A Poisonous Plot

The debate committee, or consilium, comprised five members: two from Michaelhouse, two from Zachary and a chairman. Zachary was represented by Principal Irby and Nigellus de Thornton, while the chairman was Prior Joliet of the Austins.

Irby was a dreamy grammarian who was far too gentle to rule a hostel, particularly one with a reputation for feistiness like Zachary. He was famous for always wearing a cloak — in his hostel’s colours of grey and cream — no matter what the weather, and never went out without a wineskin clipped to his waist, which he claimed was necessary for good health. The remedy was not working as far as Bartholomew was concerned, because Irby never looked well, and he was sure the man was suffering from some chronic and debilitating illness.

By contrast, Nigellus was squat, fierce-faced and aggressive. He was sensitive about the fact that his late entry into the University had brought him the title of Junior Physician, particularly as he was older than the other medici by a good twenty years. The Colleges, quick to sniff out a sore point, rarely missed the opportunity to jibe him about it.

‘We are all here at last,’ said Prior Joliet, who had a round little head perched atop a round little body. He had a reputation for piety, sincerity and generosity, and he and his flock had gone hungry the previous winter so that beggars might eat. He was also a talented artist, and it was he who was painting Michaelhouse’s mural. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Yes — and may I reiterate that we must make our decision today,’ said Nigellus, all brisk business. ‘I am tired of discussing it, to be frank. It is time we made up our minds.’

‘I say we gauge the mood of the audience on the day,’ countered Wauter. ‘We can determine then whether to pick a topic that will make them laugh, one that will provoke intelligent reflection, or one so tedious that it will quell any desire to engage in fisticuffs.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Irby, nodding approvingly. ‘We all want the occasion to pass off peacefully, and emotions do seem to be running unusually high this year.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘We should decide now, and I recommend nemo dat quod non habet — “what you do not own you cannot give”. It is high time we had a legal debate.’

‘You have been fighting for nemo dat ever since this committee was formed,’ said Wauter suspiciously. ‘Would there be a reason for that — such as that Zachary has been practising it?’

‘How dare you question my honour!’ cried Nigellus furiously. ‘It is not-’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ interrupted Joliet sharply. He waited until Nigellus spluttered into angry silence and then continued. ‘Even if we do make our final decision on the day, we should still have a shortlist of questions ready. We have not agreed on a single one so far.’

‘Then put nemo dat on it,’ ordered Nigellus stiffly. ‘It will be the one chosen, because it is the most suitable, and any fool should see it.’

With a pained smile, Joliet began to write, and while he did so, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study Nigellus. He had been delighted when he had first heard that another medicus was to enrol in the University — there had been a desperate shortage of them after the plague — but it had not taken him long to learn that Nigellus epitomised the very worst of the medical profession. The Junior Physician was brash, condescending, closed to new ideas and saw his patients purely in terms of their fees. His cosy practice at Barnwell had made him very rich, which was why he had been invited to join Zachary Hostel, a place where the size of a member’s purse was much more important than his academic credentials.

‘What else?’ asked Joliet, pen poised expectantly.

‘How about a medical question?’ suggested Irby. ‘I have always found the subject fascinating. Bartholomew, did you moot something to do with diet the last time we met?’

Bartholomew nodded, and was about to elaborate when Nigellus cut rudely across him. ‘I have never been convinced by all that rubbish. A man should eat what he feels like, on the grounds that the body knows best. The notion of good and bad foods is a nonsense.’

Bartholomew could not help himself. ‘So you think that a man who eats nothing but red meat or marchpanes will be healthy? Surely it is obvious that a balanced diet is extremely important.’

‘An excellent thesis,’ said Joliet, writing it down before Nigellus could object. ‘The students will have a lot of fun with that. Any more suggestions?’

There were, but none of them were suitable, and when he felt the discussion was starting to go around in circles, Joliet called the meeting to a close.

‘I recommend we go away and think very carefully,’ he said, folding the parchment and slipping it in his scrip. ‘Our shortlist needs to be longer than two.’