A Bone of Contention

CHAPTER 10

In a flaming ball of golden orange the sun began to dip behind the orchard walls, bathing the creamy stone of Michaelhouse in a deep russet – red shadows lengthened, or flickered out altogether and in the distance carts clattered and creaked as farmers and merchants made their way home at the end of the day.

Michael stood and stretched. ‘Ready?’ he said, looking down to where Bartholomew was still sitting comfortably on the fallen tree, his back against the sun-warmed stones of the orchard wall.

Reluctantly, Bartholomew climbed to his feet, and followed Michael through the trees to the back gate.

They let themselves out and walked quickly towards the High Street. It thronged with people heading for home. Horses and donkeys drew carts of all shapes and sizes and weary apprentices hastened to complete the last business before trading ceased for the day. One cart had lost a wheel in one of the huge pot-holes, and a fiery argument had broken out between the cart’s owner and those whose path he was blocking. A barking dog, children’s high-pitched taunting of the carter and a baker’s increasingly strident calls to sell the last of his pies, added to the general cacophony.

Bartholomew and Michael ignored the row, squeezing past the offending cart. As they emerged the other side, Bartholomew heard something thud against the wall by his head. Someone had thrown a stone at him! He turned, but Michael’s firm hand pulled him on.

‘Not a place to linger, my friend,’ he muttered. Bartholomew could not but agree. Any large gathering of townspeople, already riled by an incident such as the blockage caused by the broken cart, was not a place for University men to tarry. Bartholomew glanced backwards as they hurried on, glimpsing the owner of the broken cart howling in rage as three or four hefty apprentices tried to shoulder it out of the way.

He paused briefly, frowning at the carter as something clicked into place in the back of his mind, but yielded to Michael’s impatient tug on his sleeve. They reached St Andrew’s Church without further incident and slipped into its cool, dark interior. Here, the shadows lay thick and impenetrable and the only light was from a cluster of candles near the altar. Michael closed the door, blocking out the noise of the street, while Bartholomew prowled around the church looking for Lydgate.

Bartholomew had not wanted to come to this meeting.

He did not trust Lydgate and did not understand why, after so many protestations of dislike, the man should suddenly want to meet them. Inadvertently, his hand went to the dagger concealed under his tabard, which he had borrowed from the ailing Cynric. He rarely carried weapons but felt justified in bringing one to the meeting with Lydgate, although surely even Lydgate would be loath to commit murder in a house of God? But desperate or enraged men would not stop to consider the sanctity of a church. Even the saint, Thomas а Becket, had not been safe in his own cathedral.

The door gave a sudden creak and Bartholomew instinctively slipped into the shadows behind one of the pillars. Lydgate entered alone, pulling the door closed behind him with a loud bang. He stood for a moment in the gloom, accustoming his eyes to the dark after the brightness of the setting sun outside. Michael approached him and Bartholomew left his hiding place to join them.

Before any greetings could be exchanged, Lydgate pointed a finger at Bartholomew.

‘You have many questions to answer, Bartholomew,’ he hissed belligerently.

Bartholomew eyed him with distaste. It was not an auspicious start. Even the Principal of a hostel had no authority to speak to him so. But nothing would be served by responding with anger, especially with the blustering Lydgate.

‘We have much to discuss with you,’ he replied as pleasantly as he could.

Lydgate regarded him with his small blue eyes. ‘First,’ he began, ‘where is Edred?’

Michael spoke before Bartholomew could answer.

‘Where is your daughter, Master Lydgate?’ he asked ‘Is she still with your relatives away from Cambridge?’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. He did not want Michael to mention Cecily’s hiding place at Chesterton, even in connection with something else. Although he did not have an overwhelming respect for Lydgate’s powers of reasoning, he did not wish Michael to give him even the most obtuse clue that might betray her.

Lydgate seemed nonplussed at Michael’s question, and stood looking from one to the other in confusion, his hands dangling at his sides. How could such a man, a lout with poor manners and worse self-control, ever have become the Principal of a hostel wondered Bartholomew.

The University clearly needed to review its selection procedures.

‘She is…’ Lydgate began. He seemed to remember himself. ‘Tell me where Brother Edred is lurking. He did not return home this morning.’

‘This morning?’ Michael pounced like a cat. ‘Why this morning and not last night? Surely, you do not expect your scholars to return at dawn when they should be safely tucked up in bed all night, Master Lydgate?’

Again the confused look. Bartholomew began to feel tired. It was like having an argument about logic with a baby. Lydgate was incapable of subtlety: he was too brutal and impatient. Bartholomew looked at the great hands hanging at Lydgate’s sides. They were large, red and looked strong. Had those hands committed all the murders that Edred had claimed? ‘We have much information that might be of interest to each other,’ said Michael, relenting. ‘Let’s sit and talk quietly. Come.’

He led the way to some benches in the Lady Chapel.

Lydgate sat stiffly, unafraid, but wary and alert to danger.

Bartholomew sat opposite him, the hand under his tabard still on the hilt of his dagger. Michael sat next to Bartholomew.

‘Now,’ the monk said. ‘I will begin and tell you what Edred has told us. Then, in turn, you can tell us what you know and together we will try to make sense of it all. Is that fair?’

Lydgate nodded slowly, while Bartholomew said nothing.

The beginnings of a solution, or at least part of one, were beginning to form in his mind, and the implications bothered him. They centred around the carter who had been blocking the High Street.

‘Edred came to us last night saying he was in fear of his life,’ Michael began. ‘He claimed you had kill young James Kenzie, then your daughter Dominica and a servant from Valence Marie and finally your student Brother Werbergh.’

Lydgate leapt to his feet. ‘That is not true!’ he shouted, his voice ringing through the silent church. ‘I have killed no one.’

Michael gestured for him to sit down again. ‘I am merely repeating what we were told,’ he said in placatory tones. ‘I did not say we believe it to be true. Indeed Edred’s claims were all based on circumstantial evidence and conjecture, and he had nothing solid to prove his allegations. We arranged for him to sleep in Michaelhouse last night, since he seemed to be afraid. While Matt’s bookbearer made his bed, Edred struck him from behind and began a search of the room. Do you have any idea what he might have been seeking?’

Lydgate shrugged impatiently. ‘No. What was it?’

‘We are uncertain,’ said Michael. Bartholomew grateful that Michael had decided to be less than open with Lydgate although, hopefully, Michael was providing him with sufficient information to loosen his tongue.

Michael continued. ‘When we caught Edred rummaging, he drew a sword and threatened us. In the ensuing struggle, Edred was killed.’

Lydgate’s mouth dropped open, and Bartholomew swallowed hard. The Chancellor and Master Kenyngham had advised against telling Lydgate of Edred’s death and Bartholomew wondered whether Michael had not committed a grave error in informing him so bluntly. He sat tensely and waited for an explosion.

He waited in vain. ‘You killed Edred?’ said Lydgate, his voice almost a whisper. He scrubbed hard at the bristles on his face and shook his big head slowly.

Michael flinched. ‘I did not kill him deliberately. Which cannot be said for the murderer of Werbergh.’

‘Werbergh?’ echoed Lydgate. ‘But he died in an accident. My servants, Saul Potter and Huw saw it happen.’

‘Werbergh did not die in the shed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hope this will not distress you, Master Lydgate, but I took the liberty of examining Werbergh’s body in the church. I think he died on Friday night or Saturday, rather than Sunday morning under the collapsing shed. And he died from a blow to the head, after which he fell, or was pushed, into water.’

Lydgate scratched his head and let his hands fall between his knees. He looked from one to the other trying to assimilate the information.

‘How can you be sure?’ he asked. ‘How can you tell such things? Did you kill him?’

‘I most certainly did not!’ retorted Bartholomew angrily. ‘I was not up and about until Saturday, as anyone in Michaelhouse will attest.’

Michael raised his hands to placate him. He turned to Lydgate. ‘There are signs on the body that provide information after death,’ he said. ‘Matt is a physician. He knows how to look for them.’

Lydgate rubbed his neck and considered. ‘You say Werbergh died on Friday night or Saturday? Friday was the night of the celebration at Valence Marie. A debauched occasion, although I kept from the wine myself. I do not like to appear drunk in front of the students. Virtually all of them were insensible by the time the wine ran out.’

‘Was Werbergh there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Was Edred?’

Lydgate scowled, and Bartholomew thought he might refuse to answer, but Lydgate’s frown was merely a man struggling to remember. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Both were there. Werbergh was drunk like the others. Edred was not. They left together, late, but probably before most of the others.’ He looked from Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Do you think this means Edred killed Werbergh?’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair. ‘Not necessarily. I think he genuinely believed Werbergh had die by your hand sometime on Sunday morning, not from blow to the head on Friday night.’

‘No,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘That is false logic, Matt. He may have killed Werbergh on Friday, but claimed Master Lydgate had killed him on Sunday lest and should remember that it was Edred who accompanied then drunken Werbergh home on the night of his death.’

Lydgate scratched his scalp. ‘What an unholy muddle!’ he said.

‘Unholy is certainly the word for Edred,’ said Bartholomew feelingly. ‘What was his intention last night? What did he think he could gain by blaming the murder on his Principal?’

‘Oh, that is simple,’ said Lydgate. ‘It is the only thing I understand in this foul business.’ He gave a huge sigh and looked Bartholomew in the eye. ‘But I do not know why I should trust you. You have already tried blackmail me.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in disbelief. Michael gave a derisive snort of laughter. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Master Lydgate! What could Matt blackmail you about?’

But Bartholomew knew, and wondered again whether Lydgate had overheard him and Michael discussing burning of the tithe barn during their first visit Godwinsson.

After a few moments, Lydgate began to speak in a voice that was quiet and calm, quite unlike his usual bluster.

‘Many years ago, I committed a grave crime,’ he said. He paused.

‘You burned the tithe barn,’ said Bartholomew, thinking to make Lydgate’s confession easier for him.

Lydgate looked at him long and hard, as though trying to make up his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Not deliberately, though. It was an accident. I… stumbled in the hay and knocked over a lantern. It was an accident.’

‘I never imagined it was anything else,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Nothing could have been gained by a deliberate burning of the barn – it was a tragic loss to the whole village. That winter was a miserable time for most people, with scanty supplies of grain and little fodder for the animals.’

‘You do not need to remind me,’ said Lydgate bitterly. ‘I was terrified the whole time that you would decide to tell the villagers who was the real cause of their misery – me and not that dirty little Norbert you helped to escape.’

‘You knew about that?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished.

Lydgate nodded. ‘I saw you let him go. But I kept your secret as you had kept mine. Until the last few weeks, that is, when you threatened to tell.’

‘I have done nothing of the sort,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. ‘The whole affair had slipped my mind and I did not think of it again until the skeleton was uncovered in the Ditch. Edith thought the bones might be Norbert’s and I told her that was impossible.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Lydgate curiously.

‘Because I received letters from him,’ said Bartholomew.

He looked at Michael. ‘Copies of which were concealed in a book I have recently read,’ he added.

‘Then it must be Norbert who is trying to blackmail me and not you at all! He has waited all these years to claim justice! I see! It makes sense now!’ cried Lydgate.

Various things became clear in Bartholomew’s mind from this tangled web of lies and misunderstandings.

Lydgate must have already been sent blackmail messages when Bartholomew and Michael had gone to speak to him about Kenzie’s murder, which was why he had threatened Bartholomew as he was leaving Godwinsson, and why he had instructed Cecily not to contradict anything that was said. And it was also clear that Lydgate’s aversion to Bartholomew inspecting Werbergh’s body was not because he was trying to conceal his murder, but because he was keen to keep his imagined blackmailer away from events connected to his hostel.

‘Not so fast,’ said Michael, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. ‘We must consider this more carefully before jumping to conclusions. We found copies of Norbert’s letters in a book. That tells us that he probably kept them to remind himself of the lies he had written, so he would not contradict himself in future letters. Perhaps he always intended to return to Cambridge to blackmail the man who almost had him hanged for a crime he did not commit.’

‘Were these blackmail messages signed?’ asked Bartholomew of Lydgate.

Lydgate shook his head. ‘There have been three of them, all claiming I set the barn alight, and that payment would be required for silence.’

‘What about Cecily?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Could she have sent the notes? After all, you are hardly affectionate with each other.’

‘She did not know it was me who set the barn on fire!’ said Lydgate with frustration. ‘No one does, except the three of us.’

‘But why has Norbert not contacted me?’ mused Bartholomew looking puzzled. ‘I would have thought he might, given what I risked to save him.’

‘Perhaps he is afraid you will not support him,’ said Michael. ‘How does he know you can still be trusted after twenty-five years?’ He rubbed at the bristles on his chin.

‘But it does seem that you were right and that Norbert has returned to Cambridge. We find his letters to you and Master Lydgate receives blackmail notes. It is all too much of a coincidence to be chance.’

‘So it was Norbert and his associates who attacked us a week ago, looking for the book that contained that vital piece of evidence?’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace, as he did when he lectured to his students and needed to think. He had sometimes carried the Galen in his medicine bag and it had probably been there when his room had been searched. But the night he was attacked, he had left the book behind because it was going to rain and he did not want it to get wet. Norbert and his associates had been unfortunate in their timing.

‘And Norbert killed Werbergh?’ asked Lydgate. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. ‘Even with my story and your information, it is still a fearful mess. I can make no sense of it. It was all clear to me when I thought Bartholomew was the blackmailer.’ He watched Bartholomew pace back and forth, and then cleared his throat. ‘One of the notes said Dominica would die as a warning,’ he said huskily.

‘What is this?’ said Michael, aghast again. ‘A warning for what?’

‘This is painful for me,’ said Lydgate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, large hands dangling, and his head bowed. ‘One note said that if I did not comply and leave money as instructed, my daughter would die. I sent her immediately to Chesterton for safety. During the riot, Edred came back to say she was in Cambridge again. I went out to see if I could find her but it was too late. She already lay dead, her face smeared in blood and her long golden hair soaked in gore and dirt. Ned from Valence Marie lay by the side of her, a dagger in his stomach. I pulled it out. I suppose it might be possible she was just a random victim of the riots, but I am sceptical so soon after I had the letter threatening her life.’

Bartholomew thought of Lydgate’s story in the light of what he had been told by Cecily and Edred. They claimed they had seen Lydgate standing over the dead Dominica and Ned, holding a dripping knife. If everyone was telling the truth, then Cecily and Edred had indeed seen Lydgate standing over two bodies with a dagger, but had misinterpreted what they had seen. On the strength of these erroneous assumptions, Mistress Cecily had left her husband, and Edred had applied what he had known of the other deaths to reason that Lydgate had not only killed Dominica and Ned, but Werbergh and Kenzie too.

Bartholomew rubbed the back of his head. Cecily, Lydgate and Edred all said it was Dominica they had seen lying dead near Ned from Valence Marie. In which case, where was Joanna? Bartholomew was certain she was dead, or the Tyler family would not have gone to such lengths to prevent him from looking too closely into her disappearance. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the woman with the unrecognisably battered face and long, golden hair was Joanna and not Dominica at all. It had been dark, both during the riot and in the Castle mortuary and that, coupled with the fact that the face had been battered, would have made definite identification difficult, if not impossible. And finally, there was the ominous patch of blood in the Tylers’ house.

He glanced at Michael, wondering whether to share his thoughts with Lydgate. The monk had been watching him intently and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

Michael had apparently guessed what Bartholomew had been reasoning, but thought the evidence too slim to give Lydgate hopes that he might have been mistaken and that Dominica might yet be alive.

‘Dominica’s name was not among the dead,’ said Michael when he saw Bartholomew was not going to speak. ‘Why did you not claim her body?’

Lydgate put his head in his hands. ‘I did not know what to do,’ he said. ‘Cecily was gone, and there was no one with whom to discuss it. I decided to let Dominica’s death remain anonymous until I had had time to think. You see, the soldiers at the Castle were saying that the woman who had died had been a whore. I did not want to risk Dominica’s reputation by claiming that this whore was her. Half the town knew that she had a lover and she would always be remembered as the whore who died in the riots. I had to think before I acted, so I said nothing.’

‘You went to her grave, though,’ said Bartholomew.

Lydgate fixed his small eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Yes. And you found me there. I thought you had come to gloat. You were lucky I did not run you through.’

‘Does your wife know about the blackmail notes?’ asked Michael.

‘I told her I was being blackmailed, but I did not tell her why. She was concerned only for Dominica, and cared not a fig for me or my reputation should all this come out. She ran away from me the night Dominica died and lurks in her underground chamber at Chesterton.’

‘You know where she is?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘Of course!’ said Lydgate dismissively. ‘My wife is not a woman richly endowed with imagination, Bartholomew. I knew immediately that she would flee to the same place where we had hidden Dominica. And even if I had not guessed, my friend Thomas Bigod would have told me. Bigod has been a good ally to me. He gave me an alibi the night Dominica died and is keeping Cecily safe until such time as we can settle our differences – if we ever bother.’

‘Cecily believed you killed Dominica,’ said Michael baldly.

Lydgate gave a faint smile. ‘So Thomas Bigod tells me. Silly woman! She can stay away as long as she likes. The house is more pleasant without her whining tongue.’

Bartholomew let all this sink in. Cecily was hiding away, and Lydgate had not been fooled for an instant about her whereabouts. Lydgate had told Cecily that Bartholomew had been blackmailing him, but she had shown no compunction about helping the man she thought was her husband’s enemy. To Cecily, Bartholomew had been an instrument to use against her husband. That must have been at least partly why she had helped him to escape from the manor at Chesterton: she believed she was releasing her husband’s blackmailer to continue his war of attrition!

Lydgate sighed. ‘I knew Dominica was seeing a scholar. The day after I sent her away, I heard him throwing stones at her window. When he saw he would get no response, he left and I followed him. But I am too big and clumsy for such work and I lost him before we reached the High Street.’

Unfortunately for Kenzie, thought Bartholomew. He might still be alive had his killer seen the hulking figure of Lydgate pursuing him.

‘All I saw was a man in a scholar’s tabard,’ continued Lydgate wearily. ‘I could not see him well enough to identify him again.’

‘It was James Kenzie, the David’s student who was murdered,’ said Michael.

Lydgate gazed at the Benedictine in mute disbelief, and then slammed one thick fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘That student was killed the same night I followed Dominica’s visitor. No wonder you paid me so much attention!’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a look of bemusement, wondering how Lydgate had never put the two together in his mind before. Lydgate did not notice and continued. ‘So, Dominica chose a Scot! She knew how to be hurtful. What more inappropriate lover could the daughter of a hostel principal chose than an impoverished Scot?’

‘But if you did not kill him, who did? And why?’ asked Bartholomew, wanting to get back to the business of solving the murders, away from Lydgate’s domestic traumas.

Lydgate looked at him as though he were mad. ‘Why, Norbert, of course,’ he said.

Bartholomew paced up and down and shook his head impatiently. Lydgate followed him with his eyes.

‘But why? Norbert has no reason to kill Kenzie.’

‘What about the ring?’ asked Michael. ‘The lover’s ring that Kenzie had lost to Edred that day?’

‘Why?’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why should Norbert want the ring? And if you recall, Kenzie wore no ring when he died. Edred had stolen it earlier – or at least, had stolen the fake.’

Lydgate nodded. ‘Edred tried to claim a reward by offering a cheap imitation of Dominica’s ring. I grew angry with him and since then he has been sulky with me. That is why he accused me of those murders – as I said, it is the only thing I truly understand in all this muddle.’

‘Ah!’ said Michael. ‘So, the slippery friar changed his allegiance. This begins to make sense. Repulsed by you in his attempts at winning favour, he was recruited by, or turned to, Norbert. It was Norbert who told him to make sure you were blamed for all those deaths by coming to us, and it was for Norbert that Edred searched Matt’s room looking for the Galen. I think Edred believed what he told us was true and I think he was afraid of you. But he was working for Norbert all the time!’

It was dark in the church now and the only light came from the candles. There seemed to be little more to be said and Michael and Lydgate stood. As Lydgate stepped forward, he stumbled against Michael’s bench.

Bartholomew caught him by the arm and prevented him from falling. Lydgate peered down at the bench and grimaced.

‘How long have your eyes been failing?’ asked Bartholomew gently.

Lydgate glared at him and pulled his arm away sharply.

‘That is none of your business,’ he snapped, but then relented. ‘My eyesight has never been good, but these last three years have seen a marked degeneration. Father Philius says there is nothing I can do. I have told no one except Dominica. It is worse at night, though. Everything fades into shadow.’

As they opened the door of the church, they saw an orange glow in the sky and, very distantly, they could hear shouting and screams carried on the slightest of breezes.

‘Oh, Lord, no!’ whispered Michael, gazing at the eerie lights. ‘The riot has started!’

‘My hostel!’ exclaimed Lydgate and hurried away into the night without so much as a backward glance. Michael watched him go.

‘How did you guess about his sight?’ he asked.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘The signs are clear enough. He rubs his eyes constantly and he squints and peers around. When I paced, he spoke to me in the wrong direction. And he failed to see the bench he fell over. He lost Kenzie when he followed him and he, unlike Edred, did not see his bright yellow hose. But even more importantly, he probably did not see Dominica. It was Joanna he saw dead.’

‘So, your theory was wrong after all,’ said Michael. ‘Dominica and Joanna are different.’

‘It would seem so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The woman’s face was bloody, and the street where he found her and the Castle mortuary were dark, where Lydgate admits he cannot see well. The dead woman was probably Joanna after all. But I am not the only one who was mistaken. Lydgate, Cecily and Edred all think Dominica died on the night of the riot. Edred and Cecily only saw a fair-haired corpse from a distance; Lydgate saw her close but has poor vision.’

‘So Lydgate went to look at her body at the Castle,’ said Michael, ‘because he had not trusted his failing eyesight on the night of the riot.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and then scrubbed hard at his face. Although things were clearer – Joanna and Dominica were not one and the same; he now understood the reason behind Lydgate’s hostility towards him; and they finally knew more about the treacherous Edred’s actions – there were still many questions that remained unanswered. Where was Dominica? Where was Norbert? Why had Bigod and his cronies elected to organise a riot that night? And why had someone been to such trouble to ensure that Joanna’s body had been mistaken for Dominica’s? He and Michael sank into the shadows of the church as shouting and running feet began to echo along the High Street. It grew closer, many feet pounding the dust of the road.

‘It sounds like an army,’ whispered Michael, edging further back.

Torches threw bouncing shadows in all directions as the mob surged past, yelling and calling to each other.

Bartholomew recognised some of them as tradesmen from the Market Square. They all carried weapons of one kind or another – staves, knives, scythes, sticks, even cooking pots. Where the torch-light caught the occasional face, Bartholomew saw that they appeared mesmerised. They chanted together, nonsense words, but ones that created a rhythm of unity. Bartholomew had heard that clever commanders were able to create such a feeling of oneness before battles and that the soldiers, whipped up into a frenzy, fought like wild animals until they either died or dropped from sheer weariness. The crowd that surged past Bartholomew and Michael ran as one, chanting and crashing their weapons together. Bartholomew knew that if he and Michael were spotted now in their scholars’ garb, they would be killed for certain. No amount of reasoning could possibly work against this enraged mob.

As the last torch jiggled past and the footsteps and chanting faded, Michael crossed himself vigorously, and Bartholomew crept cautiously to the fringe of trees in the graveyard to check that the rioters did not double back.

‘That was an evil-intentioned crowd,’ he whispered, as Michael joined him. ‘There will be murder and mayhem again tonight, Brother. Just as Bigod promised there would be.’

Michael regarded him sombrely. ‘That was no random group of trouble-makers,’ he muttered. ‘That was a rabble, carefully brought to fever-pitch, and held there until it is time to release it.’

‘We had better return to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, his voice loud in the sudden silence. The fat monk tried to muffle Bartholomew’s voice with a hand over his mouth.

‘Hush! Or they will release it on you and me!’ he hissed fiercely.

Bartholomew had never seen Michael so afraid before and it did little to ease his troubled mind.

Michael’s beadles seemed pathetic compared to the confident mob that Bartholomew had seen thunder past. They looked terrified, too. Each time an especially loud yell occurred, they glanced nervously over their shoulders, and at least two of them were so white that Bartholomew thought they might faint. One took several steps backwards and then turned and fled. Bartholomew did not blame him: the group that had been hurriedly assembled in St Mary’s churchyard was pitifully small, and would be more likely to attract the violent attentions of the crowd than to prevent trouble. To one side, Guy Heppel stood in the shadows and trembled with fear. His hands rubbed constantly at the sides of his tabard in agitation.

The Chancellor stalked up and down in front of his frightened army, twisting a ring around on his finger with such force that he risked breaking it.

A sudden shout made several of the beadles shy away in alarm, and all of them jumped. It was Tulyet, his face streaked with dirt, and his horse skittering and prancing in terror. Only Tulyet’s superior horsemanship prevented him from being hurled from the saddle.

‘At last! ‘ breathed de Wetherset, and smiles of relief broke out on the faces of one or two of the beadles. ‘What is the news? Is the mob dispersing?’

Tulyet leaned towards him so that the fearful beadles would not overhear.

‘One hostel has been fired, but it seems that most, if not all, of the scholars escaped. St Paul’s Hostel is under siege but is holding out. Townsfolk are gathering near St Michael’s Church and it looks as though there will be an attack on Michaelhouse soon. And at least three other hostels have been sacked.’

‘Are the scholars retaliating?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to stay clear of the horse’s flailing hooves.

‘Not yet,’ said Tulyet. He flashed Michael a grin of thanks as the fat monk took a firm hold of his mount’s reins, preventing it from cavorting by sheer strength of arm. ‘But I have had reports that they are massing. Valence Marie are out and so are King’s Hall.’

‘What of Godwinsson?’ asked Michael, stroking the horse’s velvet nose, oblivious to the white froth that oozed from its mouth as it chewed wildly on the bit.

‘That is the one that has been fired,’ said Tulyet. ‘The students are out somewhere.’

‘What do you plan to do?’ asked the Chancellor. There was a loud crash from the direction of the Market Square, and he winced. It was only a short distance from the Market Square to St Mary’s Church, the centre of all University business, and the place where all its records were stored. It would take very little for the townspeople to transfer their aggressions from the market stalls to the obvious presence of the University in Cambridge’s biggest and finest church.

Tulyet scrubbed at his face with his free hand. ‘I scarcely know where to begin,’ he said. ‘It is all so scattered. The best plan I can come up with is to remove temptation from the mob’s path. I want all scholars off the streets, and I want no action taken to curb the looting of the hostels that have already fallen – if there are no bands of scholars with which to fight, the fury of the mob will fizzle out.’

‘It is not the University that precipitated all this,’ said de Wetherset angrily. ‘The townspeople started it.’

‘That is irrelevant!’ snapped Tulyet impatiently. ‘And believe me, Master de Wetherset, the University will lose a good deal less of its property if you comply with my orders, than if you try to meet the rabble with violence.’

‘You are quite right, Dick,’ said Michael quickly, seeing de Wetherset prepared to argue the point, his heavy face suffused with a deep resentment. ‘The most useful thing we can do now is to urge all the scholars indoors, or divert them from the mob. Heppel – take a dozen beadles and patrol Milne Street; I will take the rest along the High Street.’

Heppel looked at him aghast. ‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘You are the Junior Proctor and therefore paid to protect the University and its scholars. ‘

‘God help us I’ muttered de Wetherset under his breath, regarding the trembling Heppel in disdain. Bartholomew could see the Chancellor’s point.

‘But do you not think it would be better to lock ourselves in the church?’ Heppel whispered, casting fearful eyes from Michael to the Chancellor. ‘You said it would be best if all scholars were off the streets.’

‘I was not referring to the Proctors and the beadles,’ said Michael, placing his hands on his hips. ‘It is our job to prevent lawlessness, not flee from it.’

‘I did not anticipate such violence when I took this post!’ protested Heppel. ‘I knew Cambridge was an uneasy town, but I did not expect great crowds of townsfolk lusting for scholars’ blood! I was not told there would be murder, or that the students would be quite so volatile!’

De Wetherset swallowed hard, and glanced around him uneasily, as if he imagined such a mob might suddenly converge on the churchyard. Meanwhile, Heppel’s fear had communicated itself to the beadles and there were two fewer than when Bartholomew had last looked.

Michael raised his eyes heavenward, while Tulyet pursed his lips, not pleased that the University was producing such a feeble response to its dangerous situation.

‘The students are always volatile,’ said Bartholomew who, like Tulyet and Michael, was unimpressed at Heppel’s faint-heartedness. ‘Just not usually all at once. And not usually in conjunction with the entire town. However, like the last riot, this is no random occurrence. It was started quite deliberately. And this time, I know at least one of the ringleaders.’

‘Who?’ demanded Tulyet, fixing Bartholomew with an intent stare. His horse skittered nervously as another volley of excited shouts came from the direction of the Market Square.

‘Ivo, the noisy scullion from David’s Hostel,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about what had clicked into place when the stone had been hurled at him as he and Michael had gone to meet Lydgate. ‘He was the man whose cart was stuck on the High Street earlier today. A fight broke out when it blocked the road for others. He threw a stone at us as we passed – it hit a wall, but he was probably hoping to start a brawl between scholars and townsfolk there and then. And then I saw him quite clearly leading the mob past St Botolph’s, calling to them, and keeping their mood ugly. He was also one of the seven that attacked Michael and me last week, looking for the book and its hidden documents.’

‘Are you certain?’ asked Michael, cautiously. ‘It was very dark and you have not mentioned Ivo before.’

‘Something jarred in my mind when I saw him with his cart,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was out of his usual context – the only other times I have seen him have been when he was crashing about in the kitchens at David’s, and suddenly, he was in the High Street with a cart, purporting to be an apple-seller. As I thought about it, and listened to his voice, I realised exactly where I had seen and heard him before. It struck me as odd.’

‘But this means that David’s is involved,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘And I thought we had settled on Valence Marie, Godwinsson and Maud’s.’

‘Only one of their servants,’ said Tulyet. ‘But this makes sense. I saw that fight on the High Street tonight, and I had a bad feeling that my men had not broken it up sufficiently for it not to begin afresh.’

‘Enough chattering,’ said de Wetherset, his agitation making him uncharacteristically rude. ‘Brother, take the beadles and clear the students off the streets. Bartholomew, go to Michaelhouse, and warn them that they may be about to be under siege. Master Tulyet,’ he added, peering up at the Sheriff, ‘could you try to prevent the looting of at least some the hostels near the Market Square? It is too late for Godwinsson, but perhaps we might save others. Heppel – perhaps you had better wait with me in the church.’

Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm, and gave him a brief smile before they parted to go in different directions.

Michael traced a benediction in the air at Bartholomew as he sped up the High Street and, after a moment’s consideration, sketched one at himself. He gathered his beadles together, and set off towards the Trumpington Gate, intending to work his way along the High Street and then back along Milne Street. The Chancellor watched them go and then bundled his frightened clerks and Junior Proctor into St Mary’s Church, taking care to bar the door.

Figures flitted back and forth at the junction between St Michael’s Lane and the High Street, and there was a good deal of noise. Bartholomew edged closer. One man in particular, wearing a dark brown tunic, yelled threats and jeers towards little St Paul’s Hostel that stood at the corner. Bartholomew, watching him, saw immediately what he was doing: St Paul’s had only five students and was poor. The man was using it to work his crowd up to fever pitch, at which point they would march on nearby Michaelhouse, bigger, richer, and well worth looting.

Bartholomew ducked down one of the streets parallel to St Michael’s Lane and then went along Milne Street, running as hard as he could. On reaching the opposite end of St Michael’s Lane, he peered round the corner and began to head towards the sturdy gates of his College. At the same time, a great cheer went up from the crowd and Bartholomew saw them begin to march down the lane.

They saw him at the same time as he saw them – a lone scholar in the distinctive gown of a University doctor. A great howl of enraged delight went up and they began to trot towards him. Bartholomew was almost at Michaelhouse’s gates when he faltered. Should he try to reach the College, or should he turn and run the other way? If he chose the latter, it would draw the mob away from Michaelhouse and they might not return. There was sufficient distance between him and the crowd so that he knew he could outrun them – and he could not imagine that such a large body of people would bother to chase him too far along the dark, slippery banks of the river.

His mind made up, he did an about-face. A second yell froze his blood. The crowd had divided – perhaps so that one group could try to gain access through the orchard, while the others distracted attention by battering at the front gates. He was now trapped in the lane between two converging mobs.

Both began to surge towards him, their inhuman yells leaving him in no doubt that he was about to be ripped limb from limb. He ran the last few steps to Michaelhouse, and hammered desperately on the gates, painfully aware that his shouts for help were drowned by the howls of the rioters. A distant part of his mind recalled that the surly Walter was on night duty that week and Walter was never quick to answer the door. By the time he realised one of Michaelhouse’s Fellows was locked outside, Bartholomew would be reduced to a pulp.

The crowd was almost on him and he turned to face them. The man in the brown tunic was in the lead, wielding a spitting torch. In the yellow light, his features were twisted into a mask of savage delight, revelling in his role as rabble-rouser. Around him, other faces glittered, unrecognisable – nothing but cogs in a violent machine. It was not a time for analysis but in the torch-light Bartholomew recognised the man in brown as Saul Potter, the scullion from Godwinsson.

Bartholomew screwed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, not wanting to see the violent hatred on the faces of the rioters. Some of them were probably his patients and he did not wish to know which ones would so casually turn against him. He cringed, waiting for the first blow to fall and felt the breath knocked out of him as he fell backwards. He struck out blindly, eyes still tightly closed. He felt himself hauled to his feet and given a rough shake.

‘You are safe!’

Finally, Master Kenyngham’s soothing voice penetrated Bartholomew’s numb mind. The physician looked about him, feeling stupid and bewildered, like Lydgate had been in the church just a short time before. He was standing in Michaelhouse’s courtyard, while behind him students and Fellows alike struggled to close the gate through which they had hauled him to safety.

‘It was lucky you were leaning against the wicket gate,’ said Gray, who was holding his arm. ‘If you had been standing to one side of it, we would never have got you back.’

‘It was me who heard your voice,’ said Deynman, his eyes bright with pride. ‘I opened the gate quickly before anyone could tell me not to and we pulled you inside.’

‘No one would have told you not to open the gate, Robert,’ said Master Kenyngham reproachfully. ‘But your quick thinking doubtlessly saved Doctor Bartholomew’s life.’

Deynman’s face shone with pleasure, and Bartholomew, still fighting to calm his jangling nerves, gave him a wan smile. Despite Kenyngham’s assertion, Bartholomew was far from certain the other scholars would have allowed the gates to be opened for him with a mob thundering down the lane from both directions at once, and even if they had, the merest delay would have cost him his life. Deynman’s uncharacteristically decisive action had most certainly delivered Bartholomew from a most unpleasant fate. He made a mental note to try to be more patient with Deynman in the future – perhaps even to spend some time coaching him away from the others.

Bartholomew noticed one or two students rubbing bruises, and eyeing him resentfully. It had not been the mob at which he had lashed out so wildly, but his colleagues and students. He grinned at them sheepishly and most smiled back.

The scholars trying to close the wicket gate against the throng on the other side were finding it difficult. The door inched this way and that, groaning on its hinges against the pressure of dozens of sweating bodies on either side.

‘The door! ‘ shouted Master Kenyngham, and Deynman and Gray hurried to assist their friends. ‘And ring the bell! Other scholars may come to our aid.’

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew. Kenyngham looked at him in astonishment, while Bartholomew tried to steady his voice. ‘Brother Michael is trying to keep the scholars off the streets in the hope that, with no one to fight, the rioters will disperse.’

He glanced around him. There were perhaps thirty students and commoners at Michaelhouse, and seven Fellows including the Master, as well as six servants and Agatha the laundress. Although there were at least twice that number in the horde outside, Bartholomew thought that with the aid of Michaelhouse’s sturdy walls and gates, they could hold out against the rioters. Kenyngham, however, appeared bewildered by the situation and his appalled passivity was doing nothing to improve their chances.

‘May I make some suggestions, Master Kenyngham?’ Bartholomew asked him urgently. The other Fellows clustered around anxiously.

Kenyngham fixed him with a troubled stare. ‘No, Matthew. Michaelhouse has always had good relations with the town and I do not want to jeopardise that by meeting its inhabitants with violence. I will climb on to the gate and try to talk reason to these people. They will leave when I point out the folly of their ways.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, while the more pragmatic Father William let out a snort of derision and jabbed a meaty finger towards the gate behind which the crowd howled in fury.

‘Listen to them, man! That is not a group of people prepared to listen to reason. That is a mob intent on blood and looting!’

‘They will be more likely to shoot you down than to listen to you,’ agreed Father Aidan, flinching as a stone hurled from the lane landed near him in a puff of dust.

‘Perhaps we could toss some coins to them,’ suggested Alcote hopefully. ‘Then they would scramble for them and forget about looting us.’

William gave him a pained look. ‘Foolish Cluniac,’ he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Alcote to hear. ‘What an absurd suggestion! Typical of one of your Order!’

‘I suspect that would only serve to convince them that we have wealth to spare,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing a row about to erupt between William and Alcote.

‘You are quite right, Matt,’ said Aidan. ‘But we must decide what we can do to prevent the mob entering the College. What do you have in mind, Master?’

All eyes turned to Kenyngham, who had been listening to the exchange with growing despondency. ‘Do none of you agree with me that we can avert such an incident by talking to these people?’

Alcote yelped as a pebble, thrown from the lane, struck him on the shoulder, and Bartholomew raised an arm to protect his head from a rain of small missiles that scattered around him.

‘What do you think, man?’ demanded William aggressively. ‘Talking would be next to useless – if you could even make yourself heard over the row. For once, Master Kenyngham, all your Fellows are in agreement. We need to defend ourselves – by force if need be – or that rabble will break down our gates and that will be the end of us.’

Kenyngham took a deep breath. ‘Very well. Tell me what you have in mind, Matthew. I am a scholar, not a soldier, and I freely admit to feeling unequal to dealing with the situation. But please try to avoid violence, if at all possible.’

Bartholomew quickly glanced around him again. The students had finally managed to close and bar the gate and were standing panting, congratulating each other, ignoring the enraged howls of the mob outside. But they would not be secure for long. Bartholomew began to bark orders.

‘Agatha, take all the servants, and find as many water containers as possible. Fill them from the well and be ready to act if they try to set us on fire. Alcote and Aidan, take a dozen students and make sure the College is secure at the rear. Post guards there. If the crowd breaks through into the orchard, do not try to stop them, but retreat into the servants’ quarters. Father William, take the Franciscans to the servants’ quarters and gather as many throwable items together as you can: stones, sticks, apples – anything will do. We might have to defend the back if the mob gets into the orchard. The rest of you, collect stones that can be thrown from the wall at the front. Pull down the stable if you need to.’

All, unquestioning, sped off to do his bidding, while Bartholomew considered the front of Michaelhouse. The gates were sturdy enough, but they would be unable to withstand attack for long if the mob thought to use a battering ram of some kind. He sent Bulbeck and Gray in search of anything that might be used to barricade the door, while he clambered up the side of the gate and on to the wall to look down at the surging mob below.

Michaelhouse had been founded thirty years before by a chancellor of Edward II, who was well aware that his academic institution might come under threat by a resentful local population at some point in the future.

Michaelhouse’s walls were strong and tall, and there was something akin to a wall-walk around the front.

The mob was eerily quiet; Bartholomew saw Saul Potter in a small clearing in the middle of them giving orders.

Despite straining, Bartholomew could not hear what was said, but a great cheer from the crowd as Potter finished speaking made his blood run cold.

‘I think we are in for a long night,’ he said unsteadily to Kenyngham as he scrambled down. ‘They are planning to attack us somehow. We must be ready.’

While Bartholomew and the students hurried to find usable missiles, the mob went ominously silent. Then an ear-splitting roar accompanied a tremendous crash against the gates, which shuddered and groaned under the impact.

Horrified, Bartholomew climbed back up the gate to the top of the wall, where a dozen or so scholars crouched there, each one armed with handfuls of small stones gathered from the yard. Deynman was enthusiastically applying himself to demolishing the derelict stable, and some very large rocks were being ferried to augment the waiting scholars’ arsenals. Below, the rioters had acquired a long, heavy pole, and willing hands grabbed at it as it was hauled backwards in readiness for a second strike.

‘Aim for the men holding the battering ram,’ Bartholomew called to the students, looking down at the seething mass of the mob beneath, searching for Saul Potter. The battering ram had a carved end; he realised with a shock that someone had taken the centre-post from one of the river people’s homes. He hoped it had not been Dunstan and Aethelbald’s house that had been destroyed in the mindless urge for blood and looting.

The gates juddered a second time as the post was smashed into them, accompanied by another mighty yell from the crowd. Bartholomew saw the head of the post shatter under the impact. One man fell away with a cry as one of the splinters was driven into his side. But the crowd was oblivious to his distress and the great post was hauled back for a third punch.

Bartholomew watched as the scholars pelted the rioters with their stones. At first, their defence seemed to make little difference, but gradually individuals in the crowd began to look up as the shower of pebbles continued to hail down on them. When a hefty rock landed on one man, the crowd wavered uncertainly. Immediately, Saul Potter was among them again.

‘Our lads have breached the rear!’ he yelled. An uncertain cheer went up. ‘Come on, lads!’ Saul Potter continued. ‘Think of what will soon be yours! Silver plate, jewellery, clothes and all the University’s ill-gotten gains. You will not let these snivelling scholars defeat the honest men of Cambridge, will you?’

This time the clamour was stronger. Encouraged, Saul Potter went on. ‘These wretched, black-robed scholars do nothing for this town but take our women and make us paupers. Will you let the likes of them get the better of us honest folk?’ There was no mistaking the enthusiasm this time, and rioters began to peel off from the group to head for the back gate. Ordering Gray to keep up the barrage of fire from the front, Bartholomew slithered down from the wall to race to the back of the College, gathering any idle hands as he ran.

Sure enough, the mob had broken through into the orchard and were besieging the servants’ quarters. Father William and his Franciscans were doing an admirable job in repelling them with a variety of missiles hurled from the upper floor, but the windows were small and allowed the defending scholars little room for manoeuvre.

The crowd’s reinforcements were beginning to arrive.

On the lower floor, the doors were thick, but nothing like the great gates at the front. They were already beginning to give way under the rioters’ kicks, despite Bulbeck’s desperate attempts to block them with chests and trestle tables.

‘This brings back memories,’ came a quiet, lilting voice from Bartholomew’s elbow.

‘Cynric!’ Bartholomew’s delight at seeing his book-bearer up again was tempered by the sight of his drawn face under the bandage that swathed his head. ‘You should not be here.’ He saw Cynric held a small bow and several arrows.

‘Just let me fire a few of these, boy, and I promise you I will be away to lie down like the old man I am,’ said Cynric.

Bartholomew knew from the determined glitter in the Welshman’s eyes that he would be unable to stop him anyway. He moved aside.

‘Saul Potter,’ he said. ‘He is wearing a brown tunic.’

‘Oh, I know Saul Potter, lad,’ said Cynric, approaching the window and selecting an arrow. ‘Agatha told me he was boasting in the King’s Head about how he had kicked you witless last week. I was going to pay him a visit anyway. Perhaps I can settle matters with him now.’

Cynric’s arm muscles bulged as he eased back the taut bowstring. He closed one eye and searched out his quarry with the other. The Franciscans had ceased their stone-throwing and were watching Cynric intently.

Father William moved towards another window and began chanting a prayer in his stentorian tones. The effect on the crowd was immediate. They became still, their voices gradually faltering into silence and all faces turned to the window from where Father William’s voice emanated.

There was not a man in the crowd who did not recognise the words William spoke: the words spoken by priests when someone was going to die.

Saul Potter began to shout back, but his voice was no match for William’s, which had been honed and strengthened by long years of describing from the pulpit the fires and brimstone of hell and the dangers of heresy.

The sound of Cynric’s arrow singing through the air silenced William. It also silenced Saul Potter, who died without a sound, the arrow embedded in his chest. Cynric slumped back against the window frame with a tired but triumphant grin. Bartholomew helped him to sit down.

‘I have lost none of my skill by living with these learned types,’ Cynric muttered proudly. He tried to dismiss the admiring praise of the students who clustered around him, but the physician could see he was relishing every moment. Bartholomew stood to look out of the window again. Deprived of their leader, the crowd was milling around in confusion. Bartholomew made a sign to William, whose teeth flashed in one of his rare smiles.

The friar took a deep breath and began chanting a second time.

The meaning was clear. As one, the crowd edged back and then began to run, leaving the body of Saul Potter behind. After a few minutes, Bartholomew took a group of scholars and scoured the orchard for lingerers. But there were none: the mob, to its last man, had fled. He left Father Aidan to secure the back gate and walked back through the orchard with William.

‘Is it over?’ asked William, the strong voice that had boomed over the mob hoarse with tiredness.

‘It is at Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I can still see the glow from the fires in the rest of the town. And Michael is still out there with his frightened beadles.’

William slapped a hand on Bartholomew’s back. ‘Do not fear for Michael,’ he said. ‘He is clever and resourceful but also sensible. He will not attempt more than he knows he can achieve.’

They walked in silence, watching torches bobbing here and there among the trees, as the students still searched for hidden rioters. The immediate danger over, Bartholomew felt his legs become wobbly, and he rested his hand on the friar’s shoulder after stumbling in the wet grass for the second time.

‘I recognised the man Cynric killed,’ said William, taking a fistful of Bartholomew’s tabard to steady him. ‘He is a servant from Godwinsson.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. His mind began to drift. He tried to imagine what Norbert might look like now, so that he might find him. He caught the end of William’s sentence, and turned to face him in shock.

‘I am sorry, Father. Could you repeat that?’

William clicked his tongue irritably, never patient with wandering minds. ‘I was telling you, Matthew, that the University seems to be inundated with people who are not all they seem. That Godwinsson scullion was clearly no ordinary servant – it takes skill and experience to manipulate a crowd as he did and anyone with such abilities would hardly be satisfied with a position as scullion. And then I told you about my encounter with Father Andrew of David’s. I told you I believe he is no Franciscan. I went to a mass of his last week and he did not know one end of his missal from the other. His Latin was disgraceful. I checked up on him with my Father Prior and learned that the only Father Andrew from Stirling in our Order died two months ago.’

Bartholomew recalled that William had been with the Inquisition for a time, an occupation that must have suited his tenacious mind. If William’s suspicions had been aroused, he would not rest until they had been sufficiently allayed.

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, exhaustion making his thoughts sluggish.

William sighed in exasperation. ‘I will put it simply, Matthew, since your mind seems to lack its normal incisive skills. Father Andrew, friar and master of theology at David’s Hostel, is an impostor.’