‘Dominican,’ he announced in a bellow, as soon as the bell had rung to announce the lectures’ start. Michael and his quiet theologians jumped in alarm at the sudden yell, while Bartholomew’s lively youngsters nudged each other and grinned, anticipating that they were going to be in for a treat. Langelee raised his eyes heavenward, while Wynewyk sighed in irritation.
‘Yesterday, you were read Galen’s theories relating to black bile,’ said Bartholomew, to regain his class’s attention. He spotted a number of guilty glances, and was not pleased to think that some had evidently been less attentive to their studies than they should have been. ‘What are they?’
A pregnant silence greeted his question, and Bartholomew saw several lads bow their heads to write on scraps of parchment. Since he had not yet said anything worthy of being noted, he assumed it was a ruse to avoid catching his eye.
‘Domini. Can,’ bawled William. ‘From the Latin Domini, meaning our Lord, and canna, meaning dog.’ The sinister emphasis he gave to the last noun indicated that he did not consider it a flattering term. Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, not sure whether he had used the wrong Latin intentionally, to test whether his students were paying attention, or whether he had made a mistake. One eager Franciscan immediately raised a hand, and the fact that William ignored him suggested the error was a genuine one, and that he did not want to be side-tracked by linguistic niceties.
‘Flies do not like it,’ said Deynman brightly from the front of Bartholomew’s class.
The physician dragged his attention away from William. ‘What?’
‘Flies do not like black bile,’ repeated Deynman patiently. ‘They think it tastes like the Dead Sea.’
‘And we all know about dogs!’ boomed William in a voice loud enough to make the windows shake. ‘Disgusting creatures!’
‘Lord!’ muttered Langelee, looking up from where he was writing something on a wax tablet for some of the younger scholars.
Bartholomew glared at his best student, Falmeresham, who was laughing in a way that made others smile, too. He could not tell whether the lad was finding William or Deynman more amusing.
‘Galen said most creatures avoid black bile, just as they do saturated brine,’ Bartholomew explained, to correct Deynman’s misinterpretation before the other students could write it down as fact. ‘Excessive salt is poisonous to life, and-’
‘I do not think the sea tastes of black bile,’ said Falmeresham to Deynman, puzzled. ‘I have tasted seawater myself, and it is nothing like it.’
‘You should not drink bile!’ exclaimed Deynman in horror. ‘Did you not listen to the reading yesterday? It is a deadly poison and an excess of it causes all manner of ills. Besides, I referred to the Dead Sea, not any old ocean. You have not tasted the Dead Sea, so you cannot know whether it has the same flavour as black bile or not.’
‘Dogs push their noses into the groins of passers-by and fornicate whenever the mood takes them,’ ranted William, causing Michael’s Benedictines to exchange shocked glances and Wynewyk to falter in his pedantic analysis of Roman law. Bartholomew saw he was losing the attention of his own students again: Deynman frowned as he absorbed the friar’s statement with the same seriousness that he applied to all his lessons, while Falmeresham began to snigger a second time. So did Michael.
‘Name one of the diseases caused by an excess of black bile,’ Bartholomew said quickly.
‘Melancholy,’ said Deynman. Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What is the matter? Am I wrong?’
‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, trying to regain his composure. He did not add that it was one of the few correct answers Deynman had ever given, and felt a sudden lifting of his spirits. His jubilation was not to last.
‘And they eat the excrement of other animals,’ raved William, pacing back and forth as he worked himself into a frenzy.
‘They do not!’ objected Falmeresham. He kept a hound himself, and was fond of it. ‘Dogs just like the smell.’
‘Pay attention to your own lesson,’ snapped William. ‘We are discussing theology here, not medicine, and it is too lofty a discipline for your feeble mind to comprehend. Besides, I am not talking about dogs, I am talking about Dominicans.’
‘They do not eat excrement, either,’ argued Falmeresham.
‘People are always melancholic when they have an excess of black bile,’ elaborated Deynman, pleased he had his teacher’s approval. Bartholomew struggled to ignore the burgeoning debate between Falmeresham and William, to concentrate on what his student was saying. ‘And that is because they are distressed over the loss of their haemorrhoids.’
Bartholomew closed his eyes. Deynman’s brief foray into accurate understanding had been too good to be true. Once again, certain points had stuck in his mind, but had then rearranged themselves in a way that allowed him to draw some very bizarre conclusions.
‘Dominicans are afflicted with haemorrhoids,’ declared William matter-of-factly, indicating that he was listening to other lectures, too, as he cut across Falmeresham’s spirited defence of dogs and Dominicans alike. ‘It comes from sitting in cold, dark places while they plot their satanic acts. And that is what makes them morose and melancholy.’
‘Galen says that the removal of organs that contain blood – such as veins and haemorrhoids – might cause black bile to get the upper hand in the balance of the humours and bring about melancholy,’ said Falmeresham, deciding that taking issue with William was a lost cause. ‘He is referring to a loss of vessels causing the imbalance; he is not saying patients become depressed because they are sorry to see their haemorrhoids go.’
‘Dominicans are proud of these marks,’ William went on. ‘It is the communal suffering they endure that makes their brotherhood so powerful. After all, what more shameful secret can you share than intimate knowledge of each other’s haemorrhoids?’
‘I cannot teach in here,’ said Bartholomew abruptly, gathering his books and heading for the door, indicating that his students were to follow. ‘I am going to the orchard. It may be cold and it may even rain, but at least I will not have to do battle with this kind of rubbish.’
‘Dominicans such as Clippesby,’ said William loudly, ‘who lounges comfortably in his hospital, while his hapless colleagues are compelled to do his work.’
‘Is that the reason for Clippesby’s absence?’ asked Deynman, wide eyed. ‘Haemorrhoids? I thought it was insanity.’
‘I will come with you, Matthew,’ announced William, preparing to follow the physician outside. ‘It is too hot in here. Besides, I will be able to speak properly in the orchard – I am tired of being forced to whisper all the time.’
Langelee gave a startled gulp of laughter, which encouraged his students to join in, and the hall was soon filled with hoots and guffaws, while William’s face expressed his total bemusement.
‘He really has no idea,’ said Wynewyk to Bartholomew in wonderment. ‘Is he quite normal, do you think? He accuses Clippesby of madness, but there are times when I think he is worse.’
‘You go,’ said Langelee to William, stepping forward to take control and wiping tears from his eyes. ‘You are right, Father. It is stuffy in here, and it is a shame you are obliged to speak softly. Sit in the orchard and expound your theories so they can be properly heard.’