Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Clippesby did not concur. ‘This is an interesting philosophical question,’ he said, turning his mad-eyed stare from the fish to the friar. ‘Is a dead fish an animal? Or, since it no longer possesses life, is it something else?’

‘Just because it is dead does not mean that it has changed,’ argued William, determined not to be bested.

‘But it has changed,’ pressed Clippesby, waving the fish in the air, oblivious to the rotten scales that fell from it. ‘A dead fish cannot be the same as a live one.’

‘I agree with Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a hostile glare from Michael for prolonging the debate, and an equally irate one from William for supporting his opponent. ‘If you accept Aristotle’s philosophy, you would argue that the fish has undergone what he termed “substantial change”. This can occur in all substances that are composed of matter and form in the terrestrial region and, of course, all these forms and qualities are potentially replaceable by the other forms and qualities that are their contraries. That is what has occurred in Clippesby’s fish.’

‘It is?’ asked Langelee doubtfully, clearly having forgotten his Aristotelian natural philosophy.

Bartholomew was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! While one form is actualised in matter, its contrary is said to be in privation but is capable of replacing it. Obviously, each potential form or quality must become whatever it is capable of becoming, otherwise it would remain unactualised and that would be a contradiction.’

‘Well, that shut everyone up,’ said Michael gleefully, in the bemused silence that followed. ‘Well done, Matt. Now let us say grace and eat.’

‘ Oremus ,’ began Langelee hastily, before someone could ask his opinion of the physician’s postulations. He professed to be a philosopher, but was invariably confounded even by that discipline’s most basic theoretical tenets. ‘ Spiritum nobis Domine, tuae caritatis infunde: ut, quos sacramentis paschalibus satiasti, tua facias pietate concordes . And so on. Dominus vobiscum .’

‘About time,’ grumbled Michael, as he sat. ‘I am starving, and I am tired of all this Advent fasting and abstaining from meat. It is not natural.’

Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, wondering whether the monk had genuinely forgotten the meaty meals he had devoured over the past few weeks or whether his intention was merely to deceive his colleagues into believing he had been following the season’s dietary prohibitions – similar to those of Lent, although not quite so long.

‘There is only one more day for you to endure,’ said Kenyngham kindly. ‘And then it will be time for feasting, as we celebrate the birth of our Lord.’

‘Cynric told me that Philippa Abigny’s brother, Giles, is here, too,’ remarked William, somewhat out of the blue. He beamed at Bartholomew in a friendly fashion, as though he imagined the physician would be pleased to chat about the presence of his old fiancée in the town.

Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he realised that even if he managed to put Philippa from his mind, his colleagues’ interest was such that they would be constantly raising the subject. Giles Abigny, after all, had known them, too.

‘Do you remember Giles, Michael?’ the friar went on airily. ‘He was Matthew’s room-mate during the Death.’ He wrinkled his nose in disapproval. ‘I recall him very well. He was a flighty fellow with long yellow hair. I would have fined him, if I had been Junior Proctor then.’

‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Bartholomew. He did not know how the Franciscan dared to be so strict with others, given his own appearance. William’s habit was so stiff with filth that it was virtually rigid, while there were circles of ancient dirt under his cracked, yellow fingernails. He was too mean to pay a barber to shave his tonsure and opted to do it himself, which resulted in an irregular oval that sprouted hairs in varying stages of growth. The spiky curls that surrounded the tonsure were brown and thick with grease.

‘Short of stature,’ added Michael, recollecting Giles Abigny, as he reached for the ale jug. ‘But with the same fair complexion and blue eyes as his beautiful sister. You were a fool to let her go, Matt. You should have married her while you had the chance.’

‘She married someone else,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘I had little say in the matter.’

Michael scratched his head as memories floated back to him, most more than slightly distorted by time. ‘Philippa went to London after the Death, because she was restless in Cambridge and Giles was no longer here to look after her.’

‘He did not look after her, anyway,’ said William pedantically. ‘She was at St Radegund’s Convent, under the watchful eye of the abbess. I recall that there was some pressure on her to take holy vows and become a nun, so that the convent could keep her dowry.’

‘That was not going to happen as long as Matt was courting her,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But, fortunately for Philippa, parents and abbess died during the plague, and Giles left her free to choose her own destiny. She followed him to London, doubtless anticipating that Matt would not be long in joining her. What happened to Giles, Matt? He was never a very committed scholar.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. He had tried to put his entire association with the Abigny family behind him. He had liked the flighty and unreliable Giles, but Philippa’s defection to another man had not encouraged him to maintain a correspondence with her brother.

‘He became a law clerk,’ said Michael, snapping his fingers as fragments of memory drifted back to him. ‘Although the post was not an especially prestigious one.’

‘Why did you not marry Philippa, Matthew?’ asked William bluntly. ‘I was under the impression it was a sound match.’

‘The problem arose with Philippa herself,’ said Michael, carelessly dispensing the details of Bartholomew’s failed love affair as he might give a public lecture. ‘Once she had sampled the delights of London, she realised she could not bear to spend her life as the wife of an impoverished physician, so she married a wealthy merchant instead. And that was the end of Matt’s hopes for wedded bliss – with her, at least.’

‘You are better off here, with us,’ said William, in what was meant to be a consoling tone, but served to make Bartholomew wonder where he had gone wrong.

He pictured Philippa’s merry eyes and grace. He could have been celebrating Christmas with her that year, surrounded by their children. But even as the cosy image entered his mind, he knew the reality would have been different. Michael was right: Philippa had set certain standards for her life, and Bartholomew’s haphazard way of collecting fees from his patients would never have met them. He would have made her miserable with poverty, while she would have nagged him to spend time with wealthy clients who needed an astrologer rather than a physician. Abruptly, the image faded to a chamber with a meagre fire, occupied by a discontented wife and dissatisfied children. He supposed he should be happy with what he had: his teaching, Michaelhouse, his poor patients with their interesting diseases, and Matilde. The thought of Matilde coaxed a smile to his face.

He tried to analyse his thoughts rationally, to determine why Philippa’s presence in the town should matter to him. Logically, he knew he should not care, but illogically, the prospect of encountering her filled him with dread, and he seriously considered visiting a friend in some nearby village until she had gone. But he enjoyed Christmas, with its feasts, games and entertainment. And he liked the chaos that ensued when the students elected their Lord of Misrule, who would dictate what happened in Michaelhouse over the Twelve Days. It would be a pity to miss that, just because a woman he had once loved happened to be passing through.