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.’
Michael gestured to the ornaments. ‘These were in his room…’
‘Potmoor lent them to us. We deploy them when they are needed to impress, although we keep people away from our private rooms if we can.’
‘But you have plenty of money,’ objected Michael, although Bartholomew chafed at the discussion. ‘A beautiful new hall, the promise of churches and manors in your endowment—’
‘Precisely,’ snapped Illesy. ‘The promise of churches and manors. We do not have them yet, and we need money now. The student fees we have collected do not cover all our bills – builders, carpenters, tilers, bakers, brewers, the stationer. Then there is the staff needed to run the place. Why do you think I have not replaced Jekelyn?’
‘But your fine new livery.’ Michael looked pointedly at Illesy’s hands. ‘Your rings.’
‘Potmoor’s. He also bought the Fellows’ clothes; the students are rich, so they purchase their own. We know how these things work, Brother. One whiff of weakness and the other Colleges will home in on us like jackals. They will use our fleeting moment of poverty as a stick with which to beat us, and we might never recover our rightful status as premier foundation.’
Michael blinked his surprise. ‘So Winwick Hall is destitute?’
‘No, we have a temporary problem with our cash flow,’ corrected Illesy stiffly. He grimaced. ‘It is because we came so rapidly into being. John Winwick should have ensured that our endowment was in force before raising buildings and opening our doors to pupils.’
‘But you provided lavish refreshments after the debate and Hemmysby’s funeral—’
‘The Guild of Saints helped with the debate, while Potmoor paid for Hemmysby. It was all a ruse, to maintain the illusion of affluence.’ Illesy’s voice was bitter. ‘You will not understand the necessity, of course.’
‘No,’ lied Michael. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh, stunned. Then he caught Bartholomew’s agitated expression. ‘But fascinating though this is, it is not why I am here. I ask again: where is Potmoor?’
For a moment, it seemed that Illesy would deny entertaining the felon, but then he shrugged, and led the way to the hall. As they walked, Bartholomew glanced across the blustery yard and saw with alarm that the students’ barricade was perilously top-heavy. Cynric thought so, too: he made a frustrated gesture to say that he had said as much, but had been overruled.
‘Potmoor has been good to us,’ Illesy was saying. ‘He not only made donations from his own purse, but he has encouraged the Guild to be generous as well. He and Julitta Holm. I do not know what we would have done without them.’
‘Yet some of your Fellows object to their College’s association with a criminal,’ remarked Michael.
‘Because none of them knew how heavily we rely on his largesse. Until today, that is, when I felt compelled to tell them.’ Illesy gave a rueful grimace. ‘Even in an enlightened establishment like a university, there are those who refuse to believe that malefactors can reform. My Fellows were among them, although I hope we have rectified that misapprehension now.’
‘Why today?’ demanded Michael.
‘A few disparaging remarks against Potmoor are not a problem – it reduces the chances of anyone guessing that he is a major benefactor. However, Bon in particular is a little too censorious, and Potmoor finally had enough. He understands that we cannot risk an open association, but he does not like being continuously insulted by those he is trying to help. But my Fellows know the truth now, so I hope we can strike some sort of balance.’
> He opened the parlura door to reveal the felon sitting at the table with Lawrence. The account books were open and the elderly physician had been reading them aloud – for the benefit of Bon, who was by the window, head cocked as he tried to gauge what was happening outside; and for Potmoor who, like most townsfolk whose occupations were manual, was illiterate. Deputy de Stannell was there, too, hovering at Potmoor’s side as usual, while Eyer was by the hearth, mixing another poultice for Bon’s eyes. Nerli was reading in a corner, brooding and baleful.
‘What is happening?’ demanded Bon, when he heard his Provost’s voice. ‘All is not well. I can hear horrible sounds.’
‘We are about to be besieged,’ replied Illesy shortly. ‘Our lads are raising a barrier to repel the villains who dare set angry eyes on our property.’
Before he had finished speaking, there was a furious clamour of voices from the Market Square, followed by the sound of marching feet. The attackers were on their way.
CHAPTER 17
There was a stunned silence in the parlura, then de Stannell raced to the window and peered out. Eyer’s hands flew to his mouth in horror, Lawrence looked frightened, Nerli seemed surprised, and Bon’s face flushed with indignation. Only Potmoor remained unmoved, giving the impression that he rather relished the prospect of violence.
‘Who?’ shouted Bon furiously. ‘Who dares assault us? Do they not know that our founder will be here at any moment? Order them to disperse, Brother. You are Senior Proctor, are you not? Use the authority vested in you.’
‘It is too late.’ Michael rounded on Illesy and Potmoor. ‘Your ostentatious College has done great harm, but not nearly as much as the crimes you have committed – murder and theft.’
‘Not me,’ declared Potmoor, his small eyes glittering. ‘God would not approve of his beloved breaking the law, so I have abstained from wrongdoing since my resurrection.’
‘You have done nothing of the kind,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You have been out a-burgling virtually every night, as your lack of alibis attests.’ He glared at Illesy. ‘And I mean reliable alibis, not ones brazenly fabricated by your lawyer or the ludicrous claim that you were praying.’
‘I have alibis,’ flashed Potmoor, nettled. ‘Just not ones I am prepared to use.’
‘Olivia Knyt,’ blurted Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘Of course!’
‘Leave her out of it,’ snapped Potmoor angrily. ‘I will not have her name sullied. Or Knyt’s. He was a good man, although as dull as ditchwater. Lord! My head pounds! Sometimes I wonder whether my glimpse of Heaven was worth this agony. Give me more tonic, Lawrence.’
‘And you need not pretend to be bewildered either,’ snarled Michael, rounding on the elderly physician. ‘I know your close friend Potmoor does nothing without your blessing.’
Both men regarded him askance, and when Potmoor spoke he sounded amused. ‘I have every respect for my medicus, but why would I need his blessing when I have the Almighty’s?’
‘And I neither sanction nor condemn what my patients do in their spare time,’ added Lawrence. ‘Whatever gave you the notion that I might?’
‘Because you have lied,’ Michael forged on. ‘You deny that you argued with Hemmysby the night before he died, but witnesses say you did.’
‘Then they are mistaken,’ objected Lawrence. ‘I have never—’
‘And I do not believe that you came here because you love teaching,’ interrupted Michael.
Lawrence groaned. ‘Do not tell me that you credit the tale about me killing the old Queen! You should know better, especially if you have heard the one about Sheriff Tulyet’s execution. They are malicious falsehoods, Brother, designed to damage the innocent and cause trouble.’
‘That barricade is not going to hold!’ shouted Nerli urgently. ‘Everyone, come with me to shore it up! No, not you, Bon. You will be in the way.’
‘Stop,’ snapped Michael, as Lawrence hastened to oblige. ‘I have not finished with you.’
‘Later, Brother,’ ordered Nerli. ‘When we are not under siege.’
‘He means when outsiders are not here to hear Winwick’s crimes unveiled,’ muttered Michael, as Lawrence, de Stannell and Eyer raced away on Nerli’s heels, Lawrence with obvious relief. Bon fluttered uncertainly, but Potmoor and Illesy stayed put, clearly of the opinion that they were too grand to sully their hands with menial tasks. The monk rounded on the Provost again. ‘Why did you send Uyten to Ely last night?’
‘To buy parchment. It is cheaper there, and every penny counts, as you have just forced me to confess. Unfortunately, he disobeyed me, and did not go.’
‘I tackled him about that,’ added Potmoor. ‘He said he wanted to be on hand to monitor Lawrence, whom he believes is a poisoner. I could not tell if he was lying.’
‘Is Lawrence the villain, Brother?’ asked Illesy, his voice suddenly tired and plaintive. ‘If so, you cannot imagine the damage it will do us. Wealthy and powerful men will not send their sons to a foundation where they think they might be murdered by its Fellows.’
‘There is no evidence to accuse him,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly.
‘Actually, there is a great deal,’ countered Michael. His voice became urgent as a crash from the High Street indicated that time was running out. ‘If you two have any love for this place, you will confess to your misdeeds before this mob destroys it. An apology might avert a disaster, although it will have to be a remarkably abject one, or—’
‘What misdeeds?’ interrupted Potmoor indignantly. ‘I have just told you that I have not committed any since God showed me His face.’
‘You and Illesy ordered my Junior Proctor shot—’
‘What?’ cried Illesy, shocked. ‘Why would we do such a thing?’
‘Because he aimed to control you, and instigated measures to do it. You disapproved.’
‘Well, yes, I did,’ conceded Illesy. ‘But I am lawyer enough to circumvent whatever he had put in place. I kept a violent crim— Potmoor free for twenty years. I am good at legal loopholes.’
‘Then there was Elvesmere.’ Michael spoke more quickly when the mob reached the gates and began to pound on them. The frail barrier wobbled. ‘Who died here the evening Potmoor visited, although Potmoor lied about it until we produced witnesses.’
Potmoor shrugged. ‘It was none of your business, and I was only here briefly anyway – Illesy took my donation of ten marks, and saw me out. However, I did not kill Elvesmere. Why would I? I barely knew the man.’
‘And I did not do it, either,’ said Illesy. ‘Do you hear me, Bon? I can see you shooting me nasty glances. I did not like Elvesmere, but he was a gifted teacher, and like any responsible Head of House, I am able to set the good of my College above personal preferences.’
‘And Ratclyf?’ asked Michael.
‘He was nervous and uneasy after Elvesmere died,’ replied Illesy. ‘And it stressed his weak heart, no matter what you say about blue lips and poison.’
‘I miss Elvesmere.’ Bon’s voice was accusing, and it was clear that he was not convinced by the explanations. Bartholomew was beginning to be, though, and a quick glance told him that so was Michael. ‘He was my closest friend.’
‘Do not say we conspired to poison Hemmysby and Knyt either,’ Illesy went on. ‘Hemmysby was a nobody, not worth the bother, and we liked the way Knyt ran the Guild.’
‘Moreover, Olivia wanted her baby to carry his name, not mine.’ Potmoor shrugged and looked away. ‘She is right. Hugo suffers cruelly from his kinship with me, and my unborn child deserves better, much as it pains me to say it.’
‘But you mentioned professional killers and spillages of blood,’ pressed Michael, looking from one to the other sceptically. ‘You were overheard in All Saints churchyard.’
Potmoor and Illesy exchanged a mystified glance, then Potmoor released a bark of laughter. ‘We were talking about the pig we slaughtered for today’s feast – John Winwick likes pork. It was nothing to do with dispatching people. We met se
cretly, so that no one would guess the depth of my involvement with Winwick Hall.’
‘We should have hired a butcher to deal with the pig,’ added Illesy, ‘but I wanted to save money, so Nerli did it. Unfortunately, his inexperience resulted in a terrible mess…’
‘Then what about the St Clement’s fire?’ pressed Michael, but the conviction had gone from his voice and he sounded defeated. ‘Heyford was vocal against your College…’
‘Terribly,’ agreed Illesy. ‘And it was gratifying to see his domain in flames. But arson is not in our interests. Donations were given for its repair that might have come to us.’
‘But you were angry with him for his slanderous sermons. And after the fire, he annoyed you with his tale about stealing from the royal coffers.’
‘Of course I was annoyed,’ said Illesy irritably. ‘It was low to gossip about another man’s youthful indiscretions. However, he will not do it again. He will be “offered” a new parish today – in the Fens, where his poisonous sermons can do no harm. Effective immediately.’
‘Offered by whom?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was hardly fair that Heyford should be banished, as the tale about Illesy’s dishonesty was apparently true.
‘John Winwick, who is friends with the Bishop. But it proves my innocence – I would not have bothered to find Heyford a new home if I intended to solve the problem with murder.’
‘Is this your writing?’ Michael picked up the accounts book from the table. Illesy nodded, and the monk sighed as he turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is a different hand from the blackmail notes, and Potmoor is illiterate. They are not the extortionists. Uyten misled us, and so did Richard.’
‘Richard Stanmore?’ asked Illesy, looking from one to the other. ‘I would love to snag him as a benefactor. He wants to be a Fellow, so we shall charge him handsomely for the privilege.’
‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, when Illesy and Potmoor went to look out of the window. ‘They are not our culprits and we have wasted valuable time proving it. Now it is too late to avert trouble.’
A thundering crash as the barricade toppled suggested that he was right.
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 40