Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘ Per contra abstraction is possible, of course,’ expanded Bartholomew, ‘giving us mathematical objects, and these may have accidents – that is, properties of a substance that are not part of its essential nature – of another sort, namely ones of mathematical character. Grosseteste abstracted magnitude from matter-in-motion, so accidents can be assigned to…’

He trailed off when Wormynghalle, eager to listen, leaned forward in his chair and knocked over a goblet of wine, which splattered over Paxtone’s best rug.

‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Wormynghalle cried irritably. ‘This will stain unless it is soaked immediately, and he is fond of the thing.’

He hurried to fetch water, but the spilled claret made the floor slick and he skidded. Bartholomew jumped forward, managing to save him from a nasty tumble by a well-placed arm across his chest. The physician’s jaw dropped in shock, while Wormynghalle struggled from his grip and took several steps away, breathing heavily. The scholars regarded each other uneasily for some time before Bartholomew spoke.

‘It is all right,’ he said. ‘I will not tell anyone, although I imagine it is only a matter of time before someone else finds out. You cannot live in a communal place like this without someone prying into your affairs and discovering incriminating facts.’

Wormynghalle’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There is nothing incriminating to find. Believe me, I am only too aware of what will happen if my colleagues discover I am a woman, and have taken steps to guard against every eventuality – except slipping on wine and being caught by a physician. I confess, that is something I did not anticipate.’

‘What you are doing is dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You may cut your hair and wear loose clothes, but there are other things that will give you away. The latrines, for a start.’

Wormynghalle waved her hand at one corner of the room. ‘Like Paxtone, I paid extra for quarters with a private garderobe and I never visit the public ones. I have lived here for two months now, and no one but you has the slightest inkling that I am not all I seem.’

‘They think you care for nothing but your studies,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the discussion with his Michaelhouse colleagues. ‘They attribute any odd behaviour to your fanatical desire to learn.’

‘What odd behaviour?’ demanded Wormynghalle, affronted. ‘I have been careful to blend into this society, and do nothing to draw attention to myself.’

‘You do not frequent taverns or hire prostitutes.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘In a friar or a monk that is not unusual, but total abstinence is rare in secular masters with money to spare. Also, you tend not to engage in the usual sort of manly chatter, and only indulge in discussions of a scholastic nature.’

‘Of course,’ declared Wormynghalle, surprised anyone should expect otherwise. ‘I did not come here to debauch and exchange intimacies. I am here at considerable personal risk, and I want only one thing: to learn. There are no universities for women, and convents are too restrictive. I tried one once, but the nuns would only give me texts they thought were suitable and I felt myself dying inside.’

Bartholomew nodded sympathetically, trying to imagine what it would be like if he could not read what he wanted. He was under certain restrictions as a medical practitioner, some of which he found inordinately frustrating, and supposed it was far worse for Wormynghalle.

‘I have so much to offer,’ she said in a wistful voice. ‘I am a clear and insightful thinker, and all I ask is that I be allowed to use my intellect – just as a man is allowed to use his.’

‘The situation is not fair,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And you are an excellent scholar. But is this the best way to go about it? What if it had been Paxtone who had grabbed you? He is an old-fashioned man, who would have been appalled at the deception you have perpetrated on his College.’

‘But this is the only way I can debate with like-minded people,’ said Wormynghalle, tears spurting again. ‘I could go to some remote place and surround myself with books, but that is not what I need. I want to argue my points, and to have people dispute with me and tell me why I am wrong. I want my mind to be stretched and challenged to its limits. And I want to write a great treatise on natural philosophy that will equal those of men like Grosseteste. You know how I feel, because you are equally passionate about new and complex theories. I can see it in your face when we talk.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘There is little that is more exhilarating than a debate with clever men …I mean clever people.’

‘You are writing a treatise yourself,’ pressed Wormynghalle, wiping her eyes. ‘Paxtone gave me some of it, and it is novel and unorthodox. When it is finished it will be read and debated by the best thinkers in the civilised world. But what do you think will happen to mine, if they discover it was penned by a woman?’

‘Trotula’s theories on medicine and health are widely read – and she was a woman.’

‘But they are not accepted with the same open minds as are works by men,’ Wormynghalle pointed out. ‘Your fellow medics, Rougham and Lynton, will not entertain her writings at all – not because they are flawed or inferior, but because Trotula was female, and therefore has nothing worth saying.’

‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘Then, you see I have no choice. I need the stimulation this University provides and I am discreet. I am obliged to share a room with Hamecotes, but he is too absorbed in his own work to take notice of my occasional idiosyncrasies – such as the fact that I like to close the garderobe door when I pee. If he has even considered the matter at all, it will be to think that I am foolishly modest.’

‘Hamecotes is one of several men who ask Matilde for remedies to help female pains,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are they for you?’

She nodded. ‘He thinks they are for my secret lover, and that I am too embarrassed to ask for them myself. Like many men, he is taken with Matilde, and is delighted by any excuse to visit her.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew with displeasure.

‘All I have ever wanted is to study at a University and to pit my wits against my intellectual equals and betters,’ said Wormynghalle beseechingly. ‘Please do not make me give it up.’

‘I would never do that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every man – and woman – should be free to exploit the gifts he has been given, and I understand perfectly why scholarship is appealing. I only warn that if you are discovered there will be no mercy. You may not even escape with your life. Men can be harsh and unforgiving when their domains are invaded.’

‘I know. I plan to remain here for another term, then return to Oxford, where I will join a different College to the one I was in before. Then I will come here again, or perhaps visit Paris. As long as I keep moving, and allow no one to know me well, I can continue this life for years yet.’

‘You do not look like a woman,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He realised that might be construed as offensive and struggled to make amends. ‘I mean, you have a beard and…’ This sounded worse, and he saw he was digging himself a deeper pit. He stopped speaking and gave an apologetic shrug.

Wormynghalle smiled. ‘All woman have a certain amount of facial hair, which they usually remove, but I strengthen mine with an ointment of white lilies. Many young men do the same to increase their beards, so no one thinks I am odd – they simply see me as a youth desperate to shave. I have a naturally bristly chin and dark hairs on my upper lip. They are a nuisance when I wear kirtles and wimples, but a great advantage when I don a tabard.’