An Order for Death (7 page)

‘Actually, the Dominicans and the Benedictines have a truce at the moment,’ said Janius. ‘We both accept nominalism as a basic
truth. But I do not think most students really care about the realism–nominalism debate. It is just a convenient excuse for
a good fight.’

‘That is certainly true,’ said Michael. ‘But I will have these six Dominicans under lock and key today, if I think they are
responsible for Faricius’s death.’

‘Good,’ said Janius. ‘We will pray that justice is done. Now, in fact.’

He crossed himself vigorously and his blue eyes lit with pleasure as he sensed a cause that was worthy of his religious attentions.
He bade farewell to Michael, and began to stride towards the Church of St Andrew that stood just outside the Barnwell Gate.
Timothy followed him, his head already bowed as he began his own pious meditations.

‘They are good men,’ said Michael warmly, watching them go. ‘And there are not many of those around these days.’

O
N THEIR WAY BACK TO THE DOMINICAN FRIARY
, Bartholomew and Michael met Walcote, who offered to accompany them with a pack of beadles, in case the Dominicans took exception
to the Senior Proctor arresting some of their number. With Walcote and the men at his heels, Michael strode up to the friary
gate and hammered on it. It was answered almost immediately by a strange-looking man, whose hair stood in an uncertain halo
around his tonsure and who had a wild look in his eyes.

‘Clippesby,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were at Michaelhouse, overseeing the polishing
of our silver in preparation for Easter.’

‘I finished that,’ said Clippesby shyly. ‘Then I offered to help the cooks shred the cabbage, but they were afraid I might
cut myself, so I went for a walk instead.’

Then the cooks had been very tactful, thought Bartholomew, hiding a smile. It was well known in the town that the Dominican
John Clippesby, Michaelhouse’s master of music and astronomy, was not entirely in control of his faculties, and that he was
always being given time-consuming and usually pointless tasks to keep him out of harm’s way. The cooks would certainly not
want him in the kitchen with a sharp knife in his hands.

‘But what are you doing
here
?’ pressed Michael, suspecting that Clippesby had somehow slipped past the porters, and that the Master of Michaelhouse did
not know he was at large.

‘I heard there was trouble between my Order and the Carmelites, so I thought I should come to see what was happening,’ replied
Clippesby. ‘But I was just leaving,
actually. For some reason, Prior Morden said he did not want me here, and suggested that I should go home.’

‘I bet he did,’ muttered Michael, who had been trying for some time, without success, to foist the unstable Dominican back
on his own friary and out of Michaelhouse. Morden was no fool, however, and had no more wish to have a madman imposed on him
than Michaelhouse had been.

‘All the Dominicans are inside,’ Clippesby went on. ‘Prior Morden says that it is too dangerous for anyone to be out, although
he said
I
would be safe, because I am a Michaelhouse man and do not live in the friary.’

Bartholomew felt a surge of anger against Morden. The Prior knew perfectly well that marauding Carmelites would not ask a
man wearing the habit of a Dominican whether he lived at the friary or whether he was a member of a College. It would be irrelevant
anyway: the Carmelites’ antagonism was not aimed at the friary in particular, it was aimed at the Dominicans in general. Clippesby
would have provided an ideal target for the little group of sullen Carmelites Bartholomew and Michael had just followed home.

‘Wait here,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for Clippesby to be alone. ‘We will walk to Michaelhouse with you after we have spoken
to Morden.’

‘I will be all right,’ said Clippesby, beginning to move away from them. ‘Saint Balthere appeared to me this morning and instructed
me to pray for him in St Michael’s Church. He would not have done that if any harm was due to befall me, would he?’

‘Saint who?’ asked Michael warily.

‘That does not necessarily follow,’ said Bartholomew, worried that the Dominican’s unstable condition might be taking a turn
for the worse. ‘Wait here until we have spoken to Morden.’

But Clippesby was already wandering away down the road, and Bartholomew had glimpsed the distant look in his eyes
that always appeared when the voices inside his head began to claim his attention. In the physician’s opinion, the conversations
seemed to be heavily one-sided, with Clippesby doing most of the talking. How the saints managed to make him shut up long
enough to pass any kind of message to him was entirely beyond Bartholomew’s understanding.

‘He will come to no harm,’ said Walcote reassuringly, seeing Bartholomew’s concern. ‘Everyone knows he is touched, and so
will leave him alone. If the truth be known, I think he frightens people. They do not understand the things he says and does,
and they are afraid of him.’

‘They have good reason to be,’ announced Michael. ‘I am afraid of him myself.’

Still glancing uneasily behind him at Clippesby, who sauntered along Hadstock Way as if he had not a care in the world, Bartholomew
followed Michael and Walcote across the Dominicans’ courtyard to the Prior’s lodging. They were hurriedly intercepted by a
man with heavy brow-ridge, like an ape, who introduced himself as Thomas Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary. He instructed them
to wait until Prior Morden had been informed that he had visitors – something that invariably annoyed Michael, who liked to
burst in on people unawares to see if he could catch them doing something he could use to his advantage.

After a chilly wait in the courtyard, where a sharp wind blew dead leaves from the previous autumn around in desolate little
eddies, Ringstead came to tell them the great man was ready. Michael elbowed him aside and made his way to the Prior’s comfortable
office on the first floor, pushing open the door so hard that it flew back and crashed against the wall. The tiny man who
sat writing at a table near the window almost jumped out of his skin.

‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ he complained in a high-pitched voice, almost like a child’s. ‘You do it every time
you visit, and I keep telling you that the hinges are delicate.’

Ringstead inspected the wall behind the door, and clucked
softly at the plaster flakes that lay on the floor. Judging from the small cracks that radiated from a circular indentation
at the level of the latch, either Michael had visited Prior Morden with some frequency, or the fat monk was not the only one
who liked to enter the solar with a bang.

‘Very sorry,’ said Michael, not sounding in the least contrite as he strode across the room and placed himself in front of
a blazing fire, depriving everyone else of the heat by blocking it with his bulk.

Prior Morden sighed irritably and put down his pen. If Lincolne of the Carmelites was a giant, then Morden of the Dominicans
was an elf. His head did not reach Bartholomew’s shoulder, and the physician noticed that when the Prior sat in the chair
his feet did not touch the floor. He was dressed in an immaculate habit of fine black wool, and a delicate silver cross hung
around his neck.

‘I expected you yesterday,’ said Morden, picking up a sheaf of parchments and shuffling them fussily. ‘I heard what happened
with that Carmelite, and I suspected you would come to try to blame his death on us Dominicans.’

‘I am here to discover who killed Faricius of Abington, not to blame the innocent,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Do you have any
idea what happened yesterday?’

‘What happened is that the Carmelites challenged my student-friars to a fight, but then ran away like cowards to skulk within
their walls when we responded,’ stated the little man uncompromisingly.

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘The gathering of Dominicans in Milne Street, who threw stones – not only at the Carmelite Friary but
at the houses of the merchants who live nearby – was the Carmelites’ responsibility, was it?’

‘Essentially,’ said Morden, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Prior Lincolne wrote a proclamation saying that anyone who followed
the theory of nominalism should be burned in the Market Square for heresy, and then had the audacity to pin it up at St Mary’s
Church. But it is the realists who should be burned for heresy!’

Michael cast a weary glance at Walcote and Bartholomew, and then turned to Morden. ‘Has the whole University gone mad? I can
accept that one or two misguided individuals feel that the known universe revolves around the realism–nominalism debate, but
I am astonished that so many apparently sane people deem this issue so important.’

‘Lincolne’s act was a deliberate insult to us,’ Morden went on. ‘You see, our Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, is due to give
the University Lecture in St Mary’s Church on Easter Sunday, and his chosen subject is nominalism. Lincolne’s proclamation
was calculated to offend us specifically.’

‘Kyrkeby?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘
He
is lecturing?’

‘Yes, why?’ demanded Morden aggressively. ‘Do you think him incapable of speaking at the University’s most prestigious annual
academic event?’

‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He is a patient of mine, and for the last several months his heart has been
beating irregularly. I recommended he should avoid anything that would make him nervous or tense.’

‘It was a great honour when a Dominican was invited to speak at such an auspicious occasion,’ said Morden indignantly. ‘Of
course he did not refuse the Chancellor’s invitation.’

‘He mentioned none of this to me,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘No wonder he has visited me three times this week. It is
apprehension that is making him ill.’

‘I imagine he did not tell you because he knew you would advise against it,’ said Walcote practically. ‘Foolish man, to put
pride above his health.’

‘He has been working very hard on what he plans to say,’ said Morden. ‘For weeks, he has thought of little else.’

‘Then I imagine it will be an entertaining occasion,’ said Michael, bored with a conversation that had nothing to do with
Faricius’s murder. ‘But I did not come here to talk about—’

‘I only hope it will not be entertaining in a way that will
prove detrimental to the friary,’ interrupted Morden, pursing his lips worriedly. ‘He read me parts of his lecture last week,
and I confess I have heard stronger and more erudite arguments.’

‘He has changed it since then, Father Prior,’ said Ringstead reassuringly. ‘I was very impressed with what he read me last
night. Do not worry. Our Precentor will do us justice.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Morden anxiously.

Ringstead nodded. ‘The lecture is now a very mature and astute piece of thinking. Even the Carmelites will be stunned into
silence with the eloquence and perceptiveness of his logic.’

‘That assumes they are able to appreciate it – and I have seen no evidence that they can,’ muttered Michael. He spoke a little
more loudly. ‘But whatever philosophical views are held on this subject, Prior Morden, it is no excuse for riotous behaviour
– for Dominicans or Carmelites.’

‘You do not understand the importance of this issue,’ said Morden vehemently. ‘Your Benedictine colleagues at Ely Hall do,
though – they have ranged themselves on the side of nominalism. Brothers Timothy and Janius are shining examples.’

Michael gave a fervent sigh. ‘I know that some scholars have strong views on the matter, but I do not think most of us care
one way or the other.’

‘That is not true,’ objected Morden hotly. ‘
I
care very much.’

‘And so does Lincolne,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘But do you care because you are a committed nominalist, or because you
have a natural inclination to oppose anything upheld by the Carmelites? Everyone knows the two Orders have always despised
each other.’

‘Lincolne is a loathsome man,’ declared Morden, indicating that the long-standing enmity between the two Orders was doubtless
the real cause of the Dominicans’ sudden interest in philosophy. ‘But nominalism is a much more
rational theory than realism. However, you are wrong to think that no one cares. Many people feel very strongly about this
issue.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice to Michael and Walcote. ‘This debate has provided the Orders with an excuse
to re-address ancient grievances. You will find that most clerics have taken this debate very much to heart, and you will
also find that they are doggedly aligning themselves on whichever side of the discussion their Order has deemed correct. There
seems to be no room for individual thought on
this
matter.’

‘Like sheep,’ muttered Michael in disgust.

‘Not entirely,’ offered Walcote timidly. ‘Many highly intelligent men have taken up this argument – and it is not purely the
domain of louts spoiling for a street battle.’

‘That is not how it appears,’ said Michael. ‘But this is not a new debate – it originated with Aristotle and Plato. Why should
the two sides suddenly resort to violence over it?’

‘That riot yesterday was not our fault,’ stated Morden, breaking into the muttered conversation. ‘What started it was the
proclamation Lincolne wrote. It is
his
action that precipitated the incident in Milne Street.’

‘I see,’ pounced Michael. ‘An “incident in Milne Street” is how you would describe the murder of a Carmelite, is it?’

‘Dominicans are not the only ones who dislike the Carmelites,’ retorted Morden. ‘The Austin canons loathe them just as much
– not to mention the Benedictines.’ He gave Michael’s own dark robe a meaningful glance and then looked at Walcote’s Austin
habit.

‘It was not Benedictines or Austins that my colleague saw closing in on Faricius with malice in their eyes,’ said Michael
sharply. ‘It was Dominicans. Even he can tell the difference.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Morden nastily. ‘The Benedictines can barely rouse themselves from the dining table.’

Michael ignored the jibe. ‘Matt saw six Dominicans advancing on Faricius intending mischief. I would like a word with them,
if you please. And you need not concern
yourself about their likely reluctance to give themselves up: he can identify them.’

Morden treated Bartholomew, and then Michael, to unpleasant looks. ‘I am sure they meant Faricius no harm. Have you considered
the possibility that they were trying to help him? Did you actually
see
them stab him?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But they are the ones who should be answering these questions, not me. Will you send for them
or would you rather I picked them out?’

Morden’s glower deepened. ‘Everyone is in the refectory at the moment, eating breakfast as they listen in reverent silence
to the readings of the Bible Scholar. Come.’

‘Breakfast?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘But it is almost noon!’