it in their faces, and managed to grab Crispin by the back of his robe and push Anthony away with my other hand.
“Is it fools you all are?” I yelled. “Do you all want to be expelled? For that is no doubt what will happen if you do not stop this now.”
There was blood running from Anthony’s nose, while Crispin’s eye looked red and puffy. Secretly, I was glad to see that Donald had acquitted himself well, although I tried to sound stern. The three boys glared at each other, then started to grin.
“Now,” I said, “all three of you will sit down and share some ale and put this behind you. Then we will go and see if my wife has some magic ointment that will put you all together. And stop all this.”
After two mazers of ale, the boys were chattering as though they had been friends for years. After three mazers, we left the alehouse and made our way back to the Widow Tanner’s.
The good widow was speechless when she saw the students approach, and turned away darkly with statements that she should have known better than to rent to students, but I tried to reassure her while Mariota doctored the boys with a salve of arnica and calendula flowers. Then Donald got out his lute and before too long all three of the lads were singing songs in Latin, something about Dame Fortune and squandering one’s time in taverns. I hoped it would not prove prophetic, in regard to Donald’s academic career.
C HAPTER 4
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The next morning I went with Donald to the morning lectures. When we returned, Mariota was not at the widow’s. “She went out,” Widow Tanner informed me. “She said she had to run an errand. She probably went to the market for something, perhaps more cloth.”
“Perhaps.” I thought little of it, and after dinner Donald and I returned to the schools and listened to the senior students at their disputations. Phillip Woode was participating this afternoon, his dispute to be judged by Master Clarkson. We had heard no more about Jonetta, but the undersheriff had not bothered Woode again. I had noticed nothing unusual about his behavior, and, since his conversation with Master Clarkson of a few days past, he seemed to spend the majority of his time at the college, concentrating on his studies. He seemed a nice enough man, and I hoped things would settle down.
The disputation took place in one of the lecture rooms. The topic to be debated was universals, more specifically, how one could know for certain that all right triangles inherently share the same qualities. The topic held little interest for me, and I imagined it held even less fascination for Donald and the majority of bejants gathered to listen in the hall. However, a few of the students listened intently as the master posed the question and the senior students responded.
As he began his response, I realized that Phillip’s self-assessment was correct. He was a poor debater, indeed. He stuttered and paused, seeming to forget his Latin. It was difficult to listen to him, and I felt embarrassed for the man. I felt sure he was not as stupid as he sounded, but I was glad it was not my place to judge the disputation. The logic was so convoluted it made little sense to me.
I tried to attend to what was being said.
“Do genera and species exist as substances in and of themselves,” Phillip’s opponent was saying, “with form and material substance, or are they mere concepts?”
“As a substance,” Phillip replied, “they might be either material or immaterial.”
“And which do you reason them to be? Are they intrinsically present in sensible objects, or do they exist apart from them?”
“I, I cannot say,” Phillip muttered, flushing red.
Not surprisingly, the master judged the other student the winner of the
disputatio
and the session drew to a close. The students exited the room, the younger ones jostling and elbowing each other as they rushed outside to play some kickball in the back yard. Donald went along with Anthony and Crispin,