Of course, it will be much more difficult a second time, and questions will be asked in all kinds of circles.'
Bartholomew stared at him uncomprehendingly.
'Alcote!' said Swynford impatiently. 'Who has still not left his room, even though he is Acting Master. Two birds with one stone. A petty quarrel between two Fellows that erupts into a fight with knives. In the struggle, a lamp will be knocked over, and Michaelhouse will burn. Wilson gave me the idea for this,' he added conversationally. 'You and Alcote will die in the fire, as well as your patients in the plague ward and the monks caring for them.'
Bartholomew pushed the blankets back and climbed out of bed, keeping a wary eye on Swynford and Stephen.
'It is no good expecting a second rescue,' said Swynford. 'Jocelyn, out of kindness, took your patients a large jug of wine a while ago. He will ensure that they all drink some, including the Benedictines who are with them. By now, they should all be sleeping peacefully. It worked so well last time that we could not resist trying it again. In case they wake, he has locked the door of the room to make sure that none will come to cause us trouble.'
Bartholomew looked at them in disgust and reached for his gown. Swynford poked at his hand with the sword.
'You will not be needing that,' he said. 'Shirt and leggings are good enough.' He gave Bartholomew a sharp prod to make him leave the room and walk across the courtyard.
Swynford was right. It was deserted.
Stephen took a grip on his arm to stop him from running away, and jabbed the point of the short sword into his side. "I will use this willingly if you make more trouble,' he hissed. 'You have hindered our cause too much already.'
Bartholomew was marched across the yard and up the stairs to the hall. Colet was there already, pointing a crossbow at the petrified Alcote. A pathetic look of relief came over Alcote's face when he saw Swynford.
'This mad physician brought me here,' he began, and stopped short when he saw the sword Swynford held, and how it was pointed at Bartholomew. He put his hands over his face, and began to weep silently.
'It was Robert,' Bartholomew could hear him moan.
'Robert killed them all.'
Swynford set about preparing the room to make a convincing show of a struggle. He knocked benches over, threw plates and cups onto the floor, and ripped one or two wall-hangings down. When he was satisfied, he turned to his victims.
'Right,' he said, rubbing his hands together. 'Let me think.'
'Your plan is fatally flawed,' said Bartholomew.
The hand-rubbing stopped. 'Nonsense,' Swynford said, but there was hesitation in his voice.
'Alcote would never consider taking me on in a fight! Look at him! No one would believe that he would fight me.'
'True,' Swynford said. 'Itwould be an uneven match.
He probably wounded you with a crossbow first,' he said, nodding to Colet, who raised the instrument and pointed it at Bartholomew.
'Even worse,' said Bartholomew. 'Everyone knows that Alcote cannot tell one end of such a weapon from another, and certainly would not be able to wind it and loose a quarrel at me before I could overpower him.'
'Well, perhaps he dashedyour brains outwith a heavy instrument,' said Swynford, growing exasperated.
'Like what?' said Bartholomew, gesturing round. 'A pewter cup? A piece of fish?'
'It really does not matter, Rob,' said Colet. 'So what if this all looks like the elaborate plot it is? Anyone working out what really happened will believe what we tell them — that the Oxford men are becoming bold again. What a formidable force they must be to sneak into the heart of a College and murder two of its Fellows in broad daylight.'
Swynford's face slowly broke into a smile, and he nodded.
'Come on, let us get it done so we can leave,' said Colet. He took a lamp from a table, lit it, and dashed it onto the floor. The rushes immediately caught fire, and Alcote screamed as the flames danced towards him.
Bartholomew twisted suddenly and drove his elbow into Stephen's stomach with all his strength. Stephen gasped and dropped to his knees. Bartholomew kicked the sword away from him and leapt onto a table to escape a lunge from Swynford. Colet swung round and aimed the crossbow. Running along the table, Bartholomew felt the missile pluck at his shirt as it sped harmlessly by.
Colet began to reload, and Bartholomew dodged Swynford's sword, picked up one of Agatha's iron loaves of bread and hurled it as hard as he could at Colet. It hit him on the side of the head, stunning him sufficiently to make him drop the crossbow. Swynford stabbed at him again, entangling his sword in Bartholomew's legs.
Bartholomew, balance gone, toppled from the table, and landed heavily on the other side. Swynford leapt over the table and threw himself at Bartholomew, flailing wildly with the sword. The flames in the rushes licked nearer, but Swynford seemed to see nothing but Bartholomew. Bartholomew jerked his head away as the sword plunged down and heard the metal blade screech against the stone floor. He struggled violently, tipping Swynford off balance, and scrambled away under the table. He felt his leg gripped as Swynford seized him, and his fingernails scrabbled on the floor as he felt himself being dragged backwards.
Bartholomew twisted again and kicked backwards.
Swynford's grip lessened for an instant, and Bartholomew scrambled under the table, clambering to his feet on the other side before Alcote crashed into him, knocking him down.
'What the hell are you doing?' he gasped, and then stopped as he saw Swynford totter forward holding his stomach.
'Damn!' Colet was already reloading the crossbow, ignoring Swynford's increasing bellows of pain as he concentrated on his task.
At the same moment, Stephen, seeing Swynford shot by Colet, bolted across the burning rushes towards the door. Right into the arms of Brother Michael.
'Watch Colet,' Bartholomew yelled. Colet had seen the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and had heard Stephen's dismayed yell. He whipped round and pointed the crossbow at Michael. Bartholomew scrambled over Alcote and threw himself at Colet's legs.
Colet toppled, and the crossbow fell to the ground. Colet desperately tried to reach it as Bartholomew fought to get a better grip on him.
Suddenly, Colet had a knife in his hand, and Bartholomew let him go as it swung down in a savage arc that would have pierced his eye had he not wrenched his head backwards. Colet shot away from Bartholomew and ran towards the servery door. Bartholomew raced after him, dimly aware that there were others entering the hall through the main entrance. Colet spun round, his face a mask of fury, and flung the knife at Bartholomew.
It was a move born of desperation, and was nowhere near its mark. Bartholomew sprang at Colet, forcing him to the ground.
Almost immediately, he felt himself hauled up, and, thinking it was Swynford, lashed out with his fists as hard as he could.
'Easy! Easy!' Bartholomew became aware of his surroundings, and his intense anger faded as quickly as it had come. Colet, already in the custody of two burly beadles, looked fearfully at Bartholomew, his face battered and bleeding. Bartholomew was held in a similar grip by Michael and one of the Benedictines.
A loud snap dragged their attention away from Colet and Bartholomew.
'The fire!' yelled Michael, releasing Bartholomew's arm. 'Stop the fire!'
The flames had secured a good hold on the rushes on the floor and were licking up the wall-hangings.
Bartholomew raced to drag them down before the flames reached the wooden ceiling. Outside, someone had started to ring the bell, and the hall filled with scholars using their black gowns to beat out the flames.
One of the students gave a shout, and, with a groan, the carved wooden screen behind the servery gave way, crashing onto the floor in an explosion of flames and sparks. More scholars poured into the hall, some from Michaelhouse, butmany from other Colleges and hostels. Bartholomew and Michael quickly organised them into a human chain passing all manner of receptacles brimming with water from the well.
The plague victims were brought to lie near the stable where they were tended by Michael's Benedictine room-mates, one still reeling from the effects of the drugged wine. Alcote hauled on the College bell, and scholars and passers-by ran in to help.
Bartholomew darted back up the stairs to the hall.
William and Michael had affixed ropes to the wooden gallery and rows of people were hauling on them to pull it over. Bartholomew understood their plan. If the gallery were down, the fire would be less likely to reach the wooden ceiling and might yet be brought under control. He took an empty place on one of the ropes and heaved with the others.
The gallery, wrenched from the walls, tipped forward with a screech of tearing wood and smashed onto the stone floor of the hall. Men and women dashed forwards and began to beat out the flames. The hot wood hissed under a deluge of water, and gradually the crackle of flames began to relent. Eventually, all was silent, and the men and women who had answered the bell surveyed the mess.
'It was about time the rushes on the floor were changed anyway,' said Bartholomew. He had intended his remark for Michael's ears only, but in the silence of the hall it carried. The tense atmosphere evaporated, and people laughed. Disaster had been averted.
Agatha, who had worked as hard as anyone, sent people here and there with brushes, and ordered that burned rushes, tables, benches, and tapestries be thrown out of the windows. At Bartholomew's suggestion, Cynric fetched all that remained of Wilson's fine collection of wine, and scholars and townspeople alike fortified themselves for their work with wines that cost more money than most of them would earn in a year.
In the panic to control the fire, Bartholomew had almost forgotten Colet, Stephen, and Swynford. He made his way over to a small group of people who stood around a figure lying on the floor. William was kneeling next to Swynford anointing him with oil, and muttering the words of the absolution. Swynford's eyes were closed, and blood bubbled through his blue lips.
He opened his eyes when William's mutteiings finished. 'The third Master to die in less than a year,' he said in a whisper. He looked around the group of people until he found Bartholomew.
'You are still alive,' he said. "I was not sure whether Colet would get you. You have really confounded my plans this time. Another few months, and I would have been Bishop, and I would never have needed to step in this accursed town again.'
He closed his eyes then, and did not open them again.
Colet and Stephen had already been hustled away to the Castle when Oswald Stanmore, his face white with strain, sought out Bartholomew.
'Oh, God, Matt,' he said. 'What happened?'
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, and made him sit on one of the benches that was not too singed and drink a cup of wine. Richard sat next to him, his face tear-streaked.
Stanmore sipped at the wine and then cradled the cup in shaking hands. 'He played me like a fool, Matt,' he said. 'He took my money, made me believe all Swynford's lies, and then tried to kill you. My own brother!'
Bartholomew rested his hand on his shoulder. 'What will happen to his wife and children?'
'Stephen and his wife had not been close for some time,' Stanmore said. 'She had been complaining about his absences during the night. I should have listened to her. Richard has offered to stay with her for a while at the house on Milne Street. There is plenty of room, so there is no reason she and the children should not stay. Also, Edith will help them as much as she can.' "I will help, too,' said Bartholomew.
Stanmore nodded. "I know you will. What will happen to him, Matt?'
Bartholomew did not know. He imagined there would be a trial, and there was enough evidence to hang them all. Michael told him that Stephen had started to confess everything before he was even out of the College gates, despite dire threats from Colet. On his evidence, the Sheriff and the Proctor would round up the others who had been involved.
"I am sorry, Matt,' sighed Stanmore. 'What a vile mess.'
'It is over now,' said Bartholomew. 'We both need to put it behind us and look to the future.'
'Yes, I suppose so,' Stanmore replied. Accompanied by Richard, he left to tend to his affairs. He was still not out of the woods, and there would be many questions to be answered and accounts to be examined before this business was over.
Brother Michael had been engaged in deep conversation with the Bishop in the solar. As Stanmore left, Michael poked his head round the door and beckoned Bartholomew over. The Bishop was wearing a plain brown robe, a far cry from his finery of the previous visit. He looked at Bartholomew's bruised hands. "I hear you tried to give Master Colet his just deserts,' he said.
Bartholomew looked at Michael. "I was stopped before I had really started.'
'Just as well,' said the Bishop. 'There has been enough murder in this College to last a century.'
'What happened?' Bartholomew asked Michael.
'How did you manage to arrive in the nick of time?
How did you escape Yaxley?' "I was sent a message, supposedly from the Bishop,' said Michael, 'asking me to meet him at the Carmelite Friary at Newnham. I saw nothing odd in this and assumed my lord the Bishop merely wanted me to provide him with the details of what I had learned before he arrived at Michaelhouse. As I walked, I heard St Mary's bell in the distance calling scholars to the Debate in the church and I suddenly realised I had made a dreadful mistake. We had already discussed Swynford's love of false messages, but I never thought he would dare to send me another.
'It became horribly clear. Me out of the way, perhaps heading into a trap, and all the scholars at the Debate.
You are a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and I knew the bell would not wake you. Colet, who knows you well enough, would also guess you would sleep through the bell. I knew he was going to come for you, Matt, as you slept alone in the College. I ran back as fast as I could, stopping at St Mary's to raise the alarm on the way.'
'The Chancellor was none too pleased at being interrupted mid-argument by my yelling, but your Gray got the students mustered. When we came near the College, I saw smoke coming from one of the windows.
I thought perhaps we were too late, and rushed up the stairs. I saw Colet kill Swynford by mistake, and then try to shoot me.'
He poked Bartholomew with his elbow. "I saw what you did,' he said.
'What do you mean?' asked Bartholomew wearily.
'You saved me from Colet's crossbow. He could not have missed me from that range. I saw you knock him over.'
Bartholomew gave a soft laugh. 'Alcote did the same for me. The bolt that killed Swynford was meant for me, and he pushed me out of the way.'
The Bishop spread his hands. 'So, Michaelhouse Fellows risk their lives to save each other,' he said. 'Not all that has come of this is bad, and now you know whom you can trust.'
At last, thought Bartholomew, looking out of the window at the bright blue sky.
The Bishop stood to leave. 'These men have committed treason, and they will be taken to the Tower to stand trial. Stephen's willingness to confess in a vain attempt to save himself will ensure that they are all caught, and then the University — both hostels and Colleges — can begin again. I believe the Chancellor will need to make a visit to Oxford to explain what has happened, and to offer his abject apologies for blaming her for crimes of which she was wholly innocent.' He put his hand on Bartholomew's head. 'No secrets this time,' he said softly. 'Everything will be made known, from the murder of the Master of King's Hall fifteen months a
go right up until the evil-doings of today.'
He went to the door, and then turned. 'Sir John Babington,' he said. 'He was no suicide, and can rightly be buried in the church. Shall I arrange that?'
Bartholomew thought about the revolting black effigy he had promised to have made for Wilson and shook his head. 'Sir John would prefer to be where he is, among the oak trees, and as far away from Wilson's glorious tomb as possible.'
The Bishop smiled. "I believe you are right,' he said, and left.
Bartholomew and Michael sat in companionable silence for a while, each rethinking the events of the past few days.
Michael went to look out of the window. 'The Death is still out there,' he said softly. 'Despite all that has happened, it is still there.'
Bartholomew stood next to him. 'And I still do not understand it,' he said. "I still do not know why some live while others die, and I have no more idea how it spreads now than I did when it first came.'
'Perhaps there is nothing to understand,' said Michael, watching the Proctor organising his beadles in the yard for the arrest of the hostel men. 'Perhaps we are all doomed.'
'No, Brother. There are those that have remained healthy, like you and Agatha, and there are those who have recovered. We will survive it.' He shivered, and wondered whether he should ask Cynric to build a fire.
He glanced through the open door where Gray and a few other industrious students were clearing the floor of debris, and decided that he had had enough of fires for one day.
'Matt!' Philippa exploded into the solar, followed more sedately by Abigny. 'Thank God you are safe!
We saw the smoke coming from Michaelhouse, and I thought Bartholomew rubbed his hands over his face, leaving smears of black. "I owe you and Giles an apology,' he said.
"I misjudged you both, and Giles has saved my life.'
'Yes. I was there when Cynric came to him with his dilemma, and I told them the answer was quite simple,' said Philippa. "I told them to enlist the help of Rachel Atkin and to go to see whether you and Michael were being held prisoner under Stephen's stables as she surmised. They were considering leaving it until tonight, but I said to go there and then. I would have gone myself, but I am not so foolish as to risk the success of such a mission merely to satisfy my own curiosity.'
A Plague On Both Your Houses mb-1 Page 34