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 words. ‘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?’