A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 14

Trouble found Bartholomew and Michael long before they reached the Austin Priory. Gonville’s students were out, and they had been joined by lads from King’s Hall. They were facing a small pack of scholars from the hostels, led by Gilby, the vociferous priest from White. Some carried pitch torches, and the light they shed cast eerie shadows on the surrounding houses.

‘I thought you had gone to the Fens,’ said Michael, displeased to see Gilby in the thick of more disorder. ‘And that you were sick with the debilitas.’

‘I made a miraculous recovery,’ replied the priest. ‘God be praised.’

‘Is there any apple wine in the marshes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or sweet foods?’

‘No,’ replied the priest shortly. ‘There is nothing debauched about our new studium generale. It is a fine place, based on sober virtues. And it is growing fast, which is why I am here – to encourage other decent men to join us. But these louts will not let us pass.’

‘Stand aside,’ Michael told the College men tiredly. ‘We are not tyrants, to keep them here by force. If they want to live in rush hovels and listen to lectures given under dripping trees, then that is their decision.’

‘There should be a statute forbidding anyone from slinking off in the middle of term,’ said the gap-toothed Gonville boy. Michael took a step towards him, at which point he decided it was imprudent to challenge the Senior Proctor and so shuffled to one side. His cronies did likewise.

‘Go,’ said Michael to Gilby, indicating the path to freedom. ‘But bear in mind that once you do, you can never return. We will not reinstate rebels.’

‘Why would we return?’ asked Gilby haughtily. ‘Your University is steeped in corruption – especially Michaelhouse, which was as poor as a church mouse last year, but now is drowning in money. And I know why: donations from the dyeworks. The latest bribe was a cask of wine. Poor Almoner Robert said that Edith Stanmore insisted he deliver it immediately, despite the perils of being abroad tonight.’

Before Bartholomew could inform him that Edith had done no such thing, there was a shout, and they turned to see the scholars of Zachary Hostel marching towards them. They were led by Nigellus, although Morys was nowhere to be seen. Every man was sumptuously attired and carried an impressive array of weapons – swords, daggers, cudgels and even crossbows. There was a collective hiss as King’s Hall drew their own blades and took up fighting formation. Gilby barked an order, and his followers did likewise.

‘No,’ snapped Michael. ‘The town would love to see us tear each other to pieces. Do you want to provide their entertainment tonight?’

‘We will defeat the hostel scum, then teach the town a lesson,’ shouted someone from King’s Hall to cheers from his cronies. ‘The priest who promised to absolve them of the sin of attacking us is dead, so we will all burn in Hell together.’

‘Almoner Robert has been granted a licence to take his place,’ announced Nigellus, although Bartholomew was sure it could not be true – there had not been enough time to make such arrangements with the Bishop. ‘So you will burn alone.’

‘Take your students home, Nigellus,’ begged Bartholomew, seeing the hostels take courage from his words and square up for a brawl. ‘You are a physician. You cannot want a battle that–’

The rest of his sentence was lost as the Colleges surged forward with a baying roar, and for a moment, all was a blur of flailing weapons, screams and curses. Those who had been holding torches dropped them in order to fight, with the result that the street was suddenly plunged into darkness, making it all but impossible to tell friend from foe. A few torches continued to flicker on the ground, but rather than illuminating what was happening, they posed a fire hazard, and more than one combatant backed away to slap at burning clothing.

Fortunately, the skirmish did not last long, and Bartholomew had done no more than haul out his childbirth forceps to defend himself before he sensed some of the belligerents running away. The trickle quickly became a rout, and then the street was full of the rattle of fleeing footsteps and the cheers of the victors. The dropped torches were snatched up to show that the hostels had won the encounter, thanks to a timely influx of reinforcements from the foundations along Water Lane.

‘That showed the rogues!’ howled Gilby, his voice only just audible over the triumphant yells. ‘Now we shall hunt down more of those College vermin and show them what–’

‘No, you will not,’ bellowed Michael furiously. Bartholomew was relieved to see him unharmed. ‘Take your recruits and go – and do not show your face here again.’

‘Not until I have trounced King’s Hall,’ countered Gilby, and before Michael could stop him, he had dashed away, his torch acting as a bobbing beacon to his followers.

Soon all that remained were the injured, a dozen or so scattered across the street, moaning or crying for help. Bartholomew grabbed a light and went to see what might be done for them.

‘Does anyone need last rites, Matt?’ asked Michael urgently. ‘Or may I go?’

‘No one from Zachary needs a priest,’ came a familiar voice. It was Nigellus, one hand clasped to his hip. His voice was gloating even in his pain. ‘Almoner Robert has already absolved us for anything we might do tonight. But come here, Brother. I have something to tell you.’

Michael knelt next to him, but Bartholomew’s attention was snagged by the student who lay groaning at his feet, and he did not hear what Nigellus whispered to the monk. He glanced up several minutes later to see Michael disappearing into the darkness, leaving him alone with the casualties of the encounter, all of whom pleaded with him to tend them first. For the second time that evening, he found himself thinking of Poitiers – of the battle’s aftermath, when he had been similarly inundated with piteous calls for help.

He moved from one to the next, determining quickly who could be saved and who was a lost cause. He stemmed bleeding from five serious wounds, reset a broken arm and reduced a dislocated shoulder before reaching Nigellus, who had a crossbow bolt lodged in his hip. It was not easy to remove, and Nigellus howled so loudly that Bartholomew feared the screams would bring back the hostel men, who would almost certainly assume he was being deliberately heavy-handed.

He was acutely aware of movements in the shadows nearby, as people slunk this way and that, but it was too dark to see whether they were friendly or hostile. All he could do was keep working and hope they would realise that he was not a ‘damned butcher’ as Nigellus was shrieking, and that his aim was to mend, not torture, the injured.

By the time he had finished with Nigellus, the other casualties had either staggered away by themselves or been carried home by friends – only two corpses remained. He was as taut as a bowstring, wondering how he was going to tote Nigellus to safety on his own. He was relieved when Tulyet, Dickon and a band of soldiers arrived.

‘The whole town is running mad,’ the Sheriff reported tersely. ‘We are a hair’s breadth from a riot such as we have never seen.’

Dickon covered the faces of the dead with their cloaks, and Tulyet nodded silent approval – although a cold shiver ran down Bartholomew’s spine when he read not compassion in the eerie red face, but ghoulish fascination. More sounds of violence were carried on the wind, and Tulyet issued a stream of orders to his men that had them scurrying off in all directions.

‘I should have stayed in Barnwell,’ Nigellus was muttering. His face was ashen, and Bartholomew wondered if he would survive the shock of the wound and what had been necessary to treat it. ‘I had a good life there, but Robert said I was wasted, and should become a scholar …’

‘Almoner Robert?’ demanded Bartholomew, crouching next to him. ‘Why? He is not a member of Zachary. Or was he actually inviting you to become an Austin?’

‘He has friends in Zachary – friends who support his contention that the University is corrupt and bloated. He aims to lead it to a better future, where scholars do not live in constant fear of attacks by the town, and where whores do not entice students to sin.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to argue. He stared at the wounded medicus, then decided it was as good a time as any to ask the questions that were plaguing him. ‘You prescribed medicines in Barnwell, but not here. Why?’

‘Because none of them really work,’ replied Nigellus bitterly. ‘And Prior Norton made some nasty remarks about the expense. I did not want Cambridge folk making the same accusations, so I decided only to accept healthy clients. But then the debilitas struck here as well …’

Bartholomew was surprised that Nigellus had allowed the wild words of a grieving man to wound him. He could only suppose that years of working in a small community, where his skills and training – whether adequate or not – had given him a godlike status, meant Nigellus was unused to criticism. He stood, not sure what to say to a physician who thought more of his reputation than his ability to serve the people who needed his help.

‘Robert means well,’ Nigellus went on softly. ‘But I fear he may have done terrible things to effect a solution. Irby died of natural causes, but Yerland, Segeforde and Kellawe … I think Robert might have dispatched them because they questioned his methods. I never hurt anyone, though, despite what you think.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You are a healer, not a killer.’

Nigellus winced at the kindness in his voice, and his expression turned stricken and very guilty. ‘Yet I may have sent a man to his doom even so,’ he whispered. ‘Robert’s request was so odd … I should not have done what he ordered …’

‘Done what?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘He told me that if I were to see the Senior Proctor, I should send him to the Austin Priory. I did as he asked, but now I wonder whether I should have held my tongue. I have a bad feeling that Robert means Brother Michael harm.’

Briskly, Bartholomew ordered two passing beadles to carry Nigellus to Zachary, but he had taken no more than two or three steps towards the Austins’ domain when a huge crowd of hostel men suddenly materialised in front of him. He faltered, wondering if they would chase him if he darted down an alley. Then Tulyet strode forward, several soldiers and Dickon at his back.

‘Go home,’ the Sheriff roared. ‘Or you will answer to the King for disturbing his peace.’

The hostels jeered, careless that they were challenging a royally appointed official, and there was a moment when it seemed there would be another bloody skirmish. But then came the sound of clashing arms from the Market Square, and as one, the horde whipped around and raced off to join it.

‘Your strategist has done his work well, Matt,’ growled Tulyet. ‘So far, no scholar has listened to me, and the beadles say that no townsman will listen to them. The only way to restore order is for Michael and me to stand together.’

‘I will bring him as soon as I have rescued him from Robert,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he could reach the convent unscathed. ‘Until then, use Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘Take Dickon with you,’ said Tulyet. ‘He carries my authority and is proficient with a blade.’

‘No, thank you!’ gulped Bartholomew. Tulyet’s eyes narrowed, so he flailed around for an excuse that would be believed. ‘He is too young for–’

‘No, I am not,’ interrupted Dickon crossly. ‘I am bigger than some of our soldiers.’

It was no time to argue, and Bartholomew supposed that the sight of Dickon’s fierce scarlet face might be enough to save him from attacks en route – and may even frighten Robert into an easy surrender. ‘Very well, but only if he does what I tell him.’

‘Do you agree, Dickon?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Yes? Good. And remember what I have taught you: the appearance of a confident, well-armed soldier is often enough to bring about a peaceful solution, without recourse to violence.’

Dickon nodded dutifully, although Bartholomew doubted the homily would do much to keep the brat in check – it should have been obvious even to the most besotted of parents that Dickon was itching for battle. He grabbed a torch from the ground and set off with the boy in tow, immediately disconcerted to note how comfortable Dickon was with his armour and weapons.

They reached the Austin Priory without incident, at which point Bartholomew faltered. Now what? He might endanger Michael if he just charged in. And what if Robert had persuaded his brethren to his way of thinking? Bartholomew could not tackle an entire convent alone – or even with Dickon. He jumped when there was a chorus of ear-piercing cheers from the Market Square: one side had scored a victory, although there was no way to know who, or how many casualties might have resulted from the clash.

‘Hurry up,’ hissed Dickon irritably. ‘Or you will make me miss the next fight, too.’

Bartholomew crept forward, where the torch revealed that the gate’s shattered remains had been replaced by a refectory table, which had been upended and jammed into the gap. He pushed it, tentatively at first but then with growing urgency. It did not budge.

He stared at it. Did it mean that Michael had not been able to get in either, and had given up and gone elsewhere? Or had the opening been secured once the monk was inside – that he had already been ‘dealt with’ and Robert was in control?

Then Bartholomew felt himself shoved out of the way. Dickon took his sword, inserted it between table and gatepost, and levered furiously until a gap appeared.

‘That is no way to treat your weapon,’ remarked Bartholomew, stepping forward to lend his greater strength to the task – an easy one now that the table was loose.

‘It is still sharp enough for what we need it to do,’ replied Dickon with cool pragmatism. Then he grinned, small eyes glittering. ‘Besides, my father will get me another if this one breaks, and I want a bigger blade anyway.’

Bartholomew was sure he did. He hauled him back by the scruff of his neck when the lad started to enter the priory first, earning himself a venomous look in the process.

‘Robert might be armed,’ he explained.

Dickon grinned again. ‘Good. Then I will kill him.’

‘Stay behind me, and do as I say,’ ordered Bartholomew, heartily wishing it was the father, not the son, who was with him.

He doused the torch in a trough of water – there was no point in advertising their arrival – and stepped through the gate, heart thudding so loudly that he was sure Dickon would be able to hear it. The convent was pitch black inside, and the only lamps were in the chapel.

‘We had better put the table back as we found it,’ he whispered. ‘Leaving the entrance unsecured might encourage looters inside.’

‘They will not find much in here,’ muttered Dickon disparagingly. ‘The Austins live like paupers, and some only have one pair of boots. I have six.’

Bartholomew ignored the lad’s self-important bragging, and shoved the table back into place. As an added precaution, he placed a thick plank across it, sliding the ends into two conveniently placed recesses in the doorway to either side. It would now be impossible to break in without some serious pounding.

‘It is a good thing Robert did not do that,’ remarked Dickon. ‘Or I could have levered all night and not got in.’

‘Perhaps he is not here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt his brethren have much experience with this sort of thing.’

‘No,’ agreed Dickon. ‘Priests are nearly all useless at warfare.’

He spat, to indicate his disdain for such an unpardonable failing, making Bartholomew wonder afresh whether he wanted the boy at his side that night. Then came the sound of voices: the friars were chanting a psalm. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief – they would not be performing their religious devotions if they were helping Robert with his grand designs. Or if they had just helped him to murder Michael, for that matter. He crept towards the chapel, and spent several moments peering through a crack in the door, trying to assess whether the almoner was in there with them.

‘They are in the chancel,’ reported Dickon, and Bartholomew saw that he had climbed on to a tombstone and prised open a window shutter, again using his trusty sword. ‘But Robert and your fat friend are not among them.’

Bartholomew tried to open the door, aiming to ask if they knew where the almoner might be, but it was locked. Then he remembered Michael telling Joliet and his flock to retreat to the building and shut everyone inside. He hammered hard.

‘Who is it?’ came Joliet’s voice. ‘Robert?’

‘No, it is Dickon Tulyet and Doctor Bartholomew,’ piped the boy. ‘Open up in the name of the law.’ He smirked at the physician and added sotto voce, ‘I have always wanted to say that.’

‘We cannot,’ replied Joliet. ‘Robert has the key, but he is not here. What is happening out there? We keep hearing terrible battle cries.’

‘Your almoner is the villain who has been killing everyone and setting the University against our town,’ explained Dickon bluntly.

Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. Joliet would have plenty to say about such a claim, and arguing would waste time – time Michael might not have. There was a brief silence from behind the door, followed by a clamour of objections and queries. Joliet’s voice rose above it.

‘You are wrong, as I told you earlier. However, something odd is happening, or Robert would not have trapped us in here. Let us out and we shall work together to find the truth. Hurry!’

‘Is there another key?’ called Bartholomew urgently, after a quick inspection told him that the chapel door was rather more robust than the gate and was unlikely to fall to pieces if he charged at it. ‘Think quickly! We need your help to search the grounds.’

‘For Robert?’ asked Joliet doubtfully. ‘You think he is here?’

‘I think he may have taken Michael prisoner.’ Bartholomew’s voice cracked with tension. ‘And the Senior Proctor is desperately needed if we are to avert a riot. Please – the key!’

‘Robert has the only one.’ There was a brief pause before Joliet asked in an uncertain voice, ‘Have you seen Wauter today?’

‘No, why?’

‘Because he sent me his Martilogium to mind an hour ago, which means he is back in town. But why give us his work to look after? Do you think he has an inkling that Michaelhouse might be destroyed in these riots? But how would he know such a thing, unless …’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. So Wauter was involved after all. He turned frantic attention to the lock, but he had no idea how to pick one, so it was no surprise when he failed. Dickon jabbed at it frenziedly with his sword, but met with no more success than the physician.

‘Climb through the windows, Father,’ called Bartholomew. ‘Or is there another door?’

‘Just this one,’ replied Joliet. ‘And the windows are too narrow.’

‘We will have to smash the door down,’ said Dickon, eyes gleaming. ‘With a battering ram.’

‘Then fetch one,’ snapped Joliet. ‘Quickly! I am sure your father has one at the castle.’

‘We should find Michael first,’ replied Dickon, loath to be sent on an errand that would take time and might mean missing more fun. ‘Where would Robert take him?’

Joliet ignored him. ‘Please, Matthew! Time trickles away with this jabbering. Go to the castle and fetch the battering ram. But do not ask anyone for help. It is impossible to tell friend from foe at the moment, and we do not want someone deciding that an entire convent of trapped friars would make for an interesting pyre.’

‘Which it would,’ declared Dickon gleefully. ‘And what a sight it would be!’

As Joliet and his brethren were in no immediate danger, Bartholomew thought that freeing them was far less urgent than rescuing Michael. He began to search the priory himself, Dickon at his side, but it did not take him long to ascertain that the dormitory, refectory and outbuildings were empty. He stood in the grounds, trying to quell the panicky roiling of his stomach – the fear that Michael was already dead, and that if so, nothing would stop the town from erupting into violence from which it might never recover.

‘Go back to the main entrance and waylay some soldiers,’ he told Dickon, racking his brain for other places where Robert might be. ‘I am sure they can break down the chapel door without resorting to war machines.’

‘The back gate,’ whispered Dickon, ignoring the order. ‘The one that opens on to the King’s Ditch. Robert got away with murder there once, so he will think he can do it again. That is where he will have taken the fat monk.’

He had a point, although Bartholomew was disconcerted that a child should have such a clear notion of the way killers thought. They set off towards it, although moving quietly in the pitch dark took longer than when they had been there in daylight. They reached the rear wall, and groped their way along it until they found the gate. Outside it, voices came from the direction of the pier.

‘I told you so.’ Dickon could not resist a gloat.

‘Your plan will not work, Robert,’ Michael was saying. ‘Someone will come.’

Bartholomew and Dickon inched forward. A lantern illuminated the scene. The Austins’ boat had been pushed three or four feet out into the King’s Ditch, and Michael had been made to sit on the central thwart – the seat that spanned the middle of the craft – to which he was bound securely. Morys stood in front of him, holding an axe, while Robert and two Zachary students watched from the bank. The students were large, sturdy lads armed with swords, and Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised that the hostel was involved in Robert’s machinations.

‘They are going to hack a hole in the boat, so it will sink and drag Michael to the bottom,’ whispered Dickon, as if he imagined Bartholomew might not understand what he was seeing. ‘Clever! It will keep the corpse hidden for ages, and no one will ever know what happened to him.’

Bartholomew stared at the little tableau with a sense of helplessness. He might have managed to overwhelm Robert and Morys, but he could not defeat the students as well, and Dickon was still a child for all his vicious bluster.

‘Fetch help,’ he whispered. ‘There will be scholars in the streets. Go!’

‘How will I know if they are on our side?’ asked Dickon, not unreasonably. ‘You heard what Prior Joliet said about not trusting anyone. Moreover, they might kill me for being the Sheriff’s son. So you do it, while I stay here and watch.’

Bartholomew was halfway to the gate when he had second thoughts. It might be some time before he managed to waylay scholars who would help him, and it was clear that Morys and Robert intended to kill Michael quickly before moving on to the next part of their plan. He stopped and hurried back again. He would just have to devise a way to best four armed and cunning men using a set of childbirth forceps and an unpredictable boy.

‘I would not have stopped you from leaving, Robert,’ Michael was saying. There was a tremor in his voice: he could not swim, and had a mortal terror of drowning. ‘There was no need to destroy the town and tear the University apart.’

‘Of course there was,’ retorted Robert shortly. ‘The Colleges enjoy a comfortable existence here, and will never abandon it willingly. But after tonight, the town will be so enraged by the University’s antics that no scholar will be able to stay.’

Morys smirked. ‘It will not be long now before all our dreams are realised.’

Robert nodded to Morys, and the axe began to rise. Bartholomew braced himself to race forward, regardless of the unfavourable odds, but Michael spoke quickly to delay the inevitable. Desperately, Bartholomew tried to think of a rescue plan, but his mind was frighteningly blank, and all he could do was listen with mounting horror.

‘So you poisoned Frenge,’ Michael said. ‘A townsman killed on University property was sure to cause discord, especially one who had already invaded King’s Hall.’

‘And it did cause discord,’ said Robert smugly. ‘Although that was not why we did it. The truth is that he came to bring Father Arnold some sucura – unlike you, we guessed it came from the brewery, and I secured a good price for the stuff in return for keeping Peyn’s little secret.’

‘Which explains why Frenge sneaked across the King’s Ditch in the boat,’ surmised Michael. He glanced down. ‘This boat. You did not buy his brewery’s ale, so he could not come here openly, claiming you as customers. He was obliged to visit slyly, using the back gate …’

‘Where he overheard Morys and me discussing our plans. The fool tried to blackmail us – to raise the money he would need to buy lawyers to defend him from King’s Hall, ironically.’

‘So we agreed to pay and offered wine to seal the pact.’ Morys took up the tale. ‘Wine dosed with a toxic substance taken from the dyeworks. Unfortunately, one sip was not enough, so we had to force him to finish the rest. Then we left him here, where his corpse proved very useful in furthering our designs.’

‘You helped, Brother.’ Robert’s smile was gloating. ‘With the tale about him being a cattle thief – an accusation that infuriated the town. And another truth will circulate tomorrow – one that will reveal it was poison from the dyeworks that claimed his life.’

‘It will be our parting gift to the town,’ said Morys. ‘A story that will see that place closed down once and for all.’

Bartholomew’s stomach lurched at the notion that Edith should be so used, and he looked around frantically for something that might help him defeat them. There was nothing.

Robert’s expression turned earnest. ‘But you must see we are right, Michael. The town has never wanted us. Its residents fight us constantly, despite all we have done to win their affection – such as starving ourselves last winter so that the poor could eat – but still they hate us. And their antipathy turns our scholars aggressive, arrogant and overbearing.’

‘So you set out to make it worse,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘You identified folk with grudges and manipulated them – to add fuel to the fire.’

Robert nodded. ‘It was easy. I persuaded Shirwynk that his son had suffered an injustice when he was rejected from the University; I wrote letters to the greedy and selfish Stephen; I sent Kellawe, Gilby and Hakeney to stir up trouble at the dyeworks …’

‘Using Stephen was a clever touch,’ bragged Morys. ‘He gossiped, as we knew he would, and made scholars think that a move to the Fens was being discussed at the very highest levels.’

Michael ignored him and addressed Robert pleadingly. ‘How can you think of abandoning the paupers who rely on you? And what about the commissions for the murals that you have won? I thought you were pleased by them?’

‘We shall still execute those,’ said Robert. ‘But on buildings in the marshes. And I am afraid the poor will have to manage without us. It might have been different if they had sprung to our defence when the trouble started, but they stood back and watched in delight.’

‘The cross that created such a rumpus,’ said Michael quickly, as Morys fingered the axe. ‘Did you buy it in London?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Robert scathingly. ‘My documents are forgeries. I took the thing from Hakeney solely to demonstrate how the town will always side with one of their own, regardless of the “evidence”. I also knew he would refuse to have the case judged by the Bishop – again showing the town’s disinclination to be reasonable and fair in its dealings with us.’

‘And there was Anne,’ said Michael, unable to keep the resignation from his voice. ‘She would have overlooked Segeforde’s assault, but you were there to mention compensation …’

‘Which I suspected would snag her avaricious interest,’ smirked Robert.

Michael turned to Morys. ‘Are you sure you want to go to the Fens with a man who has murdered four Zachary scholars? Who is to say that you will not be next?’

Robert laughed. ‘I did not kill them. He did.’

‘Not Irby.’ Morys’s wasplike face was bright with spiteful triumph. ‘He died of disease. And not Kellawe either. Why would I? He was one of our most fervent supporters. But Yerland and Segeforde began to have second thoughts about our scheme, so I fed them fatally large doses of sucura – one in some apple pie and the other in Lombard slices. And before you ask, yes, we know all about lead salts.’

‘But you gave them to Arnold!’ cried Michael, addressing Robert. ‘A fellow Austin!’

‘To end his suffering,’ explained Robert. ‘He was old and in pain, so why not hasten his end? It was an act of mercy, as he would have been the first to agree.’

There was a roar of angry voices on the High Street, and Robert nodded at Morys a second time to smash the boat, but Michael had another question.

‘Which of you will be Chancellor of your University in the Bogs?’ he asked contemptuously.

Robert smiled enigmatically. ‘Neither. We are followers, not leaders.’

Bartholomew frowned. Did that mean Robert was not the strategist? Then who was? Wauter? He glanced behind him uneasily, half expecting the geometrician to be standing there listening, but the priory was deserted and eerily still. The scent of rain was in the air, and a distant part of his mind wondered how long it would be before there was a downpour.

‘Our Chancellor will be a better man than Tynkell,’ said Morys with a moue of distaste. ‘What a weakling! Frightened of his mother!’

‘I know you killed Hamo, Robert,’ gabbled Michael as the axe went up again. ‘When we came here on the night of his murder, you were the only friar who was unarmed – you had no knife because you had used it to stab him. But you should have made sure he was dead – he lived to write your name under the altar. It is still there, and your brethren are looking at it as I speak.’

Robert’s reply was lost in a sudden frenzy of yells from the street, and footsteps hammered along outside – townsfolk, judging by their voices. Bobbing torches lit the night, so many that it seemed the whole of Cambridge had turned out to make mischief. Then there was a boom that sounded as though it came from the priory’s front gate.

‘Looters,’ said Morys in satisfaction. ‘Just as we expected. The last stage of our plan is about to unfold.’

The axe cracked down and water began to fountain into the little craft. With a yell of victory, Morys dropped the axe into the boat and leapt for the safety of the pier.