He found Pulham’s points easier to refute than he had anticipated, and felt he comported himself fairly respectably. Debating in front of hundreds of sharp-minded scholars certainly helped to hone the wits, he thought. The last person to speak was Gonville’s William Rougham. Rougham allowed himself the luxury of a sneer before he began, as if he considered his fellow physician’s logic seriously lacking.
Rougham was not an attractive man, either physically or in terms of his personality. He had lank black hair that was smoothed over a shiny pate, and a close-shaven beard was obviously intended to conceal the absence of a chin. His teeth were large, brown and decayed, so that his breath smelled, and Bartholomew often wondered why he did not pay a surgeon to remove the offending fangs before
they rotted and fell out of their own accord. In terms of scholarship Rougham was pedantic and trivial, and Warde was obliged to reprimand him several times for making bald statements, rather than using logic to underline his points. Rougham became flustered, and finished speaking somewhat abruptly.
Once the main arguments had been laid out, the debate gained momentum and Bartholomew was forced to focus hard, lest Gonville slipped an invalid statement past Michaelhouse. The scholars in the nave cheered when one College scored a particularly cunning point, and time flew past. Bartholomew’s head began to ache from the effort of intense concentration, and from the noise and heat inside the building. But eventually Warde raised his hand to indicate that the Question had been sufficiently discussed. He held up a waxed tablet on which he had been keeping a tally and, once again, there was an excited hush among the scholars.
‘This was a close-run battle, with clever and elegant postulations and refutations from both sides. However, the arguments of one College were slightly superior and more succinct than those of the other.’
He stopped speaking and began to cough. There was an audible sigh of irritation throughout the church, and Michael stepped forward to thump his shoulders, rather vigorously considering the man was about to make an important judgement that reflected the honour of Michaelhouse.
‘An excess of phlegm,’ announced Rougham, seizing the moment to engage in a little self-promotion. ‘An inconvenient problem, for which I prescribe a syrup of honey and boiled nettles.’
‘I tried that,’ wheezed Warde. ‘And it did not work.’
‘Then I shall suggest something stronger later,’ said Rougham shortly, not liking the fact that Warde had just denounced his cure as ineffectual in front of most of the University. ‘But let us return to the business in hand. You were about to announce the winner.’
‘Yes,’ said Warde, his eyes watering furiously, either from coughing or from Michael’s slaps. ‘I declare the winner is—’ He faltered a second time when there was a commotion near the west door.
All heads turned at the rattle of spurred feet on the flagstones, and an agitated whispering broke out. The man who caused the disturbance was cloaked, and had not bothered to remove his sword, as was customary when entering religious houses. He elbowed his way through the throng to the dais.
‘Now what?’ murmured Michael uneasily. ‘I see from his livery that he is from the papal court in Avignon. Why would the Pope send a message to anyone in Cambridge?’
‘Perhaps Innocent the Sixth is dead, and we have another French puppet in his place,’ suggested Bottisham, not without rancour. ‘This schism between Avignon and Rome is a ridiculous state of affairs. It is time the papacy was wrested from French control and returned to Rome, where it belongs.’
Warde agreed. ‘We are at war with the French, and it is not fair that they should exert power over us through the Church in this way.’
‘Which one of you is Chancellor Tynkell?’ asked the messenger in a clear, ringing voice. ‘And Richard Pulham, Acting Master of Gonville Hall?’
The two men stepped forward unwillingly. In an age when it was easy to make accusations of treason and heresy – but far more difficult to prove innocence – no one liked being singled out for special attention from a man like the French Pope.
‘I have news from Avignon,’ said the messenger in a voice that was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the town. Bartholomew sensed he was enjoying himself, with his dramatic entrance and town-crier-like pronouncements. ‘From John Colton, the Master of Gonville Hall, who, as you know, has been engaged on important business in the papal curia.’
‘Hardly!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Colton’s only “important business” has been to further his own career by following Bishop Bateman of Norwich all over the world. When Bateman went to Avignon in the King’s service, there also went Colton. The man is like a leech.’
Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that Michael was in the service of a bishop himself, and might well follow him to Avignon, if he thought it might be worth his while.
‘Colton wishes me to inform you that Bishop Bateman is dead,’ said the messenger. ‘He was murdered – perhaps poisoned – at Avignon on the sixth day of January this year.’
The death of the popular Bishop of Norwich was a significant event in Cambridge, even though the town was officially under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely. People were saddened by the news, especially since Bateman’s demise was rumoured to have been at the hand of an enemy. The scholars of Gonville were especially distressed, because the Bishop had been instrumental in founding their College, and had been generous to them with his time and his money. Bateman would be missed, and most scholars felt the world was a poorer place without him in it.
The atmosphere in the church changed after the announcement, and the excited discussions about whether Michaelhouse or Gonville were better disputants were forgotten as scholars exchanged reminiscences of Bate-man’s gentleness and integrity. Bottisham was affected particularly. His face was grey and sad, and Bartholomew thought he had aged ten years within a few moments.
‘I cannot tell you how much we will miss him,’ he said to Bartholomew. Rougham was nearby, and came to join them. ‘I hope Gonville will not flounder now he is not here to protect us.’
‘I do not see why it should,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Bottisham should think his College so frail. ‘It is well established, with its own endowments and properties to pay for its running. Michaelhouse lost its founder within three years, but we are still here.’
‘However, we are talking about a superior institution when we discuss Gonville,’ interposed Rougham haughtily. ‘Not some run-down place like Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew gaped at him, thinking it was small wonder that so many academic institutions were at each other’s throats if they made a habit of issuing such brazen insults. Unwilling to allow such rudeness to pass unremarked, he addressed Rougham icily. ‘Our theologians are second to none, and Wynewyk is one of the best civil lawyers in the country.’
‘Michaelhouse is a mixture of good and bad,’ said Rougham, his voice equally chilly. ‘Suttone, Kenyngham, Wynewyk, Clippesby – and even the hedonistic Michael – are acceptable. Langelee and William are not. You would be, if you paid more heed to traditional wisdom and less to heretical notions invented by men like Roger Bacon.’
‘I was most interested in Bacon’s analysis of the rate of time-drift at the equinox,’ said Bottisham hastily, hoping to prevent a quarrel. ‘He calculated that the removal of a day from the Julian calendar every one hundred and twenty-five years – rather than the Gregorian adjustment of three days in every four hundred – will hold the equinox steady.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Rougham nastily. ‘And why did Bacon imagine we would be interested in such irrelevant matters?’
‘Probably because you need an accurate calendar to calculate horoscopes,’ retorted Bartholomew, knowing the great store Rougham set by determining courses of treatment based on the alignment of the heavenly bodies – something Bartholomew had long since decided was of little practical value. It felt good to catch the man in an inconsistency.
Bottisham intervened a second time when he saw Rougham’s eyes narrow in anger. ‘Wynewyk tells me you prescribed him an excellent potion containing essence of rhubarb to strengthen his bowels, Bartholomew. I have suffered from a—’
‘I would never allow a patient of mine to consume rhubarb,’ interrupted Rougham disdainfully. ‘It leads the bowels to empty completely and without control. Besides, it is poisonous.’
‘I use the stems, which are safe in small amounts,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Rhubarb is no different from any other commonly used ingredient: a little is beneficial, too much can cause harm. The same is true of lily of the valley, for example, which we all use to ease the heart – but it can stop one dead, if a patient swallows too much.’
‘You should not be discussing dangerous compou
nds here,’ said Chancellor Tynkell, advancing on them on a waft of bad air. Instinctively, all three scholars took a step backwards. ‘Not with poor Bishop Bateman dead from such a mixture.’
‘We do not know for certain he was poisoned,’ Bottisham pointed out. ‘The messenger said it was rumour, not fact. Still, I am told some poisons are impossible to detect once swallowed, so perhaps someone killed him with one of those.’
‘I suppose you know about such substances?’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew, stepping closer while the physician tried to hold his breath. ‘Which poisons to use in those sorts of circumstances?’
‘I do not,’ replied Bartholomew, feeling as though Tynkell was trying to recruit him for something sinister. A man like the Chancellor had plenty of enemies, and Bartholomew hoped he had not decided that what worked in Avignon would be suitable for use in Cambridge, and intended to employ a personal poisoner on his staff. He was aware that Rougham and Bottisham were eyeing him curiously, puzzled and intrigued by Tynkell’s questions.
‘What kind of poison killed Bateman, do you think?’ pressed Tynkell, his attention still firmly fixed on Bartholomew.
‘I really have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Chancellor would talk about something else. It was clear from the expression on Rougham’s face that he thought Tynkell might have some specific reason for asking his rival physician about such matters, and Bartholomew did not want him to leave with the impression that Michaelhouse men knew all about potions that could kill.
‘Well, think about it, and if anything occurs, let me know,’ said Tynkell, moving towards Michael and Langelee, who were conversing in low, serious voices. Bartholomew took a deep breath of untainted air, then became aware that Rougham and Bottisham were regarding him with distinct unease.
‘It is odd that he should choose to ask you about the nature of Bateman’s death,’ said Rougham bluntly, making it sound like an accusation.
‘I cannot imagine why he did that,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled.
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 7