To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 12

It was late before Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee left the conclave. They went over the evidence again and again, and Michael was frustrated when answers remained elusive. A crisis was looming, and he hated the fact that he was powerless to prevent it. It was difficult to accept that whatever decision he made – to cancel the Convocation or let it go ahead – would bring trouble, and he was full of bitter resentment that he had been placed in a position where he could not determine the lesser of two evils.

When dawn broke, and the bell rang to wake scholars for church the next day, Bartholomew felt as though he had only just gone to bed. A sense of foreboding led him to don a military jerkin of boiled leather under his academic tabard, although he sincerely hoped such a precaution would prove unnecessary. He hurried into the yard, and found Michael already there. The monk was unshaven and rumpled, and there was a wild look in his eye.

‘The Convocation starts in an hour,’ he said. ‘I should go to St Mary the Great as soon as possible, to brief my beadles before the Regents begin to gather.’

‘You are relieved of College obligations, then,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘William can take mass, then we shall all come back here and lock ourselves in. Cynric and his sword will escort the other Fellows to the Convocation, but my duty is here, protecting Michaelhouse.’

‘Why should our College be a target?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed by the Master’s precautions.

‘Because of you,’ replied Langelee bluntly. ‘I know you have made your peace with Isnard, but the legacy of his discontent runs on, and there are rumours about you concealing murders. Furthermore, people are saying that you encouraged the proctors to arrest Arderne.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew began to object. ‘Your precipitous action with crossbow bolts in Milne Street last Sunday has had repercussions none of us could have predicted.’

The streets of Cambridge were growing light, but there were more people on them than was normal for such an early hour. They gathered in small groups, or raced here and there with quick, scurrying movements. Scholars were out, too, and Bartholomew noticed that some carried sticks and knives.

‘I cannot fine them for toting weapons,’ said Michael. ‘If they feel as uneasy as I do, then I do not blame them for wanting to defend themselves. Let us hope tensions ease after the Convocation.’

‘They may get worse,’ warned Bartholomew. He walked faster, making a concerted effort not to look at anyone, lest it be seen as a challenge. When one of his patients wished him a good morning, he was so unsettled that he failed to reply. ‘I had forgotten what Cambridge can be like when its collective hackles are raised. Perhaps you should cancel the Convocation. It will prevent scholars from assembling in large numbers, and you can order them to stay inside their hostels and Colleges instead.’

‘It is too late,’ said Michael, looking around. ‘Most are already on their way.’

The University’s senior members were indeed streaming towards St Mary the Great. A few were in twos or threes, but more were in bigger groups, and some had brought armed students to protect them; these strutted along in a way that was distinctly provocative. Only Regents were permitted in the church for the Convocation, so the escorts waited outside in ever-increasing numbers. The door stood open, and Bartholomew walked through it to find the place already half full. He was alarmed to note that they had organised themselves into opposing sides – or rather, someone had done it for them, and it soon became apparent who that someone was.

‘All those who think Michael’s amendment should pass, stand to the south,’ Honynge was shouting. ‘And those who should think it should not, go to the north. In other words, those who believe the town should win must slink to the south, while right-minded men should come to the north.’

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘I wanted them all mixed up together. Now they are gathered according to faction, they will be more inclined to quarrel.’

‘Then any bloodshed will be your fault, for calling this stupid Convocation in the first place,’ retorted Honynge viciously. ‘People will see you for the fool you are, and will call for your resignation.’

‘It is none of your damned business,’ snarled Michael. ‘You resigned your Fellowship last night, so you have no official standing in the University until you are installed in your new post.’

Honynge was seething. ‘So that is why you forced me to sign that deed in such haste. You sly old snake! I should have known you had an ulterior motive for acting so quickly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I told you they were untrustworthy. Do not let them–’

‘Leave,’ ordered Michael contemptuously. ‘You have no place here.’

But Honynge knew the University rules. ‘That is untrue – anyone who has held a senior position owns the right to observe the proceedings. I shall remain and watch what happens.’

‘Beadle Meadowman will eject you if you make a sound.’ Michael decided not to make a scene. The altercation had already attracted attention, and he did not want a fight between Regents who supported their Senior Proctor, and those who thought Honynge was right. Meadowman heard his name mentioned and came to oblige.

‘Chancellor Tynkell has asked me to tell you that he is indisposed this morning,’ Meadowman whispered in the monk’s ear. ‘He says you should proceed without him.’

‘You mean he is too frightened to show his face,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘And he has left me to bear the brunt of this alone.’

‘Actually, he swallowed a remedy Arderne gave him for indigestion, and has been in the latrines all night. He says he dare not come here, lest he is obliged to race out at an awkward moment.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, turning away and eyeing the assembling scholars. They were pouring into the church, and Bartholomew could see the two sides were fairly evenly matched. The nave and aisles were alive with the blues, browns and greens of academic uniforms, mixed with the more sober greys, creams, browns and blacks of the religious Orders. Some of the Colleges had wheeled out elderly members who were either too infirm or too addled to teach, but who were still entitled to vote.

‘No, no, Master Gedney,’ called Kardington patiently. ‘You want to be over here, not over there.’

‘Let him choose for himself,’ shouted Wisbeche. ‘Do not tell him what to do.’

‘Very well,’ said Gedney. ‘I shall have the middle, then. Where is my stool?’

Reluctantly, Spaldynge stepped forward and handed it over. Gedney placed it in the exact centre of the nave, and sat, his toothless jaw jutting out defiantly.

‘Some of these men do not have voting rights,’ said Michael, looking around in dismay. ‘Such as Spaldynge, who lost his Fellowship when he sold Borden Hostel. They are here to make sure a particular side receives a sly boost in numbers. What shall I do? If my beadles attempt to oust them, there will be a skirmish. Or they will leave in a resentful frame of mind, and pick a fight with the first apprentice who makes an obscene gesture at them.’

‘What is Honynge doing now?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. The ex-Fellow had climbed on to the dais normally occupied by the Chancellor, and was clearing his throat. ‘You should stop him, Brother.’

But it was too late. Honynge had grabbed Gedney’s walking stick, and he banged it on the floor until he had everyone’s attention. ‘We have half an hour before the Convocation is officially scheduled to begin,’ he announced. ‘So, I propose we use that time constructively, in scholarly disputation.’

‘That is actually a good idea,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, startled. ‘It will stop everyone from throwing taunts at each other in the interim.’

‘We shall talk about Blood Relics,’ announced Honynge. Michael closed his eyes in despair as half the scholars groaned, while the remainder cheered. ‘It is a subject worthy of clever minds.’

‘Boring!’ called Gedney. ‘Christmas is almost upon us, so we should discuss the virtues of nice plum puddings, as opposed to these new-fangled fig things we were given last year.’

‘Prior Morden of the Dominicans will argue the case for Blood Relics,’ said Honynge, ignoring him. ‘And Father William, Franciscan of Michaelhouse, will argue the case against.’

‘Stop him, Brother,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘Pitting a Grey Friar against a Black will cause trouble for certain – as well he knows.’

‘I cannot – not now,’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘Those Regents who think this is a good idea will lynch me, and the rest will race to my defence. Then Honynge will have what he wants anyway.’

‘You want me to take a leading role?’ asked Morden, aghast. He was not the University’s most skilled debater, and did not like the notion of propounding a case publicly, not even against William. Honynge knew it, and Bartholomew marvelled at the depth of his malice.

‘I would rather talk about puddings,’ said William. The Franciscan rarely acknowledged his own shortcomings, but even he was wary of tackling such a contentious issue in front of some of the best minds in the country. ‘Fig ones are superior to plum, because figs come from the Holy Land. Ergo, fig puddings are holy, and thus better.’ He folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Morden.

‘I do not like the taste of figs,’ began the Dominican nervously. ‘And their seeds get trapped between the teeth. Then they come out at awkward moments. The seeds, I mean, not the teeth.’

There was a smattering of laughter, from both sides of the church.

‘Wasps like plums,’ continued William. ‘So there is always a danger that you might find one baked in your pudding. I do not eat wasps as a rule, so it is better to opt for fig pies whenever possible.’

When he could make himself heard above the guffaws, Morden replied to this contention, and the debate began in earnest. The Regents began to enjoy themselves, and called out theories to help the disputants, many of them extremely witty. Honynge’s face was a mask of rage when he saw his ploy to cause dissent was failing. He tried to change the subject, but was shouted down as a killjoy.

‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew after a while, tearing his attention from the dais. ‘He has vanished, and I do not think he has finished causing harm. Meadowman is nowhere to be seen, either.’

It was impossible to locate Honynge among the seething masses, and it was some time before they were able to deduce that he was not in the nave, the aisles or the Lady Chapel. They moved cautiously, aware that jostling the wrong person might undo all the goodwill that Morden and William had created.

‘Meadowman was obliged to help Gedney,’ reported Michael after talking to the beadle. ‘Apparently, the old man fell off his stool laughing. When Meadowman looked round, Honynge had gone. He must have decided to go home.’

‘Your other beadles told me that no one has left, so he is still in here. But where? The tower is locked.’

‘My office!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! There are sensitive documents in there.’

He broke into a waddle, hurrying to the chamber off the south aisle from which he conducted University affairs. He flung open the door and raced inside, Bartholomew at his heels. Honynge stood there, but he was not alone. The door slammed behind them, and Bartholomew whipped around to see Candelby and Blankpayn. Blankpayn waved a heavy sword and his grin was malevolent.

‘How timely,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘Here are the pair who found out about our arrangement, Candelby. They think I killed Lynton and Ocleye, but I assure you I did not.’

‘Honynge is certainly innocent of Lynton’s death,’ said Candelby to Michael. ‘He was going to attend the Dispensary on my behalf – to use his wits to predict winners, while I provided money for bets. We were going share the proceeds, and Lynton’s demise ruined a perfectly good plan.’

‘You have not mentioned this before,’ said Michael suspiciously.

‘Why would we? It is none of your business. However, we were both furious when Lynton died.’ Candelby went to Michael’s desk and began to make a pile of the scrolls that were lying out on it. Outraged, the monk stepped forward to stop him, but Blankpayn brandished his weapon menacingly.

‘We do not have time for this.’ Bartholomew started towards the door, but Blankpayn took a firmer grip on his sword, and the physician was left in no doubt that he would very much like to use it. He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Please! Michael needs to supervise the Regents, or there may be trouble.’

‘Good,’ said Honynge. ‘I hope there is trouble, and that you two will be blamed. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘With luck, some of those arrogant Fellows will die, and you can accept one of the resulting vacancies – if there is a foundation that meets your exacting standards, of course.’

‘No one is going to die,’ said Candelby, going to a shelf for more of the University’s records.

‘What are you doing with those?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Be careful. Some are very valuable.’

‘We are going to have a fire,’ said Honynge, waving an unlit taper at him.

‘A fire?’ Michael was appalled. ‘But these deeds are irreplaceable! What are you thinking of? Put them down and get out of my office. And tell your ape to stop pointing his sword at me.’

‘Easy, Blankpayn,’ crooned Candelby soothingly, when his henchman lurched forward. Bartholomew quickly interposed himself between taverner and monk; his leather jerkin would afford greater protection than Michael’s woollen habit. Candelby glared at the monk. ‘And you should settle down, too, Brother, because you are not going anywhere until I say so.’

Michael glared. ‘But Matt does not need to be–’

‘If I let him go, he will summon your beadles,’ snapped Candelby. ‘Stand against the wall, where we can see you. Hurry up! We do not have all day.’

‘Blankpayn has been itching to dispatch a few academics, so I advise you against calling out or trying to escape,’ said Honynge. He lowered his voice. ‘Why did you warn them? You should have kept quiet and let Blankpayn cut them down. That would have showed them who is in charge.’

Candelby seemed used to Honynge’s oddities, and did not react to the muttered comments, although Blankpayn regarded the ex-Fellow askance. Honynge did not keep Blankpayn’s attention for long, however, because when Bartholomew hesitated to obey the instructions, he was rewarded with a poke from the blade. It was a vigorous jab, and would have drawn blood, had it not been for the armour he wore. For the first time, he began to appreciate the danger they were in.

Michael regarded Honynge coldly. ‘I have no idea what is happening here, but I strongly urge you to reconsider. Candelby intends to see the University collapse. Surely you want no part of that?’

‘He is trying to pretend you and he are on the same side,’ whispered Honynge. ‘Do not listen, Honynge. You know how he hates you.’

Michael was disgusted. ‘You are betraying your colleagues – and for what? Candelby does not pay you very generously, because your hostel was shabby, unlike the fine building he leased to Tyrington.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Honynge, putting out his hand to prevent Candelby from responding. ‘He let me occupy Zachary Hostel free of charge for months. That was extremely generous.’

‘Is that why it took you so long to decide whether you were going to accept the Michaelhouse Fellowship?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how Honynge had gazed thoughtfully out of the window for some time after reading Langelee’s invitation.

Honynge nodded. ‘I was reviewing whether it would be worth my while. But I need not have worried, Candelby immediately offered to recompense me in silver instead.’

‘Tyrington was a good tenant,’ said Candelby conversationally, rummaging in a chest to emerge with a handful of parchment. ‘He always paid me on time, and he kept the place scrupulously clean. If all scholars were like him, I would not mind renting to them. But most are pigs.’

Michael was more interested in Honynge. ‘How could you form an alliance with a man who is determined to destroy the University – your University?’

‘Because I owed him years of back-rent,’ snapped Honynge. He produced a tinderbox and began the process of lighting his taper. ‘Had he chosen to file a complaint, I would have been expelled – perhaps even excommunicated – but instead he offered me a solution to my problems.’

‘That should be enough for a pretty blaze,’ said Candelby, stepping back to admire his handiwork. ‘The smoke will put the wind up those arrogant Regents, and you will have to watch all these priceless parchments destroyed, Brother. It will take you years to sort out the resulting confusion.’

‘It will not,’ said Honynge, most of his attention on his tinderbox. ‘Because he will be dead – him and his Corpse Examiner.’

Candelby regarded him warily. ‘You said we were going to make a fire, not kill–’

‘We are about to incinerate a church containing hundreds of scholars,’ said Honynge impatiently. ‘Of course there will be casualties. Among them will be this pair.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ said Candelby, alarmed. ‘You suggested we should create a bit of chaos, to destabilise the University so it cannot stop me when I raise my rents, but murder is–’

‘Do not be a fool,’ snapped Blankpayn, speaking for the first time. ‘Do you think the monk and his friend will say nothing about what they have heard here? They will tell the King, and we will hang.’

‘We will not hang,’ said Candelby irritably. ‘The King will review the evidence, and see we were driven to desperate measures. He will never condemn us.’

Honynge addressed Blankpayn. ‘Candelby and I will be able to buy our freedom, because we are important. But you are just a poor taverner. You are right to want to silence these scholars before they can harm you, so go ahead and do it. Go on. You know it is the sensible thing to do.’

‘Ignore him, Blankpayn,’ ordered Candelby. ‘You are no killer, so do not be stupid about–’

‘Kill them,’ hissed Honynge fiercely. The taper was burning, ready to ignite Candelby’s little bonfire. ‘Follow what your instincts tell you to do. Do not obey a man who calls you stupid.’

‘Stop it, Honynge,’ snapped Candelby, when Blankpayn gripped his sword and prepared to follow the scholar’s suggestion. ‘We have worked well together this far, so do not spoil everything now. No one needs to die. Put up your blade, Blankpayn. I should have known better than to ask you to help with a matter that requires subtlety and discretion.’

It was the wrong thing to say, because Blankpayn’s expression darkened. With a sigh of annoyance that his normally submissive henchman should dare defy him, Candelby tried to snatch Blankpayn’s weapon. At the same time, the blazing taper singed Honynge’s fingers. He howled in pain and dropped it, so it fell on the documents, which immediately began to smoulder. Blankpayn ripped his sword away from Candelby with a bellow of fury, and suddenly the two men were engaged in a desperate grappling match. Michael darted towards the flames and began to flail at them with his cloak.

‘Michael, stop!’ yelled Bartholomew, trying to squeeze past the furious mêlée of arms, legs and sword that was Candelby and Blankpayn. The desk was in the way, and he was trapped. ‘Smother them – do not fan them!’

Honynge was laughing wildly. He drew a knife and prepared to plunge it into the monk’s back.

Determined that Honynge should not succeed, Bartholomew flung himself across the table, scattering burning parchments as he went. He crashed into the ex-Fellow, bowling him from his feet. Honynge scrambled away when the physician was still off balance, and swiped at him with the dagger, a vicious blow that might have killed him had he not been wearing the jerkin. Bartholomew fell back among the smouldering documents, and Honynge leapt on top of him, pummelling him with his fists. The physician tried to push him off, but Honynge was stronger than he looked, and the smoke from the burning deeds was making it difficult to breathe. Bartholomew tried to shout for Michael, but Honynge landed a punch that drove all the breath from his body. Then Honynge’s hands were around his throat, squeezing as hard as they could.

Just when his senses were beginning to reel, Honynge went limp. Michael hauled the physician to his feet, and threw open a window, allowing fresh, clean air to waft inside. The smoke swirled, then began to clear. Bartholomew’s throat hurt, his eyes stung and he could not stop coughing. Michael went to the centre of the room, and began to swing a cloak around his head, in an attempt to dissipate the fumes. Blankpayn lay near the door, blood seeping from under him; he was dead.

‘Are you all right, Matt?’ asked the monk, not stopping his exertions. ‘Damn these silly men! The whole place almost went up – my office is full of old wood and dry parchment.’

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely. He coughed again. ‘Blankpayn?’

‘Fell on his own dagger,’ replied Michael, still swinging vigorously. ‘Help me get rid of this smoke, before the Regents smell it and there is a stampede. We do not want anyone crushed.’

‘And Honynge?’ asked Bartholomew, too shaken to comply.

Candelby was leaning against a wall, looking as though he might be sick. ‘I knocked him senseless with a doorstop after Blankpayn had his mishap – he would have killed you otherwise. They were both deranged! I knew Blankpayn was growing dangerous, but I did not think he would actually harm anyone, especially me. That business with Falmeresham turned his wits.’

Michael regarded him with dislike. ‘Blankpayn was a dangerous man, while Honynge was going to ignite the University Church with all our Regents inside it. However, you recruited them, so you are complicit in their crimes.’

‘No!’ cried Candelby, appalled. ‘I admit I wanted to create confusion, so the Regents would not object when I tripled the rents, but no one was going to be hurt. I was planning to offer money for repairs to the church, too, just to show you that I bear no hard feelings.’

‘I do not believe you.’

‘But it is true,’ wailed Candelby. ‘Ask Honynge when he wakes up. He will tell you we discussed it, and that a box of coins is in my house, ready to be offered as reparation.’

‘I am afraid Honynge will not be giving evidence in your favour,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘You hit him far too hard, and he is no longer breathing.’

‘Well, save him then,’ ordered Candelby, shocked. ‘Flick feathers at him, like Arderne does. I need him alive, so he can tell you I am speaking the truth.’

Michael was unmoved. ‘You have just murdered a member of my University – not one I liked, it is true, but Honynge was a colleague nonetheless.’

‘I did it to save your friend,’ cried Candelby, becoming frightened. ‘You know I did.’

‘Do I? It is still unlawful homicide, and thus a hanging offence.’ Candelby’s jaw dropped, and Michael went on. ‘However, I might be prepared to broker an agreement, if certain conditions are met. One is that you use this box of coins to repair the mess you have made of my office. And the other is that you agree to new terms about the rent.’

‘What new terms?’ squeaked Candelby, thoroughly rattled. ‘You mean to let them stay as they are?’

‘I could say that,’ replied Michael. ‘And you are hardly in a position to quibble. But it would be ungracious, and I would like this dispute resolved amicably. So, we shall offer a rise of five per cent for this year, with the promise of a review next winter. I think that is fair – to both sides.’

‘It is not …’ began Candelby. His face was grey, although Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the notion of being charged with murder or the prospect of losing money that dismayed him more.

‘The alternative is standing trial for Honynge’s death, arson, destroying University property, and whatever other charges I care to bring against you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You may win, of course, and so save your life. Would you take that gamble, Candelby?’

‘No,’ said Candelby weakly. ‘I do not like these odds. You University men are all the same. Honynge claimed he was keeping me informed of University business, but his information was often inaccurate. He told me Borden Hostel was an excellent business opportunity, but it was not. The roof is unstable, and there are huge cracks in the walls. It will cost me a fortune to repair.’

Michael shot him a look that said it served him right. ‘The rent settlement?’ he prompted.

Candelby sighed. ‘Very well. I accept your offer, but you had better not mention this unhappy business with Honynge again – not ever.’

‘Agreed,’ said Michael. ‘Now, I suggest we go into the church and announce that we no longer need the Regents to vote. We shall both smile and claim to be delighted.’

‘I am pleased you have won your war, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could follow the dejected landlord through the door. ‘But if Honynge and Candelby did not kill Lynton, then who did?’

‘Spaldynge,’ replied Michael. ‘He is our killer.’

The announcement that the rent conflict was over was something of an anticlimax, and Gedney was not the only one to grumble that he had missed breakfast for a debate about puddings. Unhappily, Michael watched the Regents file out of the church. Some were laughing at the stupid things William and Morden had said, but others were deeply disappointed that the disagreement had ended peacefully.

‘Many of our scholars cannot believe the dispute is finished, and nor will the town,’ he said worriedly. ‘Wheels have been set in motion, and there is nothing we can do to slow them down.’

Bartholomew rubbed his sore eyes. ‘There must be something.’

‘We can catch the man who killed Lynton and Ocleye,’ said Michael grimly. ‘It may be too late, but we must try.’

Bartholomew followed him out through the great west door and on to the High Street, where they headed towards Clare. ‘You really think Spaldynge is responsible?’

Michael nodded. ‘It is obvious now. He was a regular guest at the Dispensary, but he dislikes physicians – and he told us himself that it was Lynton who failed to save his family during the plague. Further, he probably sold Borden to Candelby because he knew it was about to become very expensive to repair, which goes to show he is sly.’

‘All scholars are sly,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Michael’s logic was as sound as it might have been. The physician was not the only one who was exhausted and not thinking clearly.

When they reached Clare and knocked on the gate, Bartholomew stood with his back to it, aware that a group of potters was loitering nearby. One shouted something about the multilation of Isnard, and another offered to amputate the physician’s head.

‘We had better arrest Spaldynge now,’ said Michael. ‘Then, when everyone sees we have solved the murders at last, they will all calm down.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Arrest him how, exactly? Storm inside and grab him, while all Clare looks on? Are you insane?’

‘We cannot use my beadles, because marching around with an army would not be wise this morning. We cannot afford to be seen behaving in a provocative manner.’

‘Then we should leave this until later. Arresting him now is more likely to inflame than soothe.’

‘He might claim another victim if we do not act at once. Do you want that on your conscience?’

But Bartholomew was growing increasingly uneasy. ‘Spaldynge – if he is our man – is an experienced killer. He is not going to let you escort him away without a fuss. This is madness!’

It was Spaldynge who answered the door, and he carried a small crossbow in his hand. Michael glanced meaningfully at Bartholomew, but the physician was more concerned with how the potters were reacting to the sight of such a deadly weapon. They made themselves scarce before it could be used on them, but he had the feeling they had not gone far.

Spaldynge smirked his satisfaction. ‘Did you see that rabble slink away? That showed them we are not all helpless priests without the wherewithal to defend ourselves.’

‘That is a handsome implement,’ said Michael, flinching when it started to come around to point at him. ‘How long have you had it?’

‘About a week,’ replied Spaldynge. ‘It was a gift.’

‘Very nice,’ said Bartholomew, backing away and trying to drag Michael with him. ‘You are clearly busy, so we will come back later.’

‘A gift from whom?’ demanded Michael, pulling himself free.

‘From someone who said I might need to defend myself,’ replied Spaldynge. ‘Because of Borden.’

He gestured that they were to enter his College. Bartholomew baulked, but Michael strode confidently across the threshold. Loath to leave his friend alone, the physician followed, fumbling for one of his surgical knives as he did so. Spaldynge barred the door behind them, and Bartholomew swallowed hard, aware that it would make escape that much more difficult. He glanced at Michael, who did not seem to care that his rash determination to seize his culprit was putting them both in danger.

‘What about Borden?’ demanded Bartholomew, nervousness making him speak more curtly than he had intended. He braced himself, half-expecting to be shot there and then.

‘I sold it to Candelby,’ said Spaldynge impatiently. ‘You know that. My benefactor said I might need to defend myself against colleagues who may accuse me of wrongdoing.’

‘Your colleagues will applaud your actions,’ countered Michael. ‘You hawked Candelby a house that is structurally unsound, and that will cost him a fortune to renovate.’

Spaldynge regarded him coolly. ‘Kardington asked me not to tell anyone that, because he said it would make us look deceitful. We do not want anyone assuming we rid ourselves of a burden …’

‘I see,’ said Michael, when he faltered. ‘Borden was sold because it was about to become a millstone around Clare’s neck, and the transaction was made with the full support of the Master and Fellows. No wonder you have remained on such good terms with them! Far from doing something to damage your College, you have acted in their best interests, and nobly shouldered the blame.’

‘You cannot prove it, and we will deny everything.’

‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael. He sighed, tiring of games. ‘Who gave you the bow?’

‘I decline to say. It is none of your business, and you should be out quelling riots or hunting Motelete’s killer, not strutting around in company with a physician.’ He almost spat the last word.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Kardington, striding across the yard towards them. Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse was at his side. ‘I do not like the feel of the town today.’

‘Neither do I,’ agreed Wisbeche. ‘So Kardington offered my students and me refuge until it is safe to go home. It was clever of you to reach that last-minute agreement with Candelby, and thus avoid a vote that would have split the University, but it has done little to ease the tension with the town.’

Bartholomew saw the scholars of Peterhouse talking to the members of Clare, and hoped none would remember that they had been going to stand against each other at the Convocation. Wisbeche and Kardington were civilised, but that did not mean their flocks would be equally well behaved.

‘Well, you know Cambridge,’ said Spaldynge, toting his bow. ‘Any excuse for a riot.’

‘Put that down,’ ordered Kardington crossly. ‘It is against the rules for scholars to carry weapons, and if you do it in front of the Senior Proctor, he will hit you where it hurts – in the purse.’

‘It is not illegal inside my own College,’ objected Spaldynge. ‘And I do not … Oh, Christ! I am sorry, Master Wisbeche. Are you hurt?’

‘You have ruined my tabard!’ exclaimed Wisbeche. He was angry, but aware that he was a guest in someone else’s College, and so not in a position to say what he really thought. ‘There is a hole in it!’

‘You are a menace, Spaldynge,’ snapped Kardington, mortified. ‘Either take that thing to the orchard and learn how to shoot properly, or I shall confiscate it. I do not feel safe as long as you are unfamiliar with its workings.’

‘Whoever killed Lynton and Ocleye was an excellent shot,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, when Spaldynge had gone to do as he was told. ‘He hid in a place where he could not be seen – which means he was probably some distance away – and his bolts went through their hearts. Once may have been luck, but twice suggests he knew what he was doing.’

Wisbeche looked from one to the other. ‘If you suspect Spaldynge of Lynton’s murder, you must think again. He could not hit a bull if it was standing on his own toes. He brandishes the wretched thing as if he means business, but he barely knows one end from the other, and I had to show him how to wind it.’ He inspected his damaged tabard, and gave the impression that he wished he had not bothered.

‘Spaldynge did not kill Lynton,’ lisped Kardington, bemused. ‘He was Lynton’s patient, and appreciated the tactful way he treated a rather embarrassing condition. Now Lynton is dead, he will have to explain everything to another medicus, something he is dreading.’

‘But he hated Lynton,’ said Michael, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Because of the plague.’

‘He does despise physicians,’ agreed Kardington. ‘But he is still obliged to avail himself of their services on occasion.’

‘The relationship between Spaldynge and Lynton could be described as coolly civil,’ added Wisbeche. ‘Spaldynge came to Peterhouse for consultations, but although they did not like each other, there was never any hint of hostility. Lynton would not have kept him as a patient, if there had been.’

‘Spaldynge was our last suspect,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘I do not know where to go from here.’

‘Go home, Brother,’ said Kardington kindly. ‘The Colleges are the only safe places to be today, and at least you are relieved of Honynge’s objectionable presence. If you could be rid of Tyrington, too, Michaelhouse would be a delightful foundation.’

The monk agreed, frustration and disappointment making him bitter. ‘If Tyrington spits at me one more time, I am going to empty my wine goblet over him. I wish we had not been so efficient at offering him a place. He would have been your problem, had we dallied.’

Kardington was startled. ‘Mine?’

‘He was invited to take a Fellowship here, at Clare. You had a narrow escape. However, we will willingly part with him, if you find yourselves in need of a slobbering theologian.’

‘He was never offered a post,’ said Kardington, astonished. ‘We do not need any theologians at the moment, and we would not have chosen him if we had. We do not want our books soaked in saliva.’

‘He said you were keen to have him,’ said Michael.

‘He offered us his services when Wenden died, but we declined. He applied to Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Gonville, too, but they also rejected him. I imagine he was delighted when poor Kenyngham’s demise opened a position at Michaelhouse.’

‘He might just as easily have gone to Peterhouse,’ said Michael, turning to Wisbeche. ‘Lynton’s death meant an opening in your Fellowship, too.’

‘We had decided the next vacancy would remain unfilled long before Lynton died,’ replied Wisbeche. ‘I told you – we need to conserve funds, and a senior member’s salary is a lot of money.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But you did not tell anyone that until after Lynton was dead.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Wisbeche. ‘Of course, Tyrington was desperate. The lease on Piron Hostel expired this week, and he had nowhere else to go.’

‘No, it was due to run out in September,’ corrected Michael. ‘He told us so the day Langelee wrote inviting him to join us at Michaelhouse.’

‘It expired this week,’ repeated Wisbeche firmly. ‘Why do you think Candelby spent so much money on making it nice? Because a goldsmith was ready to occupy it the moment Tyrington left. It is a lovely house, in a pleasant part of town, and Candelby was eager to charge a princely rent as soon as possible.’

‘Wisbeche is right,’ said Kardington, seeing Michael look sceptical. ‘I overheard the goldsmith and Candelby talking myself. Tyrington is a meek, amiable fellow, who let Candelby enter the house and effect inconvenient renovations whenever he wanted, even when he was teaching.’

Bartholomew was appalled. How could he and Michael have been so wrong? ‘Who gave Spaldynge the crossbow, Master Kardington?’ he demanded. ‘This is important.’

‘It is funny you should ask,’ replied Kardington. ‘Because we have just been talking about him. It was Tyrington. He said he no longer had need of it.’

Bartholomew ran all the way back to Michaelhouse, Michael trotting behind him. The monk was panting like a cow in labour, and Bartholomew itched to go behind him and give him a push, to make him move faster. They did not have time for such stately progress.

‘How could we have been so blind?’ he groaned, disgusted with himself.

‘It is only obvious now we have all the facts,’ gasped Michael. ‘Tyrington shot Lynton because he wanted a place at a College, not knowing that Peterhouse was going to freeze the post to save money. And he killed Ocleye because he was a witness to the murder.’

‘No, that does not work. Ocleye knew what was going to happen, because Paxtone said he was smiling in a way that suggested the shooting was no surprise. However, do you recall what Rougham told me? He saw Ocleye conducting shady business with a hooded man who drank his ale, but did not eat his pie. Rougham assumed it was the nature of their business that made the man lose his appetite, but he was wrong.’

‘Tyrington, alone of everyone we know, dislikes the Angel’s pies,’ finished Michael. ‘Do you recall how easily he hit Carton with his balls of parchment in the hall the other day? Lobbing missiles does not equate to accuracy with a crossbow, but it goes to show a reasonable dexterity.’

‘So, he must have written the letters about Kenyngham,’ added Bartholomew. ‘He decided to distract you away from Lynton – his victim – by claiming Kenyngham was murdered. And when you wanted to exhume Kenyngham, he argued violently against it.’

‘Because he knew the death was natural,’ completed Michael. ‘And he did not want us to find out, because it would mean I would stop wasting time on a murder that never happened.’

‘So, when you were refused permission to exhume, he put the top half of the rent agreement – the one he had taken from Lynton’s body – in the Illeigh Hutch. He intended you to think Honynge was the killer, another ruse to draw attention away from himself. We suspected the culprit was a Michaelhouse man, because only we have access to the College’s money chests.’

‘Why did he part with the deed at all, when he must have taken a considerable risk to acquire it in the first place?’

‘Because he had inadvertently left the most important part – the section with the signatures – behind anyway. The top half was essentially useless, which must have alarmed him when he reached home and inspected it.’

‘Why did he want it at all? It was not his name on the thing.’

‘I imagine because Ocleye was his spy, and he did not want anyone learning that Ocleye could afford houses on the High Street – it would have led to questions. Tyrington dislikes attention, which is why he was always punctilious at paying his rent. He did not want trouble. Hurry, Brother!’

They finally reached the College, only to have Langelee report that Tyrington had not returned after the Convocation.

‘Where is he?’ demanded Michael, grabbing the master’s arm for support. ‘Is anyone else missing?’

‘Just him,’ replied Langelee. ‘Why? Is this about the fact that the Angel pot-boys have just delivered a scroll they found among Ocleye’s possessions? It is inscribed with Tyrington’s name. I think they brought it as an excuse to get inside Michaelhouse, and I do not believe their tale about finding it in Ocleye’s bags. But Tyrington’s name is on it nonetheless. Ocleye must have stolen it from him.’

‘Ocleye and Tyrington knew each other well,’ said Wynewyk, overhearing. ‘I saw them together at the Dispensary several times. They were on good terms, although they pretended otherwise in company. I watched Tyrington lend Ocleye money once, when he wanted to place a bet.’

‘Come quickly,’ shouted Cynric suddenly. He was standing on top of the main gate. ‘I thought I could smell burning, so I came up here to look. Something is on fire.’

‘Well?’ called Michael, when Bartholomew and Langelee had scrambled up to stand at Cynric’s side. The monk was far too large for that sort of caper. ‘It is not Gonville, because the flames are too far away. Is it Trinity Hall? One of the hostels?’

‘It is impossible to say,’ said Langelee. ‘You and Bartholomew check; I will stay here.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘We take the risks while you have dinner?’

‘You are the Senior Proctor,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘As you never cease to remind us. It is your duty to investigate trouble – and people may have need of a physician. Meanwhile, I shall improve our defences. If there is a fracas today, we will not go up in flames.’

Bartholomew and Michael hurried along Milne Street. Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief when he saw Trinity Hall safe, and was pleased the smoke was not coming from Clare, either. They ran on, past the Church of St John Zachary, and towards the Carmelite Friary.

The smell of burning had encouraged others out, too, and because fire was feared in any town where buildings were made of wood and thatch, there was a good deal of panic. There was a good deal of menace, too, and the situation suddenly took a turn for the worse when the group of potters they had seen outside Clare earlier appeared on the road ahead of them. Bartholomew staggered when one collided with him, although the lad who tried the same with Michael bounced off the rotund figure and fell in a ditch.

‘Not my fault,’ wheezed Michael. ‘A man my size takes a while to stop once he is on the move.’

‘You have no right to arrest Arderne,’ the apprentice yelled. He picked up a stone and hurled it. The physician ducked and it cracked into the wall above his head.

‘We should turn back,’ whispered Michael. ‘It is not safe out here. Tyrington can wait.’

More missiles flew, and Bartholomew covered his head with his hands. When he glanced up, the potters were racing towards them en masse. ‘Run, Michael! Now!’

Michael did not need to be told a second time. He set off at a furious waddle. ‘Run where?’

‘St John Zachary,’ yelled Bartholomew. The monk would never make it to Michaelhouse, and the church was the closest available building. ‘It should be open, and they will not attack us if we claim sanctuary.’

The potters were gaining. Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him along at a speed that threatened to have them both over, but the monk made no complaint. He did his best to move at the pace Bartholomew was dictating, but he was too fat and too slow. Bartholomew saw they were going to be caught. He increased his efforts, muscles burning with the strain.

When they reached the chapel, he took his childbirth forceps and brandished them, to give Michael time to stumble through the graveyard. The monk flung open the door, and Bartholomew turned and dashed inside. He had only just slammed it closed when the potters crashed against it, trying to shove it open with the weight of their bodies. Michael snatched up a heavy wooden bar and rammed it into two slots on either side of the doorframe. Then he collapsed in a breathless heap on the floor.

‘So much for sanctuary,’ muttered Bartholomew, as the church echoed with the sound of angrily pounding fists and kicking feet.

‘Check the windows,’ gasped Michael. ‘Hurry! Make sure they are all barred, or these louts will be inside in a trice. God help us, Matt, but they mean business!’

‘… Senior Proctor and his physician,’ Bartholomew heard someone holler. ‘We have them trapped.’

‘Storm the gaol!’ cried someone else. ‘Let Arderne out.’

Bartholomew dashed down the south aisle, but the windows in the dilapidated little church had long-since rotted away and had been replaced by solid boards. All seemed secure, so he ran to the north aisle, which was in a better state of repair, because it formed part of Clare’s boundary wall. None of the shutters could be opened from the inside, and the single opening in the Lady Chapel was locked shut.

‘Damn,’ muttered Bartholomew, although he was not surprised. Cynric had once told him it was impossible to go from church to Clare once the windows were closed. ‘I was hoping we could take refuge with Kardington.’

Michael’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His face was scarlet, and Bartholomew hoped he would not have a seizure. ‘Can you see anything? What are the potters doing?’ he gasped.

Bartholomew peered through a crack in the wood. ‘There must be a dozen of them. They seem intent on–’ He jerked back as something heavy was hurled at the window through which he had been looking. Fragments of plaster showered down from the wall.

‘The two most hated men in Cambridge,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘The physician who helped arrest Arderne, and the University proctor who crushed the alliance of the landlords. We are not good company for each other today – too tempting a target.’

There was a colossal thump on the door.

‘Kardington used the window in the Lady Chapel as a door into Clare,’ said Bartholomew, darting towards it. ‘We must open it somehow – we cannot stay here, because those potters mean to break in. They are using a cart as a battering ram.’

There was a sudden crack on the window in question. Bartholomew peered through a gap at the bottom of it, and saw a score of students milling outside. They were piling old wood against the shutter, and one was standing by with a lighted torch. The physician turned to Michael in bewilderment.

‘It looks as though we shall all die together,’ came a soft voice from the chancel.

‘Tyrington!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘What are you doing here?’

A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind registered how odd it was that the little church should be so still inside, when there was such a commotion outside. To the south, the potters were pounding the door with their cart, screaming their fury at the men trapped within. To the north, the students of Clare and their Peterhouse guests were busily piling firewood against the Lady Chapel window with the clear intent of setting it alight. They, too, were yelling.

‘One of two things is going to happen,’ said Tyrington in a low whisper. ‘Either the townsmen will break in and we shall be torn to pieces – there will be no reasoning with them. Or the Clare boys will set the church alight and we shall die of smoke and flames.’

‘Why would they destroy their own chapel?’ demanded Michael, not believing him.

‘Because he is in here,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at Tyrington. ‘And the Peterhouse students know he killed Lynton, because we told their Master – their Clare friends are just enjoying a spot of mischief. Besides, who will miss this old building? It is on the verge of collapse anyway.’

‘It was rash to blab about me to anyone who happened to be listening,’ said Tyrington. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘The Peterhouse lads saw me walking along Milne Street after they left Clare, and I only just managed to reach this church before they caught me. I was about to bar the door when the potters arrived, and the students fled back to Clare. I decided to wait it out – to stay here until the streets became calm. But then you two came along, and now we are all trapped, like fish in a barrel.’

‘I am not going to die,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘Not after surviving that run.’

‘The students nailed the Lady Chapel window closed, to make sure I cannot escape, and they know that if I leave any other way the townsmen will have me. I am doomed, and you will share my fate. It serves you right – you are my colleagues, but you betrayed me by telling Peterhouse what I had done.’

Michael hammered on the window until his hands hurt, but no amount of shouting distracted the students from their bonfire. They assumed it was Tyrington making the racket, and ignored it. Then came the smell of burning. The lad with the torch had touched it to the wood, and it was already alight.

‘You see?’ asked Tyrington. ‘Is it hopeless.’

‘I should have known you were not the kind of man we wanted in Michaelhouse,’ shouted the monk furiously, while Bartholomew prowled the church in search of another exit. It was not looking promising, and the bar keeping the door closed was beginning to buckle under the potters’ battering.

‘And why is that?’ asked Tyrington, maddeningly calm.

‘Because of something Kenyngham said before he died,’ replied Bartholomew, looking at the ruins of the spiral stairway that led to the roof. There had been another fall since his last visit, and it was now almost completely blocked with large stones. ‘He must have guessed you would apply for his post, because he told me to beware of crocodiles who made timely appearances. We needed a theologian, and there you were. Crocodiles and shooting stars. You and Arderne. Dear, wise old Kenyngham.’

‘He was a fool,’ said Tyrington in disgust. ‘And he should have died years ago, so better, more able men could take his place. I wish he had been poisoned, because it might have encouraged other useless ancients to resign and make way for new blood.’

‘Lynton was not the first man you killed in the hope of earning yourself a Fellowship, was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You shot Wenden, too.’

Tyrington shrugged. ‘It was easy to convince everyone that a drowned and drunken tinker was responsible – all it took was Wenden’s purse planted among his belongings. After all, I did not want anyone turning suspicious eyes on the man who stepped into the dead man’s shoes. My plan worked perfectly – or would have done, had Clare bothered to appoint Wenden’s successor.’

‘His post was non-stipendiary,’ said Michael. ‘So Clare could not appoint a successor – there was no money to fund one. You should have been more careful with your selection of victims.’

Tyrington shook his head wonderingly. ‘I chose Wenden because he was mean and did virtually no teaching. He hurt Clare in other ways, too, such as by leaving his money to the Bishop of Lincoln–’

‘Which precipitated another unhappy chain of events,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘The realisation that there would be no money from Wenden forced Clare to sell Borden Hostel before it needed expensive repairs. That served to strengthen Candelby’s hand against the University. You are a low, sly villain, Tyrington. You caused all manner of harm for your own selfish ends. You offered me twenty marks to find Kenyngham’s killer, then you wrote confessing to his murder. You penned them in different hands to confuse me.’

Tyrington shrugged. ‘You were paying too much attention to Lynton, so I decided to sidetrack you – to encourage you look into the death of a man you liked.’

‘We saw you,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew scramble into the stairwell and wrestle with the fallen stones. ‘You delivered the so-called confession to Michaelhouse, and we saw you leave. You almost collided with a cart, but instead of yelling at the driver, like a normal man, you slunk away.’

‘I dislike drawing attention to myself.’

Bartholomew gave up on the stones, and dashed back to the Lady Chapel. The window was hot, and he knew it would not be long before it burst into flames. Then the students would push the smouldering wood inside the church, and the building would fill with smoke. Meanwhile, the door was beginning to yield, and it would not be long before the potters streamed in. He wondered whether they or the fire would get him first. He heard furious voices coming from Clare, loud and shrill with indignation, and strained to hear what was being said. It was not difficult. The speaker was almost howling in his rage.

‘Spaldynge has just found a letter in his room, bearing his forged signature,’ he said to Michael. ‘He says it was a suicide note, and there was a flask of wine with it.’

‘Poison,’ explained Tyrington. ‘My University would be better off without the likes of Spaldynge. He sold property belonging to his College and he argued against my admission to Clare. He said I spit, which is untrue. It is a pity he found the note before the wine. If it had been the other way around, he would have swallowed my anonymous gift without question.’

‘Now I see why you gave him the crossbow,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘I suppose this note contains a confession for killing Lynton, too – Spaldynge is in possession of the murder weapon, after all.’

A huge crash summoned Bartholomew back to the door. It bowed dramatically and, sensing they were almost in, the townsmen were redoubling their efforts. Meanwhile, smoke was billowing from the Lady Chapel. For the second time that day, Bartholomew began to cough.

‘You snatched the tenancy agreement from Lynton’s body,’ said Michael to Tyrington, while Bartholomew darted back to the staircase again. ‘You must have done it during the confusion of the ensuing skirmish, because no one has reported seeing you there.’

Tyrington smiled mirthlessly. ‘A lot of people had gathered that day, and I pride myself on blending in with a crowd. No one saw me – not watching the aftermath of Lynton’s shooting, and not taking the rent agreement, either.’

‘But why did you grab it?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Because there was no need to besmirch my new College – Peterhouse – by having Lynton’s sordid dealings exposed. But in the end I went to Michaelhouse. It is a strange world.’

‘And Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘We know he was spying for you.’

‘He provided me with information, but guessed what I was going to do. I predicted he would try to blackmail me, so I reloaded and killed him during the confusion of the brawl. I gashed his stomach, too, so you would think a knife, not a crossbow, was responsible.’

‘You seem remarkably calm for a man who is about to die,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes.

The door gave a tearing groan that had the potters roaring encouragement to the fellows with the cart. Almost simultaneously, the Lady Chapel window collapsed inwards, and flames shot across the floor. They ignited a pile of leaves that had been swept into a corner, and something in the faint remains of the wall paintings began to smoulder.

‘I have wanted to be a Fellow all my adult life – to live in a College, and enjoy the companionship of like minds. Now I have lost it, I do not care what happens. But I shall die in good company, at least.’

Bartholomew was not interested in Tyrington’s confessions. When the door screamed on its failing hinges, panic gave him the strength he needed to move the stone that was blocking his way into the stairwell. It tumbled into the chancel with a resounding crash.

‘Michael!’ he shouted, squeezing through the resulting gap. ‘This way.’

The monk, keeping a wary eye on Tyrington, hurried over. He stared in dismay at the small space the physician had cleared. ‘I cannot cram myself through that!’

The door gave another monstrous groan. ‘Come on!’ yelled Bartholomew, holding out his hand. ‘You, too, Tyrington. You will not hang under canon law, and you may find your like-minded community in some remote convent in the Fens.’

The door was being held by splinters, and one more blow from the cart would see it collapse. Michael inserted his bulk into the opening. He blotted out all light, so it was pitch dark. Bartholomew grabbed his flailing arm and hauled. Michael yelped as masonry tore his habit. There was a resounding crack as the door flew open. Then the church was full of yells and screams. Bartholomew heaved with all his might, and the monk shot upwards. They were past the worst of the rubble.

Bartholomew groped his way up the stairs, trying not to inhale the smoke that wafted around him. Below, Michael was hacking furiously. Then the steps ended, and with a shock, the physician realised what had caused the debris: the upper stairs no longer existed. Appalled, he scrabbled around in the dark, and ascertained that small parts of the steps had survived, jutting from the central pillar like rungs on a one-sided ladder. Michael wailed his horror when his outstretched fingers encountered the void.

‘What is left is too narrow for me,’ he screeched. ‘I will fall!’

‘They are wider up here,’ called Bartholomew encouragingly. He coughed. ‘Hurry, Michael! Someone is coming after us.’

‘Tyrington,’ gasped the monk. ‘He has had second thoughts about dying in the nave.’

Suddenly, Michael lost his footing, his downward progress arrested only because Tyrington was in the way. He shrieked his alarm, and Tyrington made no sound at all. Bartholomew leaned down and pulled with all his might, trying to lift Michael into a position where he would be able to climb on his own. The sinews in his shoulder cracked as they took the monk’s full weight.

Then the pressure eased, and Michael was ascending again. The stairs were in better condition nearer the top, although they were littered with fallen masonry, and perilously dark. Bartholomew slipped and fell, colliding with Michael behind him. Michael gave him a hard shove that propelled him upwards, faster than he had anticipated, and he slipped again.

‘Hurry, Matt! I cannot breathe!’

Bartholomew reached the door that led to the roof, only to find it locked. His arms were heavy, and he knew he was making no impact as he pounded ineffectually on it. Michael shoved him out of the way, and his bulk made short work of the rotten wood. The door flew into pieces, and clean air and daylight flooded into the stairwell.

‘They have lit a fire at the bottom,’ Tyrington croaked. ‘I can hear it crackling. Help me!’

Michael scrambled out on to the roof, while Bartholomew retraced his steps to rescue his terrified colleague. Tyrington gripped his outstretched hand, but then started to pull, dragging the physician back down towards the nave. Bartholomew tried to free himself, but his shoulder burned from where he had lifted Michael, and he found he did not have the strength to resist. The smoke was thick, and he could not breathe. Through the haze, he could see Tyrington grinning wildly.

‘Come with me,’ he crooned. ‘The two of us will die side by side. Fellows together in adversity.’

Bartholomew fell another three steps. He was dizzy from a lack of air, and his eyes smarted so much that Tyrington’s smile began to blur. Suddenly, there was an immense pressure around his middle, and his hand shot out of Tyrington’s grasp.

‘No!’ wailed Tyrington. ‘Come back! Michaelhouse men should–’

‘–not try to incinerate each other,’ finished Michael, grunting as he heaved the physician upwards by his belt. ‘I shall make sure I add it to the Statutes.’

Then they were at the door and out into the cool, fresh air. Bartholomew coughed, trying to catch his breath, and it occurred to him that their situation was not much improved. A rank stench of singed flesh wafted upwards, and he could hear victorious yells from the church. Meanwhile, the students of Clare and Peterhouse were peering upwards. Spaldynge was among them, and he held his crossbow. He took aim, but something was wrong with the mechanism, and he lowered it in puzzlement.

‘Look,’ shouted Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder and pointing. ‘You can see the Trumpington Gate from here. Guess who has just ridden through it.’

‘I cannot think,’ Bartholomew croaked. ‘And I can barely see you, let alone the Trumpington Gate,’

‘It is Sheriff Tulyet. And not a moment too soon.’