knew Bartholomew and Langelee well enough to predict which one would emerge victorious from a battle of intellects and which one would be left looking foolish.
He saw Kenyngham watching them from the window of his chamber, and sensed, once again, that Bartholomew should steer clear of encounters with Langelee if he wanted to continue to teach at Michaelhouse. He tightened his grip on Bartholomew’s sleeve.
Langelee looked surprised – both at Bartholomew’s request and Michael’s reaction. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You should come to hear me,’ he said. ‘You might learn something, although it is a difficult question and you probably will not understand all the arguments I make.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew guilelessly. ‘And which of the two positions do you believe is the more viable: that the world was created or that it is eternal?’
‘That it is infinite,’ said Langelee without hesitation. ‘Any fool can see that. Otherwise everything in nature would have a much newer feel to it – like rivers and rocks and the oceans.’
‘But that would mean that the world had no beginning,’ said Bartholomew, trying to disengage his arm from Michael’s insistent tug. ‘And, the logical conclusion to be drawn from that is that an infinite number of celestial revolutions must have occurred to bring us to the present. But, because an infinite number of revolutions can never be completed, it stands that the revolution we are in now cannot have been reached. And that, of course, is absurd.’
‘Eh?’ said Langelee, blinking.
‘And further,’ said Bartholomew, prising Michael’s fingers from his sleeve, ‘as St Bonaventure argues, if an infinite number of revolutions have occurred until the present, the ones that will occur tomorrow will have to be added to that infinite number, which, I think you will agree, is impossible.’
‘I … well,’ said Langelee uncertainly.
‘That is enough, Matt,’ said Michael sharply, glancing up to where Kenyngham watched them from the window of his room. ‘Master Langelee is perfectly capable of refuting St Bonaventure’s arguments should he so desire. We all know that neither the creation of the world nor its eternity are scientifically demonstrable – as indeed Thomas Aquinas points out – and that, as such, they are equally probable.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s tabard again.
‘Hmm,’ said Langelee non-committally.
‘If we cannot discuss philosophy, then perhaps we can talk about common acquaintances,’ said Bartholomew pleasantly, still attempting to extricate himself from Michael’s grip. ‘I hear you are acquainted with Julianna, the Abbess of Denny’s niece.’
Langelee’s eyes narrowed again. ‘So? At least she is not a harlot like your Matilde. She is also the niece of Thomas Deschalers the merchant, and so is very well connected.’
‘She is betrothed to Edward Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you know that?’
The suspicion vanished from Langelee’s face to be replaced by patent disbelief. ‘What? Julianna is not betrothed to anyone!’
‘You are right. She is not,’ said Michael, hauling on Bartholomew’s gown so hard that there was a sharp snap of ripped stitches. ‘Matt has been listening to too much town gossip.’
Langelee moved like lightning to prevent the monk from pulling Bartholomew away from him, and Bartholomew, standing awkwardly because of the way Michael was tugging on his tabard, tripped over the philosopher’s foot. He skidded in the mud, and only saved himself from a tumble by snatching at Michael’s habit. Langelee raised his eyebrows as the physician struggled to regain his footing.
‘You should go more easily on the ale, Bartholomew,’ he said. ‘Drinking in the mornings, I am sure, is bad for the balance of the humours.’
‘You should know,’ muttered Bartholomew.
Langelee’s heavy eyebrows drew together, and he opened his mouth to reply. Michael intervened hastily, realising that an argument would ensue between his friend and the aggressive philosopher unless he prevented it – and Kenyngham was still at his window. He decided the best way to silence Langelee was to go on the offensive himself.
‘You seem to be a little unsteady yourself, Master Langelee,’ he said. ‘As Senior Proctor, I must warn you that such behaviour is insupportable. My advice to you is that you remain in your chamber until you are certain you are no longer under the influence of last night’s wine.’
Before Langelee could reply, Michael had gained a powerful hold on Bartholomew’s arm, and was away with him across the courtyard, leaving the philosopher spluttering with impotent rage.
‘The more I speak with that fellow, the less I like him,’ said the obese monk pompously. ‘I do not know why he insists on holding conversations when his sole intention is to needle people. Borrow Aristotle indeed! He would not know one end of
‘He also does not know of Julianna’s betrothal,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. He rubbed his arm where Michael’s fingers had pinched. ‘He seemed quite disappointed to learn she was unavailable. Maybe I should let him know he has had a lucky escape. Or is the luck Julianna’s?’
‘You will do no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That man clearly has some kind of grudge against you, and you would be well advised to stay clear of him until I can have quiet words in high places and see about getting him transferred to another College – Valence Marie, perhaps, or King’s Hall.’ He glanced up at Kenyngham, still watching from his window. ‘Assuming, of course, that words in high places were not had to bring him here in the first place.’
Bartholomew was spared from answering by someone shouting for Michael. They turned and saw Vice- Chancellor Harling picking his way cautiously across the yard.
‘Can you do nothing about this foul mire?’ he grumbled, looking at his splattered boots in dismay. ‘Physwick Hostel does not boast such a mud bath.’
‘Physwick Hostel does not have a yard,’ retorted Michael. He smiled before Harling could take offence. ‘I was about to come to see you.’
‘Well, then, I have saved you the trouble,’ said Harling. ‘At the expense of my boots! But I wanted to tell you personally, Matthew, how appalled I was when Brother Michael told me about the attack on you when you went to see to the Bishop. I wish I had tried harder to dissuade you from going. I shall say a mass today to give thanks for your deliverance.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Thank you. If we had listened to your misgivings about the journey none of it would have happened.’
‘True,’ said Harling. ‘Although I did not come here to gloat. I came to ask whether you had discovered anything new.’ The Vice-Chancellor shook his head as Deynman, hurrying to attend one of Alcote’s basic grammar lectures in the hall, fell flat on his back in the mud and slid some distance before coming to a halt.
‘Not really,’ said Michael. ‘Today I plan to visit St Bernard’s Hostel to see if I can learn anything further about Armel’s death, and then I will go to the castle to see how Tulyet has fared.’
‘What is the Sheriff doing?’
‘I was given the names of a ring of smugglers in the area by an informant,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘We believe it was the smugglers who made the attempt on our lives.’
‘Your informant is the nun you brought from Denny?’ asked Harling. Michael stared at him in surprise and Harling smiled. ‘You chose an unfortunate accomplice in Mistress Julianna, Brother. She has been bragging all over the town how she and an elderly cleric escaped certain death from ruthless outlaws.’
Michael was horrified. ‘I thought we could rely on her discretion when a life was at stake!’
‘Whatever gave you that idea, Brother?’ muttered Bartholomew.
Harling patted the monk’s arm in a soothing gesture. ‘Do not fear. Julianna thinks you have secreted this old nun here, in Michaelhouse.’ He watched the grey-robed Franciscans assembling to process to the church for another mass. ‘Although how she imagines you could hide a woman here with Father William and Master Alcote at large, I cannot imagine. Those are men who would not budge an inch in their conviction that women have no place in a College – even an elderly nun in fear of her life.’
‘Yes, Michaelhouse is not noted for its tolerance and compassion,’ said Bartholomew, looking to where Langelee was berating Agatha for taking too long to mend one of his shirts. The formidable laundress put her hands on her hips and glowered, looking so dangerous that the philosopher prudently backed down and slunk away while he was still able. ‘Apart from Master Kenyngham, who I am not sure lives in the same world as us
