issue that was so complex. Normally the Franciscan had little time for intricate debates that required serious thinking.
‘We Franciscans always follow the path of truth,’ announced William. ‘Of course we support realism. You did not think we were nominalists, did you? My Prior told me that the Franciscans supported realism, and I always follow his lead in such matters.’
Michael gave a low snort of laughter. ‘Only when it suits you. He told you not to fan the flames of dissent between your Order and the Dominicans last summer, and you were brought before him three times for disobeying his instructions.’
‘That was different,’ said William haughtily. ‘And anyway, he now recognises that I was right. We should have driven the Dominicans out of Cambridge last year, when I suggested we should.’
‘You mean we should suppress anything we do not agree with, and persecute anyone who holds a different opinion from us?’ asked Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
‘That is the most sensible suggestion I have ever heard you make, Matthew,’ said William, oblivious of the fact that the physician had been joking. ‘Then we would eradicate heresy from the face of the Earth.’
‘Along with the freedom to think,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why are the religious Orders laying down such rigid rules regarding the nominalism – realism debate? In the past, they have always permitted individuals to make up their own minds about philosophical issues.’
‘Not everyone is equipped with the wits to make a rational decision,’ said William in a superior manner. ‘Like the Dominicans, apparently.’
‘And why do you think nominalism is so wrong?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘It is wrong because it is heretical,’ said William immediately.
‘Yes, but
‘Because it is,’ said William. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘Not everyone,’ corrected Michael. ‘The Dominicans, my dead Junior Proctor and my own brethren at Ely Hall do not agree – to name but a few people.’
William stared straight ahead of him, suggesting that he knew he had been bested, but did not want to admit it.
‘A group of Carmelites gathered outside the Dominican Friary on Sunday, and were prepared to fight against highly unfavourable odds in support of realism,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when I asked them what realism was, they could not define it. The debate is simply an excuse for restless students to fight each other.’
‘Right,’ said Michael, turning a wicked grin on William. ‘So, tell us what you understand by nominalism, Father. I should like to know.’
‘Nominalism is all about giving things names,’ said William, after a few moments of serious thought and throat clearing. ‘The very word “nominalism” comes from the Latin
‘That is not exactly right,’ said Bartholomew, as Michael turned away in disgust.
‘Yes, it is,’ snapped William. ‘So there.’
‘Aristotle and Plato believed that the world contains abstract concepts – like the quality of blueness or beauty – that are actually real,’ began Bartholomew, determined that if the Franciscan were prepared to take a stand on the issue, then he should know what he was talking about. ‘They called these things “universals”. They also believed that the world contains individual things that are blue or beautiful – like a blue flower – which they called “particulars”.’
‘I know, I know,’ muttered William, who clearly did not. He regarded Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘But what have Aristotle and Plato to do with nominalism?’
Michael sighed heavily at his lack of knowledge. ‘They were the first realists. You should know this. It is what you claim is the non-heretical thing to think.’
‘Nominalists believe that universals have no real existence,’ explained Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s outburst. ‘They say that blue things exist – like the sky, that bowl on the table, the stone in Michael’s ring – but the quality of blueness is an abstract and does not exist. So, universals are imaginary concepts, and only particulars are real.’
‘Oh,’ said William flatly, so that Bartholomew could not tell whether he had grasped the essence of the argument or not. ‘Why are they called nominalists, then? This makes no sense.’
‘It does. The word “men” describes a group of people. It is a name, a
William blew out his cheeks. ‘This is all very complicated, Matthew. If you are going to explain it to your students, you will need to simplify it a good deal.’
Bartholomew caught Michael’s eye and willed himself not to laugh. He had already simplified the debate and had not even begun to explain its ramifications for the study of logic, grammar and rhetoric. When the Dominican Kyrkeby gave his lecture on nominalism for the University debate the following Sunday, Bartholomew was certain the Franciscans would not be sending William to refute his arguments.
‘And Plato and Aristotle thought all this up, did they?’ asked William, after a moment.
‘No, Plato and Aristotle were realists,’ said Bartholomew patiently, not looking at Michael. ‘Nominalism was revived a few years ago by William of Occam, who was a scholar at Oxford.’
‘Shameful man,’ pronounced William. ‘He should have left things as they were.’
‘Occam was a student of Duns Scotus,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Duns Scotus was a strong believer in realism, but Occam gradually came to disagree with his master.’
‘Duns Scotus was a Franciscan,’ said William smugly. ‘That is why I know realism is right and nominalism is wrong. But I cannot spend all day lounging in here with you when there is God’s work to be done. I have teaching to do. Let me know this afternoon what you want me to do to help you catch Walcote’s killer.’
‘You have wasted your time, Matt,’ said Michael in disgust when the Franciscan had gone. ‘You tried to teach him the essence of the argument, but he simply clung to his own bigoted notions that realism was propounded by a Franciscan and so must be right.’
‘He is not the only one to hold views like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect that most people can argue a little more coherently.’
‘I hope so. But he was right about one thing,’ said Michael, standing and reaching for the cloak that lay across the bottom of his straw mattress. ‘We should not be wasting time here when we have murderers to catch.’
‘Before we visit Barnwell Priory to examine Walcote’s body, I think I had better see Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. ‘I do not want William visiting the man and demanding to be made Junior Proctor before I have informed him who to appoint.’
‘You told William that Tynkell already has someone else in mind,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He does,’ replied Michael with a grin. ‘Only he does not know it yet.’
The Chancellor of the University occupied a cramped office in St Mary’s Church, although he fared better than his proctors, who were relegated to a room that was little more than a lean-to shed outside. Tynkell glanced up as Michael walked into his chamber, and smiled a greeting. He was a thin man, who Bartholomew understood took some pride in the fact that he had never washed, being of the belief that water was bad for the skin. His office certainly suggested that there might be some truth in the rumour, because it was imbued with a sour, sickly odour. Tynkell attempted to disguise his unclean smell by dousing himself with perfumes, although Bartholomew thought he should use something much stronger, and seriously considered offering to find out from whom Richard Stanmore purchased his powerfully scented hair oil. The Chancellor laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, transferring a long smear of ink on to one cheek. Bartholomew wondered how long it would remain there.
‘I suppose it is too soon for you to have any news about the murder of Will Walcote?’ he asked. ‘You have not had time to begin your investigation.’
‘But I have thought of little else since last night,’ said Michael. ‘We are on our way to Barnwell Priory, to
