‘I was just telling William that you will not let us down,’ said Langelee. ‘You will tell our students what they will be discussing at the disceptatio, so they can practise.’
Wauter blinked his surprise. ‘You mean cheat? Really, Master!’
Langelee regarded him frostily. ‘You were a member of Zachary Hostel before accepting a Fellowship here. I hope you know where your loyalties lie.’
It was a nasty remark and Wauter would have been within his rights to object to the slur on his integrity, but he merely closed his book and stood up.
‘With Michaelhouse – a College that will win honourably or not at all.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘The committee is due to convene soon. Shall we walk there together?’
‘Walk where, exactly?’ asked William casually.
‘To a place where you cannot eavesdrop,’ replied Bartholomew curtly.
Hallow-tide was popular in the town as well as in Michaelhouse. It meant time away from work, so folk could visit friends and neighbours, where soul-cakes – sweet spiced biscuits with a cross cut into the top – would be given in exchange for prayers for the dead, and there would be both laughter and sadness as lost loved ones were remembered. That evening, bonfires would be lit on street corners, and there would be a torchlit procession led by the parish priests.
‘Half the town is drunk already,’ muttered Wauter disapprovingly, as Bartholomew pulled him out of the path of an erratically steered handcart bearing a barrel of ale.
‘My remedies for sore heads will be in demand tomorrow,’ agreed the physician.
‘Good! The College needs every penny it can get. How much will you charge?’
Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘Nothing, because most of those who summon me will be unable to pay. Any spare funds they did have will have been spent on Hallow-tide treats, and who can blame them? This is the last fun they will have until Christmas.’
Wauter opened the door to St Mary the Great, where the meeting was to be held. The other committee members were already there, standing in a huddle in the centre of the nave, a place chosen specifically to thwart spies – the disceptatio always brought out the worst in its participants. Bartholomew and Wauter exchanged a wry glance when they spotted a Zachary Hostel lad lurking behind a pillar.
‘Can he read lips?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, quite possibly.’ Wauter raised his voice. ‘Do not think you are hidden there, Yerland, because I can see you. Now go home before I tell the Senior Proctor that Zachary is resorting to unscrupulous tactics.’
‘And that goes for you, too, Melton,’ called Bartholomew, aware that one of his medical students had been trailing him ever since he had left the College.
Scowling, both youths slouched away, fortunately towards different doors. Although the disceptatio had originally been established to pit two randomly selected foundations in an innocent and enjoyable battle of wits, it was being taken more seriously that year, because one contestant was a College and the other was a hostel. Colleges were larger, richer and more secure – by virtue of their endowments, a perpetual source of money that hostels did not have – while hostels tended to be smaller and much less stable. Rivalry between the two had always been intense.
However, in a curious inversion of the usual state of affairs, Michaelhouse was on the brink of fiscal ruin – although only its Fellows knew the true extent of its problems – while Zachary was noted for its affluence. Zachary liked to gloat about its wealth, which Michaelhouse resented, so spats nearly always followed when their students met.
The debate committee, or consilium, comprised five members: two from Michaelhouse, two from Zachary and a chairman. Zachary was represented by Principal Irby and Nigellus de Thornton, while the chairman was Prior Joliet of the Austins.
Irby was a dreamy grammarian who was far too gentle to rule a hostel, particularly one with a reputation for feistiness like Zachary. He was famous for always wearing a cloak – in his hostel’s colours of grey and cream – no matter what the weather, and never went out without a wineskin clipped to his waist, which he claimed was necessary for good health. The remedy was not working as far as Bartholomew was concerned, because Irby never looked well, and he was sure the man was suffering from some chronic and debilitating illness.
By contrast, Nigellus was squat, fierce-faced and aggressive. He was sensitive about the fact that his late entry into the University had brought him the title of Junior Physician, particularly as he was older than the other medici by a good twenty years. The Colleges, quick to sniff out a sore point, rarely missed the opportunity to jibe him about it.
‘We are all here at last,’ said Prior Joliet, who had a round little head perched atop a round little body. He had a reputation for piety, sincerity and generosity, and he and his flock had gone hungry the previous winter so that beggars might eat. He was also a talented artist, and it was he who was painting Michaelhouse’s mural. ‘Shall we begin?’
‘Yes – and may I reiterate that we must make our decision today,’ said Nigellus, all brisk business. ‘I am tired of discussing it, to be frank. It is time we made up our minds.’
‘I say we gauge the mood of the audience on the day,’ countered Wauter. ‘We can determine then whether to pick a topic that will make them laugh, one that will provoke intelligent reflection, or one so tedious that it will quell any desire to engage in fisticuffs.’
‘That is a good point,’ said Irby, nodding approvingly. ‘We all want the occasion to pass off peacefully, and emotions do seem to be running unusually high this year.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘We should decide now, and I recommend nemo dat quod non habet – “what you do not own you cannot give”. It is high time we had a legal debate.’
‘You have been fighting for nemo dat ever since this committee was formed,’ said Wauter suspiciously. ‘Would there be a reason for that – such as that Zachary has been practising it?’
‘How dare you question my honour!’ cried Nigellus furiously. ‘It is not–’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ interrupted Joliet sharply. He waited until Nigellus spluttered into angry silence and then continued. ‘Even if we do make our final decision on the day, we should still have a shortlist of questions ready. We have not agreed on a single one so far.’
‘Then put nemo dat on it,’ ordered Nigellus stiffly. ‘It will be the one chosen, because it is the most suitable, and any fool should see it.’
With a pained smile, Joliet began to write, and while he did so, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study Nigellus. He had been delighted when he had first heard that another medicus was to enrol in the University – there had been a desperate shortage of them after the plague – but it had not taken him long to learn that Nigellus epitomised the very worst of the medical profession. The Junior Physician was brash, condescending, closed to new ideas and saw his patients purely in terms of their fees. His cosy practice at Barnwell had made him very rich, which was why he had been invited to join Zachary Hostel, a place where the size of a member’s purse was much more important than his academic credentials.
‘What else?’ asked Joliet, pen poised expectantly.
‘How about a medical question?’ suggested Irby. ‘I have always found the subject fascinating. Bartholomew, did you moot something to do with diet the last time we met?’
Bartholomew nodded, and was about to elaborate when Nigellus cut rudely across him. ‘I have never been convinced by all that rubbish. A man should eat what he feels like, on the grounds that the body knows best. The notion of good and bad foods is a nonsense.’