listened more carefully,” Rainulf countered wearily, “you would know that conceptualism is not my notion at all, but that of Master Abelard and, I might add, of Aristotle. And incidentally, the point I’ve been making all evening is that universals are neither realities nor mere names, but concepts. I welcome debate, Victor, but in the future I would recommend that you get your facts straight before you go to the trouble of climbing atop your bench.”
There was some laughter at Victor’s expense, and several of his fellows called out to him to take his seat, which he did, rather sullenly.
“That will be all for tonight,” Rainulf announced, abandoning the Latin he used for his disputatio for French. “Those who care to may join me tomorrow morning in my home for a discussion of nominalism and how it relates to the doctrine of unity in the Trinity. The discussion will commence at terce.”
The scholars—ranging from grammar students of ten to doctoral candidates in their thirties—filed out into the rainy April evening, leaving Rainulf alone in the candlelit church. Or not quite. As he gathered his notes and books, he saw again, half-hidden behind a pillar in the nave, the shadowy figure of a young man clad in a coarse gray mantle, its hood drawn low over his forehead, a large satchel on his back. He had noticed the youth several times during the evening, and wondered why he had chosen to stand, although two benches were empty in the rear of the church. Perhaps he felt awkward because he lacked the black academic robe of the Oxford students, but he wouldn’t have been alone in that regard. Some of the better-educated locals—even a few of the ladies—frequented Rainulf’s disputatios , and none of them wore the cappa.
“A triumph, as usual.” Rainulf turned to see Father Gregory emerge from behind the altar.
“Have you been listening this whole time?”
“I frequently do.” Gregory leaned on the lectern and smiled, his kind eyes lighting with an almost mischievous humor—incongruous in a man of his advanced years. “You’re the most exceptional teacher I’ve ever known...”
Rainulf groaned. Here it comes ...
“Brilliant, perceptive,” Gregory continued. “The students worship you.”
“They might save their worship for a worthier sort. You, of all people, know of my many flaws.” As Rainulf’s intimate friend and confessor, Father Gregory was the only man in Oxford privy to the crisis of faith that had driven him from the priesthood.
“I know that you’re but a man, with a man’s weaknesses... and strengths. Your strength is in teaching, Rainulf. It’s a gift from God. A man with such gifts shouldn’t waste them in administration.”
“The chancellorship—”
“Will smother you,” Gregory stated flatly. “And it will deprive Oxford’s scholars of their most valuable resource.”
“Anyone could do what I do.”
“But not nearly as well.”
Rainulf shouldered his bag and turned to leave. “I doubt that.”
Gregory held him back, placing a hand on his arm. “You doubt yourself , friend. It’s all right to doubt what you’re taught. Brilliant men can’t help but question what others unthinkingly believe. Such doubt is understandable, even expected. But when they doubt themselves, and retreat from the world, as you’re trying to do, their brilliance fades... and the world is poorer for it.”
Rainulf raked a hand through his hair. “Gregory, you don’t know how frustrated I’ve been, how desperately I need this change—”
“Perhaps not,” his friend said quietly. “But just promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll take the time to consider whether this chancellorship is really what you want. You have all summer, and there’s no reason you can’t turn it down, even if it is offered to you. Will you promise me that, as a friend?”
“I don’t understand,” Rainulf said. “You’re the bishop’s representative. You’re supposed to encourage me to