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 ex
ample, 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.
‘Helti
sle 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.’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 21