‘How long is this going to last?’ called a burly man from the back, who held a piglet in his arms. ‘Only I need to get back to the sow.’
‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Michael. ‘But I prefer that any questions asked relate to the issue we are debating, namely: “Let us consider whether the Earth rotates”.’
‘Rotates? You mean spins round?’ asked the man with the pig.
‘Precisely,’ said Michael. ‘On the one hand, we can consider that the Earth is at the centre of the universe and is immobile; on the other, we can assume that it rotates on a daily basis, which accounts for the rising and setting of the celestial bodies. Father William will argue that the Earth is motionless; Doctor Bartholomew will argue that it is not.’
‘He is wrong, then,’ said Dame Eva with conviction. ‘I have never heard such rubbish.’
‘Which is wrong, madam?’ asked Michael. ‘That the Earth rotates or that it is motionless?’
‘She means that it rotates,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Of course it does not rotate. It is not a maypole!’
‘I am quite capable of answering for myself,’ said Dame Eva. She turned a bright, somewhat hostile, eye on Bartholomew. ‘Well, go on, then. Explain yourself. Explain how you have dreamt up such a gross flight of fancy.’
‘Not so gross,’ said Eltisley thoughtfully. ‘A rotation of the Earth would explain why we have winter and summer.’
‘It would?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.
Eltisley nodded, scratching his chin. ‘The Earth rotates toward the sun in summer, making the weather warm, but rotates away from it in the winter, bringing snow and cold winds.’
‘The notion is that the Earth rotates on a daily basis,’ said Bartholomew, ‘not on a yearly one. A daily rotation explains why the sun rises and sets, and why the stars move, but not why the seasons change.’
‘Well, what does explain the advent of winter and summer, then?’ demanded Eltisley. ‘I defy you to come up with a better explanation than the one I have suggested.’
Expectant eyes turned towards Bartholomew.
‘And then you can tell us how to control it,’ said the man with the pig, looking around him for the support of his friends. ‘Summer was too late in coming this year. And it would be better if we could miss winter altogether, and just go from autumn to spring each year.’
There was not a person in the room who was not nodding enthusiastically. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, struggling to keep a straight face.
‘It is outside the topic of our discussion today,’ said Michael quickly, before William could start accusing people of heresy because they wanted to take control of the seasons out of the hands of God. ‘Perhaps we could debate that question on another occasion. But Father William, perhaps you would begin, and state the arguments against the rotation of the Earth?’
William opened his mouth to speak, but Isilia was there before him, shaking her head admonishingly. ‘Of course it does not spin. We would all feel dizzy if it did.’
‘And sick,’ added Mother Goodman. ‘And there would be no end to the potions I would need to make for queasy stomachs.’ She shook her scarfed head firmly. ‘No. The Earth does not spin. The Franciscan is right.’
‘One point to you,’ said Michael, glancing up at William and trying not to smile. ‘Do you have anything else to add, before you rest your case?’
‘Aristotle, Ptolemy and the Bible all state that the Earth lies immobile at the centre of the universe,’ said William drawing himself up to his full height, and looking around at the assembled audience. ‘I cannot see the need to cite any more potent authorities to prove my argument.’
Michael sighed under his breath. ‘Come on, Father. These people want more than flat assertions. This will be a very short debate, or a very tedious one, unless you make more effort.’
‘Aristarchus of Samos said the Earth rotates on its axis,’ said Bartholomew, trying to enter the spirit of the occasion, ‘and it is this daily rotation that makes it seem as though the celestial bodies move, when they are actually still.’
‘No one believes him any more,’ said William dismissively. He folded his arms, and exchanged a victorious smile with the man who held the pig.
‘But Buridan, in his commentary on Aristotle’s De Caelo, states that the problem with understanding the rotation of the Earth lies in relative motion,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, if you are at sea in a ship, and you see another ship passing you, it is not possible to determine from observation alone whether it is the other ship moving or your own.’
‘Only if you are drunk,’ shouted Hamon, drawing a murmur of agreement and vigorously nodded heads from his friends. ‘I always know whether I am moving or not when I sail down the river to Woodbridge.’
‘I said on the sea,’ said Bartholomew, trying to be patient. It was like having a debate with a room full of Deynmans. ‘On a river you would have points of reference to tell you whether you are moving or still. On the sea there is no point of reference, except the other boat – hence you cannot tell whether it is your vessel or the other that is moving.’
‘I need none of these “points of reference” to tell me whether I am still or not,’ said Hamon firmly. ‘I just know.’
A chorus of cheers rose around the room, drowning out Bartholomew’s attempt to explain further what he had meant.
‘Two points to William,’ muttered Michael, amused. ‘This is far more entertaining than a debate at the University.’
Bartholomew sighed, wishing he had never agreed to comply with Tuddenham’s request in the first place. William, in the rare position of winning a debate against Bartholomew, was beginning to enjoy himself. His booming voice cut through the hum of conversation that had erupted.
‘Buridan says that if the Earth rotates, and if I threw a stone straight up into the sky, it would not land at the place from where I had thrown it – the Earth would have moved, and it would land somewhere else.’ He looked around at the audience, and spread his hands in an expansive shrug. ‘And we all know that is not the case. A stone thrown directly upwards, lands directly underneath where it was thrown from.’
‘Like this?’ asked Eltisley, grabbing a heavy pewter goblet from one of his surly customers and hurling it, contents and all, up at the ceiling. Ale splattered over the audience, and the cup clanged deafeningly against a rafter before clattering down at Michael’s feet.
‘It did not come down under the place from which it was thrown,’ said Hamon, regarding it in awe. ‘It came down to one side. Perhaps the Earth does rotate after all.’ There was a rumble of agreement, and some sagely exchanged nods. Hamon looked at Bartholomew for confirmation.
‘That was not a straight throw,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It did not come down on Master Eltisley’s head because he hurled it at an angle.’
‘You have just scored a point in favour of rotation, Matt,’ said Michael, his green eyes glittering with mischief. ‘Do not dismiss it so lightly. You are unlikely to win another if you persist with all this theoretical nonsense.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Tuddenham, shaking his head. ‘The Earth cannot be rotating: if it were, we would feel the wind of it on our faces.’
‘But we do,’ said Hamon fervently. ‘There is nearly always a wind at Peche Hall, whispering in the trees and rippling the water on the moat.’
‘But the wind does not always comes from the same direction,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If the Earth was moving from west to east, then the wind would always come from the east – and we all know it does not.’