‘Go away, Deynman,’ growled William, trying to manoeuvre himself into a position that was comfortable for his splinted leg. ‘It is too early to listen to your cheerful voice.’
William was wearing a handsome grey robe made from soft, thick wool. The sleeves were the correct length and so was the skirt, so that his ankles and wrists no longer protruded in a ridiculous manner. He cursed it soundly, claiming it was inferior to the one the students had ceremonially burned in the yard, but Bartholomew knew the friar well enough to see he was delighted with his fine new acquisition. However, the physician could not help but notice the garment already bore signs that William owned it – a wine stain on one sleeve and a chain of greasy splatters across the chest.
‘How are you feeling?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he addressed the Franciscan. He shivered. Suttone was stoking up the fire, but it was still cold in the conclave. He stood, trying to stretch the aching chill from muscles that had not enjoyed a night on the floor.
‘I am in pain,’ declared William peevishly. ‘But a cup of wine will ease my discomfort. Wine has a remarkable effect on the body, Matthew. You should recommend it as a tonic for good health. It tastes better than all those foul purges you physicians like to dispense, too.’
‘I am sure it does,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to him to examine the afflicted leg. ‘Shall I remove the splint today? A few days of immobility may have done you good, but you should not prolong it unnecessarily.’
‘But it is broken,’ argued William in alarm. ‘You cannot remove the splint until it has properly healed or I shall spend the rest of my days as a cripple.’
‘It is not broken,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I saw you walking on it yesterday, when you thought no one was watching. It is not healthy to bind a limb that does not need it.’
‘It does need it,’ declared William, equally firmly. ‘It is my leg, and I know it is broken. The splint stays where it is – at least until the cold weather has broken.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘That is the real reason for this malingering, is it? You want an excuse to be out of the cold?’ He gave a wicked smile. ‘And it was only on Christmas Eve that you told me you had exonerated the Dominicans of Norbert’s murder, because they are too feeble to set foot outside while the weather is icy. Now I learn a certain Franciscan is doing likewise.’
‘I am not malingering,’ hissed William, glancing around him, afraid someone might have overheard. ‘You saw me fall; you know my injury is genuine. Besides, I would be certain to stumble and do myself far more serious harm if I were to go out in all this snow. My tripping over that loose board was a blessing.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are afraid of falling? Is that what this is all about?’
William gave a shudder and, for a moment, there was a haunted expression in his eyes. Bartholomew had only ever seen the more base of human emotions in William – rage, indignation, fanaticism – and he was intrigued to see that William was genuinely afraid of something.
‘I do not like ice,’ whispered the friar hoarsely, looking furtively over his shoulder. ‘I saw a man fall through some once. He struggled, and it cut through his hands and arms like daggers. I was standing on a bridge, and I could see him quite clearly screaming for help under the surface as he was swept to his death, scrabbling with bloodied hands as he tried to break through.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘It must have been terrible.’
‘It was,’ agreed William fervently. ‘His body was never found, and he was wearing three perfectly good emerald rings. But you understand, do you not, why I dislike bitter winters?’
‘People say it is the worst they can recall,’ said Bartholomew, not sure the traumatic loss of three emerald rings was really a valid excuse for William abandoning his University duties.
William snorted in disdain. ‘Then they are wrong. I recall many winters that have been worse than this one, and I remember them better than most, since I hate them so. So, if you leave my splint until I tell you my leg is no longer broken, you will make me a happy man.’ He noticed Bartholomew’s reluctance to condone a lie and his expression became crafty. ‘The Franciscan Friary has a copy of Thomas Bradwardine’s De proportione velocitatum in motibus that is seldom used. I can suggest it be given to you.’
Bartholomew was tempted. Bradwardine was a famous scholar at Oxford University’s Merton College, which had been producing new and dynamic theories relating to the natural universe for the past fifty years. Bartholomew was a great admirer of Bradwardine’s work, but what William was asking …
‘It is all about successive motions and resistance,’ added William enticingly.
Bartholomew wavered, and recalled that Bradwardine was the man who had challenged the traditional Aristotelian principle that half the force that caused an object to move would not necessarily mean half the velocity, and that twice the resistance that caused an object to slow down would not necessarily mean the speed was twice as slow. It was heady stuff, and even thinking about it sent a thrill of excitement down Bartholomew’s spine. But even so …
‘It is illustrated,’ said William desperately. ‘In colour.’
‘Done,’ said Bartholomew, offering the friar his hand.
‘You timed your injury well, Father,’ said Langelee, coming up to them. ‘You can spend your day here, next to a blazing hearth, while the rest of us have business to attend out in the cold.’
William nodded smugly. ‘I know.’
‘Deynman gave me this for the College library,’ said Langelee, reaching across to the table to retrieve a book that had been lying there. Bartholomew immediately recognised the cheap wooden covers and sparse pages, and wondered what his student had been doing in the King’s Head associating with Harysone. ‘Perhaps you can read it, Father, and let me know whether it is suitable material for us to keep.’
‘You mean you want me to work?’ asked William indignantly. ‘I have a broken leg, man!’
‘We do not need our legs to read,’ said Langelee. He glanced uncertainly at the friar, as though he was not sure that such a generalisation applied to the Franciscan. ‘It is not long, and it will only take you an afternoon. You do not want heretical books in our library, do you?’
William growled something under his breath, unable to think of a suitable answer, and began to flick listlessly through the pages.
‘Cann a Fishe enterr Heaven?’ read Clippesby, peering over his shoulder. He appeared especially manic that morning, with his hair standing up in all directions and his eyes wide and bright in his pale face. Bartholomew could not help but wonder whether he cultivated the look just to unsettle William, who was eyeing him nervously, not liking the sensation of a Dominican so close behind him. ‘Yes, read that, William. You may learn something.’
‘Did everyone survive the night?’ asked Langelee, cutting off William’s indignant response. ‘Wynewyk should check each staircase to make sure no one froze to death, while I imagine Bartholomew will want to visit his patients to do the same. We shall keep fires burning in the hall and conclave today, and I recommend we all stay inside as much as possible. This is no weather to be out unnecessarily.’
‘We will all go skating on the river,’ declared Deynman excitedly in his capacity as Lord of Misrule. ‘I have already been to inspect it. It is set like stone, and it is possible to walk from one side to the other. And then we can go sliding.’
‘Sliding?’ asked Wynewyk doubtfully. ‘I do not like the sound of that.’
‘It is where you sit on a flat piece of wood and skid down a hill,’ explained Clippesby. ‘Cows do it all the time.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘However, there is not much scope for that activity in Cambridge, Deynman. It may have escaped your notice, but there is a paucity of hills around here.’