A Plague on Both Your Houses (3 page)

Alexander solicitously escorted Augustus towards

the north wing of the College where the commoners

lived. As they went, Bartholomew could hear Augustus

telling Alexander that he would not need any supper as he had just eaten a large rat he had seen coming out of the hall.

Swynford put his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder

and turned him towards St Michael’s. ‘Tend to him later, Matt. We should take our places in the church.’

Bartholomew assented, and together they walked

up St Michael’s Lane to the High Street. Throngs of

people milled around outside the church, attracted no

doubt by hopes of more scattered pennies.

They elbowed their way through the crowd, earning

hostile glances from some people. The last fight between the scholars and the townspeople had been less than

a month before, and two young apprentices had been

hanged for stabbing a student to death. Feelings still ran high, and Bartholomew was glad when he reached the

church doors.

Father William had already begun to celebrate

the mass, gabbling through the words at a speed

that never failed to impress Bartholomew. The friar

glanced across at the late-comers as they took their

places at the altar rail, but his face betrayed no sign of annoyance. Brother Michael, for all his mumblings

during the College ceremony, had rehearsed his choir

well, and even the clamour of the people waiting outside lessened as angelic voices soared through the church.

Bartholomew smiled. Sir John had loved the choir,

and often gave the children extra pennies to sing while he dined in College. Bartholomew wondered whether

Master Wilson would spare a few pennies for music to

brighten the long winter evenings. He stole a glance at Wilson to see if there was any indication that he was

appreciating the singing. Wilson’s head was bowed as

he knelt, but his eyes were open and fixed on his

hands. Bartholomew looked closer, and almost laughed

aloud. Wilson was calculating something, counting on

his fat, bejewelled fingers. His mind was as far from

Michael’s music or William’s mass as Augustus’s would

have been.

The church became stuffy from the large number

of people packed into it, and an overwhelming number

of smells began to pervade: strongly scented cloth, sweat, incense, feet, and, as always, the rank stink of the river underlying it all. Occasionally, a cooling breeze would waft in through one of the glassless windows, bringing a momentof relief to those inside. Despite Father William’s speedy diction, the ceremonial mass was long, and, for those townspeople who did not know Latin, incomprehensible.

Students and citizens alike became bored: first

they shuffled, trying to ease legs aching from standing, and then, restlessly, they began to whisper to each other.

Finally, the mass ended, and Wilson led the way out

of the church and back to College for the celebratory

feast. The sky that had been a brilliant blue for most of the day had started to cloud over. Bartholomew

shivered, finding the fresh air chilly after the closeness of the church.

Outside, the crowd of townspeople had grown, drawn

by the pomp and splendour. Bartholomew could see

that their mood was surly, resentful of the wealth that bespoke itself in the gowns of many of the scholars, and of their assumed superiority. As Wilson’s procession filed out of the church, Bartholomew could hear whispered

comments about idle scholars draining the town of its

affluence, comments that became more than whispers

as the crowd grew in confidence.

Aware that such an ostentatious display of Michaelhouse wealth might serve to alienate the townspeople,

Wilson had ordered tiiat coins be distributed among the poor to celebrate his new post. Cynric and the other

book-bearers, who had been told to give out the small

leather bags containing pennies, were almost mobbed

as the crowd surged towards them. Immediately, any

semblance of order was lost, as handfuls of money were grabbed by those strong enough to push their way to the front. Fists began to fly, and the book-bearers beat a hasty retreat, leaving the crowd to fight over the coins.

Bartholomew saw students begin to group together,

some of them holding sticks and small knives. Hastily he ordered them back to their Colleges or hostels. It would take very little to spark off a town brawl. Even the sight of a group of students, armed and spoiling for a fight, could be enough to start a full scale riot.

Most of the studentsleft, many looking disappointed,

but Bartholomew saw two of Michaelhouse’s students,

the Oliver brothers, darting here and there. Within a

few minutes they had assembled a group of at least

thirty black-gowned scholars, some from Michaelhouse,

but most from other Colleges and hostels.

He groaned to himself. He strongly suspected that

the Oliver brothers had been involved in starting the

last town brawl. And what better time for another than now? The townsfolk were already massed, many angry

that they had not managed to grab any of Wilson’s

money, and resentment still festered regarding the

hanging of the two apprentices. It would take only a

shouted insult from a student to a townsperson, and

all hell would break loose. Some would just use fists, but others, especially the Oliver brothers, would use

knives and sharpened sticks, and the injuries, like last time, would be horrific. Why anyone would want to start such a scene was beyond Bartholomew’s imagination, but there were the students, already furtively sharing out the illicit weapons they had concealed in their robes.

Cynric stood behind him. ‘Cynric! Fetch the Proctor

and warn him that there may be trouble,’

Bartholomew said urgently.

‘As quick as I can,’ Cynric whispered, grabbing

Bartholomew’s sleeve, ‘but watch out for yourself. This looks ugly.’ When Bartholomew turned to look at him,

he had already gone, moving quickly in and out of the

lengthening shadows with all the stealth of a cat.

The light was failing quickly now, and it was difficult to distinguish faces. The Oliver brothers, however, could be identified in virtually any light. Well over six feet tall, they both sported long fair hair that fell to their shoulders and were renowned for their flamboyant

clothes. Even in the gloom, Bartholomew could see

gold thread glittering on the gown of Elias, the elder of the two.

‘All Michaelhouse scholars have been invited to

attend Master Wilson’s feast,’ said Bartholomew pleasantly to Elias. ‘It should be a night to remember. I am

sure you will enjoy it.’

Nephews of the influential Abbess of St Radegund’s

Convent, Michaelhouse had been enticed to accept the

Olivers as students in exchange for a small house on

Foul Lane. They were not noted for their dedication

to learning: Elias could barely read and write, although his younger brother showed a natural quickness of mind that could have been trained in scholarly matters had he shown the slightest willingness to learn.

‘We have promised to visit our aunt tonight.’ Henry

Oliver had approached unnoticed. The slow-witted

Elias gave him a grateful look, and Bartholomew,

not for the first time, had to admire young Oliver’s

cunning. How could a teacher of Michaelhouse forbid

a devoted nephew from visiting the venerable Abbess of St Radegund’s?

‘This is a very special day for our new Master,’ said

Bartholomew. “I know he would appreciate both of you

being present to share it with him.’

Henry Oliver narrowed his eyes. ‘But we have

promised our aunt,’ he said in a mock-pleading

manner. “I could not bear to have the noble lady

disappointed.’

‘I am sure she will not be,’ insisted Bartholomew,

‘when you explain why.’ Hiding his irritation at Oliver’s ploy - after all, the Abbess of St Radegund’s was no

frail old crone living solely for visits from her kin, but a healthy, strong-minded woman in early middle age he

took Oliver firmly by the arm and began walking

towards St Michael’s Lane. Behind them, the students

muttered, but, deprived of their leader, reluctantly

began to disperse, those from Michaelhouse falling in

behind Bartholomew and Henry.

Bartholomew felt, rather than saw, the shower of

small stones that followed them. Henry slowed, and tried to turn back, but Bartholomew dragged him round the

corner into St Michael’s Lane, and increased his speed as much as he could without actually breaking into a run.

He stole a glance behind him, and saw that a good part of the crowd from outside the church had followed them,

and Bartholomew and his students were outnumbered

at least five to one.

‘We should all have stayed together,’ Henry Oliver

hissed, squirming in Bartholomew’s grasp. ‘Now, what

chance do we have!’

‘Every chance if we do not retaliate,’ Bartholomew

returned, nevertheless unnerved by the continuing hail of small stones that rained down upon them.

They neared the College gates, and Bartholomew

wondered whether the last of the students would be able to escape the crowd. He let go of Henry, and pushed

him towards the College. ‘Go quickly!’ he said urgently, ‘And make sure the gates are ready to be fastened once all the students are inside.’

Henry needed no second bidding; he was no fool and

knew when courage in a fight became stupidity. He set off down the lane with his fellow students streaming behind him. Bartholomew saw that a group of four scholars, Elias Oliver included, had been slow to follow him, and were now being jostled and shoved by those at the front of the advancing crowd. A sturdy man in a blacksmith’s apron

gave Elias a hard push, almost sending him sprawling.

Elias bunched his fists, his face a mask of anger. One of the other students pulled him forward as Bartholomew

silently urged them not to fight back.

The first of the four broke into a run. He reached

the College gates, and was hauled through them by

those already safe inside. Bartholomew noticed that

Henry had the sturdy oak gates all but closed already, just a crack remaining to allow the stragglers in before they would be slammed shut on the mob outside.

As Elias drew level with Bartholomew, the blacksmith

drew a wicked-looking blade from his apron, and jabbed wildly with it. Bartholomewwrenched Elias outof the path of the slicing blade and, abandoning all further pretence of calm, yelled for the last three students to run for their lives. White-faced, they obeyed, only just staying ahead of the mob, which surged after them. Gasping for breath, the three, with Bartholomew at the rear, shot through

the gates, which were slammed shut; heavy bars were

shot across as the mob crashed into them.

Bartholomew heard screams and yells, and knew

that the people in the front were being crushed against the gates and walls by those behind. A student slumped to the ground as a further barrage of stones flew over the high walls. Master Wilson came scurrying out of the hall, flanked by his Fellows and guests, to see what all the commotion was about, and stopped short as he saw

the lethal volley of missiles raining over the walls.

‘A fitting end to a miserable day.’ Bartholomew

turned, and saw Giles Abigny helping to hold the

gate against the battering from outside. He winced as

a particularly heavy thump jarred it. Leaving his post to be filled by the students that came pouring from the dormitories at the sound of the affray, most already in their cleanest gowns in anticipation of the feast to come, he motioned Bartholomew into a doorway where they

could not be overheard, his fresh face unusually serious.

‘We should pick our scholars more carefully, Matt. Young Henry Oliver was all set to slam the door before you were inside, and would have done had I not been there.’

Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief. ‘You must

be mistaken, he…’

‘No mistake, Matt. I heard him say to that spotty

student of yours, the one from Fen Ditton who always

has a cold …’

‘Francis Eltham?’

‘Indeed. I heard him tell Eltham to make sure that

the gate was closed before you reached it. I ensured

it remained open, but Oliver was furious. Look at

him now.’

Bartholomew easily spotted the Oliver brothers

among the milling students - they stood a head taller

than the rest. Now that the immediate danger was over, the scholars had regained their confidence, and were

shouting taunts to the people outside. Henry Oliver did not join in. He stood glowering, his face distorted with anger. Bartholomew saw him raise a bunched fist, and

Eltham shrank back. As if he felt their eyes on him, Oliver turned his head slowly and stared back. Bartholomew felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he felt the venom of his stare. Abruptly, Oliver turned away, and stalked off towards his room.

‘What have you done to deserve that?’ wondered

Abigny, disconcerted at such raw hatred.

‘Prevented him from starting a riot, I suppose,’ said

Bartholomew. “I had no idea he was so dedicated to

causing chaos.’

The shouting outside the gates increased, and then

faltered. Bartholomew heard horses’ hooves, and knew

that the Sheriff and his troops had arrived, and were

beginning to disperse the crowd. The battering on the

College gates stopped, and the only sounds were the

Sheriffs men telling people they could either go home