The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 9

Cynric was waiting for Bartholomew by the Barnwell Gate, because the town was growing increasingly restive and he was protective of the physician. Together they walked past the butts, where one or two archers were already honing their skills, taking advantage of the fact that most folk would arrive later, once the day’s work was done.

‘There will be trouble tonight, boy,’ predicted Cynric. ‘It is the town’s turn to practise, but de Wetherset plans to turn up as well. He wants everyone to think he is brave for not buying another proxy, although the truth is that there is no one left for him to hire.’

‘Warn Michael and Theophilis,’ instructed Bartholomew. ‘One of them must convince him to wait until tomorrow before flaunting his courage.’

‘I am not speaking to Theophilis,’ said Cynric, pursing his lips. ‘I cannot abide him. He spent all morning humouring Clippesby by the henhouse, then told Father William that Clippesby is a lunatic who should be locked away.’

‘What do you mean by “humouring” him?’

‘Making a show of asking the chickens their opinions, then pretending to appreciate their replies. I tried to draw Clippesby away, but Theophilis sent me to de Wetherset with a letter, which he said was urgent. But it was not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I read it,’ replied Cynric unrepentantly. ‘All it said was that Brother Michael had gone to St Radegund’s to talk to the nuns. It was a ruse to get me out of the way.’

Bartholomew had taught Cynric to read, although he had since wondered if it had been a wise thing to do. He pondered the question afresh on hearing that the book-bearer had invaded the Chancellor’s private correspondence, and yet it was interesting to learn that Theophilis reported Michael’s movements to de Wetherset. It confirmed his suspicion that the Junior Proctor was not to be trusted.

‘You can tell Michael that as well,’ he said. ‘Although you should make sure Theophilis never finds out what you did.’

Cynric turned to what he considered a much more interesting subject. ‘Margery says the Devil is already very comfortably settled in the Spital.’

‘Stay away from that place,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid Cynric would go to see the sight for himself – he did not want his militant book-bearer to encounter like-minded Jacques.

‘I shall,’ promised Cynric fervently. ‘I have no desire to meet the Lord of Darkness, although Margery tells me that he is not as bad as everyone thinks. But even before Satan moved in, the Spital had a sinister aura. I want nothing to do with it.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But advise Margery to keep her heretical opinions to herself. The University’s priests will not turn a blind eye to those sorts of remarks for ever, and we shall have a riot for certain if they execute a popular witch.’

Bartholomew found Aynton at his home in Tyled Hostel. The Commissary was in bed, one arm resting on a pile of cushions. His face was white with pain.

‘It happened at the Spital this morning,’ he explained tearfully, ‘and if I had a suspicious mind, I might say it was deliberate.’

‘What was deliberate?’ asked Bartholomew, sitting next to him and beginning to examine the afflicted limb.

‘I assume you know that de Wetherset wants me to solve the Spital murders,’ whispered Aynton. ‘Well, I was interrogating Warden Tangmer, when his cousin – that great brute Eudo – pushed me head over heels. My wrist hurts abominably, but worse, look at my boots! He has ruined them completely!’

Bartholomew glanced at them. They were calf-height, flimsy and so garishly ugly that he thought the scuffs caused by the fall had improved rather than disfigured them.

‘Pity,’ he said, aware that the Commissary was expecting sympathy. ‘But I am sure a good cobbler can fix them.’

‘He says the marks are too deep,’ sniffed Aynton. ‘I shall continue to wear them, as they cost a fortune, but they will never be right again. And my arm is broken into the bargain!’

‘Sprained,’ corrected Bartholomew, applying a poultice to reduce the swelling. ‘Eudo must have given you quite a shove to make you fall over.’

‘The man does not know his own strength. I suspect he did it because I was berating Tangmer for allowing his lunatics to play with swords. Some were engaged in a mock fight when I arrived, you see, which is hardly an activity to soothe tormented minds.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, supposing the Jacques had been practising the skills they might need to defend themselves, and that their imminent departure meant they were less concerned about being seen by visitors.

‘Between you and me, there is something odd about that Spital,’ Aynton went on. ‘I think it harbours nasty secrets.’

Bartholomew kept his eyes on the poultice lest Aynton should read the truth in them. ‘Well, its patients are insane, so what do you expect? I wish I could help them, but ailments of the mind have always been a mystery to me.’

The last part was true, at least.

‘I would have thought you had enormous experience with lunatics,’ said Aynton caustically. ‘Given that most of our colleagues are around the bend.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘A few, perhaps.’

‘It is more than a few,’ averred Aynton. ‘It would take until midnight to recite a list of all those who are as mad as bats. Shall I start with Michaelhouse? Clippesby, Father William, Theophilis and Michael. And you, given your peculiar theories about hand-washing. Then, in King’s Hall, there is–’

‘Michael is not mad,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Nor is Theophilis.’

He did not bother defending Clippesby for obvious reasons, while anyone who had met William would know that he was barely rational. And as for himself, he did not care what people thought about his devotion to hygiene, because the results spoke for themselves – he lost far fewer patients than other medici, and if the price was being considered insane, then so be it.

‘Theophilis spends far too much time with Clippesby,’ said Aynton disapprovingly. ‘They are always together, talking and whispering. He should be careful – lunacy is contagious, you know.’

Bartholomew declined to take issue with such a ridiculous assertion. ‘And Michael? What has he done to win a place on your list?’

Aynton lowered his voice. ‘He does not like me. I cannot imagine why, as I have given him no cause for animosity. Indeed, I have done my utmost to be nice to him, but he rejects my overtures of friendship.’

‘So anyone who does not like you is mad?’

‘It demonstrates a warped mind, which means he should not hold a position of such power in the University. De Wetherset is right to clip Michael’s wings.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise, aware that Aynton’s eyes had lost their customary dreaminess, and were hard and cold. ‘I hardly think–’

‘Michael’s influence is waning, and unless he wants to be ousted completely, he must learn to accept it. Yes, he has made the University strong, but it is inappropriate for the Senior Proctor to wield more power than the Chancellor, and it is time to put an end to it.’

Bartholomew felt treacherous even listening to such sentiments, and turned his attention back to medicine, eager to end the discussion.

‘Does this hurt when I bend it?’

‘Ow! Be gentle, Matthew! I am not one of your dumb beggars, impervious to pain.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to retort that his paupers most certainly did feel pain, but decided it was another topic on which he and Aynton were unlikely to agree. He remembered what Michael had asked him to do.

‘You say you were practising a lecture on the morning of the Spital fire,’ he began.

‘I was,’ replied Aynton curtly. ‘But I have said all I am going to on the subject, so do not press me again. If you do, I shall lodge a complaint for harassment.’

Bartholomew took his leave, disturbed to have witnessed a side of the amiable academic that he had not known existed. Perhaps Michael was right to be wary of him.

But once outside, breathing air that was full of the clean scents of spring – new grass, wild flowers and sun-warmed earth – he wondered if he had overreacted. After all, what Aynton said was true: Michael did wield a disproportionate amount of power. Moreover, lots of patients were snappish when they were in pain, so why should Aynton be any different? Bartholomew pushed the matter from his mind and went to his next customer.

He was just passing King’s Hall when he spotted two figures, one abnormally large, the other abnormally small. Eudo had tried to disguise himself by pulling a hood over his head, although his great size made him distinctive and several people hailed him by name. By contrast, his minuscule wife was clearly delighted with the way she looked and made no effort at all to conceal her identity. She wore a light summer cloak pinned with a jewelled brooch, and the gold hints in her hair were accentuated by a pretty fillet.

‘We wanted to stay at home and protect the … patients,’ blurted Eudo when Bartholomew stopped to exchange pleasantries. ‘But Hélène is having nightmares, so Amphelisa sent us to buy ingredients for a sleeping potion.’

He indicated the basket he carried. Bartholomew glanced in it once, then looked again.

‘Mandrake, poppy juice, henbane,’ he breathed, alarmed. ‘These are powerful herbs – too powerful for a child. It is not–’

‘Amphelisa knows what she is doing,’ interrupted Goda shortly. ‘And if we want your opinion, we will ask for it.’

‘Has she made sleeping potions for Hélène before?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘One strong enough to make her drowse through a fire, perhaps?’

Rage ignited in Eudo’s eyes. He moved fast, grabbing Bartholomew by the front of his tabard and shoving him against a wall. Bartholomew tried to struggle free, but it was hopeless – Eudo’s fingers were like bands of iron.

‘Eudo, stop!’ hissed Goda, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. ‘You will make him think Amphelisa did poison the children. But she did not, so she does not need you to defend her. Let him go.’

Bartholomew was surprised when Eudo did as he was told.

‘Is this what happened to Commissary Aynton?’ he asked curtly, brushing himself down. ‘He put questions that frightened you, so you pushed him? I know it was no accident.’

‘Oh, yes, it was,’ countered Goda fiercely. ‘Aynton claimed that some of our patients were playing with swords. We told him he was mistaken, so he began prancing around to demonstrate what he thought he had seen. He bounced into Eudo and lost his balance.’

‘Which would never have happened if he had not been jigging about like an ape,’ growled Eudo. ‘It was his own fault.’

Bartholomew suspected the truth lay somewhere in between – that Eudo had shoved Aynton in an effort to shut him up, but that Aynton had been off balance, so had taken an unintended tumble. Even so, it was unacceptable behaviour on Eudo’s part, and Bartholomew dreaded to imagine what he might do without Goda to keep him in line.

‘Does Amphelisa distil oils anywhere other than the chapel?’ he asked, switching to another line of enquiry.

‘That is none of your–’ began Eudo in a snarl, although he stopped when Goda raised a tiny hand. There were two silver rings on her fingers that Bartholomew was sure had not been there the last time he had seen her.

‘We could tell you,’ she said sweetly. ‘But our tongues will loosen far more readily if you have a coin to spare.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You want to be paid for helping me catch the person who murdered five people in your home?’

Goda shrugged. ‘Why not? You earn three pennies for every corpse you assess, so why should you be the only one to turn a profit from death?’

Bartholomew had never considered himself as one who ‘turned a profit from death’ before, and the notion made him feel faintly grubby. He floundered around for a response, but Eudo spoke first.

‘Your question is stupid! Of course Amphelisa does not work anywhere else. How can she, when all her distilling equipment is in the chapel? It cannot be toted back and forth on a whim, you know. Or do you imagine she produces oils out of thin air?’

Goda glared at him for providing information that could have been sold, but then her attention was caught by someone who was approaching from the left.

‘Smile, husband,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘Here comes Isnard the bargeman, and if he thinks we are squabbling with his favourite medicus …’

Eudo’s smile was more of a grimace, but it satisfied Isnard, who proceeded to regale them with the latest gossip.

‘You need not worry about your Spital being haunted any longer,’ he began importantly. ‘Because Margery Starre just told me she was mistaken about it standing on the site of an ancient pagan temple.’

Eudo was alarmed. ‘But I have seen ghosts with my own–’

‘Tricks,’ interrupted Isnard with authority. ‘Margery went to visit Satan last night, as she and him are on friendly terms, but he was nowhere to be found. What she did find, however, was a piece of fine gauze on twine, which could be jerked to make an illusion.’

‘Oh,’ said Eudo uncomfortably. ‘But–’

‘Moreover, Margery was paid to tell us that the Devil was taking up residence there,’ Isnard went on, ‘which she did, because she thought it was Satan himself begging the favour.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Why would she think that?’

‘Because she was visited by someone huge in a black cloak with horns poking from under his hood. Naturally, she made assumptions. But when she went to see him at the Spital and found evidence of trickery … well, she realised the whole thing was a hoax.’

Bartholomew was secretly gratified to learn that the self-important witch had been so easily duped. Perhaps it would shake her followers’ faith in her, which would be no bad thing, especially where Cynric was concerned.

‘You say she was tricked by someone huge?’ he asked, looking hard at Eudo.

‘Yes – someone pretending to be Satan,’ said Isnard, lest his listeners had not deduced this for themselves. ‘Well, two someones actually, as the deceiver had a minion with him, who did all the talking.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew, aware that neither Goda nor Eudo would meet his eyes.

‘Margery is none too pleased about it,’ said Isnard, ‘so you Spital folk might want to stay out of her way for a while. She says it is heresy to take the Devil’s name in vain.’

The warning delivered, Isnard went on his way, swinging along on his crutches as he looked for someone else to gossip with. Bartholomew watched him go, aware of a rising sense of unease as it occurred to him that there would now be repercussions.

‘Go home and inform Tangmer that his ruse has failed,’ he told Goda and Eudo. ‘And that some folk may resent being deceived and might want revenge.’

‘Let them try,’ snarled Eudo. ‘We will teach them to mind their own business.’

‘The Lyminster nuns saw through the peregrini’s disguises,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘which means that others will, too. They must leave at once.’

Goda softened. ‘They plan to go at dusk.’

‘I hope they find somewhere safe,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. ‘But when did you pretend to be Satan, exactly, Eudo? I was under the impression from Margery that it was on Wednesday morning, more or less at the time when the fire started.’

Eudo opened his mouth to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘It was. So what?’

‘It means you have an alibi,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Who was the minion? It was not Goda – she was baking all morning, in full view of Prioress Joan. Was it Tangmer?’

Eudo sagged in defeat. ‘He is better at that sort of thing than me, so we decided to do it together. But we could hardly tell you, the Sheriff and Brother Michael that we were off bribing witches when the Girards were murdered, could we? So he invented the tale about Amphelisa not being very good at brewing …’

Which explained why Tangmer and Eudo had been so furtive when asked to give an account of their whereabouts, thought Bartholomew. But they were definitely in the clear for the murders, as it would have taken time to dress appropriately and then convince Margery to do what ‘Satan’ wanted. The list of suspects was now two people shorter.

Bartholomew returned to College, where he dashed off messages telling Michael and Tulyet what he had learned. He sent Cynric to deliver them, then went to the hall and interrogated his students on the work he had set them to do. Unimpressed with their progress, he lectured them on what would be expected of the medical profession if the plague returned, aiming to frighten them into working harder. Islaye, the gentle one, looked as though he might be sick; the callous, self-interested Mallett was dismissive.

‘It will not return, sir,’ he declared confidently. ‘God has made His point, and He has no reason to punish us a second time.’

‘Actually, He does,’ said Theophilis, who had been listening. His soft voice sent an involuntary shiver down Bartholomew’s spine. ‘It has only been ten years, but we are already slipping back into evil ways. For example, there is a rumour that someone has been dressing up as Satan. That is heresy, and if I catch the culprit, I will burn him in the market square.’

Unwilling to discuss that, Bartholomew returned to his original theme. ‘There are reports of plague around the Mediterranean, and local physicians predict that it will spread north within a year. Ergo, you must work hard now, to be ready for it.’

‘Just like physicians were ready last time,’ scoffed Theophilis. ‘No wonder poor Suttone upped and left in the middle of term – he did not trust you lot to save him.’

At that point, Theophilis’s students, deprived of supervision, grew rowdy enough to disturb Father William. Irritably, the Franciscan ordered him back to work, and there was an unseemly spat as one took exception to being bossed around by the other.

‘Master Suttone was terrified of the plague,’ said Mallett to Bartholomew, while everyone else watched the spectacle of two Fellows bickering. ‘But that is not why he left.’

Heltisle had claimed much the same, and Bartholomew hoped the malicious Vice-Chancellor had not been spreading nasty untruths.

‘Then what was?’ he asked coolly, a warning in his voice.

Mallett was uncharacteristically tentative. ‘I happened to be passing St Mary the Great one night, when I overheard a conversation between Suttone and Heltisle …’

‘And?’ demanded Bartholomew, when the student trailed off uncomfortably.

‘And I did not catch the whole thing, but I did hear Heltisle tell Suttone that there would be repercussions unless he did as he was told. The next day, Suttone resigned. You will not repeat this to Heltisle, will you, sir? I do not want to make an enemy of him – he has connections at Court, and I want a post with a noble family when I graduate.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you saying that Suttone was coerced into leaving? How? Did he have some dark secret that he wanted kept quiet?’

‘I got the impression that he did,’ replied Mallett. ‘But I have no idea what it was.’

Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘Why have you waited so long before mentioning it? If your tale is true, then it means Heltisle may have the means to hurt Michaelhouse. You must know how much he hates us.’

Mallett shrugged. ‘I do, but I have to think of myself first. I was going to tell you at the end of term, once my future is settled, but … well, I suppose I owe this place some loyalty.’

‘You do,’ said Bartholomew angrily, and indicated the other students, whose attention had snapped away from William and Theophilis at the sound of their teacher’s sharp voice. ‘And to your friends, who will still be here after you leave.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Mallett sheepishly. ‘But there is another reason why I was reluctant to speak out. You see, I overheard this discussion very late at night …’

‘After the curfew bell had sounded and you should have been at home,’ surmised Bartholomew, unimpressed.

‘What were you doing?’ asked Islaye coolly. ‘Visiting that sister you have been seeing – the one who was billeted at the Spital, and who you insist on meeting at the witching hour?’

Mallett shook his head. ‘She only arrived a couple of weeks ago. The confrontation between Heltisle and Suttone was back in March, when Suttone was still here.’

‘Just tell me what was said,’ ordered Bartholomew tersely. ‘I do not want to know about your dalliances with nuns.’

Mallett gaped at him. ‘Dalliances? No, you misunderstand! I went to the Spital to meet my sister. She is one of the Benedictines who lodged there before Brother Michael moved them to St Radegund’s. I had to visit her on the sly, because Tangmer refused to let me in. He said I might upset his lunatics.’

‘Well, you might,’ muttered Islaye sourly. ‘You are not very nice.’

‘I even offered to cure his madmen free of charge,’ Mallett went on, ignoring him, ‘but Tangmer remained adamant. He is an ass – my sister says that founding the Spital broke him and he has no money left. Ergo, he should have accepted my generous offer.’

‘How does she know about his finances?’ asked Bartholomew, although he was aware that they were ranging away from what Heltisle had said to Suttone.

‘She overheard him telling his cousins. Everyone thinks he is rich, but his fortune is gone, and he will only win it back when he has some rich lunatics to look after. She says the current batch – who are not as mad as you think – only pay a fraction of what they should. Amphelisa does not mind, but Tangmer does.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if he had been precipitous to declare Tangmer and Eudo innocent of murder. Perhaps killing the Girards had been a way to oust guests who prevented them from recouping their losses. ‘But never mind the Spital. Tell me about the quarrel between Heltisle and Suttone.’

‘There is no more to tell,’ said Mallett apologetically. ‘Other than that Suttone was on the verge of tears, while Heltisle was gloatingly triumphant. It should not surprise you: Heltisle has been dabbling in University politics for years, and is as crafty as they come, whereas Suttone was an innocent in that respect.’

‘He was,’ agreed Islaye. ‘However, if Heltisle did harm him, he will answer to Brother Michael. He will not let that slippery rogue get away with anything untoward.’

Bartholomew was sure Islaye was right.

Mallett’s story had infuriated Bartholomew, because he was sure that Heltisle had done something unkind to Suttone, especially since it had happened when Michael was away and thus not in a position to intervene. As a consequence, he did not want to spend his evening at the butts, where he was likely to run into the Vice-Chancellor, afraid his antipathy towards the man would lead to an unseemly confrontation.

Unfortunately, he knew his absence would be noted, and he was loath to provide Heltisle with an opportunity to fine him. Faced with two unattractive choices, he asked Aungel to go with him, hoping the younger Fellow’s company would take his mind off Heltisle’s unsavoury antics. They chanced upon Theophilis in the yard, and the three of them began to walk there together. Theophilis held forth conversationally as they went.

‘There was nearly a fight at the butts last night. De Wetherset and Heltisle took their students there, but it was the town’s turn, and insults were exchanged.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘They went anyway, even after Michael told them not to? What were they thinking?’

‘Apparently, Heltisle had informed de Wetherset that the Sheriff had invited them to share the targets. It was only when they were at the butts that Heltisle admitted to lying.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Aungel, agog.

‘Tulyet threatened to hang the first person who drew a weapon in anger,’ replied Theophilis. ‘You could see he meant it, so our lot went home.’

Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief. Did Heltisle want the University to be held responsible for igniting a riot? Then he stopped walking suddenly, and peered into the shadows surrounding All Saints’ churchyard.

Sister Alice was slinking along in a way that was distinctly furtive, pausing every so often to check she was not being watched. Curious, Bartholomew began to follow her, and as Theophilis and Aungel were also intrigued by her peculiar antics, they fell in at his heels. None of them were very good at stealth, so it was a miracle she did not spot them.

Eventually, they reached Shoemaker Row, where Alice peered around yet again. The three scholars hastily crammed themselves into a doorway, where Bartholomew struggled to stifle his laughter, aware of what a ridiculous sight they must make. Irked, Theophilus elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Alice stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night – a dog barking in the distance, the rumble of conversation from a nearby tavern, the mewl of a baby. Then she scuttled towards a smart cottage in the middle of the lane and knocked on the door.

‘That is where Margery Starre lives,’ whispered Aungel, as the door opened and Alice slithered inside. ‘Visiting witches is hardly something a nun should be doing. No wonder she did not want to be seen!’

Bartholomew crept towards the window. The shutter was closed, but by putting his ear to the wood he could hear Margery’s voice.

‘Of course I can cast cursing spells,’ she was informing her guest. ‘But are you sure that is what you want? Once you start down such a path, there is no turning back.’

‘I started down it ages ago,’ Alice retorted harshly, ‘after I was ousted from my post for no good reason. They started this war, but I shall finish it.’

The voices faded, leading Bartholomew to suppose they had gone to a different room. He was disinclined to hunt out another window, because he was suddenly assailed by the conviction that Margery knew he was out there – she had other uncanny abilities, so why not seeing through wood? He slipped away, and told the others that he had been unable to hear. He would happily have confided in Aungel, but he could not bring himself to trust Theophilis.

‘I thought Alice was trouble the first time I set eyes on her,’ the Junior Proctor declared as they resumed their journey to the butts. ‘I have an instinct for these things, which is why Brother Michael appointed me as his deputy, of course.’

‘You mean his inferior,’ corrected Aungel. ‘He does not have a deputy.’

Theophilis shot him a venomous look. ‘I shall be Chancellor in the not-too-distant future, so watch who you insult, Aungel. You will not rise far in the University without influential friends.’

‘Is that why you are always pestering Clippesby?’ asked Aungel, regarding him with dislike. ‘Because he is a great theologian, and you aim to bask in his reflected glory? His next thesis is almost ready and–’

‘On the contrary,’ interrupted Theophilis haughtily. ‘All the time I have spent with him has been for one end: to assess whether he should be locked in a place where he can do no harm.’

Aungel bristled. ‘Clippesby would never hurt anyone – he is the gentlest man alive. Besides, it was you who insisted on sitting in the henhouse all afternoon, not him. He wanted to read in the hall.’

‘The way I choose to evaluate another scholar’s mental competence is none of your business,’ snapped Theophilis, nettled. ‘So keep your nose out of it.’

‘It is his business,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘And mine, too. We look out for each other at Michaelhouse.’

‘I am looking out for Clippesby,’ said Theophilis crossly. ‘I am trying to determine whether he should be allowed to wander about unsupervised in his fragile state. He may come to grief at the hands of those who do not understand him. I have his welfare at heart.’

Bartholomew was far from sure he did, but the Junior Proctor’s claims flew from his mind when they arrived at the butts. The town had not forgiven the University for disrupting its turn the previous evening, and had turned out in force to retaliate in kind.

As ordering one side home would have caused a riot for certain, Michael and Tulyet had divided the targets in half, so that the University had the four on the left part of the mound, and the town had the four on the right. Neither faction was happy with the arrangement, and Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were struggling to keep the peace.

‘Lord!’ breathed Aungel, looking around with wide eyes. ‘Everyone is here – the whole University and every man in the town. We will never get a chance to shoot.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, ‘so round up everyone from Michaelhouse and take them home. There is no point in risking them here needlessly. No, not you, Theophilis. You must stay and help Michael.’

‘But it might be dangerous,’ objected Theophilis. ‘Or do you mean to place me in harm’s way because I believe Clippesby is mad?’

‘I place you there because you are the Junior Proctor,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is your job.’

Aungel was wrong to say that the whole University and every man in the town was at the butts, because more were arriving with every passing moment, adding to what was becoming a substantial crush. The beadles and soldiers had joined forces to keep the two apart, but Bartholomew could tell it was only a matter of time before their thin barrier was breached.

He looked around in despair. There were far more townsmen than scholars, but many students were trained warriors who could kill stick-wielding peasants with ease. If the evening did end in a fight, he would not like to bet on which side would win.

‘Why not send them all home?’ he asked Tulyet.

The Sheriff was watching Leger and Norbert try to instruct a gaggle of men from the Griffin, all of whom were much more interested in exchanging insults with the Carmelite novices than anything the knights could tell them about improving their stance and grip.

‘Because as long as they are here, we can monitor them,’ explained Tulyet tersely. ‘If we let them go, they will sneak around in packs and any control we have will be lost.’

‘How long do you think you can keep them from each other’s throats?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Hopefully, for as long as is necessary. Unfortunately, your new beadles are useless. Half are cowering behind the Franciscan Friary, while the rest itch to start a fight.’

He darted away when a Carmelite novice ‘accidentally’ hit Leger with a bow. Then Bartholomew heard Sauvage calling to him, urging him to abandon ‘them French-loving University traitors’ and stand with loyal Englishmen instead. Bartholomew pretended he had not heard, and retreated behind a cart, where he watched the unfolding crisis with growing consternation.

Most of King’s Hall had turned out. They included the four friends who had nearly come to blows with Isnard on the way to the Spital fire. They strutted around like peacocks, and other foundations were quick to follow their example, causing townsmen to bristle with indignation. The name Wyse could be heard, as townsfolk reminded each other that one such arrogant scholar had slaughtered a defenceless old man.

The King’s Hall men considered themselves far too important to wait for their turn to shoot, so they strode to the front of the queue and stepped in front of the Carmelites. Bartholomew held his breath, hoping the University would not start fighting among itself. If it did, the town would pitch in and that would be that. But Michael saved the day by promising the friars a barrel of ale if they allowed King’s Hall to go ahead of them.

First at the line was the scholar who had declared himself to be a Fleming – Bruges. He took a bow from Cynric without a word of thanks, and to prove that he was an accomplished warrior, he carried on a desultory conversation with his friends while he sent ten missiles thudding into the target. There was silence as everyone watched in begrudging admiration.

‘King’s Hall will never allow the French to invade,’ he bragged, thrusting the bow so carelessly at Cynric that the book-bearer dropped it. ‘It does not matter if these ignorant peasants can shoot, because Cambridge has us to defend it.’

‘We are not ignorant, you pompous arse,’ bellowed Sauvage, a ‘witticism’ that won a roar of approval from the town. ‘And we will defend the town, not you.’

‘You?’ drawled Bruges with a provocative sneer. ‘I hit the target ten times. What was your score, peasant?’

‘It was only four,’ scoffed the student from Koln. ‘And not one hit the middle.’

‘You two are foreign,’ yelled Sauvage, red with mortification as Koln’s cronies hooted with derisive laughter. ‘You are here to spy and report to your masters in Paris.’

‘And we cannot allow that,’ shouted Isnard, although what a man with one leg was doing at the butts, Bartholomew could not imagine. Archery required two hands, and the bargeman needed at least one for his crutches. ‘We should trounce them.’

‘Come and try, cripple!’ goaded Bruges. ‘We will show you what we do to cowardly rogues who stab elderly plagiarists.’

‘We did not kill Paris!’ declared Isnard, outraged. ‘You did. He–’

‘Enough!’ came Michael’s irate voice, as he and Tulyet hurried forward to intervene. ‘Koln, if you are going to shoot, get on with it. If not, stand back and let someone else have a turn.’

‘And do not even think of jeering at him, Sauvage,’ warned Tulyet, ‘unless you fancy a night in gaol. Now, take your bow again, and this time mark your target before you draw. Isnard, if you must be here, do something useful and sort these arrows into bundles of ten.’

‘Can he count that high?’ called Bruges, although he blanched and looked away when Michael swung towards him with fury in his eyes.

Tulyet began to instruct Sauvage, who was delighted to be singled out by so august a warrior, and called his friends to watch, drawing their attention away from the scholars. Unsettled by the Senior Proctor’s looming presence, there was no more trouble from King’s Hall either. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. Trouble had been averted – for now, at least.

For an hour or more, the two sides concentrated on the business at hand, each studiously ignoring the efforts of the other. Bartholomew began to hope that the evening would pass off without further incident after all, but then it was Bene’t College’s turn to shoot. Heltisle and his students shoved their way forward, full of haughty pride.

‘Allow me to demonstrate,’ Heltisle began in a self-important bray and, to everyone’s astonishment, proceeded to send an arrow straight into the centre of the target.

It was the best shot of the evening, and raised a cheer from the University, although the townsfolk remained silent. His second missile split the first, and he placed the remaining eight in a neat circle around them. Then he shoved Cynric aside, and began to instruct his students himself. He took so long that a number of hostel men grew impatient with waiting.

‘Take your lads home,’ ordered Michael, easing the Vice-Chancellor away from the line so that Ely Hall could step up. ‘There is no need to keep them here.’

‘I would rather they stayed, Brother,’ came a familiar voice. ‘There is much to be learned from watching the efforts of others.’

It was de Wetherset. Bartholomew had not recognised him, because it was now completely dark, and while torches illuminated the targets and the line, it was difficult to make out anything else. Moreover, the Chancellor had dressed for battle – a boiled leather jerkin, a metal helmet, and a short fighting cloak on which was pinned his pilgrim badge. Unfortunately, rather than lending him a warlike mien, they made him look ridiculous, and a number of townsfolk were laughing. So far, he had not noticed.

‘There will be a scuffle if too many men crowd the line,’ argued Michael tightly, ‘so, I repeat – Heltisle, go home.’

‘If he does, it will leave us in a vulnerable minority,’ countered de Wetherset. ‘Besides, this is our night – if we concede the butts today, what is to stop the town from taking advantage of us in other ways tomorrow?’

‘And you are here, Brother,’ said Heltisle silkily. ‘Or are you unequal to keeping us safe from revolting townsmen?’

‘Oh, we need have no fears on that score, Heltisle,’ said de Wetherset pleasantly. ‘I trust Michael to protect us. If I did not, I would have stayed at home.’

‘Then do what I tell you,’ hissed Michael, exasperated. ‘I cannot keep the peace if you overrule my decisions.’

‘Very well,’ conceded de Wetherset with an irritable sigh. ‘We shall leave the moment we have seen what Ely Hall can do.’

‘Did Suttone ever see you shoot, Heltisle?’ asked Bartholomew casually, although he knew it was hardly the time to quiz the Vice-Chancellor about what Mallett claimed to have overheard. ‘He often mentions you in his letters.’

‘Does he?’ asked Heltisle, instantly uneasy. ‘What does he say?’

‘That he wishes he had not resigned,’ bluffed Bartholomew, glad it was dark, so Heltisle could not see the lie in his face. ‘He is thinking of coming back and standing for re-election.’

‘He cannot,’ declared Heltisle in alarm. ‘No one would vote for him – not now our scholars have had a taste of de Wetherset.’

‘You are too kind, Heltisle,’ said the Chancellor smoothly, and turned to smile at Bartholomew. ‘I am glad to see you here – a veteran of Poitiers is just the example our students need. Perhaps you would give us a demonstration of your superior skills.’

‘My skills lie not in shooting arrows, but in sewing up the wounds they make,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘I can demonstrate that, if you like.’

De Wetherset laughed, although Bartholomew had not meant to be amusing. ‘Regardless, I hope you are stockpiling bandages and salves. We shall need them when the Dauphin’s army attacks our town.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt he will bother with us – not when there are easier targets on the coast.’

But de Wetherset shook his head. ‘He will know about our rich Colleges, wealthy merchants, and opulent parish churches. Of course he will come here, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.’

Again, there was relative peace, as all attention was on the archers and their targets, although Heltisle did not take his scholars home and his example encouraged other Colleges and hostels to linger as well. For a while, the only sounds were the orders yelled by Cynric and Tulyet.

‘Ready your bows!’

‘Nock!’

‘Mark!’

‘Draw!’

‘Loose!’

Then the twang and hiss as the missiles sped towards their targets, followed by a volley of thuds as they hit or jeers from onlookers if they went wide. Even as the arrows flew, Cynric and Tulyet were repeating the commands – the power of the English army lay in the ability of its archers to shoot an entire quiver in less than a minute, and it was not unknown for a good bowman to have two or more arrows in the air at the same time.

‘Heltisle is the best shot so far,’ said Cynric, when it was the physician’s turn to step up to the mark. There was a short delay while White Hostel, which had just finished, went to retrieve the arrows so they could be reused. ‘Although Valence Marie was almost as good. Gonville is rubbish, though.’

Bartholomew peered into the gloom. ‘The Carmelite novices were here earlier – no surprise, as they have always been a bellicose horde – but do I see the Franciscans, too?’

‘Yes – friars and monks are exempt, but not novices, so youngsters from all the Orders are here. Normally, our overseas students would stand in for them, but most of those are lying low, lest they are accused of being French.’

‘I would not want to be an overseas scholar at the moment,’ came a voice from the shadows. It was Aynton, the bandage gleaming white around his wrist. He walked carefully, so as not to soil his ugly boots. ‘I hope we can protect them, should it become necessary.’

So did Bartholomew. ‘How is your arm? You should be resting it at home.’

‘Heltisle said there might be trouble tonight, so I felt obliged to put in an appearance,’ explained Aynton. ‘Hah! It is your go. Show us what a hero of Poitiers can do, eh?’

Bartholomew was horrified when scholars and townsfolk alike stopped what they were doing to watch him, and heartily wished Cynric had kept his tall tales to himself. Feeling he should at least try to put on a good show, he was more careful than he had been the last time, and listened to the advice Cynric murmured in his ear. His first shot went wide, but the next nine hit the target. None struck the centre, but he was satisfied with his performance even so.

‘I thought you would be a lot better than that,’ said Sergeant Orwel, disappointed.

‘If you really were at Poitiers, you should know that accuracy was not an issue there,’ said Cynric loftily. ‘The enemy was so closely packed that it was impossible not to hit them, no matter where you pointed your bow.’

‘Bartholomew never fought at Poitiers,’ sneered Bruges. ‘What rubbish you believe! Next you will claim that Sauvage is English, when it is obvious that he is a filthy French–’

‘You dare question the origin of another man’s name?’ demanded Norbert, his face hot with indignation. ‘You, who has one that the King of France would be proud to bear?’

‘I am Flemish,’ declared Bruges, offended. ‘Only imbeciles cannot tell the difference.’

‘How about a wager, Frenchie?’ called Orwel. ‘A groat says that four of us can beat any four of you.’

‘A whole groat,’ drawled Bruges caustically, while on the University side, a frantic search was made for Heltisle. ‘I am dizzy with the excitement of winning such a heady sum. How shall we give our best when the stakes are so staggeringly high?’

‘So you can pay then?’ called Orwel, not a man to appreciate sarcasm. ‘Good.’

Unfortunately for the scholars, Heltisle was nowhere to be found, so four King’s Hall men – Bruges, Koln and two local students named Foxlee and Smith – stepped up to the line. They ignored the anxious clamour from the other scholars, who pointed out that while Bruges was a decent shot, the other three were only average, so room should be made for a trio from Valence Marie. Meanwhile, four townsmen were chosen and stood waiting.

‘Ready your bows,’ shouted Cynric quickly, when King’s Hall refused to yield and tempers on the University side looked set to fray. ‘Nock! Mark!’

There was a flurry of activity as all eight participants scrambled to obey.

‘Draw! Loose!’

Thuds followed hisses, and everyone peered down the field. All the targets bristled with arrows, and it was clear that the result would be very close. The eight archers trotted off to inspect them more closely. Meanwhile, someone yelled that one round was not enough, so two more teams were assembling, ready to shoot the moment the targets were clear.

‘Which of you will pay the groat?’ demanded Leger triumphantly. ‘Because we won.’

‘You cannot know that!’ objected Cynric. ‘Not yet.’

‘I can see all our arrows clustered together,’ argued Leger. ‘Whereas your bowmen are hunting in the grass for theirs. We did win!’

‘Lying scum!’ yelled someone from White Hostel. ‘We won and I will punch anyone who claims otherwise.’

‘Come here and say that,’ roared Leger. ‘Now give us the groat or–’

‘Ready your bows!’

Bartholomew was not sure who had called the next archers to order, because the speaker was deep in the shadows. However, it came from the town side, and mischief was in the air, as the first teams were still down at the targets.

‘Wait!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Not yet.’

‘Nock! Mark! Draw! Loose!’

The commands came in a rapid rattle, so authoritatively that eight arrows immediately flew from eight bows. A good part of butts training was conditioning men to follow orders immediately and unquestioningly, so it was no surprise that the second teams had reacted without hesitation. There was a collective hiss, followed by several thuds and a scream.

‘Down bows! Down bows!’ howled Cynric frantically, snatching the weapons away before anyone could reload. ‘No one shoot! Down bows!’

Bartholomew did not wait to hear if it was safe to go. He set off towards the mound at a run, aware of others sprinting at his heels. He aimed for the shrieks.

He arrived to see that Foxlee had been shot in the leg, while Koln – mercifully unhurt – lay on the ground with his hands over his head, crying for a ceasefire. Others had not been so fortunate. Bruges and Smith from King’s Hall were dead, as was one townsman.

De Wetherset was among those who had hurried after Bartholomew. He scrambled up the mound, breathing hard, his face a mask of horror. Then Tulyet arrived.

‘Christ God!’ the Sheriff swore when he saw the bodies. ‘Who gave the order to shoot?’

‘A townsman,’ replied de Wetherset shakily. ‘But I cannot believe he intended anyone to die, as his own side was down here, too. Clearly, it is a prank gone badly wrong.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. Nor was Koln, now on his feet and shaking with fury.

‘Of course the culprit meant there to be bloodshed!’ he yelled. ‘It was brazen murder! Someone will pay for this!’

‘Just stop and think,’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘The town would never hurt one of–’

‘I want revenge,’ howled Koln. ‘Well, lads? What are you waiting for? Will you allow town scum to dispatch our friends?’

There was a short silence, then all hell broke loose.

* * *

There were moments during the ensuing mêlée when Bartholomew wondered if he was dreaming about Poitiers. He still had nightmares about the battle, and the screams and clash of arms that resounded across the butts were much the same. He yelled himself hoarse calling for a ceasefire, but few heard, and those who did were disinclined to listen.

‘Stay with me, boy,’ gasped Cynric, whose face was spattered with someone else’s blood. ‘Back to back, defending each other. You were wise to take the high ground – it will be easier to fight them off from here.’

Bartholomew knew there was no point in explaining he had not chosen the mound for strategic reasons but because it was where the first victims lay.

‘No killing, Cynric,’ he begged. ‘Try to disarm them instead.’

‘Right,’ grunted Cynric, as he swung his cutlass at a stave-wielding townsman with all his might. ‘After all, they mean us no harm.’

‘Norbert!’ gulped Bartholomew, watching in shock as a lucky thrust by a baying Bene’t student passed clean through the knight’s lower body. ‘I must help–’

Cynric grabbed his arm before he could start towards the stricken man. ‘You will stick with me if you value your life. And the lives of others – your skills will be needed later.’

‘Goodness!’ cried Aynton, stumbling up to them. He carried a bow in his uninjured hand, which he was waving wildly enough to deter anyone from coming too close. His face was white with terror. ‘What do we do? How can we stop it?’

‘You cannot,’ gasped Cynric. ‘Now stay behind us. You will be safe there.’

Bartholomew watched in despair as a phalanx of flailing swords from King’s Hall, led by the enraged Koln, cut a bloody swathe through a contingent of apprentices. Then his attention was caught by a seething mass of townsfolk, all of whom were howling for French blood, and seemed to think it could be found on the mound. None of them believed Aynton’s frightened bleat that he had none to offer, and they surged upwards with murder in their eyes.

Just when Bartholomew thought his life was over, there came a thunder of hoofs. It was Tulyet on a massive warhorse, next to Michael on Dusty and several mounted knights from the castle. None slowed when they reached the skirmishers, so that anyone who did not want to be trampled was forced to scramble away fast. The riders wheeled their destriers around and drove them through the teeming mass a second time, after which most combatants broke off the fight to concentrate on which way they would have to leap to avoid the deadly hoofs. Tulyet reined in and stood in his stirrups, towering over those around him.

‘How dare you break the peace!’ he thundered, his voice surprisingly loud for so slight a man. ‘Is this how you serve your country? By fighting each other? Disarm at once!’

‘But we were fighting French scholars,’ shouted a potter, too full of bloodlust to know he should hold his tongue. ‘They are the enemy. We were–’

‘Arrest that man,’ bellowed Tulyet, pointing furiously at him.

Two of his soldiers hurried forward to oblige, much to the potter’s dismay.

‘We did not start this,’ shouted Koln, whose face was white with rage in the flickering torchlight. ‘They did – the town scum.’

‘You are under arrest, too,’ snarled Michael. ‘See to it, Meadowman.’

The beadle bundled the startled King’s Hall man away before he could draw breath to object. Then de Wetherset spoke, begging his scholars to disperse. Most did, although the livid faces of Michael and Tulyet did more to shift them than any of the Chancellor’s nervous entreaties. Soon, all that were left were the dead and wounded.

‘Casualties?’ demanded Tulyet in a tight, clipped voice.

‘Eight dead,’ replied Bartholomew, not looking up from the miller he was struggling to save. ‘Three scholars and five townsmen. There will be others before morning.’

‘Eight,’ breathed Michael, shaking his head in disgust. ‘All lost for nothing.’

‘Take the wounded to the Franciscan Friary,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘And spread word that if anyone, other than soldiers or beadles, is out on the streets tonight, he will hang at dawn.’

‘Not scholars,’ said de Wetherset hoarsely. ‘You do not have the authority to impose that sort of sanction on us. Tell him, Brother.’

‘Then I will impose it,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Because he is right – anyone out tonight will be presumed guilty of affray and punished accordingly.’

Tulyet nodded curt thanks, then hurried away to organise stretchers and bearers, while Michael went to give what comfort he could to the dying – he was not a priest, but had been granted dispensation to give last rites during the plague and had continued the practice since. Bartholomew turned to Cynric, knowing he needed the help of other medici.

‘Fetch Rougham and Meryfeld. Then go to Michaelhouse and tell my students to bring bandages, salves, needles and thread.’

Fleetingly, it occurred to him that when de Wetherset recommended that he stockpile medical supplies, he had not imagined that he would be needing them that very night.

Cynric nodded briskly. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes – go to the Spital and ask Amphelisa for a supply of the strong herbs that she uses for pain. I do not have nearly enough to do what will be necessary this evening.’

‘Then thank God Margery found out that the Devil does not live there,’ muttered the book-bearer, crossing himself before kissing a grubby amulet. ‘I would not have been able to go otherwise, as I have no wish to encounter Satan.’

‘You already have,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I am sure he was here tonight.’