‘Aristotle,’ announced Langelee, laying the scroll down and picking up another. ‘And Galen, of course. What about Albucasis, the Arab surgeon? Do you use his works to teach your students?’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, wondering where all this was leading. ‘And Masawaih al-Mardini and Al-Ruhawi. There is much to be learned from Arab medical practice.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Langelee. ‘I was told that you had studied with an Arab in Paris. A curious choice of master, was it not?’
‘I heard you studied with Father Eligius at Valence Marie,’ said Bartholomew, deftly changing the subject before Langelee could attack him about his training. ‘He must have made a fascinating teacher.’
‘Oh, he was,’ agreed Langelee. ‘It is good to be in the same town with him again. I can debate with him and keep my skills honed.’
Bartholomew was surprised that the eminent Dominican logician had either the time or the inclination to help Langelee keep his mediocre skills honed, but said nothing.
‘Now I should see your students,’ said Langelee, dropping the scroll back on the table and standing up. ‘I should let them know where they went wrong in their disputations.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘It would be very kind of you to take the trouble. I am sure they will appreciate your help.’
He was sure they would not, and was certain that Gray would make some insolent remark that might lead Langelee to respond with physical force. But by the following day, Langelee would probably have forgotten his offer, Gray would be less angry about failing his examination, and an unpleasant scene would have been averted.
‘Now would be better,’ said Langelee. He tapped his temple. ‘While it is still fresh.’
‘I have given Bulbeck a sleeping draught,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘He has a fever. Please leave him alone this evening. Speak to them tomorrow.’
Langelee shook his head. ‘You are too soft with them. I will speak with them now. I know how to make them listen.’
Bartholomew stood. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘See to your own students. I am sure they will be missing the benefits of your learning if you have been conducting disputations all afternoon.’
Langelee narrowed his eyes and Bartholomew opened the door for him. Then, in a blur of movement, Langelee had lunged across the room and had placed two meaty hands around Bartholomew’s throat.
Bartholomew, however, had sensed that Langelee would not leave his room without some display of aggression, and was ready for him. Calmly, he lifted the small surgical knife he had kept hidden in his sleeve, and pointed it at Langelee’s neck. Horrified at the touch of cold steel, Langelee immediately lowered his hands.
‘Matthew!’ Kenyngham’s appalled voice startled Bartholomew and Langelee alike. The physician let the knife drop from Langelee’s throat, and they both turned to face the Master of the College who stood in the doorway. Bartholomew had never seen him quite so angry. His face was white, and his eyes had lost their customary dreaminess and were a hard, cold blue. Behind him was Michael, taking in the scene with horrified amazement.
‘What do you two think you are doing?’ demanded Kenyngham, his voice tight with fury.
Langelee shrugged. ‘I came to tell Bartholomew about his students’ disputations – and I am not obliged to do so, I was doing him a favour – when he became belligerent and attacked me with his knife.’ He raised his hands. ‘You can see I am unarmed.’
‘You are drunk,’ said Kenyngham in disgust. ‘Go to your own room, and do not come out again until you are sober.’
He stood aside for Langelee to leave. Langelee looked as if he would argue, but Kenyngham fixed him with a look of such hostility that the philosopher left without another word. Kenyngham watched him walk across the yard, and then turned to Bartholomew.
‘Well?’ he asked, his tone chilling. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’
Bartholomew could think of no excuse that would mitigate the fact that he had been caught holding a weapon at the throat of one of his colleagues. It sounded churlish to claim that Langelee had followed him to his room with the clear intention of provoking him to fight: the philosopher had known exactly which subjects might be expected to evince a response from him – his unorthodox medical training, Matilde and then threatening to disturb the ailing Bulbeck. He shrugged apologetically, while Kenyngham glared at him.
‘I will not have my Fellows setting a poor example to the students,’ he said icily. ‘If I catch you menacing Langelee – or anyone else – with knives again, I will be forced to terminate your Fellowship. You think I will not do what I threaten, because we will be unable to replace you, but I would rather Michaelhouse had no Master of Medicine than one who uses the tools of his trade to intimidate the other scholars!’
He turned on his heel and strode out. Bartholomew sank on to the bed, feeling drained, and Michael closed the door.
‘What were you doing?’ asked the monk, regarding Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Threatening a colleague with a dagger? Matt! What is wrong with you? You are usually so opposed to that sort of thing.’
‘He came looking for a fight,’ said Bartholomew, pulling off his boots and lying on the bed with a sigh. ‘I reacted with admirable restraint – right up until moments before you and the Master barged in. It was unfortunate that you did not come a few moments earlier, or a few moments later.’
‘It looked terrible,’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew dubiously. ‘Langelee standing there looking frightened to death, while you waved that sharp little knife at his throat. I was with Kenyngham when I saw him follow you into your room. We came because I was afraid he meant you harm, but it seems he was the one who needed our protection! I am not surprised Kenyngham threatened you with dismissal. What else could he do? You offered no defence of yourself.’
‘What could I say?’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘Damn! Do you really think Kenyngham believes I was the aggressor?’
‘Matt, I thought you were the aggressor,’ said Michael, sitting on the end of the bed. ‘I thought you disapproved of brawling.’
‘I do. Usually,’ replied Bartholomew. He reflected. ‘Kenyngham was serious: he would terminate my Fellowship over a set-to with Langelee.’
Michael nodded. ‘I believe he would. He has always liked you, and has often spoken out in your defence. Either the sight of you armed and dangerous forced him to see you in a new light, or Langelee must have some powerful supporters to whom Kenyngham is forced to yield.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, folding his arms behind his head. ‘What kind of supporters?’
‘Perhaps Langelee is a relative of one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors,’ said Michael. ‘Or perhaps he has made the College the sole beneficiary of his will. Whatever, it is clear that he has some kind of advantage over you, if it comes to Kenyngham choosing between you or him. I would advise you to stay away from that lout in future. What did he say to drive you to such extremes?’
Bartholomew told him and Michael looked thoughtful.
‘Matilde said Ralph de Langelee was the man of Julianna’s choice. Perhaps Julianna has told him about our midnight flight through the Fens, and he was needling you because he is jealous.’
‘Jealous of what?’ protested Bartholomew. ‘I loathe the woman. That pair deserve each other!’
‘Perhaps that is not what she led him to believe,’ said Michael. ‘Matilde said Julianna knows how to get her own way. It is possible she is using you to make him more enamoured of her.’