An Order for Death (14 page)

‘But that is not fair,’ protested William, crestfallen. ‘I have been waiting years to be appointed, and you must appreciate
that I would be good at ferreting out criminals, killers and heretics. I am the right man for the task, and you know it!’

‘You would make a memorable proctor,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘I will tell Chancellor Tynkell of your interest. However,
it is my understanding that he has promised the position to someone else.’

‘Who?’ demanded William. ‘I warrant it will not be someone with my dedication and experience.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Michael soothingly.

William rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then apparently decided to make the best of the situation. ‘But until this person has
officially accepted the position, you will need someone to help you,’ he said. ‘It will be good practice for
when the new Junior Proctor resigns and I take his place.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Michael hastily. ‘Matt is assisting me, and I need no one else. And anyway, I anticipate
that Walcote’s replacement will take up his duties very soon.’

‘You need me,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘You see, this is not merely a matter of hunting down some criminal who has
killed a man – which is all you have done in the past. This is far more complex: it is a case of unmasking a heretic.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, as William folded his arms and pursed his lips in the way he always did when he thought he had made
an astute revelation. ‘And how have you arrived at this conclusion, pray?’

‘It is obvious,’ said William, inserting his solid form through the door and perching on the windowsill when he saw Michael
was prepared to listen to him. ‘Walcote was an Austin canon; Austin canons follow the theory of nominalism; nominalism is
an heretical notion; heretical notions are upheld by agents of the Devil.
Ergo
, you need a man like me to discover the Devil’s spawn who killed Walcote.’

‘There is a flaw in your logic, Father,’ said Michael. ‘If Walcote were one of these so-called heretics, why would another
heretic kill him? Surely, the killer would be more likely to strike at a realist than a nominalist?’

William’s convictions began to waver. ‘Not necessarily,’ he blustered. ‘Heretics do not think in the same way as you or I.
They do not always act logically.’ ‘And neither do Franciscan fanatics,’ muttered Michael,

eyeing the friar in distaste.

‘You are a realist, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that William was prepared to take a stand on an 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
why
is it heretical?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘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
nomen
, which means name. It is not right to name things, because God did that when He created everything. It says so in Genesis.’
He shot Michael a triumphant glance, indicating that he thought he had already won the argument.

‘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
nomen
. Nominalists say that “men” is not a thing that has an actual existence, it is only a
name
describing a group of individuals. A “man” is a real thing – a particular – and so exists; but “men” is a universal and so
does not.’

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 inspect his
body and to ask among his colleagues whether he had any enemies.’

‘I thought
you
would have known that, Brother,’ said Tynkell. ‘If Walcote had enemies, they were made while carrying out his duties as your
deputy.’

‘Speaking of my deputy, I would like you to appoint one of the Benedictines from Ely Hall as Walcote’s replacement. Either
Timothy or Janius would be acceptable.’

‘Timothy,’ said Tynkell immediately, taking up his pen and beginning to write the order. ‘Beadle Meadowman informs me that
Timothy was a soldier before he took the cowl, and that is exactly the kind of man we need as a proctor. Janius would also
be good, but he is smaller and thus less able to wrestle with burly young students in their cups.’

‘He is stronger than he appears,’ said Michael. ‘And he is very good at talking sense to people. On balance, I suspect he
would be better than Timothy, who is slower and milder.’

‘But Janius is so … religious,’ said Tynkell, frowning.

‘He is a monk,’ interjected Bartholomew. ‘He is supposed to be religious.’

But despite his flippant words to Tynkell, Bartholomew knew what the Chancellor meant. Janius could scarcely utter a sentence
without mentioning matters holy, and even Bartholomew, who was usually tolerant of other people’s beliefs and habits, found
the force of Janius’s convictions unsettling.

‘There is a difference between the religion we all practise and the religion that Janius promotes,’ said Tynkell. ‘Janius
always wears that serene smile that makes him appear as though he has been in direct contact with God, and that he knows something
the rest of us do not.’

‘Master Kenyngham is like that,’ said Michael.

‘It is not the same,’ insisted Tynkell. ‘Janius’s religion is so intense and … preachy. I cannot think of another word
to describe it. It makes me feel acutely uncomfortable and rather inferior.’

Bartholomew understood his sentiments perfectly. Kenyngham’s devoutness was much more humble than that of Janius, and the
elderly Gilbertine certainly did not give the impression that he knew he was bound for the pearly gates, although Bartholomew
imagined he was more likely to be admitted than anyone else he knew. Janius, however, exuded the sense that he already had
one foot and several toes through the heavenly portals, and that he felt sorry for everyone else because they did not. Timothy
had a similar attitude, although it was less flagrant.

‘You have a point,’ said Michael. ‘I always feel I should not swear when I am with Janius, which could prove tiresome in some
circumstances. Very well: Brother Timothy it is. I shall go to Ely Hall immediately, and inform him of his good fortune.’

‘Do you not think you should ask him first?’ said Bartholomew, thinking that
he
would not be very pleased to be presented with a writ informing him that his days would now be spent visiting taverns to
ensure they were free of undergraduates, or trying to suppress riots.