Death of a Scholar

Chapter 17

There was a stunned silence in the parlura, then de Stannell raced to the window and peered out. Eyer’s hands flew to his mouth in horror, Lawrence looked frightened, Nerli seemed surprised, and Bon’s face flushed with indignation. Only Potmoor remained unmoved, giving the impression that he rather relished the prospect of violence.

‘Who?’ shouted Bon furiously. ‘Who dares assault us? Do they not know that our founder will be here at any moment? Order them to disperse, Brother. You are Senior Proctor, are you not? Use the authority vested in you.’

‘It is too late.’ Michael rounded on Illesy and Potmoor. ‘Your ostentatious College has done great harm, but not nearly as much as the crimes you have committed – murder and theft.’

‘Not me,’ declared Potmoor, his small eyes glittering. ‘God would not approve of his beloved breaking the law, so I have abstained from wrongdoing since my resurrection.’

‘You have done nothing of the kind,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You have been out a-burgling virtually every night, as your lack of alibis attests.’ He glared at Illesy. ‘And I mean reliable alibis, not ones brazenly fabricated by your lawyer or the ludicrous claim that you were praying.’

‘I have alibis,’ flashed Potmoor, nettled. ‘Just not ones I am prepared to use.’

‘Olivia Knyt,’ blurted Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘Of course!’

‘Leave her out of it,’ snapped Potmoor angrily. ‘I will not have her name sullied. Or Knyt’s. He was a good man, although as dull as ditchwater. Lord! My head pounds! Sometimes I wonder whether my glimpse of Heaven was worth this agony. Give me more tonic, Lawrence.’

‘And you need not pretend to be bewildered either,’ snarled Michael, rounding on the elderly physician. ‘I know your close friend Potmoor does nothing without your blessing.’

Both men regarded him askance, and when Potmoor spoke he sounded amused. ‘I have every respect for my medicus, but why would I need his blessing when I have the Almighty’s?’

‘And I neither sanction nor condemn what my patients do in their spare time,’ added Lawrence. ‘Whatever gave you the notion that I might?’

‘Because you have lied,’ Michael forged on. ‘You deny that you argued with Hemmysby the night before he died, but witnesses say you did.’

‘Then they are mistaken,’ objected Lawrence. ‘I have never–’

‘And I do not believe that you came here because you love teaching,’ interrupted Michael.

Lawrence groaned. ‘Do not tell me that you credit the tale about me killing the old Queen! You should know better, especially if you have heard the one about Sheriff Tulyet’s execution. They are malicious falsehoods, Brother, designed to damage the innocent and cause trouble.’

‘That barricade is not going to hold!’ shouted Nerli urgently. ‘Everyone, come with me to shore it up! No, not you, Bon. You will be in the way.’

‘Stop,’ snapped Michael, as Lawrence hastened to oblige. ‘I have not finished with you.’

‘Later, Brother,’ ordered Nerli. ‘When we are not under siege.’

‘He means when outsiders are not here to hear Winwick’s crimes unveiled,’ muttered Michael, as Lawrence, de Stannell and Eyer raced away on Nerli’s heels, Lawrence with obvious relief. Bon fluttered uncertainly, but Potmoor and Illesy stayed put, clearly of the opinion that they were too grand to sully their hands with menial tasks. The monk rounded on the Provost again. ‘Why did you send Uyten to Ely last night?’

‘To buy parchment. It is cheaper there, and every penny counts, as you have just forced me to confess. Unfortunately, he disobeyed me, and did not go.’

‘I tackled him about that,’ added Potmoor. ‘He said he wanted to be on hand to monitor Lawrence, whom he believes is a poisoner. I could not tell if he was lying.’

‘Is Lawrence the villain, Brother?’ asked Illesy, his voice suddenly tired and plaintive. ‘If so, you cannot imagine the damage it will do us. Wealthy and powerful men will not send their sons to a foundation where they think they might be murdered by its Fellows.’

‘There is no evidence to accuse him,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly.

‘Actually, there is a great deal,’ countered Michael. His voice became urgent as a crash from the High Street indicated that time was running out. ‘If you two have any love for this place, you will confess to your misdeeds before this mob destroys it. An apology might avert a disaster, although it will have to be a remarkably abject one, or–’

‘What misdeeds?’ interrupted Potmoor indignantly. ‘I have just told you that I have not committed any since God showed me His face.’

‘You and Illesy ordered my Junior Proctor shot–’

‘What?’ cried Illesy, shocked. ‘Why would we do such a thing?’

‘Because he aimed to control you, and instigated measures to do it. You disapproved.’

‘Well, yes, I did,’ conceded Illesy. ‘But I am lawyer enough to circumvent whatever he had put in place. I kept a violent crim– Potmoor free for twenty years. I am good at legal loopholes.’

‘Then there was Elvesmere.’ Michael spoke more quickly when the mob reached the gates and began to pound on them. The frail barrier wobbled. ‘Who died here the evening Potmoor visited, although Potmoor lied about it until we produced witnesses.’

Potmoor shrugged. ‘It was none of your business, and I was only here briefly anyway – Illesy took my donation of ten marks, and saw me out. However, I did not kill Elvesmere. Why would I? I barely knew the man.’

‘And I did not do it, either,’ said Illesy. ‘Do you hear me, Bon? I can see you shooting me nasty glances. I did not like Elvesmere, but he was a gifted teacher, and like any responsible Head of House, I am able to set the good of my College above personal preferences.’

‘And Ratclyf?’ asked Michael.

‘He was nervous and uneasy after Elvesmere died,’ replied Illesy. ‘And it stressed his weak heart, no matter what you say about blue lips and poison.’

‘I miss Elvesmere.’ Bon’s voice was accusing, and it was clear that he was not convinced by the explanations. Bartholomew was beginning to be, though, and a quick glance told him that so was Michael. ‘He was my closest friend.’

‘Do not say we conspired to poison Hemmysby and Knyt either,’ Illesy went on. ‘Hemmysby was a nobody, not worth the bother, and we liked the way Knyt ran the Guild.’

‘Moreover, Olivia wanted her baby to carry his name, not mine.’ Potmoor shrugged and looked away. ‘She is right. Hugo suffers cruelly from his kinship with me, and my unborn child deserves better, much as it pains me to say it.’

‘But you mentioned professional killers and spillages of blood,’ pressed Michael, looking from one to the other sceptically. ‘You were overheard in All Saints churchyard.’

Potmoor and Illesy exchanged a mystified glance, then Potmoor released a bark of laughter. ‘We were talking about the pig we slaughtered for today’s feast – John Winwick likes pork. It was nothing to do with dispatching people. We met secretly, so that no one would guess the depth of my involvement with Winwick Hall.’

‘We should have hired a butcher to deal with the pig,’ added Illesy, ‘but I wanted to save money, so Nerli did it. Unfortunately, his inexperience resulted in a terrible mess…’

‘Then what about the St Clement’s fire?’ pressed Michael, but the conviction had gone from his voice and he sounded defeated. ‘Heyford was vocal against your College…’

‘Terribly,’ agreed Illesy. ‘And it was gratifying to see his domain in flames. But arson is not in our interests. Donations were given for its repair that might have come to us.’

‘But you were angry with him for his slanderous sermons. And after the fire, he annoyed you with his tale about stealing from the royal coffers.’

‘Of course I was annoyed,’ said Illesy irritably. ‘It was low to gossip about another man’s youthful indiscretions. However, he will not do it again. He will be “offered” a new parish today – in the Fens, where his poisonous sermons can do no harm. Effective immediately.’

‘Offered by whom?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was hardly fair that Heyford should be banished, as the tale about Illesy’s dishonesty was apparently true.

‘John Winwick, who is friends with the Bishop. But it proves my innocence – I would not have bothered to find Heyford a new home if I intended to solve the problem with murder.’

‘Is this your writing?’ Michael picked up the accounts book from the table. Illesy nodded, and the monk sighed as he turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is a different hand from the blackmail notes, and Potmoor is illiterate. They are not the extortionists. Uyten misled us, and so did Richard.’

‘Richard Stanmore?’ asked Illesy, looking from one to the other. ‘I would love to snag him as a benefactor. He wants to be a Fellow, so we shall charge him handsomely for the privilege.’

‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, when Illesy and Potmoor went to look out of the window. ‘They are not our culprits and we have wasted valuable time proving it. Now it is too late to avert trouble.’

A thundering crash as the barricade toppled suggested that he was right.

Bartholomew watched helplessly as baying College men and townsfolk began to swarm across the fallen barrier. De Stannell, who should have been leading the effort to drive them back, promptly turned and bolted for the sanctuary of the hall, so it was Cynric and Nerli who bore the brunt of the invaders’ charge. Lawrence and Eyer tried to help by jabbing with sticks, but it was a battle they could not win, given the attackers’ superiority of numbers. Bartholomew leaned out of the window, unwilling to watch them die for a lost cause.

‘Fall back!’ he yelled, struggling to make himself heard over the wind. ‘To the hall.’

Nerli and Cynric stood shoulder to shoulder, repelling the attackers with their swords until the others had staggered to safety, then turned and fled themselves. They reached the hall, and there came the sound of the door being slammed shut and a bar being slotted into place across it.

‘Such rough treatment!’ cried Illesy in alarm. ‘I am not sure the building can take it. A buttress fell today…’

‘Uyten claims you arranged for it to collapse on him,’ said Michael, although he spoke distantly, as the answer no longer mattered.

‘On the contrary, I warned everyone against going too close,’ objected Illesy indignantly.

‘It sounds to me as if Uyten and Richard have made some very unpleasant accusations,’ mused Potmoor, his small eyes hard and cold. ‘But we shall discuss them later, when we do not have a fight on our hands. Everyone upstairs to the main hall. It will be easier to defend.’

They followed him up the steps, and by the time they arrived, the yard had filled with rioters. Michael flung open a window and yelled an order for them to disperse. The wind tore away his words, but the mob would not have obeyed anyway. Most were inveterate troublemakers, who liked nothing more than an opportunity to go on the rampage, and where better than a foundation they all hated? They surged towards the door with the clear intention of forcing their way in.

‘It will not hold for long,’ predicted Nerli grimly. He turned to Cynric, instinctively recognising a fellow warrior, thus telling Bartholomew that the Florentine had lied about being a scholar all his life. ‘Cynric, go to the dormitory, and start organising something that will make them think twice about using a battering ram. I will try to brace it with another bench.’

Bartholomew followed the book-bearer to the top floor, where the wind was shaking the tiles on the roof, making a tremendous clatter. The students, Eyer, Lawrence and Beadle Giles were peering out of the windows in horror at the scene below. Cynric quickly set them to filling basins, buckets and jugs with water from the washing butt. Bartholomew raced back down to the hall and, not caring that he was overstepping his authority, ordered everyone upstairs to help. De Stannell opened his mouth to object, but Potmoor muttered something about it being wise to obey a veteran of Poitiers, and led the way. Only Bon remained, on his knees at the far end of the room, praying fervently that any damage would be repaired before the founder arrived.

‘We are not deprived of all our suspects,’ said Michael, speaking in a low voice so as not to disturb him. ‘We still have the falsely smiling Lawrence and the sinister Nerli, who is rather too competent a military strategist for my liking. And he was the one who insisted on a hasty burial for our murder victims.’

Below, the mob clustered around the door as they debated how best to break it down. They scattered angrily when water was hurled down on them, and several prepared to lob missiles of their own. Then someone jabbed an indignant finger to where some of their number were disappearing inside the Fellows’ quarters.

‘They are going to loot without us!’

There was a furious howl, and everyone piled after them. The respite would not last long – they would return with renewed vigour when they found there was nothing to steal.

‘The culprit is de Stannell,’ said Bartholomew in the eerie silence that followed. ‘It explains why he is always with Potmoor, grovellingly determined to win his favour.’

‘But Potmoor is irrelevant,’ said Michael, most of his attention on the yard as he waited tautly for the assault to resume.

‘Not so. He has just told us that all the burglaries were committed when he was with Olivia Knyt – times when he had no usable alibis. And who knew where he planned to be? His dogged shadow de Stannell.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘And why would de Stannell want Potmoor accused?’

There was a sound behind them, and both scholars whipped around to see the deputy standing in the doorway, a crossbow trained on them.

‘You should have kept your mouths shut. Now I am going to have to kill you.’

De Stannell kicked the door closed behind him, and although Bon turned slightly at the sound, he immediately resumed his prayers. Bartholomew considered yelling a warning, but what would be the point? A man with hypochyma could do little to help.

‘Yes, it has suited me to have Potmoor blamed for the burglaries,’ whispered de Stannell. He glanced at Bon, but the murmured prayers did not falter. ‘Why do you think I have kept him such close company recently? It is so I shall know his whereabouts and plans. It has not been pleasant, but it has certainly worked.’

‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘People do think Potmoor is guilty. Unfortunately for you, they also think you are his accomplice, and that is not the sort of man they want running their shire. You will not retain your post for long after Tulyet returns.’

‘He will not return,’ said de Stannell confidently. ‘And if he does, I shall arrange for him to have an accident. Do not think of calling for help, by the way. I shall shoot whoever tries, and cut down the other with my sword. Bon will not see, and everyone else will assume the mob did it.’

‘So are we to believe that you are the burglar?’ asked Michael, eyeing him in distaste. ‘Slipping out to raid your town while Potmoor frolics with Olivia Knyt?’

De Stannell shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Of course not. Potmoor’s religious conversion left a number of his henchmen unemployed, and as Sheriff, I knew their names. They now work for me.’

‘But why involve yourself in such a vile scheme? You are already wealthy.’

De Stannell gestured to the hall. ‘This place is costly, and some guildsmen are beginning to object to the amount of money we plough into it, so I have been obliged to devise other ways of raising funds. None of the proceeds have been for me.’

‘So what do you gain from the arrangement?’

‘Immortality! The College will soon be renamed Winwick and de Stannell Hall.’

‘I think the founder will have something to say about that.’ Michael regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And Matt is wrong, because you are not the clever mastermind behind this scheme. To be frank you are not sufficiently intelligent.’

De Stannell scowled as he aimed the weapon, but the monk only gazed back defiantly, and the crossbow wavered. Young Dickon had been right to question the deputy’s abilities as a soldier, thought Bartholomew. Clearly, de Stannell did not have the courage to shoot.

‘Your master is Lawrence,’ Michael went on. ‘The man whose incompetence killed the Queen, who lied about his interactions with Hemmysby, who has poached his medical colleagues’ best patients, and who ensured that Hugo and Holm became friends so that he would have a second spy among Potmoor’s intimates.’

Bartholomew was suddenly assailed with an uncomfortable thought. All Michael’s ‘evidence’ had come from one source: Julitta, who had always been quick to disparage the elderly physician. Irritably, he pushed such treacherous suspicions away. This was the woman he intended to marry!

‘You should have asserted your authority as Senior Proctor more rigorously,’ said de Stannell, and the sly grin he flung at Bartholomew told the physician exactly what was coming next. ‘If you had put an end to your friend’s unseemly lust for the wife of–’

‘Stop,’ snapped Bartholomew through clenched teeth. ‘Leave Julitta out of it.’

‘She is a cunning woman,’ de Stannell went on gleefully. ‘The clever daughter of a powerful and extremely ruthless man, from whom she learned her business acumen and her ability to deceive. It has not once occurred to you that she has been using your infatuation for her own ends.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew fiercely. ‘She would never–’

‘She has been monitoring Michael through you ever since we feared he might interfere with our plans – long before you went to Peterborough. But you will never have her. She loves Holm and he loves her, as far as he is able. They are more similar in temperament than you know.’

‘And why would Julitta conspire with the likes of you?’ asked Michael scornfully.

‘Why do you think? The rewards for supporting Winwick Hall will be vast. Powerful men will appreciate clerks trained to their specifications, and the clerks themselves will be grateful for the opportunity to further their ambitions.’

‘So you ordered Felbrigge shot to ensure that the College could expand unfettered,’ surmised Michael, while Bartholomew shook his head, unwilling to believe de Stannell’s gloating words. ‘But why kill Elvesmere? Surely he was happy to have won such determined supporters?’

‘I thought the same, and was astonished when he announced his conviction that Winwick should remain a modest foundation. I was obliged to stab him, to shut him up.’

Illesy had mentioned Elvesmere’s preference for moderation, so that was likely to be true, thought Bartholomew, but de Stannell was no killer. Again, it was something Dickon had said that provided the proof that the deputy was no threat.

‘You were taking a riding lesson at the castle when Elvesmere died. You are not the culprit, so do not try to claim credit in the hope of making us think you are dangerous. You are a pitiful excuse for a villain.’

‘Then who did dispatch him?’ asked Michael, while de Stannell blustered and huffed in indignation. Both scholars ignored him.

Bartholomew had been aware for some time that the devotions muttered by the window were gibberish. Bon was not praying, but listening to every word. And he knew why.

‘Bon,’ he said softly. ‘De Stannell is just his monkey.’

The wind was gusting so hard that it made the timbers in the hall creak and its steady roar was almost louder than the racket made by the invaders, who were pouring back into the yard after their fruitless foray to the Fellows’ quarters. Bartholomew jumped in alarm when a violent blast cracked one of the windowpanes, and there was a series of crashes as tiles were torn from the roof. There were screams, too, either because they had landed on the men milling outside, or as a result of Cynric’s resumed barrage from the dormitory.

‘Me?’ asked Bon, turning his milky eyes towards Bartholomew as he climbed to his feet. ‘How? I am blind, in case you had not noticed.’

‘You cannot deceive me about hypochyma,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know what it entails. You cannot read, perhaps, but you have sufficient vision to let you carry out your wicked plans. And you had Uyten. Through him, you hired Jekelyn and Fulbut to commit murder, and tricked Richard into bringing his friends here.’

Bon spread his hands. ‘Uyten told you that Illesy did all that.’

‘A claim you cannot have known unless it originated with you,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘We have told no one else, and he is in prison.’

‘In prison?’ echoed Bon uneasily.

‘You used and misled him, just as you have used and misled everyone else. He will not stand by you when he learns what you have done. He will tell us everything in an effort to save himself.’

‘But I cannot see,’ pressed Bon, all wounded reason. ‘How can I have written letters to Uyten purporting to be from Illesy?’

‘And there is another slip! How could you know that the orders came in the form of letters unless you had sent them? And you do not need to have written them yourself. You can dictate.’

For the first time, Bon looked directly at him, and the smile he gave was cold. ‘But no one can prove it. Uyten thinks he was following Illesy’s instructions, and you will not be in a position to put him right. I shall not bear the blame for any scandal that comes to light. Illesy will.’

There was a sudden cheering roar from the invaders below. Someone had found a robust piece of scaffolding that would serve as a battering ram.

‘What is going on, de Stannell?’ demanded Bon, going to the window. ‘I cannot make out who is doing what. Tell me!’

‘It is the sound of your machinations about to destroy you,’ said Michael. ‘The burglaries, the murders, the blackmail of another foundation – all these have made you enemies.’

‘I did what was necessary to ensure our survival. This is a noble venture, and I look to the day when the whole country is run by Winwick-trained lawyers. Nothing can stand in the way of such a dream. Our founder is a true visionary.’

‘Then I imagine he will be appalled when he learns what you have done.’

‘He will never find out. Everyone who knows the truth is either an ally or will be dead.’

Bon turned to de Stannell, to give the order to shoot, but both Bartholomew and Michael knew that by far the greater danger was the mob below. Desperately, the physician racked his brain for ways to restore calm, but nothing came to mind.

‘Elvesmere was your friend,’ said Michael, his voice full of distaste. ‘But you killed him without a second thought. You stabbed him, not this silly deputy here, but your poor eyesight prevented you from making a clean job of it.’

Bon grimaced. ‘It was fortunate a more loyal friend was on hand with poison – and to carry the corpse out of my room, where its discovery would have been awkward. I wanted to take it to another College, but there were too many beadles about, so we were forced to settle for the latrine.’

Bartholomew took over the discussion, to give the monk a chance to think of a way to quell the turmoil that boiled in the yard below, for his own mind was blank. He realised that they had been unforgivably careless when they had interrogated Uyten: they had not asked who had been with him in the boat, and Uyten had not volunteered the information.

‘Your hypochyma is no obstacle to collecting blackmail money in the dark,’ he said to Bon. ‘You have skills the rest of us lack, as you spend your whole life moving through shadows. Afterwards, Uyten rowed you away.’

‘Did you really think I would not guess that you were waiting? Or that I would march openly along a main road to collect my spoils? You should have paid and been done with it. The other Colleges did.’

‘You have blackmailed them, too?’ Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised.

‘They all have secrets – and money to spare. Why did Michaelhouse refuse?’

Another violent gust shook the building, and an agonised yowl caused Bartholomew to glance through the window. Nerli’s sword, hurled like a spear, had impaled someone. Unfortunately, far from deterring the invaders, it drew a chorus of outraged yells, and the assault intensified.

‘Enough,’ snapped Michael. ‘We must bring an end to this before we are all torn to–’

‘No one will touch de Stannell and me,’ averred Bon confidently. ‘We are members of the Guild of Saints, which is loved for its charity.’

‘Not since you have taken the food from the mouths of widows and beggars,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘Which is why you killed Knyt, of course – a man who was beginning to baulk at the amount of money Winwick wanted. And you tried to kill Michael with poisoned cakes, while you succeeded in dispatching Hemmysby with a gift – no doubt sent after he overheard you making plans to burgle Michaelhouse.’

Bon’s milky eyes narrowed. ‘I killed Hemmysby for humiliating me at the debate. He should have eaten the raisin tart on the evening of the first day, and I was livid when he appeared to belittle me again the following morning. I shall kill Thelnetham when he arrives to take up his Fellowship, too, but only after he changes his will in Winwick’s favour, of course.’

‘Ratclyf was not poisoned with dormirella, though,’ said de Stannell. ‘Regardless of the tale you put about.’

‘He died of remorse,’ declared Michael. ‘Lawrence saw him next to Elvesmere’s coffin, weeping and begging for forgiveness. He felt guilty about a colleague’s murder, even if you do not.’

‘You were afraid he would break and expose you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was poisoned, but not with dormirella. He had a sore throat, so you gave him liquorice root, knowing exactly what it would do to his weak heart.’

Bon shrugged. ‘It was for the greater good – the future of Winwick Hall. He was a vile man.’

‘What is wrong with letting Winwick grow naturally, like the other Colleges?’

‘That will take years, and I want my rewards now,’ replied de Stannell. He smirked. ‘So the decision was made to speed it along.’

Bon ignored him, and Bartholomew saw he had scant regard for his helpmeet. ‘Our founder took a chance with me – no one else wanted a blind scholar – so I have taken one for him.’ He turned to de Stannell. ‘He will be here soon, so oust those louts from our yard before–’

‘What about Heyford?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Did you poison him, too, after Jekelyn failed to incinerate him for you?’

‘Yes, with dwale. It did not work.’ There was another chorus of howls from below, and Bon made an impatient gesture to de Stannell. ‘Shoot this pair, and then get rid of that mob before they do us any damage. We cannot have the founder–’

‘It is the burglaries that have done the greatest harm,’ interrupted Michael, ignoring the deputy’s show of taking a firmer grip on the weapon. ‘By stealing for Winwick Hall, you have destroyed the fragile truce between University and town, and set us at each other’s throats.’

‘Which is exactly what Bon intended,’ explained de Stannell, clearly glad of a few more moments to summon up his courage. ‘The other Colleges will be destroyed or weakened by it, thus eliminating the competition. Moreover, it was clever to have Potmoor blamed.’

‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘He is Winwick Hall’s biggest benefactor.’

‘Something Illesy should have told me sooner,’ said Bon sourly, while de Stannell blinked his astonishment at the revelation. ‘I thought Potmoor was just a felon whose fondness for our College was an affront. I would have used another scapegoat had Illesy been open with us.’

‘Do you really think the University will survive with just Winwick and a handful of hostels?’ asked Michael scornfully. ‘The Colleges give it stability: without them it will founder. So unless you want Winwick to fail before it is properly established, help me put an end to this mischief.’

‘Winwick will not fail.’ Bon glanced irritably towards de Stannell. ‘Hurry up, man! Or do you want me to come and do it?’

Bartholomew winced as the battering ram dealt the door such a blow that he felt the vibrations through the floor. ‘Winwick will fail if they break in. They mean you serious harm.’

‘De Stannell!’ barked Bon. ‘For God’s sake, kill this pair and oust that rabble before–’

‘Oust them?’ echoed Michael. ‘And how do you propose he does that?’

‘They will disperse on my orders,’ bragged de Stannell. ‘I have soldiers waiting. All I have to do is yell, and they will race to save us. Bon? Shall I?’

The battering ram struck home so violently that the whole edifice trembled, and a clump of plaster dropped from the wall. Bon started in alarm.

‘Yes, call them. Quickly!’

The deputy went to the window and bellowed at the top of his voice. The wind snatched his words away, although there were answering jeers from the yard. He tried again.

Suddenly, there was a crack that was far louder than anything they had heard so far. Everyone looked around in alarm, and Michael stabbed his finger at a large fissure that had appeared in the wall. Moments later, Illesy thundered down the stairs and flung open the door.

‘The fallen buttress, the wind and the battering ram have rendered the building unstable,’ he yelled. ‘We cannot stay here a moment longer. It is set to collapse!’

‘Collapse?’ echoed Bon. ‘No! It is the best hall in the–’

‘Fool!’ shrieked the Provost. ‘It was raised so fast that the foundations are too shallow, the mortar was not given time to set, and the workmanship is shoddy. If you were able to see, you would not be making asinine claims about its quality.’

Furious at the insult, Bon tore forward with a knife in his hand. The Provost was too startled to defend himself, and went down in a flurry of blows. He was dead before Bartholomew or Michael could move to help him.

‘There,’ said Bon in satisfaction, keeping a grip on the weapon and obviously ready to use it again. ‘Now I shall be Provost.’

When Bon and de Stannell began an urgent discussion in hissing undertones, Bartholomew decided it was time to make a move before anyone else died. De Stannell posed no threat, so he hurtled towards Bon, but the lawyer’s reactions were faster than he had anticipated, and he was sent sprawling by a well-timed punch. Moments later, Lawrence entered. He faltered at the sight of Bartholomew on the floor and de Stannell with a crossbow. When he saw Illesy, his face drained of colour and he hurried to kneel next to him. Then Nerli arrived.

‘What is going on?’ demanded the Florentine. ‘Did that rabble kill Illesy? By God and all that is holy I will track down the villain and make him pay.’

‘I think we have found our culprits at last, Nerli,’ said Lawrence in a small voice, looking first at de Stannell and then at Bon. ‘You crossed Bon off our list of suspects, but…’

‘You have been investigating?’ asked Bon dangerously.

Nerli reached for his sword, only to find it was not at his side. He grimaced, but his voice was steady as he replied. ‘Two of our Fellows vilely poisoned, along with Knyt and Hemmysby, who were the best of men? Of course we were looking into the matter.’

‘You are part of it, Lawrence,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘Do not try to deceive us.’

Bartholomew glanced at Nerli, and saw the Florentine’s muscles bunch as he prepared to leap at Bon. But there was a sudden movement behind him, and he pitched forward with a cry of pain. Eyer stood there, his pink face cold and hard. The apothecary held a crossbow in one hand and a bloodstained dagger in the other.

‘No,’ whispered Bartholomew in stunned disbelief. ‘Not you as well.’

‘I should have known,’ said Lawrence contemptuously. ‘You were a rogue at Oxford, and you are a rogue now. I should have spoken out the moment I recognised you, but I thought you deserved a second chance. I suppose you did it for money? You always were a greedy fellow.’

Eyer shrugged. ‘Establishing a new business is expensive, so I was delighted to start earning profits sooner than I expected.’

‘But you are wealthy,’ objected Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘A member of the Guild of–’

‘I joined for appearances’ sake, as I told you,’ snapped Eyer. ‘People are more likely to trust a rich apothecary than one who can barely make ends meet.’

‘Then why have you been giving me free remedies for the poor?’

‘To put you in my debt, so you will feel obliged to buy medicines from me in the future. I did the same with the other physicians, careful to make each think that he is the only one so favoured.’

Answers tumbled into Bartholomew’s head. ‘You tried to make me suspect Lawrence and Nerli by telling me that they were Potmoor’s minions. You also said they engaged in questionable business after dark, and bought realgar, dwale and hemlock–’

‘Lies,’ interrupted Lawrence contemptuously. ‘I am too old to venture out at night, and I rarely use potent herbs – I have seen too many accidents to be comfortable with them. Such as at Oxford, when a certain patient was killed with liquorice root.’

Eyer smiled coldly. ‘A lesson that has been of considerable use to me in eliminating rivals, as Ratclyf learned to his cost. I imagine your heart is not what it was when you were young, so perhaps I shall give you a dose, too.’

‘Enough!’ snapped Bon, as another crash on the door caused a sconce to drop off the wall. He gestured to Bartholomew. ‘Pick up Nerli, and put him in the corner. I can hear him breathing, and we do not want him sneaking off while we are not looking.’

The Florentine had been saved from serious injury by the thick leather of his sword belt, and feigned unconsciousness as he was dragged across the room. Unfortunately, Eyer was alert for tricks, and Bartholomew hoped Nerli understood the warning pinch he managed to deliver before he was ordered to stand with Michael and Lawrence against the far wall. Eyer kept the crossbow trained on his captives while he held a muttered conference with his associates.

‘We should have rushed de Stannell while we could,’ whispered Michael, disgusted with himself. ‘Now we are in trouble, because Eyer will not scruple to shoot unarmed men. We were stupid, too greedy for answers.’

Upstairs, and oblivious to the drama unfolding in the hall below, the defenders continued to lob anything they could find out of the windows, while the wind screamed through the broken panes and made the timbers groan. Bon broke away from his accomplices, and began to strip the rings – Potmoor’s rings – from Illesy’s fingers.

‘I am the stupid one,’ mumbled Lawrence. ‘Eyer is often here with potions for Bon’s eyes, but we all know there is no cure for hypochyma. He came to plot with his paymaster, and I should have guessed it, especially knowing what he was capable of from Oxford.’

‘The writing on the blackmail letters,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘Now I know why it was familiar: it is on the medicines I buy. Doubtless, Eyer also penned the notes to Uyten, the ones purporting to be from Illesy.’

Eyer overheard and shrugged. ‘Your Michaelhouse colleagues are unlikely to make the connection, and you will not be alive to tell them. I defeated them with ease when I collected the five marks they tried to fob us off with on Monday.’

‘You mean ten marks,’ said Michael.

‘He is trying to make trouble,’ said Eyer to Bon. ‘For spite, because I flung sand in his Master’s eyes. It was only five marks, I assure you.’

‘Never mind this now,’ said de Stannell urgently. ‘Illesy was right when he said the building is ripe for collapse. That crack is getting bigger.’

Everyone looked at it: the dust that trickled out in a continuous stream did not bode well. Another thud from the battering ram shook loose a more vigorous fall. When a mighty gust of wind buffeted the building, it opened even wider.

Bartholomew turned back to Eyer. ‘You are the “friend” who helped Bon poison Elvesmere when the stabbing went awry. And you supplied him with dormirella, confident in the belief that it is undetectable.’

‘I thought it was undetectable. I have never read anything about blue lips.’

‘Did you invade Michaelhouse, too?’ asked Michael. ‘And steal William’s tract when the Stanton Hutch was unavailable?’

‘The tract,’ grinned Bon. ‘As soon as it was read to me, I knew we could put it to good use. We shall make it public later, and when you and Bartholomew fail to return home today, everyone will assume you fled to avoid the consequences.’

‘Potmoor has suffered from headaches ever since I used your sal ammoniac,’ said Bartholomew, fearful now that he knew the apothecary was so coldly ruthless. ‘What was in it?’

‘A toxin of my own creation,’ replied Eyer. ‘I shall sell it to wealthy clerks in time, men who will pay handsomely for an easy way to be rid of inconvenient enemies.’

‘We hoped you would kill a few paupers with it,’ added Bon, ‘which would have turned the town against Michaelhouse and reduced the number of beggars demanding alms – money that could then come here. It seems our plan misfired, given that Potmoor has been generous to us.’

Bartholomew continued to stare at Eyer. ‘But you are not a bad man. You helped me rescue Heyford from the fire.’

‘You misread my intentions.’ When Nerli stirred slightly on the floor, Eyer tensed, fingers poised ready to shoot. ‘I was going to stop you from saving him, but then I remembered that you had fought at Poitiers.’

The whole building released an ominous creak, and the wind ripped another four panes of glass from their lead frames with sharp pops.

‘No!’ cried Bon, gazing at the ruined windows in dismay. Then he became businesslike. ‘De Stannell, go and delay the founder for the time it will take us to disguise the damage. Potmoor will lend us a tapestry to hide the crack, and a glazier can be hired to–’

‘It will take more than a tapestry and a few new panes to convince John Winwick that all is well,’ interrupted Michael. ‘It is over, Bon! You have lost.’

‘The barrage from upstairs has stopped.’ De Stannell’s voice was suddenly shrill with alarm. It grew more so when he glanced out of the window to assess what was happening in the yard. ‘And the mob is now swollen with matriculands who seem to have forgotten which side they are on. Perhaps the Michaelhouse men are right – we are in danger!’

‘There is only one way to survive,’ declared Michael. ‘By putting aside our differences and joining forces. The invaders want blood, and if we fight among ourselves, they will have it.’

‘Shoot him, Eyer,’ snapped Bon. ‘Then kill the physicians. De Stannell, shout to your troops again. The rabble will disperse when they see armed soldiers coming.’

There was another almighty crash from downstairs, followed by a deep, penetrating groan that suggested some vital support was in the process of disintegrating. Then the floor tipped violently to one side. Bon staggered and Eyer grabbed a windowsill for support. De Stannell dropped his crossbow.

It was the chance Bartholomew had been waiting for. He hurled himself at Eyer, and was aware of Nerli leaping up to tackle de Stannell, leaving Bon for Michael. Physician and apothecary crashed to the floor, where they began a frantic tussle for the weapon. Upstairs, the students screamed in terror, and part of the ceiling fell, narrowly missing Lawrence. The building torqued enough to pop out all its remaining panes, and there was a wild cheer from the yard below.

‘The stairs!’ shouted Lawrence. ‘Quickly! It is–’

But his words were lost in another deafening groan and the building began to topple.

For a moment, Bartholomew heard nothing but the tortured squeals of flexing timbers. He staggered upright, which was not easy when the floor was tilting at such a crazy angle. Eyer snatched at his legs, then disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Coughing hard, Bartholomew scrambled towards the door, stopping only to haul Nerli to his feet. He saw Michael’s bulky form ahead, but there was no sign of the others. They had been closer to the exit, so he could only assume they had already left.

‘Follow me!’ cried Lawrence, arriving from the dormitory with the surviving defenders at his heels. Bartholomew was relieved to see Cynric among them. ‘The back door – hurry!’

It was a terrifying journey down the stairs. Lumps of masonry plummeted all around them, and the student in front of Bartholomew was killed instantly when a piece landed on his head. Lawrence stopped to tend him, but Bartholomew shoved him on, not wanting those behind them to be delayed for a lost cause. Grit and dust swirled so thickly that they could not see their own feet. Then Lawrence fell, tumbling down several steps in a flurry of flailing limbs.

‘I cannot see,’ he rasped. ‘I am disorientated…’

Bartholomew staggered as someone tried to shove past him. It was Bon, for whom blinding dust was less of a problem. Bartholomew grabbed his tabard, and although the Winwick Fellow tried to punch him away, he refused to let go. Bon screeched when a stone struck his shoulder, and broke into a stumbling trot, unwillingly towing Bartholomew after him. The physician kept hold of Nerli with his other arm, yelling for the others to follow his voice. They struggled down more stairs and along a hallway.

He felt wind on his face, and although he still could not see, he was aware of daylight ahead. Lawrence surged past, and began to wrestle with the clasp on a window. It flew open with a metallic screech, ripped from his hand by the gale. De Stannell batted him out of the way, desperate to escape first, but the mob was at the back of the hall as well as the front, and the deputy disappeared in a sea of clawing, punching hands.

‘A cruel choice,’ gasped Michael. ‘Being crushed or torn to pieces.’

Another beam fell, and dust belched thickly out of the window. It drove the invaders back, so Bartholomew used it as a shield to conceal him as he scrambled out – it was more instinct than a rational decision about the way he wanted to die. Michael followed, murmuring prayers of contrition under his breath.

Then Potmoor emerged with a sword, and the diabolical shriek he gave as he plunged among the attackers was enough to scatter them in alarm. He laid about him wildly until someone lobbed a knife that took him in the back. Bartholomew hurried towards him, but was knocked to the ground with a cudgel. Dazed, all he could think was that he had to reach Potmoor and help him. More of the building fell, and no one took any notice as he crawled towards the fallen felon through a sea of milling legs.

‘You will have to resurrect me again,’ whispered Potmoor. ‘Where are your smelling salts?’

Bartholomew had lost his medical bag in the hall, but Potmoor’s eyes closed in death, so it did not matter. He sensed, rather than saw, someone come up behind him, and whipped around just in time to avoid a jab from a makeshift spear. He recognised his assailant as one of the soldiers from Fulbut’s party, and supposed the fellow had joined the riot to avenge his friend. The soldier raised the weapon to strike again, but Bartholomew managed to grab a piece of scaffolding from the ground and sent the fellow flying with a wild swing that hit its target more from luck than skill.

There was a low rumble as more of the hall fell, sending a blast of debris into the desperate mêlée. Several attackers dropped as if poleaxed. Then someone came at Bartholomew with a sword. He raised the strut, but it flew to pieces in his hands, leaving him defenceless. The swordsman prepared to strike the killing blow, but the swipe was blocked by another weapon. Bartholomew could not see his rescuer in the billowing dust, but there was a waft of familiar perfume.

‘Richard?’

His nephew was howling at the top of his voice, but Bartholomew could not make out the words at first. Then he caught ‘Michaelhouse Choir’, and was suddenly aware that a number of those around him were singers. Verius was fighting like a lion, valiantly repelling a group of townsmen determined to make an end of an enticingly prostrate Senior Proctor.

The fracas ended when the hall finally gave up the ghost, and combatants on both sides were forced to run for cover or risk being buried alive. Bartholomew, Verius and Richard dragged Michael to his feet, and took refuge behind a stable as the wind swept a treacherous barrage of splinters and plaster fragments over them, forcing them to hunker down with their arms over their heads. It seemed an age before they were finally able to stand up.

‘Well,’ breathed Michael, staring at the heap of rubble that was unrecognisable as Cambridge’s newest College. ‘I wonder what John Winwick will say about that when he arrives.’

‘He is not coming, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘At least, not today – Tynkell just told me. He sends his apologies, and hopes you will enjoy the start of term without him.’

Michael sagged. ‘I do not know whether to laugh or cry.’

He emerged unsteadily from behind the shed, then flinched when someone lobbed a rock at him. The culprit was Sir Joshua Hardwell, the soldierly matriculand who had been left in charge when Winwick’s Fellows had gone to practise for the debate with Michaelhouse.

‘The next person who does that is a dead man,’ came the angry and distinctive voice of Isnard the bargeman. ‘Brother Michael is under my protection.’

Hardwell gave a jeering bray of laughter. ‘You imagine you are a match for me?’

He stepped forward threateningly, but stopped when Isnard bellowed a summons and choir members appeared from all directions to stand at his side.

‘Fight him, and you fight us all,’ growled Verius. ‘Right, lads?’

There was a chorus of rumbled agreement, deep from the basses and higher from the tenors.

‘Oh, Christ!’ blurted Hardwell, looking along the serried ranks in alarm. ‘I think they are going to sing.’

He hurtled towards the back gate, and his sudden, agitated flight caused others to follow.

‘Sing,’ mused Isnard. ‘Now there is an idea.’

‘Especially as the University’s opening ceremony has been cancelled,’ added Verius. ‘It would be a shame not to warble something today, after all our rehearsals.’

There was a lot of preparatory throat-clearing, and they launched into something that might or might not have been Michael’s newly composed Conductus. The trickle of men hurrying to the gate became a flood, particularly when it became clear that Winwick would not be providing much in the way of pillage. Meanwhile, the singing grew steadily louder, until it drowned out both the wind and the settling remains of the ruined hall.

‘I thought you were leaving,’ shouted Bartholomew to his nephew.

Richard smiled. ‘I was, but it occurred to me that you might need help, so I fetched these fellows, along with a lot of your patients. You have some very ruffianly clients, you know. It is hardly respectable.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I would not change them for the world.’