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 circumstances. Very welclass="underline" 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.