‘Why do I always have to argue the absurd positions?’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Of course the Earth does not rotate!’
‘Consider the story of Joshua,’ said Michael. ‘God made the sun and the moon stand still at the battle of Gibeon, so that the Amorites could be defeated. But it would have been a lot easier to halt the Earth than to halt every other celestial body in the sky, and so it must be concluded that it was the rotating Earth God stopped in order to lengthen the day of the battle, not the heavens.’
‘It is easier to jump off the church tower than to walk down the stairs,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But easier does not mean better. And anyway, it says God ordered the sun and the moon to stand still, not the Earth. If He had ordered the Earth to stop rotating, the story would have said so.’
‘Are you questioning the veracity of our Holy Scriptures?’ demanded William looking from one to the other, sensing heresy, but not quite sure where, or how, or from whom.
‘Of course not,’ said Michael. ‘But it must have been the Earth God halted at the battle of Gibeon. Can you imagine how fast the sun and the moon would be moving if they are revolving around us? It defies imagination, and they would be very difficult to stop.’
‘I do not think economy of effort is something the Creator of the Universe needs to take into consideration when He is intervening in human affairs, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, making Michael smile with his imitation of William’s dour voice. ‘And so that is not a valid argument.’
‘It is odd that Matthew is presenting a traditional viewpoint, while you are extolling the virtues of a subversive one, Brother,’ said William, oblivious to the fact that he had been parodied. ‘It is normally the other way around, and it is he who favours the absurd and the heretical.’
‘That is untrue,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Many of my beliefs are very traditional – especially in relation to geometry.’
‘That is because there is very little that is controversial concerning geometry,’ said William disdainfully. ‘And if there were, only men who favour the sciences like you would understand it. I am talking about your beliefs in medicine and theology, which have caused people to question whether you are in league with the Devil.’
‘Like using all the knowledge and skills at my disposal to try to save a patient’s life, you mean?’ asked Bartholomew archly.
‘That among other things,’ said William, unaware of the irony in Bartholomew’s voice. ‘It is not always God’s will that a person should be saved, Matthew. Sometimes, God – or the Devil – has called a person to his side, and you should not attempt to prevent that person from going.’
‘So, if my patients are being called by the Devil, are you suggesting I bend to his will and let him take them?’
‘No,’ said William stiffly. ‘If they are being called by the Devil you should attempt to snatch them back.’
‘And how am I supposed to know whether they are being called by God or snatched by the Devil?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not usually possible to tell.’
‘You could ask,’ said William coldly.
‘Ask the Devil?’ queried Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows in mock horror. ‘Are you instructing me to commune with the Devil, Father?’
‘Of course not!’ temporised William. ‘But there are ways to deal with such situations.’
‘Such as what?’ persisted Bartholomew.
‘Enough, Matt,’ said Michael, trying to hide his amusement. ‘We can save all this for the debate tonight. But now, we should at least offer to help Alcote.’
Alcote, however, did not want their help. He was seated at the large table in Wergen Hall, surrounded by Tuddenham’s scrolls and writs. A large dish of raisins stood near his elbow, and, judging from the frequency with which his fingers reached for them, Bartholomew saw he might well be in need of another cure for stomach ache that night.
Tuddenham, taking a respite from the villagers he had been questioning about the death of Unwin, stood behind him and peered over his shoulder until, exasperated, Alcote dismissed them all from his presence, promising to recall them should the impossible happen and he should need their advice. Relieved, Bartholomew and Michael left, quickly slipping away while William’s attention was elsewhere lest the Franciscan should decide to spend the rest of the day trying to impress Michael with his interrogatory skills.
To one side of Wergen Hall was a pleasant bower and Isilia, who was sitting there with Dame Eva, beckoned them over. It was a pretty place, surrounded by a tall hazel-weave fence to keep animals out. Inside was a tiny herb garden and an orchard of gnarled apple and pear trees. In the shade of one tree, a long turf bench had been built, and here the ladies sat, sewing and chatting in air that was rich with the aroma of basil, sage, thyme, rosemary and lavender.
‘How is my husband’s advowson proceeding?’ asked Isilia, as they approached. She gestured that they were to sit next to her.
‘Well enough, I think,’ said Michael, leaning back on the bench and stretching his long, fat legs in front of him. ‘Master Alcote is working on it, while Matt and I are trying to discover who killed Unwin. You should ask Alcote if you want to know exactly how the deed is progressing.’
‘I did,’ said Isilia, with a grimace. ‘But he could not bring himself even to look at me, let alone answer my question. He does not like me, although I cannot think what I have done to offend him.’
‘It is nothing personal,’ said Michael. ‘Roger is uncomfortable in the presence of women, and avoids them whenever he can.’
‘Why?’ asked Dame Eva curiously.
Michael shrugged. ‘He is just a peculiar man. Take no notice of him.’
‘But you do not object to the company of women, do you?’ asked Isilia of Barthololomew, eyes glinting with merriment as she saw him blush. ‘I hear you and that young Deynman are the only men in Michaelhouse’s deputation who have not sworn vows of chastity.’
‘Well,’ began Bartholomew, uncertain how to form a reply – although Isilia was clearly expecting one.
‘He is quite free to enjoy a woman’s charms,’ said Michael. ‘And enjoy them he certainly does. Why, in Cambridge–’
‘Here comes Siric,’ said Bartholomew quickly, pointing out Tuddenham’s steward walking toward them. ‘Perhaps he has news of Unwin’s killer.’
But the steward shook his head as he leaned wearily against one of the apple trees. ‘It is almost as if the friar never existed,’ he said despondently. ‘No one knows anything. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. All we have is Eltisley saying he spotted Sir Robert Grosnold talking to Unwin before he died – but it is never wise to believe anything that lunatic claims – and Master Stoate’s observation of a cloaked figure running from the church. It is almost certain the man Stoate saw was the killer, but he is the only one with the courage to admit to what he saw. Everyone else is too afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Padfoot,’ said Siric. ‘There is a belief among the villagers that Padfoot will claim them if they help us uncover the person he used as his instrument to take Unwin.’
‘So, they are afraid of ghosts,’ said Michael in disgust.
‘Who is not?’ asked Dame Eva. ‘They are not things people can defend themselves against.’
‘True,’ agreed Siric. ‘But Sir Thomas will have this killer, whether the villagers help us or not. You will see.’
‘Good,’ said Isilia. ‘I will suggest that Wauncy gives a sermon on the subject saying that failing to pass you information that will catch a priest-slayer will mean damnation for certain.’
Siric nodded, although his expression implied he did not believe a sermon by Wauncy would do much good. ‘Eltisley is looking for you,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘He has brewed a substance that he says will cure warts, and he wants you to taste it. He is coming this way, carrying it in a bucket.’