An Order for Death

Meanwhile, I have several important bits of information secreted in one or two places.’

‘You cheated him,’ said Bartholomew, not particularly surprised. ‘You made him think he was gaining something valuable.’

‘Not cheated, Matt: outwitted. He should not have wasted his time coming to Cambridge to assess me. He should have gone to these properties and asked to inspect their records. I certainly would have done. But that is why Cambridge will always be superior to Oxford in all respects. We think with our minds, not our pockets. And speaking of pockets, you owe me an evening of fine wine and good food at the Brazen George.’

‘I do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why is that?’

‘I told you we would resolve this by Easter Day, and we have.’

‘But you said the wager was invalid when you discovered you had more than one murder to solve,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And you failed to mention it was back on again.’

‘Well, I am mentioning it now,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘We will go after the debate.’

The recently rebuilt Church of St Mary was packed to overflowing with scholars from the University, as well as a few hardy souls from the town. The black robes of Benedictine monks, Austin canons and Dominican friars formed stark blocks among the pale grey of the Franciscans and the white of the occasional Cluniac monk. Between them were the blue tabards of Bene’t College, the black of Michaelhouse, and the various uniforms of Peterhouse, Clare Hall, King’s Hall and the other Colleges and hostels.

The church was a beautiful building, and its new chancel was made of bright sandstone and adorned with delicate pinnacles that reached towards the sky. As befitted a University church, it was the largest building in the town, raised to accommodate as many scholars as possible within its walls. The air rang with the sound of voices, some raised in cheerful greetings, some in laughter, and others in argument. Michael nodded to Meadowman, who inserted a group of elderly commoners from the Hall of Valence Marie between some Carmelites and Dominicans who were already eyeing each other challengingly, in the hope that they would keep the two factions apart.

‘This is a nightmare,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Usually, it is not necessary to keep rivals apart at debates, because even if people hold strong opinions, they are not usually committed to proving them with their fists. But this is different; everyone seems ready for a good fight today.’

‘Good morning, Brother,’ came Heytesbury’s smooth voice from behind him. The Oxford man looked pleased with himself in his ceremonial red gown, and Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before he discovered he had not done as well out of Cambridge as he had anticipated. Heytesbury nodded to the assembled hordes. ‘I am honoured. It seems almost every scholar in your University has come to bid me farewell.’

‘Michael tells me you are leaving today,’ said Bartholomew, politely making conversation.

Heytesbury smiled. ‘A clever man always knows the right time to make an exit. It is time now: Cambridge no longer holds any attraction for me.’

‘How unfortunate,’ said Michael ambiguously.

Heytesbury allowed his gaze to rove over the gathering crowd again. ‘I am astonished that Cambridge scholars are so keen to learn about life in other universes. Such a topic would not intrigue Oxford men. They are concerned with greater issues.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, bristling at the criticism. ‘Such as what, pray?’

‘The irrefutable premises of nominalism, for a start,’ replied Heytesbury immediately. ‘I am one of the foremost thinkers on the subject. I cannot imagine why you will not allow me to lecture on it here. Some of that rabble might even learn something from it.’

‘I have already explained that,’ snapped Michael, made irritable by the worry of keeping the students from each others’ throats that day. ‘Nominalism is too contentious a subject at the moment. Return next year, and I shall be happy to oblige you, but today we will hear about whether you think there is life on Mars.’

Heytesbury sighed. ‘As you wish, Brother. I warrant I shall clear this church within moments once I start to speak on such a tedious subject, but you shall have it, if that is what you want.’

‘It is,’ said Michael firmly. He glanced at the door as more people began to elbow their way into the church, headed by a flock of white-robed scholars, the size of which had every head turning in astonishment. ‘Look at that! It is Lincolne, with virtually every Carmelite friar in the county! Where did they all come from?’

‘He summoned them from their parishes,’ said Beadle Meadowman, breathless from his exertions. ‘His gatekeeper told me that he wants to prove the superiority of the realist argument by sheer dint of numbers.’

‘But the debate is not about realism,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Damn your nephew, Matt! It is his fault that all these friars are here. He should never have suggested that Heytesbury speak here.’

‘There is Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Bartholomew, watching as the head of the University climbed unsteadily on to a wooden platform that had been erected in the middle of the nave. Immediately, there was a hush, as scholars waited to hear what he had to say. Heytesbury left Michael and went to stand next to him. From a distance the scholar looked small and unassuming, even in his handsome robes, and Bartholomew thought it was not surprising that the likes of Lincolne imagined they could best him in an argument. The Carmelite Prior would be in for a shock if he tried, Bartholomew thought, recalling the short work Heytesbury had made of such men in Oxford.

As the assembled masses in the church waited for the Chancellor to begin, Lincolne elbowed his way to the front with his gaggle of friars in tow, and Bartholomew saw the scholars behind him trying to see around the large expanse of his person and his peculiar turret of hair. On the other side of the church, his mortal enemy, Morden of the Dominicans, recently freed from the proctors’ cells, gave him an unpleasant glower. Morden had taken the precaution of bringing his own box to stand on, so that he would be able to look over the shoulders of the scholars in front. Meanwhile, the Franciscan Prior Pechem looked uneasily from one to the other, clearly anticipating trouble, while the student-friars from all Orders were alert and aggressive.

‘This Easter Sunday, we have gathered in St Mary’s Church to hear Master William Heytesbury of Merton College in Oxford,’ began Tynkell in a grand voice. ‘Although an esteemed proponent of nominalism, Heytesbury will speak on a different matter to us. The question we shall ponder is: Let us debate whether life exists in other universes.’

Bartholomew saw Heytesbury grimace, and one or two supporters of realism begin to grin at each other, gloating over the fact that the greatest nominalist in the country had been forbidden to speak his mind. Lincolne, looked as black as thunder.

‘Does he think God will strike him down?’ he boomed, the sudden loudness of his voice making several scholars jump in alarm. ‘Is he afraid to declare his heretical theories in a church?’

Heytesbury gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am willing to explain my theories anywhere, but I have not been invited to talk about them. I have been asked to speak about whether hairstyles like yours exist in parallel universes.’

The Dominicans began to cheer, drowning Chancellor Tynkell’s attempt to silence them and to bring the debate back to the subject in hand. The Carmelites objected to Heytesbury’s remark, and began to yell insults at him.

‘Perhaps it was not such a good idea to try to censor the debate,’ Bartholomew shouted to Michael, trying to make himself heard over the din. ‘You might cause more trouble by declining to discuss the problem than if it had been aired in the open.’

‘Our mistake was trying to hold the debate at all,’ yelled Michael. ‘We should have waited until matters calmed down.’

‘Look at Lincolne,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the distinctive topknot making its way towards Heytesbury and Tynkell. ‘I have a feeling he intends more than a quiet chat about nominalist principles, Brother. Unless you want Heytesbury riding home with a blackened eye and tales of Cambridge’s violent debates, you should stop him.’

‘Come with me,’ instructed Michael. ‘I will never restrain Lincolne and fend off his students alone, and my beadles are struggling with the Dominicans.’

Bartholomew followed the monk as he elbowed his way through the surging mass. Any control Tynkell might have commanded had been lost, and the church was filled with ringing shouts and threats. Michael reached Lincolne and grabbed him by the arm.

‘Let me go!’ howled the Carmelite Prior furiously, trying to free himself. ‘I will not stand here and be forced