After a chilly wait in the courtyard, where a sharp wind blew dead leaves from the previous autumn around in desolate little eddies, Ringstead came to tell them the great man was ready. Michael elbowed him aside and made his way to the Prior’s comfortable office on the first floor, pushing open the door so hard that it flew back and crashed against the wall. The tiny man who sat writing at a table near the window almost jumped out of his skin.
‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ he complained in a high-pitched voice, almost like a child’s. ‘You do it every time you visit, and I keep telling you that the hinges are delicate.’
Ringstead inspected the wall behind the door, and clucked softly at the plaster flakes that lay on the floor. Judging from the small cracks that radiated from a circular indentation at the level of the latch, either Michael had visited Prior Morden with some frequency, or the fat monk was not the only one who liked to enter the solar with a bang.
‘Very sorry,’ said Michael, not sounding in the least contrite as he strode across the room and placed himself in front of a blazing fire, depriving everyone else of the heat by blocking it with his bulk.
Prior Morden sighed irritably and put down his pen. If Lincolne of the Carmelites was a giant, then Morden of the Dominicans was an elf. His head did not reach Bartholomew’s shoulder, and the physician noticed that when the Prior sat in the chair his feet did not touch the floor. He was dressed in an immaculate habit of fine black wool, and a delicate silver cross hung around his neck.
‘I expected you yesterday,’ said Morden, picking up a sheaf of parchments and shuffling them fussily. ‘I heard what happened with that Carmelite, and I suspected you would come to try to blame his death on us Dominicans.’
‘I am here to discover who killed Faricius of Abington, not to blame the innocent,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Do you have any idea what happened yesterday?’
‘What happened is that the Carmelites challenged my student-friars to a fight, but then ran away like cowards to skulk within their walls when we responded,’ stated the little man uncompromisingly.
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘The gathering of Dominicans in Milne Street, who threw stones – not only at the Carmelite Friary but at the houses of the merchants who live nearby – was the Carmelites’ responsibility, was it?’
‘Essentially,’ said Morden, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Prior Lincolne wrote a proclamation saying that anyone who followed the theory of nominalism should be burned in the Market Square for heresy, and then had the audacity to pin it up at St Mary’s Church. But it is the realists who should be burned for heresy!’
Michael cast a weary glance at Walcote and Bartholomew, and then turned to Morden. ‘Has the whole University gone mad? I can accept that one or two misguided individuals feel that the known universe revolves around the realism – nominalism debate, but I am astonished that so many apparently sane people deem this issue so important.’
‘Lincolne’s act was a deliberate insult to us,’ Morden went on. ‘You see, our Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, is due to give the University Lecture in St Mary’s Church on Easter Sunday, and his chosen subject is nominalism. Lincolne’s proclamation was calculated to offend us specifically.’
‘Kyrkeby?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘He is lecturing?’
‘Yes, why?’ demanded Morden aggressively. ‘Do you think him incapable of speaking at the University’s most prestigious annual academic event?’
‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He is a patient of mine, and for the last several months his heart has been beating irregularly. I recommended he should avoid anything that would make him nervous or tense.’
‘It was a great honour when a Dominican was invited to speak at such an auspicious occasion,’ said Morden indignantly. ‘Of course he did not refuse the Chancellor’s invitation.’
‘He mentioned none of this to me,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘No wonder he has visited me three times this week. It is apprehension that is making him ill.’
‘I imagine he did not tell you because he knew you would advise against it,’ said Walcote practically. ‘Foolish man, to put pride above his health.’
‘He has been working very hard on what he plans to say,’ said Morden. ‘For weeks, he has thought of little else.’
‘Then I imagine it will be an entertaining occasion,’ said Michael, bored with a conversation that had nothing to do with Faricius’s murder. ‘But I did not come here to talk about–’
‘I only hope it will not be entertaining in a way that will prove detrimental to the friary,’ interrupted Morden, pursing his lips worriedly. ‘He read me parts of his lecture last week, and I confess I have heard stronger and more erudite arguments.’
‘He has changed it since then, Father Prior,’ said Ringstead reassuringly. ‘I was very impressed with what he read me last night. Do not worry. Our Precentor will do us justice.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Morden anxiously.
Ringstead nodded. ‘The lecture is now a very mature and astute piece of thinking. Even the Carmelites will be stunned into silence with the eloquence and perceptiveness of his logic.’
‘That assumes they are able to appreciate it – and I have seen no evidence that they can,’ muttered Michael. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘But whatever philosophical views are held on this subject, Prior Morden, it is no excuse for riotous behaviour – for Dominicans or Carmelites.’
‘You do not understand the importance of this issue,’ said Morden vehemently. ‘Your Benedictine colleagues at Ely Hall do, though – they have ranged themselves on the side of nominalism. Brothers Timothy and Janius are shining examples.’
Michael gave a fervent sigh. ‘I know that some scholars have strong views on the matter, but I do not think most of us care one way or the other.’
‘That is not true,’ objected Morden hotly. ‘I care very much.’
‘And so does Lincolne,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘But do you care because you are a committed nominalist, or because you have a natural inclination to oppose anything upheld by the Carmelites? Everyone knows the two Orders have always despised each other.’
‘Lincolne is a loathsome man,’ declared Morden, indicating that the long-standing enmity between the two Orders was doubtless the real cause of the Dominicans’ sudden interest in philosophy. ‘But nominalism is a much more rational theory than realism. However, you are wrong to think that no one cares. Many people feel very strongly about this issue.’
‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice to Michael and Walcote. ‘This debate has provided the Orders with an excuse to re-address ancient grievances. You will find that most clerics have taken this debate very much to heart, and you will also find that they are doggedly aligning themselves on whichever side of the discussion their Order has deemed correct. There seems to be no room for individual thought on this matter.’
‘Like sheep,’ muttered Michael in disgust.
‘Not entirely,’ offered Walcote timidly. ‘Many highly intelligent men have taken up this argument – and it is not purely the domain of louts spoiling for a street battle.’
‘That is not how it appears,’ said Michael. ‘But this is not a new debate – it originated with Aristotle and Plato. Why should the two sides suddenly resort to violence over it?’
‘That riot yesterday was not our fault,’ stated Morden, breaking into the muttered conversation. ‘What started it was the proclamation Lincolne wrote. It is his action that precipitated the incident in Milne Street.’
‘I see,’ pounced Michael. ‘An “incident in Milne Street” is how you would describe the murder of a Carmelite, is it?’