Death of a Scholar

Chapter 16

The streets were more uneasy than ever as Bartholomew and Michael resumed their journey to Winwick Hall. The groups of students, matriculands and townsmen were larger and more heavily armed, and Michael’s beadles had given up ordering scholars home: instead they were concentrating on trying to keep the factions apart. The wind did not help. It gusted fiercely, sending leaves, twigs and rubbish cartwheeling along the road, and people were obliged to shout to make themselves heard. Yells were misinterpreted as threats or insults, and offence was quickly taken.

‘It is like trying to control the sea,’ muttered Michael in despair. ‘Too many folk want mischief, and my beadles are too few to stop it. Perhaps Marjory Starre’s prediction about wind and death was right, Matt, and I shall be the great man for whom it blows.’

He pointed to where another surly band was preparing to advance. Head pounding with tension, Bartholomew tugged out his childbirth forceps again, although it was the appearance of members of the Michaelhouse Choir that encouraged their would-be assailants to retreat, not the sight of his weapon.

‘What will happen to Richard?’ he asked in a low voice, as they began walking again.

‘We shall let him disappear to London,’ replied Michael, ‘but if he ever shows his face here again, the University will hold him to account for what he has done.’

‘I will warn him to stay away,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Edith.’

‘She will–’ Michael stopped speaking as the Chancellor hurried up.

‘I have just had a message from John Winwick,’ Tynkell gasped. ‘He will arrive at noon.’

‘Then ride out and intercept him!’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘He cannot be here. If he sees us in such turmoil … well, suffice to say it will do us no good.’

‘I will try,’ gulped Tynkell. ‘But he is a determined man, and I am not sure I shall manage.’

‘Nor am I,’ muttered Michael, as Tynkell hurried away. ‘And for once I wish we had a Chancellor with more backbone.’ He narrowed his eyes against the wind as he squinted up the High Street. ‘Is that de Stannell? I thought he planned to spend the day cowering inside his castle. I wonder what has drawn him out.’

‘The gale has damaged the guildhall’s new roof,’ explained the deputy. ‘And I am needed to hire a ladder. Potmoor is terribly upset, as he paid for those tiles himself.’

‘Hire a ladder?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘Surely you have more important matters to attend – like preventing riots in your town?’

‘The guildhall is important,’ snapped de Stannell, annoyed by the censure. ‘And the Sheriff of Cambridge-shire and Huntingdonshire knows his duty.’

‘You are not Sheriff! Dick Tulyet still holds that post, thank God.’

‘No, he does not.’ De Stannell’s smile was gloating. ‘If you had wanted him to remain in office, Brother, you should have exerted more control over your colleagues. I am Sheriff now, and I shall never let the University rule my town like he did.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael irritably.

‘He was beheaded last night in the Tower of London.’ De Stannell’s monkey-face blazed with gleeful spite. ‘As a punishment for allowing Michaelhouse to write treasonous words about the Keeper of the Privy Seal. I heard it in Weasenham’s shop not an hour ago.’

‘And you believe it?’ Bartholomew regarded him wonderingly, amazed that a royal official should have been taken in by so far-fetched a rumour.

‘Why should I not? I warned Tulyet that his fondness for scholars would end in trouble, and I was right. He should have crushed your University, not allowed it to flourish. I shall not make the same mistake.’

‘Who told you this ridiculous story?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘Weasenham?’

‘No, Uyten from Winwick Hall,’ replied the deputy smugly. ‘And the tale is true, because the tract containing these seditious remarks is being copied by Weasenham’s scribes as I speak.’

‘You are a fool, de Stannell!’ said Michael in disgust. ‘First, how can Tulyet have been executed for something that is not yet fully in the public domain? Second, it takes a full day for news to travel between London and Cambridge, even with the fastest messengers. And third, being Sheriff of a place where such statements originate is not a capital offence. Can you not see that this is a scheme to cause trouble between us?’

‘I see nothing other than that Tulyet’s association with the University has brought about his downfall.’ De Stannell was clearly delighted by the prospect of being rid of his superior. ‘You should watch yourself, Brother. He was popular, and I imagine folk will hold any Michaelhouse scholar responsible for his fate, regardless of who actually wrote the words that lost him his head.’

Michael strode away, unwilling to waste time listening to such rubbish, and Bartholomew followed. The wind chose that moment to hurl a mat of wet leaves into de Stannell’s face, and his indignant diatribe about unmannerly scholars dissolved into splutters.

‘So Uyten strikes again,’ said Bartholomew, torn between concern and disdain. ‘We will not survive to be excommunicated at this rate – we will be attacked and destroyed long before the King and the Pope read William’s stupid ramblings.’

‘It is an outrageous story,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘No one with wits will believe it.’

‘Unfortunately, the people who itch for a riot will not care whether it is true or not. Townsmen will feel justified in rising against the University, while scholars will feel justified in taking exception to such an outlandish claim.’

‘You are right,’ gulped Michael, breaking into a trot. ‘It may well provide the spark that sets us alight. Clever Uyten! Who would have thought he had it in him?’

Bartholomew was glad when Michael dragged half a dozen beadles from their peace-keeping duties to accompany them to Winwick, anticipating an ambush at every step. They arrived to find the gates still off their hinges, and as Jekelyn had not been replaced, there was no one guarding the entrance. They entered unopposed and were astonished to find the yard deserted. In confusion they looked around, and Bartholomew noted that a buttress had collapsed. It lay in a heap, and the wind was now so strong that it sent some of the smaller pieces tumbling across the yard.

‘Uyten!’ he exclaimed, spotting a pale hand poking from under the debris, so ham-like it could belong to no one else. He raced towards it.

‘Oh, no!’ groaned Michael. ‘Yet again, we are to be deprived of answers.’

They began hauling away debris. Fortunately for Uyten, the buttress was constructed of cheap rubble masonry – nothing heavier than lumps of damp mortar and small pieces of rock. If he had not suffocated, there was a chance that he was still alive. They grazed knuckles and tore fingernails in the frantic race to dig him out. The hand began to flap as they exposed an arm and then a shoulder, and ignoring Bartholomew’s pleas for care, Michael grabbed it and hauled with all his might. Uyten came free in an explosion of dust and gravel.

‘Help me,’ the student groaned, as Bartholomew knelt to examine him. ‘Illesy … he did this.’

‘Why would he mean you harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew take a bucket of water from one of the beadles and begin to rinse the filth from Uyten’s face.

‘Because I did not go to Ely as he ordered – I could not leave Winwick when the town felt so uneasy. You had better arrest him, Brother, before he kills anyone else.’

‘How did he cause you to be buried?’ Michael’s voice was thick with doubt. ‘Did he push the buttress over?’

‘Not that I saw.’ Uyten coughed when water went in his mouth. ‘But he is Provost. There is nothing he cannot organise.’

‘So where is he?’ Michael gestured at the deserted yard. ‘In fact, where is everyone?’

‘The students have gone?’ croaked Uyten, struggling to sit up. ‘The bastards! They could have dug me out first. They have been itching to join the fun outside for hours, but I have kept them in. I want them here to greet the founder when he arrives, you see.’

‘Where is Illesy?’ demanded Michael again.

‘Gone to the guildhall with his Fellows.’ Uyten began to pat himself all over to test for injuries. ‘Probably to consort with Potmoor and put some villainous plan into action.’

‘And what about your villainous plan? Let us start with the tale that Tulyet is beheaded.’

‘Oh,’ said Uyten sheepishly. ‘That was fast. Weasenham wastes no time.’

‘How could you have done such a thing?’ asked Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Tulyet has a wife and child. How do you imagine they will feel when they hear this story?’

Uyten waved a dismissive paw. ‘Dickon will not care. The boy is a monster.’

There was a cut on one of his fingers, and as he peered worriedly at it, Bartholomew saw blisters on the palms of his hands, of the type that often appeared when some unaccustomed activity was undertaken. An activity like rowing.

‘It was you who paddled the boat up the King’s Ditch last night,’ he surmised. ‘You were not the one who collected the parcel from the tomb – that person was smaller.’

With detached fascination, he watched Uyten’s ponderous mind sort through its options: deny the charge, bluster or own up. In the end, the lad settled for a scowl.

‘You should not have left us a packet of nails. It was stupid. You have cost yourselves extra money, and another uncomfortable rumour into the bargain.’

Michael regarded him with dislike. ‘You had better cleanse your soul with a full confession, because you are bound for a very dark place indeed. That head wound looks nasty. Does it hurt?’

Alarm flashed in Uyten’s eyes as he raised a hand to his temple and it came away stained with blood. He gulped audibly. ‘Confession? You mean I am dying?’

‘It is time to make amends,’ said Michael. ‘But quickly. Time is short.’

The colour drained from Uyten’s face, leaving him so white that Bartholomew was almost moved to pity. ‘I did not mean to embark on such wicked business. I swear it!’

‘Start with Fulbut,’ ordered Michael. ‘And do not think of lying, because we already know the truth. Jekelyn told us everything.’

‘Oh, Lord, did he? I knew he could not be trusted. He is a slippery–’

‘You hired Fulbut to shoot my Junior Proctor,’ interrupted Michael. ‘But when he reneged on the agreement to leave Cambridge, you sent Jekelyn to murder him, lest he broke his silence.’

‘Yes, but the orders came from Illesy. He does not have the courage to deal with me face to face, so he writes notes and gets poor blind Bon to deliver them. Bon thinks they are reading lists and lecture notes. Illesy does not work alone, though. He has help from the Guild.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Holm?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ gabbled Uyten, desperate to ingratiate. ‘Along with others. Richard Stanmore is easy to manipulate – a few careful words and he leapt at the chance to cause trouble. He thinks the town corrupted his father, although from what I understand, it was the other way around.’

‘How will having the town in flames benefit anyone?’ asked Michael, shooting Bartholomew a warning glance to prevent him from diverting the discussion by responding.

‘Simple – if the other Colleges are destroyed or weakened, Winwick can expand unfettered.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew, seeing serious flaws in the plan.

‘Our founder wants it to be the biggest and best College in the country – a school of law founded by a lawyer, training men to rise to great power and influence. Illesy has a remit to do whatever is necessary to achieve it. He has been recruiting wealthy students as fast as he can, and he hates the fact that the Guild holds the purse strings. Please believe none of this is my fault.’

Bartholomew regarded him sceptically. ‘And what do you gain from all this?’

‘The founder promised to make me a prefect next year, and possibly even a Fellow.’ Uyten’s expression was bitter. ‘Then my family would have to acknowledge that I am no dunce.’

‘Oh, but I am afraid you are.’ Michael stood abruptly, and beckoned to his beadles. ‘He has told us all he knows. Take him away.’

Uyten gaped at him. ‘Take me away? But you cannot cart a dying man around!’

‘You are not dying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, you are barely hurt at all. It will take more than a bit of rubble to make an end of a brawny lad like you.’

‘You mean you tricked me?’ cried Uyten, as the beadles pulled him to his feet. ‘I am not destined for Hell after all?’

‘I imagine you are – just not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘When I said you were bound for a dark place, I was referring to the proctors’ gaol. Did you misunderstand? How unfortunate.’

‘Nothing I said will stand in a court of law,’ shouted Uyten desperately. ‘My “confession” was obtained by deception. You made me think I was dying, and promised absolution!’

‘I promised nothing,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You were complicit in killing my Junior Proctor, and I could never pardon you for that.’ He looked around him. ‘But Illesy and his Fellows are reckless to have gone out today. What will happen to their College while you are in gaol and all the other students have disappeared to cause mischief?’

‘You cannot let any harm befall Winwick just because Illesy is an incompetent villain!’ cried Uyten, distressed. ‘Let me go, Brother. I will stay here and protect it. Please! Our founder will be broken-hearted if his College is damaged.’

‘You should have thought of that before embarking on this wild plan,’ said Michael, indicating that his beadles were to haul the lad away. Uyten howled and writhed furiously, and they were hard-pressed to subdue him. Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘We need to find Illesy – fast.’

‘We do, but Uyten is right: his testimony and Jekelyn’s will not convict someone who has made his living by outmanoeuvring the legal system. Unless you want Illesy to walk free, we need a more credible witness to stand against him. Such as one of his accomplices from the Guild.’

‘Do you have anyone particular in mind?’

‘Holm. He will turn King’s evidence to save his own neck.’

‘Why am I not surprised that you should choose him?’ muttered Michael.

The two scholars aimed for the surgeon’s house. It was difficult to keep their hoods up in the gusting wind, and whenever they blew back to reveal their faces, people glared. Bartholomew was grateful for the two beadles at their side, although he wished there were more. It had required three of them to drag a frantically struggling Uyten to the gaol, while another had been needed to inform Meadowman and his patrols of what was afoot.

‘We are going to be lynched,’ he muttered. ‘People are angry about Dick Tulyet.’

‘Not everyone.’ Michael was puffing hard at the rapid pace the physician was setting. ‘Isnard is waving a friendly greeting, and so is Ylaria Verius.’

It was a small ray of hope in an otherwise bleak situation.

‘Illesy,’ said Bartholomew, flinching when the wind ripped a tile from a roof and it smashed on the ground nearby. ‘I suppose we should have guessed.’

‘Yes,’ panted Michael. ‘Founding a new College is expensive, and he will need all the funds he can get. John Winwick and the Guild have been generous, but more will always be required. He blackmailed us for money, and I cannot help but wonder whether he persuaded his friend Potmoor to use his talent for theft – that the proceeds from all these burglaries are in Winwick’s coffers.’

‘Not all, Brother. Verius and Fulbut were responsible for some. And Illesy certainly would not have ordered Fulbut to commit crimes in the town – he wanted him dead or vanished, lest he was caught and decided to talk.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. He sighed bitterly. ‘If we had not gone to Peterborough, none of this would have happened. I could have slowed everything down, thus allowing time for Winwick Hall’s money to be raised legitimately.’

‘You might have tried, but Felbrigge was shot when he attempted to introduce measures to curb its progress, and–’

He stopped when he saw Julitta, serene and beautiful in a pale blue dress and cream cloak. Knowing he would be unable to lie convincingly if she asked where he was going, he attempted to sidle past her, but she grabbed his hand and brought him to a standstill. Michael, wheezing and grateful for the respite, staggered to a halt beside them.

‘You two should not be out today,’ she chided, her lovely face creased with concern. ‘Not with all these silly tales about Sheriff Tulyet. I ordered Weasenham to desist, but it was too late. Go back to Michaelhouse and stay there until the town has something else to gossip about.’

‘Is your husband home?’ asked Michael, to prevent time being lost on a wasted journey.

‘Yes, with Hugo,’ replied Julitta. ‘They are discussing–’

‘Please excuse us,’ said the monk, beginning to trot again. ‘We are in a hurry.’

But he was still winded, so it was easy for Julitta to keep pace. At first he refused to say what was afoot, but she was a determined lady, and soon had the whole sorry story out of him.

‘Will has his failings, but he would never condone poisoning,’ she stated firmly. ‘Or setting churches alight. You are mistaken.’

‘Illesy is the mastermind behind all this trouble,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A man with sinister connections to Potmoor. And your husband spends a lot of time with Potmoor’s son…’

Julitta glared angrily at him. ‘And you think Will’s friendship with Hugo means he is part of this nasty affair? Well, you are wrong. He is not a brave man, no matter what impression he tries to give, and would never have the nerve to throw in his lot with poisoners and arsonists.’

‘Uyten said otherwise,’ rasped Michael, while Bartholomew thought Julitta’s defence was a poor indictment of Holm’s character – that she thought him innocent only because she considered him too cowardly for anything so daring as breaking the law.

‘Uyten is a ruffian,’ said Julitta tightly. ‘How can you believe anything he says? Will would never harm the town or the University.’

‘Yes, he would,’ countered Michael. ‘He hates scholars, because Matt and you…’

‘Are friends,’ finished Julitta. ‘Yes, he does not like the situation, but he is not so low as to wreak revenge by embroiling himself in a plot to murder people. However, I have never liked his association with Hugo, and I rue the day that Lawrence introduced them to each other.’

‘Lawrence did?’

‘He is not only Potmoor’s personal physician, but his confidant and adviser. Potmoor and Illesy do nothing without his blessing.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Lawrence is not involved.’

Julitta shot him an irritable, exasperated glance. ‘I know this is difficult, Matt, but look at the evidence. Lawrence says he wants to dedicate his evening years to teaching, but it is rumoured that his incompetence killed Queen Isabella–’

‘So what? Even if the tale is true, it does not make him a criminal.’

‘No, but it makes him a liar. And while he pretends to be kindly and amiable to his fellow medici, he steals their best patients behind their backs – just ask Meryfeld and Rougham. He has probably taken yours, too, but you are too busy to notice. Moreover, I have not forgotten that he quarrelled with Hemmysby. Did you ask him about that?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He denied it.’

‘Well, there you are, then! More proof that he is not a truthful man. He is almost certainly Illesy’s helpmeet in whatever is unfolding.’

‘He probably just enjoys teaching,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘Like me.’

But Michael agreed with Julitta. ‘Men do not give up lucrative posts for no reason, and I have always been suspicious of Lawrence. I strongly suspect that he did fail the old Queen, and aims to worm his way back into royal favour by making a success of Winwick.’

Bartholomew looked from one to the other, unwilling to concede they might be right. ‘We still need to talk to Holm,’ was all he said, then broke into a run that had them both scrambling to keep up.

It did not take long to reach the surgeon’s elegant house on Bridge Street, and Julitta led the way into the cosy parlour where she and Bartholomew had spent so many enjoyable evenings while her husband was out. Holm and Hugo were standing on either side of the hearth, and it was clear that a disagreement was in progress.

‘We have very little time and a lot of questions,’ began Michael, too breathless from the rapid dash to provide explanations. ‘If you cooperate, I shall see what can be done to save you.’

‘Save us from what?’ Holm glanced uneasily at the two beadles who stood in the doorway. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’

‘Except peddle false cures,’ growled Hugo. He wore a sword, and Bartholomew was suddenly seized with the conviction that the situation was going to turn ugly.

‘Leave, Julitta,’ he said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Find somewhere safe to wait while–’

‘They are not false,’ snapped Holm. ‘You just did not follow the instructions properly.’

‘Lawrence says my gums might never recover from your stupid tooth-whitener,’ snarled Hugo. ‘And your remedy for gout made my grandmother worse. You are a fraud!’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Julitta indignantly, pulling away from Bartholomew, who was trying to manoeuvre her towards the door. ‘No one forced you to take Will’s medicines, Hugo.’

‘See?’ sneered Holm. ‘You only have yourself to blame. It–’

The end of his sentence dissolved into a squeal of alarm when Hugo whipped out his blade. The beadles surged forward to prevent a skewering, and there followed a vicious exchange of blows. Michael snatched up a poker and waded into the affray, while Bartholomew hauled out his trusty forceps, shouting again for Julitta to leave. He had taken no more than a step forward when Holm moved. The surgeon had a dagger, and Bartholomew only just managed to avoid the swipe intended to disembowel him. Holm prepared to strike again, but the physician was quicker. He lunged with his forceps and knocked Holm to his knees.

Julitta released a horrified cry and darted forward to place herself between them, and it was sheer bad luck that the punch Bartholomew aimed at Holm struck her instead. She slumped to the floor, and while he gaped in stunned disbelief, Holm attacked again. Bartholomew raised the forceps so the killing blow was deflected, but he was off balance, and a well-aimed kick drove him headfirst into a pile of cushions.

By the time he had fought his way free of their pillowy softness, Hugo had been defeated by the beadles, Michael had Holm pinned against a wall with the poker, and Julitta lay where she had fallen. Stomach churning, he scrambled to her side. There was a cut on her nose, and she would have a black eye. He burned with shame: he had not only struck a woman, but one he loved. And at that moment he knew he would marry her as soon as her union with Holm was dissolved. Matilde was a distant dream, but Julitta was real, and he had learned to his cost the price of dallying. He hovered over her anxiously, willing her to open her eyes.

‘Will she live?’ asked Holm. When Bartholomew nodded, the surgeon smiled; it was not a nice expression. ‘Good. I am fond of her, although she should not have forced me to befriend Hugo so we could learn his father’s plans. It worked, of course. Hugo told me everything.’

‘What are you saying, you bastard?’ snarled Hugo, struggling furiously in his captors’ grip.

He might have broken loose, but rescue came in the form of Cynric, who appeared suddenly in the doorway. The book-bearer dealt Hugo a sharp tap on the head, which was enough to daze him without knocking him completely insensible. Michael indicated that the beadles were to drag him away before he regained his senses. Bartholomew saw none of it: all his attention was on Julitta. Cynric started to speak, but Holm cut across him.

‘You think Potmoor is the culprit,’ he crowed, ‘which is exactly what we intended. You are fools to have fallen for it.’

‘We fell for nothing,’ lied Michael. ‘We have known all along that the real villain is Illesy.’

‘Illesy?’ blurted Holm in unfeigned surprise. ‘He gave Julitta orders?’

‘I want the truth about this unsavoury affair,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Not malicious lies or a shameful attempt to place the blame on your unconscious spouse.’

‘It is the truth. Julitta was told what to do – by Illesy, if you can be believed – and she told me. I had to obey, or she would have made life unbearable for me. She found a loophole in her father’s will, you see, which means she controls our finances. Bartholomew should not have taught her how to read.’

‘You never loved her,’ snapped Bartholomew, goaded into responding. ‘You married her for money and now you are trying to implicate her in a crime, just to be rid of her. You are despicable!’

Holm sneered. ‘You think you know her, but you do not. She is more devious than any man alive – she takes after her sire in that respect. And do not think to have me hanged so that you can marry her instead. She would never allow it. You do not have a glittering future like I do.’

‘Enough!’ Bartholomew spoke so sharply that Julitta stirred. Cynric tried again to intervene, but Holm overrode him a second time.

‘She is not the generous soul you think. It was she who arranged for the beggars’ alms to go to Winwick Hall. And when I treat patients who fail to pay, she hires louts like Hugo, Fulbut and Verius to take my fees by force.’

‘We are more interested in your role in this affair,’ said Michael quickly, when Bartholomew came to his feet with a dangerous expression on his face. ‘The murders of Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Ratclyf, Knyt and Hemmysby; the burglaries; the attempt to blackmail–’

‘I know nothing of murder.’ Holm giggled in a manner calculated to aggravate. ‘However, it was a delight to watch Michaelhouse squirm over William’s tract. Langelee thought he could end it with ten marks. What an ass! Now the price is a hundred. However will you pay?’

‘You are involved in that, too?’ Bartholomew’s voice dripped disgust. ‘I might have known!’

‘You will be excommunicated when the essay appears in full, and will have to leave Cambridge. Your sister will miss you, especially as her loathsome son is in the process of slinking back to London. Would you like me to look after her for you?’

Bartholomew was gripped by a rage so intense that he barely heard Michael’s sharp words of caution about not letting himself be provoked. He took three or four steps towards the surgeon, but Cynric blocked his path.

‘Pummel him later, boy.’ The book-bearer turned to Michael, his voice urgent. ‘I came to tell you that there are two separate mobs on the rampage, Brother. The first is a mixture of matriculands and scholars from Winwick–’

‘No surprise there,’ interrupted Michael. ‘They are men brought here for that very purpose.’

‘They claim they are appalled by the University’s corruption and arrogance, and want to make an end of its evil ways.’

‘So that is how Illesy plans to be rid of his rivals,’ surmised Michael, ignoring Holm’s shrill giggle of triumph. ‘And the second mob? Who has joined that?’

‘A lot of troublemakers from the other Colleges, along with a smattering of fractious townsmen. They say Winwick is an upstart foundation and intend to teach it a lesson. I do not think I have ever seen an angrier horde.’

‘It sounds too deadly to stop,’ gloated Holm. ‘The University will be destroyed. What a pity!’

‘Lock this creature in the cellar,’ ordered Michael, but Cynric had hurried away the moment he had finished delivering his message, so the monk bundled Holm into the basement himself. Outraged howls drifted out.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew’s feelings were in turmoil. Julitta was not seriously hurt, but he was appalled by what he had done. Part of him blamed Holm, and he was sorry that Cynric had prevented him from battering the smug face to a pulp. He glanced up as the book-bearer reappeared, ushering Edith in front of him.

‘I saw her go past, so I fetched her back,’ Cynric explained. ‘She can look after Julitta, while we disband these two rabbles before they do serious damage.’

‘I will stay with Julitta, Matt,’ promised Edith. ‘You must help Michael before it is too late.’

‘I am not going anywhere as long as she is insensible,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘She may need me when she wakes.’

But at that moment, Julitta’s eyes fluttered open and she started to sit up.

‘Did you hit me?’ she asked, wincing as he eased her back down. ‘Where is Will?’

‘You see?’ said Edith. ‘She needs a kindly nurse, not a physician. Now go.’

Bartholomew was not happy about abandoning two people he loved when the town was on the verge of a serious disturbance, but Michael insisted that he could not manage alone, and when Julitta assured him that she did not need his protection, he was forced to relent. He glanced back at her before he left, hating leaving her.

Outside, the air rang with angry voices, and he could hear the clash of arms from at least two directions. All the shops were closed, their doors and windows barred against invaders. Anxious faces peered from the upper floors, and the acrid reek of smoke told of some building that was aflame. The wind was now a gale, ripping twigs and small branches from flailing trees. It blew so hard that it set the bells in St Clement’s swinging, sounding an eerily discordant alarm for the brewing turmoil.

‘I hope Tynkell manages to stop John Winwick from coming,’ gasped Michael as they ran. ‘He must not see us like this – especially as the last time he was here, my Junior Proctor was shot. He will think we spend all our time in a state of constant turmoil!’

‘But this turmoil is his fault,’ hissed Cynric. ‘Him and his upstart foundation.’

He shoved the two scholars off the road and into an alley, and moments later a vast body of men thundered past. They were the matriculands and Winwick students. Michael blurted an oath, appalled by the size of the multitude that had been mustered.

‘And that is not all of them,’ cautioned Cynric when they had gone. ‘They have another group laying siege to Bene’t College.’

They continued on their way, buffeted by the wind and the occasional rock lobbed by those who recognised the Senior Proctor’s distinctive bulk – it was not easy to disguise so princely a figure in its flowing Benedictine habit, even with the cowl drawn up to hide his face.

‘What will happen, Brother?’ called Warden Shropham from the top of the King’s Hall gatehouse. ‘There is talk of a mob coming to attack us.’

Michael skidded to a standstill. ‘One might, so keep your lads inside until further notice.’

‘I am afraid most are already out,’ said Shropham apologetically. ‘Aiming to teach Winwick a lesson. Do you want the rest of us go and look for them?’

‘No!’ Michael was alarmed at the notion of yet more angry scholars on the streets, sure the ineffectual Shropham would be unequal to keeping them in order. ‘Stay where you are.’

Bartholomew began sprinting again. He was so tense that his head throbbed, and he felt cloudy-witted. Or perhaps it was fear for Julitta and Edith that prevented him from concentrating on the mass of facts he had accumulated. He knew he had learned enough to answer some of the questions that had plagued him that week, but he was wholly unable to apply his mind to the task.

A sudden roar from outside Gonville Hall made him stop to look. An enormous crowd had gathered, and he recognised several Winwick students. They were hurling stones and howling abuse. Rougham appeared in the gatehouse window and the clamour slowly died away.

‘Go away,’ the medicus ordered imperiously, his voice shrill above the wind. ‘Because if so much as a single tile of ours is damaged, Winwick Hall will pay the bill.’

There was a furious bellow at this, and another barrage of missiles was loosed. Fortunately for the defenders, Gonville, like all Colleges, had been built to withstand such onslaughts. Some of the besiegers had swords, and most had cudgels and knives, but as long as the gates held, there was little such weapons could do. If one gave way, however, the slaughter would be terrible.

‘Come away, Matt,’ hissed Michael. ‘I would intervene if I had my beadles, but I am not such a lunatic as to try it alone.’

It was not far to Winwick Hall, and they arrived to find it much as it had been left. A solitary beadle – a squat, dim-witted fellow named Giles – was on guard outside, while the doors still leaned uselessly against the wall. He almost wept with relief when he saw Michael.

‘I think a mob is about to descend on us, Brother! A lot of College men and townsfolk are in the Market Square, listening to rousing speeches. The College men are fools! They should be securing their own foundations, not attacking this place.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘They–’

‘I told Provost Illesy about the danger,’ Giles gabbled on. ‘But he does not believe me. He says no one will dare assault Winwick, and–’

‘Where is he?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Inside?’

Giles nodded. ‘With Potmoor.’ He said no more, but the expression on his face made it clear that he disapproved of anyone in the University associating with such a man.

‘Who else is in?’ demanded Michael. ‘Or are they alone?’

‘He is with his three Fellows and half a dozen students. The rest are off assaulting Gonville, and they plan to march on King’s Hall afterwards. Michaelhouse is safe, though, because the choir is guarding it. They know where their free bread and ale comes from.’

‘At least they are good for something then,’ muttered Cynric.

‘Come inside and shut the gates,’ instructed Michael. ‘With luck, the mob will lose interest when they see they cannot get in.’

‘I wish I could, Brother, but the doors are off their hinges.’

‘Then we shall lift them into place.’ Michael indicated that Bartholomew and Cynric were to help. ‘It may be enough of a deterrent, although obviously a good shove would see them topple.’

‘Then let us hope no one shoves,’ grunted Giles, as he lent his strength to the task. It was quickly done, although the wind was strong enough to make them sway precariously.

‘If we can squeeze a confession from Illesy, we may yet avert a crisis,’ said Michael. ‘I shall order him to make a public apology, which might take the wind out of the College men’s sails.’

‘But what if they meet the other horde?’ asked Cynric worriedly. ‘The Winwick lads?’

‘One thing at a time,’ said Michael.

When six indignant students raced from the hall, demanding to know why the Senior Proctor was meddling with their property, Michael ordered them to build a barricade to shore up the gates. He started to stride to the parlura to confront Illesy, but the Provost saved him the trouble.

‘What are you doing here, Brother?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you–’

‘I am trying to save your College,’ snarled Michael. ‘Although God knows it does not deserve it. And you have a lot of explaining to do. Where is Potmoor?’

‘Potmoor? How should I know where he–’

‘Enough!’ snapped Michael, as a vengeful cheer from the Market Square indicated that the speakers had almost inflamed their listeners to the point where they would be ready to march. ‘This is no time for lies. Where is he? In the Provost’s Suite?’

He stalked towards the rooms in question without waiting for a reply, leaving Illesy too startled to stop him. Bartholomew followed, his nerves jangling with tension. He entered the building full of disquiet, then gaped in astonishment as he looked around.

Illesy’s quarters belied their grand name, and were poor and mean, their furnishings shabbier than anything at Michaelhouse. There were no books on the shelves, and the floor was bereft of rugs. The bed was old, and there did not seem to be enough blankets. No fire was lit in the hearth, and the only personal items were a bronze statue and a ceramic bowl.

‘Now you know why we always entertain in the parlura,’ said Illesy sourly. His habitual oiliness had been replaced by a dark, sullen resentment. ‘We do not want outsiders to know that we are not yet as wealthy as we would have everyone believe. It was a scramble to deceive you when you came to help Ratclyf.’

Michael gestured to the ornaments. ‘These were in his room…’

‘Potmoor lent them to us. We deploy them when they are needed to impress, although we keep people away from our private rooms if we can.’

‘But you have plenty of money,’ objected Michael, although Bartholomew chafed at the discussion. ‘A beautiful new hall, the promise of churches and manors in your endowment–’

‘Precisely,’ snapped Illesy. ‘The promise of churches and manors. We do not have them yet, and we need money now. The student fees we have collected do not cover all our bills – builders, carpenters, tilers, bakers, brewers, the stationer. Then there is the staff needed to run the place. Why do you think I have not replaced Jekelyn?’

‘But your fine new livery.’ Michael looked pointedly at Illesy’s hands. ‘Your rings.’

‘Potmoor’s. He also bought the Fellows’ clothes; the students are rich, so they purchase their own. We know how these things work, Brother. One whiff of weakness and the other Colleges will home in on us like jackals. They will use our fleeting moment of poverty as a stick with which to beat us, and we might never recover our rightful status as premier foundation.’

Michael blinked his surprise. ‘So Winwick Hall is destitute?’

‘No, we have a temporary problem with our cash flow,’ corrected Illesy stiffly. He grimaced. ‘It is because we came so rapidly into being. John Winwick should have ensured that our endowment was in force before raising buildings and opening our doors to pupils.’

‘But you provided lavish refreshments after the debate and Hemmysby’s funeral–’

‘The Guild of Saints helped with the debate, while Potmoor paid for Hemmysby. It was all a ruse, to maintain the illusion of affluence.’ Illesy’s voice was bitter. ‘You will not understand the necessity, of course.’

‘No,’ lied Michael. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh, stunned. Then he caught Bartholomew’s agitated expression. ‘But fascinating though this is, it is not why I am here. I ask again: where is Potmoor?’

For a moment, it seemed that Illesy would deny entertaining the felon, but then he shrugged, and led the way to the hall. As they walked, Bartholomew glanced across the blustery yard and saw with alarm that the students’ barricade was perilously top-heavy. Cynric thought so, too: he made a frustrated gesture to say that he had said as much, but had been overruled.

‘Potmoor has been good to us,’ Illesy was saying. ‘He not only made donations from his own purse, but he has encouraged the Guild to be generous as well. He and Julitta Holm. I do not know what we would have done without them.’

‘Yet some of your Fellows object to their College’s association with a criminal,’ remarked Michael.

‘Because none of them knew how heavily we rely on his largesse. Until today, that is, when I felt compelled to tell them.’ Illesy gave a rueful grimace. ‘Even in an enlightened establishment like a university, there are those who refuse to believe that malefactors can reform. My Fellows were among them, although I hope we have rectified that misapprehension now.’

‘Why today?’ demanded Michael.

‘A few disparaging remarks against Potmoor are not a problem – it reduces the chances of anyone guessing that he is a major benefactor. However, Bon in particular is a little too censorious, and Potmoor finally had enough. He understands that we cannot risk an open association, but he does not like being continuously insulted by those he is trying to help. But my Fellows know the truth now, so I hope we can strike some sort of balance.’

He opened the parlura door to reveal the felon sitting at the table with Lawrence. The account books were open and the elderly physician had been reading them aloud – for the benefit of Bon, who was by the window, head cocked as he tried to gauge what was happening outside; and for Potmoor who, like most townsfolk whose occupations were manual, was illiterate. Deputy de Stannell was there, too, hovering at Potmoor’s side as usual, while Eyer was by the hearth, mixing another poultice for Bon’s eyes. Nerli was reading in a corner, brooding and baleful.

‘What is happening?’ demanded Bon, when he heard his Provost’s voice. ‘All is not well. I can hear horrible sounds.’

‘We are about to be besieged,’ replied Illesy shortly. ‘Our lads are raising a barrier to repel the villains who dare set angry eyes on our property.’

Before he had finished speaking, there was a furious clamour of voices from the Market Square, followed by the sound of marching feet. The attackers were on their way.