‘I am sure you are right, but can you imagine what would happen if you were to kill or maim the town’s most popular medicus? Cambridge would erupt into violence for certain.’
Late that afternoon there was a knock on the gate, and Cynric opened it to see Tyrington and Honynge. Their students were with them, and all had hired carts to ferry their belongings from their hostels to the College. Cynric stood aside wordlessly, and watched the procession stream inside.
In the hall, where Bartholomew had been presiding over a disputation entitled ‘Let us enquire whether a simple diet is preferable to a varied one’, the sudden rattle of hoofs caught the junior members’ wavering attention. Unusually, all the Fellows were in attendance, sitting by the small collection of tomes that comprised Michaelhouse’s library; most of the books were chained to the wall, because they were an expensive commodity, and the College could not afford to lose any.
‘It is the new men,’ announced Deynman, leaning out of the window to see what was going on, and interrupting the point he was trying to make about vegetables. ‘They have arrived with their entourage – ten in total, but all with more luggage than the Devil.’
‘Satan does not own luggage, Deynman,’ said William with considerable authority. For a friar, William knew a lot about the denziens of Hell.
Deynman turned to face him. ‘No? Then how does he transport his spare pitchforks?’
There was laughter from the other students, but Bartholomew could tell from the earnest expression on Deynman’s face that the question sprang from a genuine desire to know, and was not prompted by any desire to be insolent.
‘Satan is irrelevant to our debate,’ the physician said quickly, seeing William gird himself up to respond. ‘Come away from the window, Deynman, and continue your analysis.’
‘You had just made the contention that a simple diet is better, because it requires less memory,’ prompted Carton, when he saw Deynman struggling to remember what he had said.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Deynman, returning to the front of the hall. Usually, Bartholomew avoided using him in disputations, on the grounds that when he did, they tended to degenerate into the ridiculous, but he could not ignore the eagerly raised hand for ever. Unfortunately, William had then offered to take the opposing side, which meant the students had so far learned very little – except perhaps how not to go about the business of scholarly discourse. ‘It is always good to be simple.’
‘And you should know,’ muttered Michael under his breath. He spoke more loudly. ‘You need to argue your case in more detail, Deynman. Some disputants take more than an hour to outline their arguments in a logical manner, but you have only given us two sentences. The whole point of the exercise is to anticipate your opponents’ objections and address them before he can give them voice. That is the skill we are trying to hone today.’
Deynman frowned as he strove to understand. ‘Yes, I have been told that before.’ The monk refrained from pointing out that it had been reiterated every day for the past two weeks. ‘A simple diet is better, because you can use the same dishes and never bother to wash them. Your servants will be pleased, and thus you will have a contented household.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, aware of the third-years struggling to suppress their mirth. He was almost glad Falmeresham was not there, because the whole hall would have been rocking with laughter at the witty commentaries he would have been providing. ‘And how does that pertain to medicine, exactly? What does Galen have to say about simple and varied diets?’
‘No, no, no!’ cried William. ‘You are giving him an unfair advantage by providing clues. It is my turn to speak now. A varied diet is better, because it confuses the Devil, and means it is more difficult for him to poison you. Of course, Dominicans brag about eating simply, but that is because they like to sit down and dine with Satan of an evening.’
‘Oh, really, William!’ called Langelee from the back. ‘You should watch what you say, because some of our students might not know you are making a joke, and they will take you seriously.’
Bartholomew saw the puzzled expression on the friar’s face and knew jesting had been the last thing on his mind. ‘Is there anything else, Father?’ he asked. Some of the students were easing towards the windows. The debate was amusing, but not as interesting as watching the new arrivals.
‘No. I have stated my case perfectly, and anyone who disagrees with me is a fool.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Does anyone else have anything to add? About Galen’s hypotheses relating to diet? Or Maimonides? Or even Aristotle?’ he added, a little desperately.
‘Galen believed that all foods should be classified according to their powers,’ said Michael, taking pity on him. ‘Whether they are costive or purgative, corrosive or benign, and so on. Too much of one power can lead to an imbalance in the humours, and thus Galen’s contention is that a varied diet is superior to a simple one. I think that is the answer my colleague was hoping for.’
‘Oh,’ said Deynman, crestfallen. ‘That means I am wrong.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to be exasperated. ‘No one is wrong – and no one is right. That is the nature of disputation. It is about the arguments, not the conclusions.’
‘I am right,’ countered William immediately. ‘I always am, in matters of theology. That is why no one in the University ever dares challenge me in the debating halls.’
‘I thought no one challenged him because he is in the habit of stating his own case, then going home before his opponent can take issue with him,’ said Langelee to Michael. The monk sniggered, and the Master raised his voice. ‘So, Bartholomew, if you will do the summing up, we shall–’
‘Is this the nature of disputation at Michaelhouse?’ came a voice from the door. It was Honynge, and Tyrington was behind him. Honynge stalked in, looking around disparagingly. ‘A simpleton versus a narrow-minded bigot?’
Langelee gaped in astonishment. ‘Did he just refer to Father William as a simpleton?’
‘Actually,’ whispered Wynewyk, ‘I think he meant William is the narrow-minded bigot.’
Some of the students were laughing at Honynge’s remark, because most shared his opinion about the friar, and applauded anyone with the honesty to stand up and say so. Others, however, felt an insult to William was a slur on their College, and there were resentful mutterings.
‘He is a dangerous fanatic,’ declared Honynge. ‘And I, for one, will not pretend otherwise.’
‘Most men wait until they have been officially admitted before launching an attack on their new colleagues,’ said Michael mildly, going to lay a restraining hand on William’s shoulder.
‘We are officially admitted,’ sprayed Tyrington. ‘We swore our oaths yesterday, with William and Wynewyk as witnesses.’
‘It is true,’ said Langelee sheepishly, when Michael and Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘You two were out, and no one knew how long you would be. Honynge said he would accept the offer to be Principal at Lucy’s if we did not admit him straight away.’
‘My students and I want to be settled in before the beginning of term,’ Honynge explained. ‘And Candelby was eager to repossess the house we have been using as a hostel. If Michaelhouse had not opened its doors to us, we would have gone to Lucy’s. There is not much to choose between you.’
‘I am delighted to be here,’ gushed Tyrington, attempting to make up for Honynge’s brusqueness. ‘It is good of you to invite me, and I shall look forward to many entertaining debates during my tenure. Also, I would like to present this book to the College library.’