‘If he means Michaelhouse and Gonville, then why does he not say so – simply?’ demanded Deynman in a loud whisper that had the scholars of Gonville howling in derisive laughter and his Michaelhouse colleagues ready to teach them a lesson for their poor manners. Langelee went to silence Deynman, to ensure he did not embarrass them with further outbursts.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I hope this does not degenerate into a brawl. Being Senior Proctor is not easy at the best of times, but it is worse when we have five hundred war-thirsty scholars packed into a confined space.’
‘You cannot ban public debates because scholars squabble,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Michael would like to do just that. ‘And not everyone is spoiling for a fight, anyway. Some are here because they want to hear a good argument.’
‘Have you heard what the Question might be?’ whispered Wynewyk, as Tynkell launched into a tedious account about who had won quodlibetical disputations in the past. ‘It would be beneficial to think out some of our arguments in advance.’
‘I have not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘That would be cheating. You know perfectly well that the Question is kept in strictest secrecy, and that Tynkell is very careful about it. Believe me, I had a good look in his office last night after he had gone home, but I could find nothing.’
‘I have decided that Master Warde of Valence Marie will preside,’ intoned Tynkell. This was no surprise. Warde was considered one of the best mediators the University had, and was known for his integrity and even-handedness. He was a good choice.
Warde had apparently anticipated that he would be selected, because he was already waiting. When he heard his name, he climbed stiffly on to the dais and stood next to the Chancellor. Bartholomew saw him wince when he moved, and supposed he was still bruised from when Thomas Mortimer had knocked him down the previous Wednesday. He recalled the flailing hoofs and the miller’s drunkenness, and supposed Warde should consider himself lucky to be alive, given what had happened to Lenne and Isnard a few moments later. Warde began to cough, and Tynkell was obliged to hammer on his back until he stopped.
‘What is the Question?’ called Langelee, bored with the ponderous preliminaries and keen for the event to begin in earnest. ‘What will they be discussing?’
‘Damn this tickle!’ rasped Warde. There were shocked intakes of breath from those scholars in religious Orders who disapproved of cursing in church. ‘It is driving me to distraction.’
‘It is driving us to distraction, too,’ mumbled a grey-haired Fellow called Thomas Bingham, also from Valence Marie. ‘You keep us awake at night with it, and it disrupts our teaching during the day.’
‘The Question is as follows,’ announced Tynkell. There was absolute silence in the nave. He took a breath, relishing the fact that he had everyone’s attention: it was not often that academics listened en masse. ‘Frequens legum mutato est periculosa.’
‘A too frequent change in the law is dangerous,’ translated Bartholomew under his breath. ‘I am not the best person to take part in this particular affray. Most of what I know of the law I find contemptible. It fails to prosecute Thomas Mortimer for killing Lenne, and it sells pardons to convicted felons.’
‘You cannot withdraw,’ said Wynewyk in alarm. He gestured to the other Michaelhouse Fellows who had gathered to discuss the topic in low, excited voices. ‘Father William, Clippesby or even Langelee himself might offer to take your place. And then Gonville would defeat us for certain.’
‘This is a good topic for you,’ said Michael to the lawyer. He shot Bartholomew a stern look. ‘But you must keep your opinions about our legal system to yourself. We will lose points if you launch into a tirade, no matter how much you long to expose the law’s idiosyncrasies. But do not worry: the three of us will do the subject justice.’ He sniggered. ‘If the words “justice” and “law” can be uttered in the same sentence, that is.’
‘We will lose for sure if you make jokes like that,’ said Wynewyk irritably. ‘Do not–’
Tynkell clapped his hands. ‘Commence!’
Wynewyk was the first to speak, and Bartholomew was impressed, as always, by his colleague’s precise logic. The scholar from Gonville who stepped forward to refute his points was Bottisham, the kindly Carmelite lawyer who had visited Isnard two days before. He spoke well, without recourse to the scornful viciousness some scholars employed when attacking their opponents’ reasoning. Michael argued against Bottisham, and in turn was refuted by Gonville’s second speaker, Richard Pulham. Pulham was a fussy little Cistercian, with the largest ears Bartholomew had ever seen on a man. When the Master of Gonville was away from Cambridge, which he was most of the time, the running of his College usually fell to Pulham, who held the post of Acting Master.
Then it was Bartholomew’s turn. He found Pulham’s points easier to refute than he had anticipated, and felt he comported himself fairly respectably. Debating in front of hundreds of sharp-minded scholars certainly helped to hone the wits, he thought. The last person to speak was Gonville’s William Rougham. Rougham allowed himself the luxury of a sneer before he began, as if he considered his fellow physician’s logic seriously lacking.
Rougham was not an attractive man, either physically or in terms of his personality. He had lank black hair that was smoothed over a shiny pate, and a close-shaven beard was obviously intended to conceal the absence of a chin. His teeth were large, brown and decayed, so that his breath smelled, and Bartholomew often wondered why he did not pay a surgeon to remove the offending fangs before they rotted and fell out of their own accord. In terms of scholarship Rougham was pedantic and trivial, and Warde was obliged to reprimand him several times for making bald statements, rather than using logic to underline his points. Rougham became flustered, and finished speaking somewhat abruptly.
Once the main arguments had been laid out, the debate gained momentum and Bartholomew was forced to focus hard, lest Gonville slipped an invalid statement past Michaelhouse. The scholars in the nave cheered when one College scored a particularly cunning point, and time flew past. Bartholomew’s head began to ache from the effort of intense concentration, and from the noise and heat inside the building. But eventually Warde raised his hand to indicate that the Question had been sufficiently discussed. He held up a waxed tablet on which he had been keeping a tally and, once again, there was an excited hush among the scholars.
‘This was a close-run battle, with clever and elegant postulations and refutations from both sides. However, the arguments of one College were slightly superior and more succinct than those of the other.’
He stopped speaking and began to cough. There was an audible sigh of irritation throughout the church, and Michael stepped forward to thump his shoulders, rather vigorously considering the man was about to make an important judgement that reflected the honour of Michaelhouse.
‘An excess of phlegm,’ announced Rougham, seizing the moment to engage in a little self-promotion. ‘An inconvenient problem, for which I prescribe a syrup of honey and boiled nettles.’
‘I tried that,’ wheezed Warde. ‘And it did not work.’
‘Then I shall suggest something stronger later,’ said Rougham shortly, not liking the fact that Warde had just denounced his cure as ineffectual in front of most of the University. ‘But let us return to the business in hand. You were about to announce the winner.’
‘Yes,’ said Warde, his eyes watering furiously, either from coughing or from Michael’s slaps. ‘I declare the winner is–’ He faltered a second time when there was a commotion near the west door.
All heads turned at the rattle of spurred feet on the flagstones, and an agitated whispering broke out. The man who caused the disturbance was cloaked, and had not bothered to remove his sword, as was customary when entering religious houses. He elbowed his way through the throng to the dais.