Robert nodded. ‘It was easy. I persuaded Shirwynk that his son had suffered an injustice when he was rejected from the University; I wrote letters to the greedy and selfish Stephen; I sent Kellawe, Gilby and Hakeney to stir up trouble at the dyeworks …’
‘Using Stephen was a clever touch,’ bragged Morys. ‘He gossiped, as we knew he would, and made scholars think that a move to the Fens was being discussed at the very highest levels.’
Michael ignored him and addressed Robert pleadingly. ‘How can you think of abandoning the paupers who rely on you? And what about the commissions for the murals that you have won? I thought you were pleased by them?’
‘We shall still execute those,’ said Robert. ‘But on buildings in the marshes. And I am afraid the poor will have to manage without us. It might have been different if they had sprung to our defence when the trouble started, but they stood back and watched in delight.’
‘The cross that created such a rumpus,’ said Michael quickly, as Morys fingered the axe. ‘Did you buy it in London?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Robert scathingly. ‘My documents are forgeries. I took the thing from Hakeney solely to demonstrate how the town will always side with one of their own, regardless of the “evidence”. I also knew he would refuse to have the case judged by the Bishop – again showing the town’s disinclination to be reasonable and fair in its dealings with us.’
‘And there was Anne,’ said Michael, unable to keep the resignation from his voice. ‘She would have overlooked Segeforde’s assault, but you were there to mention compensation …’
‘Which I suspected would snag her avaricious interest,’ smirked Robert.
Michael turned to Morys. ‘Are you sure you want to go to the Fens with a man who has murdered four Zachary scholars? Who is to say that you will not be next?’
Robert laughed. ‘I did not kill them. He did.’
‘Not Irby.’ Morys’s wasplike face was bright with spiteful triumph. ‘He died of disease. And not Kellawe either. Why would I? He was one of our most fervent supporters. But Yerland and Segeforde began to have second thoughts about our scheme, so I fed them fatally large doses of sucura – one in some apple pie and the other in Lombard slices. And before you ask, yes, we know all about lead salts.’
‘But you gave them to Arnold!’ cried Michael, addressing Robert. ‘A fellow Austin!’
‘To end his suffering,’ explained Robert. ‘He was old and in pain, so why not hasten his end? It was an act of mercy, as he would have been the first to agree.’
There was a roar of angry voices on the High Street, and Robert nodded at Morys a second time to smash the boat, but Michael had another question.
‘Which of you will be Chancellor of your University in the Bogs?’ he asked contemptuously.
Robert smiled enigmatically. ‘Neither. We are followers, not leaders.’
Bartholomew frowned. Did that mean Robert was not the strategist? Then who was? Wauter? He glanced behind him uneasily, half expecting the geometrician to be standing there listening, but the priory was deserted and eerily still. The scent of rain was in the air, and a distant part of his mind wondered how long it would be before there was a downpour.
‘Our Chancellor will be a better man than Tynkell,’ said Morys with a moue of distaste. ‘What a weakling! Frightened of his mother!’
‘I know you killed Hamo, Robert,’ gabbled Michael as the axe went up again. ‘When we came here on the night of his murder, you were the only friar who was unarmed – you had no knife because you had used it to stab him. But you should have made sure he was dead – he lived to write your name under the altar. It is still there, and your brethren are looking at it as I speak.’
Robert’s reply was lost in a sudden frenzy of yells from the street, and footsteps hammered along outside – townsfolk, judging by their voices. Bobbing torches lit the night, so many that it seemed the whole of Cambridge had turned out to make mischief. Then there was a boom that sounded as though it came from the priory’s front gate.
‘Looters,’ said Morys in satisfaction. ‘Just as we expected. The last stage of our plan is about to unfold.’
The axe cracked down and water began to fountain into the little craft. With a yell of victory, Morys dropped the axe into the boat and leapt for the safety of the pier.
CHAPTER 15
No ingenious scheme to save Michael had occurred to Bartholomew, so he did the only thing he could – he leapt up and powered forward, bowling into the plotters and managing to carry Robert and one of the students into the King’s Ditch with him.
His world went dark as he hit the water, the lamp’s frail gleam unequal to penetrating its filthy blackness. It was shockingly cold, and he tried not to swallow, suspecting it would kill him if his opponents did not. His hands touched the soft sludge on the bottom, so he kicked upwards – and was startled to find himself standing in water that barely reached his waist.
‘No!’ cried Robert in dismay, also on his feet. ‘The ditch has silted up! The boat will not sink far enough to hide the monk’s corpse!’
Michael, struggling frantically against the ropes that held him as the boat began to sink, did not seem very comforted, and was looking more frightened than Bartholomew had ever seen him. Then a clash of metal drew the physician’s eyes to the bank. Dickon was fighting the remaining student. Bartholomew watched in horror. Dickon was large for his age, but he was still a child, and could not possibly win a battle with a full-grown man.
While he hesitated, not sure whether to rescue Dickon or Michael first, he heard a splash and whipped around to see Morys wading towards him. He tried to back away, but mud and weeds snagged his feet, and he could not move quickly enough. Morys grabbed his tabard, but Bartholomew jerked it back, pulling Morys off balance. While the Zachary man floundered, Bartholomew seized his hair and forced Morys’s face so deeply under the water that he felt it squelch into the slime on the bottom.
Meanwhile, the boat was sinking fast, and even with the silt, Bartholomew knew that Michael’s head would not clear the surface once the vessel settled on the bottom. He surged towards it, but a hand caught his shoulder. It was the student he had knocked into the ditch. Bartholomew lashed out with a punch that hit home more by luck than design, then resumed his agonisingly slow journey towards Michael.
‘Matt!’ shrieked the monk in terror. ‘Cut me free!’
Bartholomew reached for his medical bag where he kept several surgical blades, only to find he no longer had it – in the panic following Nigellus’s confession he had left it on the High Street. Then he remembered the axe – Morys had dropped it into the boat before leaping to safety. He plunged beneath the surface, cold-numbed fingers groping wildly in the blackness. It was not there! Had it fallen out? Then his questing fingers touched the handle. He took hold of it and stood.
‘Hurry!’ howled Michael. The water had reached his chin.
Both took breaths at the same time, Michael as the ditch surged towards his nose, and Bartholomew as he dived, desperately hoping that the axe would be sharp enough to hack through the ropes. He found Michael’s legs, then groped for the cords, sawing frantically at one that was stretched taut from the monk’s frenzied struggles to break free. He could not tell whether it was working, and was about to surface for air when he was thrust down so hard that his head cracked against the gunwale.
He tried to push upwards, but someone was holding him down. He struggled, violently at first, but with decreasing vigour as he felt himself begin to black out. Then, just when he thought his lungs would explode, he was released. He surfaced, gasping, to see that he must have cut enough of the rope to let Michael snap the rest, because the monk was standing up.
He looked around wildly, and saw it had been the student who had tried to drown him; Michael had knocked him away with his shoulder, and the lad was floating face-down nearby. Morys was clawing at the mud that filled his eyes and nose, while Dickon and the other student were still engaged in their dead
ly dance. Bartholomew looked for Robert.
‘Behind you, Matt!’ howled Michael.
Bartholomew spun around to see that the almoner had managed to grab the axe. With a vengeful grin, Robert raised it above his head in readiness for the fatal blow. Bartholomew threw up an arm to defend himself, but then came an imperious voice.
‘What is going on?’
Bartholomew sagged in relief. It was Prior Joliet. Robert lowered the axe, while on the bank, Dickon and the student stopped fighting.
‘You are making too much noise,’ said Joliet angrily. ‘Do you want the beadles to rush in and see what is happening?’
Numbly, Bartholomew noticed that the Prior’s arm was no longer in its orange sling, and there seemed to be nothing wrong with it.
‘So you are the strategist!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘I might have guessed.’
‘Might you?’ mumbled Bartholomew, hating the sour taste of defeat. It had not occurred to him that the jolly, round little Prior should be involved in such a wicked scheme. ‘Why?’
‘The mural in our hall,’ said Michael. ‘What does it depict?’
‘Aristotle, Plato, Galen and Aquinas,’ replied Bartholomew, struggling to understand why the monk should consider the painting relevant. ‘Teaching under a tree.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘Under a tree – not in an academic hall or a church. I wondered from the start why that should be, but now I understand. It was Joliet’s idea to move the University to the Fens. He painted his vision of the future.’
Many things became clear to Bartholomew as the last clue fell into place, but there was no time to analyse them, because a fury of sound from the High Street suggested that a pitched battle was in progress. There would be injuries and deaths, particularly among the townsmen, whose sticks and tools were no match for the scholars’ swords and bows.
He glanced at Joliet and saw satisfaction in the plump face. It was exactly what the Prior wanted: no scholar could stay in a place that burned with resentment over the uneven number of casualties, so the University would have to flee to the Fens, where his dream of a studium generale away from the trappings of a town would be realised. Bartholomew felt a small spark of satisfaction, though: the sacking of the Austin Priory would not contribute to the trouble, because the bar he had placed across the door would keep looters out – at least until Joliet and Robert realised what he had done and went to remove it.
‘Pull that student out of the water,’ instructed Joliet, when the clamour had eased and he could make himself heard again. ‘Or he will drown.’
Robert tossed the axe to Morys and went to oblige, although Bartholomew could see it was too late. So could Joliet, who scowled angrily.
‘If you had dispatched Michael quickly, as I ordered, Bartholomew would have gone away in ignorance and that lad would still be alive. Now we shall have to kill Bartholomew, too, which is a pity – another physician would have been be useful in the Fens.’
‘Do not use the axe to do it, Morys,’ advised Robert. ‘A knife will be cleaner.’
He was proven right when Bartholomew evaded Morys’s wild swing with ease. Swearing under his breath, the Principal tossed the axe on to the pier and drew a dagger instead.
‘How did you escape from the chapel, Father Prior?’ asked Bartholomew, edging away.
‘By unlocking the door,’ replied Joliet shortly. ‘Do you really think I would allow myself to be shut inside when a riot was in progress?’
‘You tried to make us think that Wauter was the strategist,’ said Bartholomew accusingly, jerking away from Morys’ next lunge, which came far too close for comfort. ‘You claimed he left you his Martilogium to—’
‘To ensure you did not suspect me,’ interrupted Joliet briskly. ‘Yes. Not that it matters now. And I do have the Martilogium. It is a valuable work, and I could not risk it being destroyed in the riots. I took it when I last visited your College.’
‘Wauter was never one of us,’ said Morys, grimacing when yet another swipe missed. ‘He would have disapproved.’
‘So who is involved?’ asked Michael. ‘All Zachary, I suppose, which is why they refuse to wear their tabards – a ploy to aggravate the town with a flaunting of riches. And the Austins.’
‘Not the Austins,’ said Joliet. ‘It is best my brethren remain ignorant of what needs to be done, so they are still locked in the chapel, praying for peace.’
‘And not Nigellus either,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Or he would have treated you with more respect at the disceptatio. Instead he blackmailed you over the sucura you acquired from Frenge.’
‘I will make him regret that,’ vowed Joliet unpleasantly, then turned to his helpmeets. ‘Enough talk. Make an end of them.’
Obediently, the surviving student renewed his assault on Dickon, while Morys advanced on Bartholomew again. Robert jumped into the ditch and waded purposefully towards Michael.
‘You sold Shirwynk those lead tanks, knowing exactly what would happen if he fermented wine in them,’ said Michael, twisting suddenly so that Robert was knocked backwards. ‘And you have pretended to be calm and reasonable, but your “innocent” remarks have made matters worse.’
‘Hurry up,’ Joliet snapped to his helpmeets. ‘This distasteful confrontation has gone on quite long enough.’
‘You were never hurt by a rock either,’ said Michael. ‘You claimed a townsman had lobbed one, hoping the University would rebel at an assault on a priest, and you wore a bright orange sling to draw attention to the “injury”. But it was yet another ruse, aimed to encourage more—’
‘It worked,’ interrupted Joliet curtly. ‘Which is even more reason to leave this turbulent town. If we can stir up such hatred with a few rumours, lawsuits, lies and deaths, imagine what would happen if someone wicked tried to do it.’
‘Someone wicked?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘I think you will find that you qualify for that particular description – as you will learn when your sins are weighed on Judgement Day.’
‘We are in the right,’ snarled Joliet, and as he spoke, he stepped into the flickering lamplight to reveal what he was wearing on his feet. ‘It is fat and corrupt Colleges that—’
‘You killed Kellawe!’ breathed Bartholomew when he saw the colourful smears. He recalled what Dickon had said: that the Austins did not have the luxury of spare boots. Joliet had worn sandals in his refectory earlier, but something sturdier was needed for hurrying around outside in the dark, so the Prior had had no choice but to don the footwear he had worn to the dyeworks.
‘He was a liability,’ snapped Joliet crossly. ‘And put more moderate men off joining us. I told him to stay away from your sister’s business after he was almost caught there the first time, but he ignored me and went again anyway. I followed and—’
He was interrupted by an agonised scream. The surviving student had been distracted by the discussion, which allowed Dickon to dart forward and plunge his sword into the lad’s foot. Then Dickon whipped around and rushed at Joliet. The Prior tried to turn, but lost his footing on the slippery wood. He landed on his back, where he made a peculiar sound, half whimper, half groan.
Bartholomew also capitalised on the distraction, lashing out with a punch that sent Morys flying. When the Principal regained his feet, he was within reach of Dickon’s sword. There was an unpleasant crunch as metal met bone, and Morys went limp.
‘Untie me, Matt,’ shouted Michael, ramming a meaty elbow into Robert’s face. The almoner reeled, dazed. ‘The University needs its Senior Proctor out on the streets, or these misguided fools are going to get their wish of a University in the Fens.’
‘Not Morys – he is dead,’ said Dickon with enormous satisfaction. ‘I can see his brains.’
‘So is Joliet,’ added Bartholomew, as he slashed away the ropes from Michael’s wrists with his trusty dagger. ‘He landed on the axe that Morys dropped just now, and it must have punctured his …’
He trailed off when he saw Dickon listening with
far too much interest.
‘Get the chapel key from his purse,’ instructed Michael, climbing out of the ditch and pulling the dazed Robert with him. ‘Hurry!’
Bartholomew obliged, then used Dickon’s sword to urge Robert and the limping student towards the chapel. He glanced up at the sky as they went. Dawn would come soon, and he wondered what horrors daylight would reveal.
They reached the chapel to find that the Austins had been suspicious when Joliet had accused Robert of shutting them in when they knew he had the key himself. One had also seen Morys forcing Michael towards the King’s Ditch at knifepoint. They were sorry when the monk gave a brief summary of what had happened, but not surprised, and informed him that their concerns had been mounting for some time.
‘The Zachary men often visit at night,’ said Overe, watching Dickon shove the two prisoners into the chapel and lock the door. ‘And Prior Joliet hated the fact that the University is surrounded by what he called the corrupting influence of the town.’
‘But we want to stay,’ said another. ‘How can we succour the poor from the marshes?’
‘A move would have gone against everything we believe in,’ said Overe. ‘Yet Joliet and Robert were not bad men – just ones who did what they thought was right.’
‘Setting an entire town alight with hatred and bigotry is right?’ asked Michael archly.
Bartholomew, Michael and Dickon hurried to the High Street to see that Bene’t College was under siege from a gang of hostel men, while a mob from the town was looting a house that had been left empty when its residents had decanted to the Fens. More trouble was brewing at the Trumpington Gate, where a host of scholars had again gathered to leave, and a rival contingent led by King’s Hall aimed to stop them. Townsfolk had gravitated towards the confrontation.
‘Where have you been, Brother?’ demanded Tulyet between gritted teeth. ‘Your hostel men have not brought travelling packs with them this time – they carry staves and knives, and they intend to do battle with the Colleges.’
‘Where is Tynkell?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he not tell them to go home?’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 35
