‘The whole town has gone mad!’ said Cynric, looking about him in disgust. ‘Come away, boy. This is no place for us.’
Bartholomew struggled to his feet, and prepared to follow Cynric. Nearby, another wooden building, this used to store spare posts and canvas, began to fall screech of wrenching wood almost drowned in the of flames. With a shock that felt as though the blood draining from his veins, Bartholomew glimpsed Michael standing directly in its path as it began to tilt. He <…> his shouted warning would not pass his frozen lips, was too late anyway. He saw Michael throw his arms at his head in a hopeless attempt to protect himself, and entire structure crashed down on top of him.
Bartholomew’s knife had slipped from his nerve fingers before Cynric’s gasp of horror brought him to his senses. Ripping off his tabard to wrap around hands, he raced towards the burning building. Oblivious to the heat, he began to pull and heave at the timber covered Michael’s body. Three scholars, on their way from one skirmish to another, tried to pick a fight with him when he whirled round to face them wielding a bun<…> plank they melted away into the night.
Bartholomew’s breath came in ragged gasps, and he was painfully aware that his tabard provided inadequate protection for his hands against the hot timbers. Next to him, Cynric wordlessly helped to haul the burned wood away. Bartholomew stopped when part of a charred habit appeared under one of the beams, and then redouble his efforts to expose the monk’s legs and body.
Michael’s head was crushed under the main roof port, even with Cynric helping Bartholomew could not move it.
Bartholomew sank down on to the ground, put his head in his hands and closed his eyes tightly. He listened to sounds of the riot around him, feeling oddly détache he tried to come to terms with the fact that Michael dead. Bells still clanged out their unnecessary warning, people yelled and shouted, while next to him the pop and crackle of burning wood sent a heavy, singed smell into the night air.
‘This is not a wise place to sit,’ called a voice from behind him.
Bartholomew spun round, jaw dropping in disbelief, as Michael picked his way carefully through the ashes.
Cynric laughed in genuine pleasure, then took the liberty of slapping the fat monk on the shoulders.
‘Oh, lad!’ he said. ‘We have just been digging out your corpse from under the burning wood.’
Michael looked from the body that they had exposed to Bartholomew’s shocked face. Bartholomew found he could only gaze at the Benedictine, who loomed larger than life above him. Michael poked at the body under the blackened timbers with his foot.
‘Oh, Matt!’ he said in affectionate reproval. ‘This is a friar, not a monk! Can you not tell the difference? And look at his ankles! I do not know whether to be flattered or offended that you imagine such gracile joints could bear my weight!’
Bartholomew saw that Michael was right. In the unsteady light from the flames, it had been difficult to see clearly, and the loose habits worn by monks and friars tended to make them look alike. Bartholomew had assumed that, because he had seen Michael in the same spot a few seconds before, it had been Michael who had been crushed by the collapsing building.
He continued to stare at the body, his thoughts a confused jumble of horror at the friar’s death and disbelief that Michael had somehow escaped. He felt Michael and Cynric hauling him to his feet, and grabbed a handful of Michael’s habit to steady himself.
‘We thought you were gone,’ he said.
‘So I gather,’ said Michael patiently. ‘But this is neither the place nor the time to discuss it.’
When Bartholomew awoke in his room the next day, he was surprised to find he was wearing filthy clothes. As he raised himself on one elbow, an unfamiliar stiffness and a stabbing pain in his head brought memories flooding back of the previous night.
‘Michael?’ he whispered, not trusting which of the memories might be real and the others merely wishful thinking.
‘Here,’ came the familiar rich baritone of the fat monk from the table by the window.
Bartholomew sank back on to his bed in relief. ‘Thank God!’ he said feelingly. He opened his eyes suddenly.
‘What are you doing here? What happened last night?’
‘Rest easy,’ said Michael, leaning back on the chair, and closing the book he had been reading. When Bartholomew saw the chair legs bow dangerously under the monk’s immense weight, he knew he could not be dreaming. He eased himself up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was a bump on the back of his head, and his hands were sore, but he was basically intact.
He pulled distastefully at his shirt, stained and singed in places, and smelling powerfully of smoke.
‘I thought it best to let you sleep,’ said Michael. ‘We virtually carried you home, Cynric and I. You should lose some weight, Doctor. You are heavy.’
‘The rioting?’
Michael rubbed his face, and for the first time Bartholomew noticed how tired he looked.
‘There was little we could do to stop it,’ said Michael. ‘As soon as we broke up one skirmish, the brawlers would move on to another. We have some of the worst offenders in the Proctors’ cells, and the Sheriff informs me that his own prison is overflowing, too. We even have three scholars locked up in the storerooms at Michaelhouse. But even with at least twenty students – and masters too, I am sorry to say – under arrest and at least twice as many townspeople, I feel that we still do not have the real culprits. There is something more to all this than mere student unrest. I am certain it was started deliberately.’
‘Deliberately?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘But why?’
Michael shrugged wearily. ‘Who knows, Matt?’
Bartholomew stood carefully, took off his dirty shirt, and began to wash in the water Cynric left each night.
‘Were many killed or injured?’
Michael shrugged. ‘I do not know yet. Once I realised how little we were doing to bring a halt to the madness, I decided to seek sanctuary in Michaelhouse until it was over. I suspect my beadles did the same, and there was scarcely a soldier to be seen on the way home. When you are ready, I will go out with you to see.’ He nodded towards the gates, firmly barred against possible attack. ‘It has been quiet since first light, and I expect all the fighting is over for now. Your skills will doubtless be needed.’
Bartholomew finished washing in silence, thinking over the events of the night before, blurred and confused in his mind. From beginning to end, for him at least, it had probably not taken more than two hours – three at the most. He hoped he would never see the town in such turmoil again. He found clean clothes, and shared a seedcake – given to him by a patient in lieu of payment – with Michael, washed down with some sour wine he found in the small chamber he used to store his medicines.
Michael grimaced as he tasted the wine and added more water. ‘How long have you had this?’ he grumbled. ‘You might do a little better for those of us you consider to be your friends. Did you buy this, or did you find it when you moved here eight years ago?’
Bartholomew, noting the bottle’s dusty sides, wondered if Michael’s question was not as unreasonable as it sounded. He glanced out of the window. The sun was not yet up, although it was light. The College was silent, which was unusual because the scholars usually went to church at dawn. Michael explained that most of them had only just gone to bed – the students had milled around in the yard, fearful that the College would come under attack, and the Fellows had been obliged to stay up with them to ensure none tried to get out. The Master, prudently, had ordered that no one should leave the College until he decided it was safe to do so.
‘You might not believe this,’ Michael began, breaking off a generous piece of the dry, grainy seedcake for himself, ‘but I heard some scholars accusing townspeople of murdering James Kenzie.’
‘What?’ said Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘How can they think that? Our main suspects at the moment are the scholars of Godwinsson!’
‘Quite so
,’ said Michael, chewing on the seedcake. ‘But a rumour was put about that he had been killed by townsfolk. As far as I can tell, that seems to have been why the riot started in the first place. Meanwhile, the townspeople are claiming that the death of Kenzie was revenge for the murder – by scholars – of the child we found in the Ditch.’
‘But that child has been dead for years!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘And there is nothing to say it was killed by a scholar.’
‘Indeed,’ said Michael. ‘But someone has used the child’s death, and Kenzie’s, for his own purposes. There is something sinister afoot, Matt – something far more dangerous than restless students.’
‘But what?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘Who could benefit from a riot? Trade will be disrupted and if much damage has been done, the King will grant the burgesses permission to levy some kind of tax to pay for repairs. No one will gain from this.’
‘Well, someone will,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘Why else would he – or they – go to all this effort?’
Each sat engrossed in his own thoughts, until Bartholomew rose to leave.
‘Are you sure you are up to going out and throwing yourself on the mercy of the town’s injured?’ Michael said in sudden concern. ‘There are sure to be dozens of them and you are the town’s most popular physician.’
Bartholomew waved a deprecatory hand. ‘Nonsense. There is only Father Philius from Gonville Hall, Master Lynton of Peterhouse, the surgeon Robin of Grantchester, or me from which to choose. Philius’s and Lynton’s services are expensive, while Robin has a mortality rate that his patients find alarming. It does not leave most people with a huge choice.’
Michael laughed. ‘You are too modest, my friend.’ He grew serious again. ‘Are you certain you feel well? You were all but witless last night.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘It was probably the shock of seeing you rise from the dead,’ he said. His smile faded. ‘It was not one of my more pleasant experiences. I lost my knife and tabard,’ he added illogically.
‘Cynric has your knife,’ said Michael. ‘It is not a good idea to leave an identifiable weapon at the scene of multiple murders you know. The Sheriff might find it and feel obliged to string you up as an example, despite the fact that he seems to consider himself your friend. We brought your tabard back but it was so damaged we had to throw it away. So get yourself another weapon, don your spare tabard, and let us be off.’
Bartholomew followed Michael across the yard of Michaelhouse, breathing deeply of the early morning air as he always did. Today, the usually clean, fresh wind that blew in from the Fens was tinged with the smell of burning.
Surprisingly, given the violence of the night’s rioting, only eight people had been killed. The bodies had been taken to the Castle and Bartholomew promised the harassed Sheriff that he would inspect them later in the day to determine the cause of death for the official records. But there were many injured, and Bartholomew spent most of the day binding wounds, and applying poultices and salves. Some people were too badly hurt to be brought to him, and so Bartholomew traipsed from house to house, tending them in their homes. He was just emerging from the home of a potter who had been crushed by a cart, when he met Eleanor Tyler. Shyly, she handed him a neat package that rattled.
‘Salves,’ she explained. ‘I thought you might need extra supplies today, given the number of people I hear have been injured. I packed them up myself in Uncle Jonas’s shop.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, touched by her thoughtfulness. ‘That was kind, and I have been running low.’
She glanced at the potter’s house with its sealed shutters. ‘Will he live?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Father William should be here soon to give him last rites.’
She took his arm and led him away. ‘I am sure you have done all you can for him but now you should look to your own needs. You look pale and tired and you should rest while you eat something. My mother has made some broth and we would be honoured if you would come to share it with us.’
‘That would be impossible,’ he said somewhat ungraciously, as he tried to extricate his arm. ‘I have another six patients to visit, and I cannot just abandon them.’
‘No one is asking you to abandon them,’ she said, taking a firmer grip on his sleeve. ‘I am simply advising you that if you want to do your best for them, you should rest. Uncle Jonas says it is dangerous to dispense medicines unless you are fully alert, and you cannot be fully alert if you have been working since dawn.’
‘Eleanor, please,’ he objected, as she pulled him towards the High Street. ‘I am used to working long hours and none of the medicines I will dispense are particularly potent.’ In fact, most of his work had involved stitching wounds and removing foreign bodies, work usually considered beneath physicians and more in the realm of surgeons.
They were almost at Eleanor’s home, still marked with streaks of soot from the fire of the previous night. Mistress Tyler and her other two daughters were scrubbing at the walls with long-handled brooms, but abandoned their work when they saw Bartholomew. Before he could object further, he was ushered through a small gate to an attractive garden at the rear of the house. While the two older daughters pressed him with detailed questions about the town’s injured, Mistress Tyler and the youngest child fetched ale and bread.
‘I heard that Michaelhouse’s laundress – Agatha drove away a group of rioters from the King’s Head virtually single-handed,’ said Hedwise with a smile. Hedwise, like her older sister, had rich tresses of dark hair and candid grey eyes. She was slightly taller than Eleanor and had scarcely taken her eyes off Bartholomew since he had arrived.
‘What was Agatha doing at the King’s Head?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She lives at Michaelhouse.’
‘The King’s Head is her favourite tavern,’ said Eleanor, surprised. ‘Did you not know? She can often be found there of an evening, especially when darkness comes early and there is nothing for her to do in the College. She says if Michaelhouse will not buy her any candles so that she can see to sew, then she will take her talents elsewhere.’
‘Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘I had always assumed she went to bed after dark. I did not know she frequented taverns.’
‘You see how these scholars fill their heads with books to the exclusion of all else?’ asked Eleanor of Hedwise. ‘Doctor Bartholomew probably has no idea about how Agatha earns herself free ale in the King’s Head!’
‘And I do not wish to,’ he said hastily, embarrassed. The notion of the large and formidable woman, who ruled the College servants with a will of steel, dispensing favours to the rough male patrons of the King’s Head was not an image he found attractive.
Eleanor and Hedwise exchanged a look of puzzlement before Hedwise gave a shriek of shocked laughter and punched him playfully on the arm. ‘Oh, Doctor! You misunderstand! Agatha mends torn clothes for free ale. She is very good.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what else he could say after what, in retrospect, indicated that he had a low opinion of the moral character of Michaelhouse’s most powerful servant. He hoped the Tyler women were discreet, for Agatha was not a woman to suffer insults without retaliating in kind.
Eleanor dispatched her sister to help Mistress Tyler with the broth. Hedwise left Bartholomew and Eleanor alone with some reluctance, glancing backwards resentfully as she left. As soon as she was out of sight, Eleanor rested her hand on his knee.
‘I hear Michaelhouse is due to celebrate its foundation next week,’ she said.
‘Yes, next Tuesday,’ he said, grateful for the change in conversation. ‘It is the most important day in the College calendar, and is the only time that its Fellows are allowed to bring ladies into the hall. We are each allowed two guests.’
‘I know,’ said Eleanor, smiling meaningfully, still gripping his knee.
Bartholomew looked at her, not certain what he was expected to say. He continued nervously. ‘Our founder, Hervey de Stanton, provided a special endo
wment for the occasion, so that there will always be money to celebrate it. The Founder’s Feast and the Festival of St Michael and All Angels the following Sunday – St Michael is the patron saint of Michaelhouse – come close together.’
‘So, who have you invited to this feast?’ asked Eleanor, raising her eyebrows.
‘I had been planning to ask my sister and her husband, but I left it too late and they accepted an invitation from one of the commoners instead. So, I have invited no one.’
It would have been pleasant, he thought ruefully, to have taken Philippa. The mere thought of her long, golden hair and vivacious blue eyes sent a pang of bitter regret slicing through him. He looked away.
‘I am free on Tuesday,’ said Eleanor casually. ‘And I have never been to a Founder’s Feast before.’
‘Would you like to come?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully, wondering why a lively and attractive woman like Eleanor should want to sit through a long, formal dinner, with lengthy Latin speeches that she would not be able to understand, attended by lots of crusty old men whose aim was to eat enough to make themselves ill the following day and drink sufficient wine to drown a horse.
‘Yes, I would,’ she said happily, her face splitting into a wide grin. ‘I would be delighted!’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, hoping she would not be bored. ‘It begins at noon.’
Mistress Tyler arrived with the broth, and Eleanor’s hand was withdrawn from his knee. Bartholomew ate quickly, concerned that he had already been away too long from his patients. It was excellent broth, however, rich and spicy and liberally endowed with chunks of meat that were edible. The bread was soft and white and quite different from the jaw-cracking fare made from the cheapest available flour that emerged from the Michaelhouse kitchens. Perhaps Michael had been right in the tavern the previous night, and Bartholomew did need to venture out of College more and sample what the world had to offer. Including the company of women, he decided suddenly.
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