Death of a Scholar (50 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘They—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘One thing at a time,’ said Michael.

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

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

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

‘Potmoor? How should I know where he—’

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

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

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

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