A Wicked Deed (25 page)

‘He
might
have been uncertain. For all he knew, you might have just pulled it off your own belt, and then he would have been caught out in an untruth.’

‘For someone you consider dull-witted, you are accrediting Norys with a good deal of intelligence,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘Not intelligence, Matt. Raw cunning. Like one of those damned cats he has creeping about the house. Did you notice how much he looked like one?’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘But we cannot do anything more tonight because of this debate. After we bury Unwin tomorrow morning, you and I will visit Mistress Freeman, and then we will know who is lying and who is telling the truth.’

‘Where is William?’ hissed Michael anxiously to Bartholomew as the light faded from the sky behind Wergen Hall.

Bartholomew shrugged, wondering whether he should go to look for the absent friar. The debate was due to start at any moment, and it would be a very short one if only one side of the argument were presented. Michael fretted, pacing up and down in the dusty courtyard outside Tuddenham’s manorial home, as the villagers filed past him to take their seats in the main chamber. Bartholomew felt almost guilty when he saw the keen anticipation on their weary faces, certain that they were in for a tedious evening.

He was on the verge of leaving to hunt William down, when the friar appeared, hurrying along the path from the village. His grey robe flapped round his ankles, and his face was red with effort and agitation.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael. ‘We are almost ready to begin, and I wanted to go through a couple of your arguments with you beforehand, to…’ He hesitated.

‘Why, what have you been doing?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

‘I have been locked inside that damned latrine for the best part of the afternoon,’ snapped William angrily. ‘Some lunatic put a device on the door that can only be operated from the outside. Once you are in and the door is closed, the only way to get out is if someone opens it for you.’

‘Eltisley!’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh. ‘He was meddling with the doors yesterday, trying to fit some mechanism that would prevent desperate people from rattling the handles of occupied stalls. It was probably that which caused you problems.’

‘It was a red metal thing,’ said William. ‘In the end, I had to unscrew the hinge and remove the whole door, or I would still be there now, since no one answered my calls for help. Eltisley intended that lock to mean business!’

‘Come on,’ said Michael, taking his arm and leading him inside the manor house. ‘Or the people of Grundisburgh will be thinking we are afraid to show them our talents.’

‘Or perhaps they do not want to see them – hence William’s imprisonment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine that no one walked past the latrines all afternoon. Perhaps it is their way of telling us they would rather be elsewhere.’

‘Nonsense,’ said William grimly. ‘These peasants will have an excellent time this evening.’

‘Will you tell them that, or shall I?’ asked Michael, grinning behind the friar’s back.

‘We are here to discuss a question,’ the monk began grandly. ‘And the answer to that question lies at the very heart of our understanding of the universe. The ideas and theories you will hear expounded today come from some of the greatest minds the world has ever known – ancient philosophers, such as Aristotle and Ptolemy, and respected authorities from our own time, such as John Buridan.’

He paused for dramatic effect, and Bartholomew saw that one or two people were already beginning to shift restlessly, while a group of small children at his feet was far more interested in racing some insects through the rushes than in anything Michael had to say.

‘The only way to learn and to understand complex philosophical, theological and scientific issues is through disputation,’ continued Michael pompously. ‘If any one of you wishes to state a theory or to ask a question, you are welcome to do so at any time.’

‘How long is this going to last?’ called a burly man from the back, who held a piglet in his arms. ‘Only I need to get back to the sow.’

‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Michael. ‘But I prefer that any questions asked relate to the issue we are debating, namely: “Let us consider whether the Earth rotates”.’

‘Rotates? You mean spins round?’ asked the man with the pig.

‘He is wrong, then,’ said Dame Eva with conviction. ‘I have never heard such rubbish.’

‘Which is wrong, madam?’ asked Michael. ‘That the Earth rotates or that it is motionless?’

‘She means that it rotates,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Of course it does not rotate. It is not a maypole!’

‘I am quite capable of answering for myself,’ said Dame Eva. She turned a bright, somewhat hostile, eye on Bartholomew. ‘Well, go on, then. Explain yourself. Explain how you have dreamt up such a gross flight of fancy.’

‘Not so gross,’ said Eltisley thoughtfully. ‘A rotation of the Earth would explain why we have winter and summer.’

‘It would?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

Eltisley nodded, scratching his chin. ‘The Earth rotates toward the sun in summer, making the weather warm, but rotates away from it in the winter, bringing snow and cold winds.’

‘The notion is that the Earth rotates on a daily basis,’ said Bartholomew, ‘not on a yearly one. A daily rotation explains why the sun rises and sets, and why the stars move, but not why the seasons change.’

‘Well, what does explain the advent of winter and summer, then?’ demanded Eltisley. ‘I defy you to come up with a better explanation than the one I have suggested.’

Expectant eyes turned towards Bartholomew.

‘And then you can tell us how to control it,’ said the man with the pig, looking around him for the support of his friends. ‘Summer was too late in coming this year. And it would be better if we could miss winter altogether, and just go from autumn to spring each year.’

‘It is outside the topic of our discussion today,’ said Michael quickly, before William could start accusing people of heresy because they wanted to take control of the seasons out of the hands of God. ‘Perhaps we could debate that question on another occasion. But Father William, perhaps you would begin, and state the arguments against the rotation of the Earth?’

William opened his mouth to speak, but Isilia was there before him, shaking her head admonishingly. ‘Of course it does not spin. We would all feel dizzy if it did.’

‘And sick,’ added Mother Goodman. ‘And there would be no end to the potions I would need to make for queasy stomachs.’ She shook her scarfed head firmly. ‘No. The Earth does not spin. The Franciscan is right.’

‘One point to you,’ said Michael, glancing up at William and trying not to smile. ‘Do you have anything else to add, before you rest your case?’

‘Aristotle, Ptolemy and the Bible all state that the Earth lies immobile at the centre of the universe,’ said William drawing himself up to his full height, and looking around at the assembled audience. ‘I cannot see the need to cite any more potent authorities to prove my argument.’

Michael sighed under his breath. ‘Come on, Father. These people want more than flat assertions. This will be a very short debate, or a very tedious one, unless you make more effort.’

‘Aristarchus of Samos said the Earth rotates on its axis,’ said Bartholomew, trying to enter the spirit of the occasion, ‘and it is this daily rotation that makes it seem as though the celestial bodies move, when they are actually still.’

‘No one believes
him
any more,’ said William dismissively. He folded his arms, and exchanged a victorious smile with the man who held the pig.

‘Only if you are drunk,’ shouted Hamon, drawing a murmur of agreement and vigorously nodded heads from his friends. ‘I always know whether I am moving or not when I sail down the river to Woodbridge.’

‘I said on the sea,’ said Bartholomew, trying to be patient. It was like having a debate with a room full of Deynmans. ‘On a river you would have points of reference to tell you whether you are moving or still. On the sea there is no point of reference, except the other boat – hence you cannot tell whether it is your vessel or the other that is moving.’

‘I need none of these “points of reference” to tell me whether I am still or not,’ said Hamon firmly. ‘I just know.’

A chorus of cheers rose around the room, drowning out Bartholomew’s attempt to explain further what he had meant.

‘Two points to William,’ muttered Michael, amused. ‘This is far more entertaining than a debate at the University.’

Bartholomew sighed, wishing he had never agreed to comply with Tuddenham’s request in the first place. William, in the rare position of winning a debate against Bartholomew, was beginning to enjoy himself. His booming voice cut through the hum of conversation that had erupted.

‘Buridan says that if the Earth rotates, and if I threw a stone straight up into the sky, it would not land at the place from where I had thrown it – the Earth would have moved, and it would land somewhere else.’ He looked around at the audience, and spread his hands in an expansive shrug. ‘And we all know that is not the case. A stone thrown directly upwards, lands directly underneath where it was thrown from.’

‘It did not come down under the place from which it was thrown,’ said Hamon, regarding it in awe. ‘It came down to one side. Perhaps the Earth does rotate after all.’ There was a rumble of agreement, and some sagely exchanged nods. Hamon looked at Bartholomew for confirmation.

‘That was not a straight throw,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It did not come down on Master Eltisley’s head because he hurled it at an angle.’

‘You have just scored a point in favour of rotation, Matt,’ said Michael, his green eyes glittering with mischief. ‘Do not dismiss it so lightly. You are unlikely to win another if you persist with all this theoretical nonsense.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Tuddenham, shaking his head. ‘The Earth cannot be rotating: if it were, we would feel the wind of it on our faces.’

‘But we do,’ said Hamon fervently. ‘There is nearly always a wind at Peche Hall, whispering in the trees and rippling the water on the moat.’

‘But the wind does not always comes from the same direction,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If the Earth was moving from west to east, then the wind would always come from the east – and we all know it does not.’

‘Perhaps that is because the Earth does not always rotate in the same direction,’ reasoned Hamon. Several of his friends voiced their agreement.

‘But it must always rotate in the same direction,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him askance. ‘Otherwise the moon would not always rise after the sun sets.’

‘But it does not,’ said Eltisley. ‘We have all seen the moon in the sky while the sun is still up, and sometimes we cannot see whether it has risen at all because of clouds.’

‘But it is still there,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Even if we cannot see it.’

‘Prove it,’ challenged Eltisley. Several villagers began to shout encouragement, some to Bartholomew, others to Eltisley. ‘You do not know what is above the clouds.’

‘Only God knows that,’ put in William loudly.

‘But this rotation of the Earth would explain the wind,’ said Hamon thoughtfully, once the racket had died down. ‘And when it is very windy, it means the Earth is rotating faster than usual.’

‘No, it does not,’ said Bartholomew, feeling as though the points raised were becoming steadily more outrageous. ‘The wind is independent of rotation. As the Earth moves, everything – the earth, the air and all sublunar matter – moves with it in a circular motion, the wind included.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Dame Eva in a surprisingly strong voice for a woman of her years. ‘And, despite Eltisley’s experiment, I have tossed things in the air that have returned directly to me, not landed half a league down the road.’

‘There are two types of motion associated with an object thrown into the air,’ said Bartholomew, remembering a lecture he had heard by the young scholar Nicole Oresme. ‘The first is an upward motion, and the second is west to east, following the circular motion of the Earth. Therefore, an object thrown into the air that returns to the place where it originated, does not prove or disprove that the Earth rotates.’

‘But we can only see one motion,’ argued William. ‘The vertical one.’

‘That is because we are part of the Earth’s circular motion, too,’ said Bartholomew.

‘We cannot see the circular motion because we are part of it?’ asked Tuddenham, eyeing Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I cannot imagine where you scholars find the time to concoct all these peculiar ideas.’