‘There you are,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, when he spotted his three colleagues. His barrel-shaped soldier’s body cut an imposing figure, and other scholars gave him a wide berth as he shoved his way through them. He was no one’s idea of an academic, with a mediocre intellect and only a hazy grasp of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was an able administrator, and a definite improvement on his predecessor. ‘I know I told you not to arrive too early – to dull your wits in mindless chatter while you wait for the Disputatio to begin – but I did not expect you to cut it this fine.’
‘Not knowing whether your opponents will arrive is a sure way to unsettle the enemy,’ said Michael comfortably, glancing towards the place where the scholars of Gonville Hall had gathered.
‘Well, I was beginning to think you had decided not to come, too,’ said Langelee, a little irritably. ‘And Gonville have been claiming that their minds are too quick for us, and we have decided to stay away, rather than risk a public mental drubbing.’
‘We shall see about that,’ said Wynewyk, grimly determined. ‘The likes of Gonville will not defeat me in verbal battle!’
Langelee started to move towards the dais that had been set up where the nave met the chancel. ‘Do not underestimate Gonville, Wynewyk: they are very good. We are not talking about Peterhouse here. Well, are you ready? Have you spent the morning honing your debating skills on each other, as I recommended?’
‘We do not need to practise,’ declared Michael immodestly. ‘Although, I confess I have not taken part in a major Disputatio de quodlibet since the Death.’
‘The subject you three will be asked to debate could be anything – theology, the arts, mathematics, natural philosophy, even politics,’ said Langelee, as if his Fellows might not know. ‘That is the meaning of quodlibet: “whithersoever you please”.’
‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I am glad you told us that.’
Bartholomew ignored the monk’s sarcasm. He was looking forward to the occasion, and was honoured that Langelee had chosen him to stand for Michaelhouse. ‘These debates are opportunities for us to express opinions and ideas with a freedom not always possible within the rigid constraints of more formal lectures,’ he said.
The others regarded him uneasily. ‘I hope you do not intend to say anything that might be construed as heresy,’ said Langelee. ‘I should have thought of this before inviting you to represent us. I had forgotten your penchant for anathema.’
‘He will not say anything inappropriate,’ said Michael firmly, fixing his friend with the kind of glare that promised all manner of retribution if he was disobeyed. ‘Spouting heresy will see Michaelhouse disqualified, and none of us want that – nor do we want inflammatory remarks to spark a riot.’
Langelee arrived at the dais, and looked his three Fellows up and down before sighing in exasperation. ‘I told you to dress nicely, Bartholomew, and you have turned up looking like a pauper from Ovyng Hostel.’
‘This is my best tabard,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. He glanced down at the stained and crumpled garment. ‘But I had to visit Isnard earlier, to change the bandages on his leg, and some–’
‘No details, please,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘If you are to stand near me for the next two hours, I do not want to know the origin of any peculiar smells. Still, I suppose I can rest easy knowing you have clean fingers.’ He started to chuckle, convinced as always that Bartholomew’s obsession with rinsing his hands after dealing with bloody wounds and decaying corpses was an unnaturally fastidious fetish.
Michael saw that his friend was about to begin a lecture on hygiene, so he intervened hastily, nodding to where the scholars of Gonville Hall were waiting. ‘We are supposed to be arguing with them, not each other. We should start, or they really will think we are afraid of them.’
‘Michaelhouse will see these upstarts off,’ proclaimed Wynewyk fiercely. He cleared his throat and looked uneasy. ‘At least, we stand a fighting chance if the Chancellor selects a decent Question.’
‘That is why I chose you three to argue on our behalf,’ said Langelee. ‘You are our best lawyer; Michael’s knowledge of theology surpasses anyone’s except gentle old Kenyngham’s – but he lacks the killer instinct necessary for this kind of event; and Bartholomew can cover the sciences. Gonville will crumble before our onslaught.’
‘They will,’ vowed Wynewyk with keen determination. ‘I prayed to the Hand at a special mass held in St Clement’s Church last Wednesday, and asked it to let us win. So, what with our wits and the intervention of a saint, victory will be ours for certain.’
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–”’