Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘We do, but Uyten is right: his testimony and Jekelyn’s will not convict someone who has made his living by outmanoeuvring the legal system. Unless you want Illesy to walk free, we need a more credible witness to stand against him. Such as one of his accomplices from the Guild.’

  ‘Do you have anyone particular in mind?’

  ‘Holm. He will turn King’s evidence to save his own neck.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised that you should choose him?’ muttered Michael.

  The two scholars aimed for the surgeon’s house. It was difficult to keep their hoods up in the gusting wind, and whenever they blew back to reveal their faces, people glared. Bartholomew was grateful for the two beadles at their side, although he wished there were more. It had required three of them to drag a frantically struggling Uyten to the gaol, while another had been needed to inform Meadowman and his patrols of what was afoot.

  ‘We are going to be lynched,’ he muttered. ‘People are angry about Dick Tulyet.’

  ‘Not everyone.’ Michael was puffing hard at the rapid pace the physician was setting. ‘Isnard is waving a friendly greeting, and so is Ylaria Verius.’

  It was a small ray of hope in an otherwise bleak situation.

  ‘Illesy,’ said Bartholomew, flinching when the wind ripped a tile from a roof and it smashed on the ground nearby. ‘I suppose we should have guessed.’

  ‘Yes,’ panted Michael. ‘Founding a new College is expensive, and he will need all the funds he can get. John Winwick and the Guild have been generous, but more will always be required. He blackmailed us for money, and I cannot help but wonder whether he persuaded his friend Potmoor to use his talent for theft – that the proceeds from all these burglaries are in Winwick’s coffers.’

  ‘Not all, Brother. Verius and Fulbut were responsible for some. And Illesy certainly would not have ordered Fulbut to commit crimes in the town – he wanted him dead or vanished, lest he was caught and decided to talk.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. He sighed bitterly. ‘If we had not gone to Peterborough, none of this would have happened. I could have slowed everything down, thus allowing time for Winwick Hall’s money to be raised legitimately.’

  ‘You might have tried, but Felbrigge was shot when he attempted to introduce measures to curb its progress, and—’

  He stopped when he saw Julitta, serene and beautiful in a pale blue dress and cream cloak. Knowing he would be unable to lie convincingly if she asked where he was going, he attempted to sidle past her, but she grabbed his hand and brought him to a standstill. Michael, wheezing and grateful for the respite, staggered to a halt beside them.

  ‘You two should not be out today,’ she chided, her lovely face creased with concern. ‘Not with all these silly tales about Sheriff Tulyet. I ordered Weasenham to desist, but it was too late. Go back to Michaelhouse and stay there until the town has something else to gossip about.’

  ‘Is your husband home?’ asked Michael, to prevent time being lost on a wasted journey.

  ‘Yes, with Hugo,’ replied Julitta. ‘They are discussing—’

  ‘Please excuse us,’ said the monk, beginning to trot again. ‘We are in a hurry.’

  But he was still winded, so it was easy for Julitta to keep pace. At first he refused to say what was afoot, but she was a determined lady, and soon had the whole sorry story out of him.

  ‘Will has his failings, but he would never condone poisoning,’ she stated firmly. ‘Or setting churches alight. You are mistaken.’

  ‘Illesy is the mastermind behind all this trouble,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A man with sinister connections to Potmoor. And your husband spends a lot of time with Potmoor’s son…’

  Julitta glared angrily at him. ‘And you think Will’s friendship with Hugo means he is part of this nasty affair? Well, you are wrong. He is not a brave man, no matter what impression he tries to give, and would never have the nerve to throw in his lot with poisoners and arsonists.’

  ‘Uyten said otherwise,’ rasped Michael, while Bartholomew thought Julitta’s defence was a poor indictment of Holm’s character – that she thought him innocent only because she considered him too cowardly for anything so daring as breaking the law.

  ‘Uyten is a ruffian,’ said Julitta tightly. ‘How can you believe anything he says? Will would never harm the town or the University.’

  ‘Yes, he would,’ countered Michael. ‘He hates scholars, because Matt and you…’

  ‘Are friends,’ finished Julitta. ‘Yes, he does not like the situation, but he is not so low as to wreak revenge by embroiling himself in a plot to murder people. However, I have never liked his association with Hugo, and I rue the day that Lawrence introduced them to each other.’

  ‘Lawrence did?’

  ‘He is not only Potmoor’s personal physician, but his confidant and adviser. Potmoor and Illesy do nothing without his blessing.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Lawrence is not involved.’

  Julitta shot him an irritable, exasperated glance. ‘I know this is difficult, Matt, but look at the evidence. Lawrence says he wants to dedicate his evening years to teaching, but it is rumoured that his incompetence killed Queen Isabella—’

  ‘So what? Even if the tale is true, it does not make him a criminal.’

  ‘No, but it makes him a liar. And while he pretends to be kindly and amiable to his fellow medici, he steals their best patients behind their backs – just ask Meryfeld and Rougham. He has probably taken yours, too, but you are too busy to notice. Moreover, I have not forgotten that he quarrelled with Hemmysby. Did you ask him about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He denied it.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then! More proof that he is not a truthful man. He is almost certainly Illesy’s helpmeet in whatever is unfolding.’

  ‘He probably just enjoys teaching,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘Like me.’

  But Michael agreed with Julitta. ‘Men do not give up lucrative posts for no reason, and I have always been suspicious of Lawrence. I strongly suspect that he did fail the old Queen, and aims to worm his way back into royal favour by making a success of Winwick.’

  Bartholomew looked from one to the other, unwilling to concede they might be right. ‘We still need to talk to Holm,’ was all he said, then broke into a run that had them both scrambling to keep up.

  It did not take long to reach the surgeon’s elegant house on Bridge Street, and Julitta led the way into the cosy parlour where she and Bartholomew had spent so many enjoyable evenings while her husband was out. Holm and Hugo were standing on either side of the hearth, and it was clear that a disagreement was in progress.

  ‘We have very little time and a lot of questions,’ began Michael, too breathless from the rapid dash to provide explanations. ‘If you cooperate, I shall see what can be done to save you.’

  ‘Save us from what?’ Holm glanced uneasily at the two beadles who stood in the doorway. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Except peddle false cures,’ growled Hugo. He wore a sword, and Bartholomew was suddenly seized with the conviction that the situation was going to turn ugly.

  ‘Leave, Julitta,’ he said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Find somewhere safe to wait while—’

  ‘They are not false,’ snapped Holm. ‘You just did not follow the instructions properly.’

  ‘Lawrence says my gums might never recover from your stupid tooth-whitener,’ snarled Hugo. ‘And your remedy for gout made my grandmother worse. You are a fraud!’

  ‘Now just a moment,’ said Julitta indignantly, pulling away from Bartholomew, who was trying to manoeuvre her towards the door. ‘No one forced you to take Will’s medicines, Hugo.’

  ‘See?’ sneered Holm. ‘You only have yourself to blame. It—’

  The end of his sentence dissolved into a squeal of alarm when Hugo whipped out his blade. The beadles surged forward to prevent a skewering, and there followed a vicious exchange of blows. Michael snatched
up a poker and waded into the affray, while Bartholomew hauled out his trusty forceps, shouting again for Julitta to leave. He had taken no more than a step forward when Holm moved. The surgeon had a dagger, and Bartholomew only just managed to avoid the swipe intended to disembowel him. Holm prepared to strike again, but the physician was quicker. He lunged with his forceps and knocked Holm to his knees.

  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.’