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sturdy bulk. He was a philosopher, with exciting ideas about mathematics and
     natural philosophy, and Bartholomew had been impressed when he had heard him in the debating chamber.
    ‘You are in our way, Michaelhouse,’ Kendale said coldly. ‘You had better retrace your steps.’
    Bartholomew was half tempted to do as he suggested, just to avoid a confrontation, but was aware that if the same tactic was
     then tried on Michaelhouse’s students, there would be a fight for certain. With a stifled sigh of resignation – he did not
     want to bandy words with Chestre when he could be teaching – he adopted his most reasonable tone of voice.
    ‘This is no way to behave,’ he said quietly. ‘Why not live peacefully, and take advantage of—’
    ‘Peacefully?’ sneered Chestre’s Bible Scholar, a man named Neyll. He was a bulky, pugilistic Scot in his early twenties, with
     dark hair and curious black eyebrows that formed a thick, unbroken line across his forehead. There was something about him
     that reminded Bartholomew of an ape, and he could not imagine a fellow less suited to the task of daily scripture reading.
     ‘You mean to lull us into a false sense of safety, so the Colleges can slit our throats while we sleep!’
    ‘No one means you harm,’ said Bartholomew, although he suspected that the bull incident might well have changed that. ‘And
     it is—’
    ‘
All
College scum mean us harm,’ Neyll flashed back. ‘But they will never best us.’
    Bartholomew declined to be drawn. He smiled at Kendale and tried a different tack. ‘I enjoyed your lecture the other day.
     Your contention that non-uniformly accelerated motion is—’
    ‘I was wasting my breath,’ said Kendale disdainfully. ‘No one at the Colleges has the wits to understand my analyses. I might
     just have well have been speaking Greek.’
    ‘You could have done,’ retorted Bartholomew coolly. There was only so far he would allow himself to be insulted. ‘Many of
     us would still have followed your reasoning.’
    ‘Liar!’ snarled Neyll, raising his fists as he stalked forward. ‘I am going to give you a—’
    ‘Hold, Chestre!’ came a loud, belligerent yell.
    Bartholomew glanced around and saw a group of Michaelhouse students returning
     from a sermon in St Bene’t’s Church. They outnumbered Kendale’s lads by at least two to one, and Neyll’s aggressive advance
     immediately faltered. At their head was John Valence, Bartholomew’s best pupil, a freckle-faced lad with floppy fair hair.
    ‘We were just discussing Kendale’s lecture on the mean speed theorem,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before there was trouble.
     ‘But we have finished now, and it is time to go home.’
    Valence did not look convinced, but began to walk towards Michaelhouse anyway, beckoning his cronies to follow. Neyll was
     ‘accidentally’ jostled as they passed, and his dark eyebrows drew down in a savage V, but he was not so reckless as to voice
     an objection.
    ‘You are a warlock, Bartholomew,’ hissed Kendale, as the physician turned to leave, too. ‘And a heretic – not the sort of
     man who should be teaching in any university. I will see you ousted.’
    Bartholomew ignored him, but was relieved when he reached the sanctuary afforded by Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates.
    ‘At least we know where we are again now,’ said Walter, the College’s surly porter, after he had opened the gate and Bartholomew
     had remarked sadly that the recent peace seemed to be crumbling. ‘I did not like everyone being nice to each other. It did
     not feel right.’
    ‘You mean you prefer to be constantly on the brink of a riot?’ asked Bartholomew archly.
    Walter nodded, unabashed. ‘Of course I do. It means I can suspect everyone of evil intent, which is much more satisfying than
     sickly cordiality. And the trouble is only within the University anyway – the town is quite happy to sit back and watch us
     squabble among ourselves this time.’
    He picked