“You will be all right?” I asked.
“Only this can I tell you. I shall be here for some time. Some friends, it does not matter who, plan to introduce silk manufacture to Paris.”
“It is a good idea, Safia. Times are changing. Only a few years ago towns lacked importance. They have ceased to be merely places of refuge and have become markets. You have seen it. Traveling merchants are ceasing to wander and settling in the towns. You are wise. Where there are women there will be a market for silk.”
We said no more, but parted with one last, lingering glance. I rode away, unhappy as was she.
The old Roman road to Lyon led me toward the edge of town, but I turned aside, seeing a gathering of young men. Walking my horse closer, I paused to listen. A group of young men sat about on bundles of straw listening to a lecture. This was the place of the Fouarres, and one of the first schools in Paris.
Some glanced askance at me, sitting my fine Arabian horse but wearing battered armor, sword at my side, bow and arrows slung on my saddle. No doubt they wondered at such a man being interested in their discussion.
The lecturer, a thin man with a sour face, was expounding upon Bernard’s condemnation of Abelard for his application of reason to theology, and praising Bernard for his sentence against Abelard, whom he called a heretic.
“Nonsense!” I said irritably. “Bernard was an old fool!”
Every head turned, and the teacher stared, aghast. “How dare you say such a thing?” he demanded.
“I dare say anything,” I replied more cheerfully, “because I have a fast horse.”
Several of the students laughed, and one shouted, “Well spoken, soldier!”
“Have you no reverence?” the teacher demanded.
“I have reverence for all who ask questions and seek honest answers.”
“A philosopher!” laughed a student.
“A wanderer in search of answers,” I said, then to the teacher, “You asked if I have reverence? I have reverence for truth, but I do not know what truth is. I suspect there are many truths, and therefore, I suspect all who claim to have the truth.”
Walking my horse a few steps closer, I added, “I have reverence for the inquirer, for the seeker. I have no reverence for those who accept any idea, mine included, without question.”
“You are a heretic!” he threatened.
“I am a pagan, and a pagan cannot be a heretic.”
“You ride an infidel horse.”
“My horse has never committed herself, but judging by her attitude on a frosty morning, she is an unbeliever.”
There were subdued chuckles, and the teacher’s eyes narrowed. “You ridicule the Church,” he threatened.
“Who mentioned the Church? On the contrary, I have great respect for religion. My objection is to those who are against so many things and for so little.”
“What are you for?” a student called out. “Tell us, soldier.”
“What am I for? Being a man, it is obvious. I am for women.”
This drew a burst of laughter. “My only trouble is, I am unacquainted in town.”
“Stay the night, soldier! We will introduce you to Fat Claire!”
“It is a theory of mine,” I countered, “that as a seeker for truth I should find my own answers, and my own women.”
“Tell us, soldier, in your travels have you discovered if the world is round or flat?”
“It is round,” I said, “a fact known to the Greeks and to the Arabs as well. For that matter, it is known to the people of Hind, which is far away.”
“Do you know this of yourself, soldier, or is it by the word of others that you speak?”
“That the world is round I know of my own experience, for I have sailed far out upon the ocean-sea, and I know it is known to the Arabs from converse with their teachers. As for the Greeks and those of Hind, I have read their books.”
“You read Greek?” The teacher was astonished now.
“Greek, Latin, Arabic, some Persian, and some Sanskrit,” I said, “and much of what lies in a woman’s heart.”
“I think you lie,” the teacher said.
“It is the eater of chillies,” I said, “whose mouth is hot.” Then I added, “Teacher, when you say I lie, say it with a sword in your hand.”
Several of the students arose. “Soldier, the hour grows late. If you will not accept our recommendation of Fat Claire, then by all means come with us to see what else Paris has to offer. Also, we would test the wine of the country with you to see if your palate does justice to your intellect.”
“By all means, gentlemen! Lead on, lead on! A true philosopher will never refuse a lass, a glass, or an hour of conversation!” Turning to the teacher, I said, “I meant no disrespect to you or what you teach, only ask questions of yourself.”
“The bishop will ask the questions,” he said darkly, “and he will ask them of you!”
“Put him on a fast horse then,” I said, “or he will ask them of the wind.”
31
The Church of St.-Julien-e-Pauvre had been built upon the site of an ancient fortified priory, a part of which remained. It had been the custom for travelers arriving late at the gates of Paris to spend the night at the priory, but when the site was taken by the Church, several inns came into being.
These inns eked out a precarious existence until schools began to appear on the Left Bank. Most of the teachers had been given their license by the chancellor of Notre Dame, but due to crowding, the desire for greater liberty of expression, or other reasons, they had moved across the river, leaving the Isle of the City.
In later times licenses would be granted by the abbot of the monastery of St. Genevieve. No shelters being available for these schools, they were held in the open air, the students seated on their bundles of straw. Later some took shelter in the Church of St.-Julien-e-Pauvre until it became famous for fierce debates and student brawls.
With schools on the Left Bank, students flocked to the inns, and although many of them managed only the most precarious existence, their very numbers kept the inns alive. However, among the students, adopting their attitudes, garments, and the protecting arm of the Church, were a number of renegades, thieves, panderers, and cutthroats. These were tolerated by the students, and some became students or catered to them.
This area on the Left Bank came to be called the university, meaning in this case simply a group of persons. Originally the students had met under the cloisters of Notre Dame, and teaching still continued there. Those who migrated to the university were the most ribald, disrespectful, and freethinking, and more often than not, the best intellects.
Hungry for learning, young men came to Paris to learn, many of them walking for days to reach the city. Only a few had sufficient money to maintain themselves. Books were scarce, paper expensive, teachers diverse in attitude. After three years a student might be received bachelier-des-arts, but two years more were required to get his master’s degree or license. To become a doctor of medicine required eight years of study, and to earn a degree of doctor of theology the student had to present and defend four theses. The last of these was a challenge only the exceptional dared attempt, for the candidate was examined from six in the morning until six at night, nor was he allowed to leave his place to eat, drink, or for any other purpose. Twenty examiners, relieving each other every half hour, did their best to find flaws in the preparation of the student. The language of the students was Latin, and for this reason a part of the area became known as the Latin Quarter.
The common room of the inn was a dingy place, low-raftered and dark. Several board tables stood about, each surrounded by benches. A huge roast was turning on a spit as we entered, filling the room with a fine, warm smell. One of my student companions, Julot, dropped to a bench, and I seated myself opposite. His was a hard, reckless but intelligent face, with a ready smile, and he had a pair of strong hands.
“Did you mean it when you said you had read books? A lot of them?”
“Of course. They are sold along the streets in Córdoba.”
“They sell books in shops?” His disbelief was obvious. “Religious books?”
“Everything. Philosophy, medicine, law, astronomy, astrology, poetry, drama, what you will.”
Julot grabbed his companion’s arm. “Did you hear that? They sell books along the street as if they were onions or fish! What I would give to see a sight like that!”
“There are dozens of public libraries in Córdoba, and you can read what you like.”