The second Frenchman grabbed Bartholomew around the neck, preventing him from rising. Bartholomew, struggling desperately to prise the arm away from his throat as he felt it begin to cut off his breath, realised that he had dropped his knife. The first student, his hand still raised to protect his eyes, advanced on the physician smiling evilly, assured that his quarry would now be easily dispatched. Bartholomew lunged forward with every ounce of his strength, and succeeded in breaking the hold that had pinned him to the ground.
He scrambled to his feet, but found himself up against a wall with nowhere to move. The two Frenchmen moved apart by unspoken agreement, effectively eliminating any chance of escape.
Without warning, one of them dropped to his knees, his sword falling from his hand as he scrabbled at his back. His face wore an expression of shock that would have been comical in other circumstances. Then he pitched forward, and Bartholomew saw his own knife firmly embedded between the man’s shoulder-blades, and Mistress Tyler standing behind him, her face white with shock and anger.
The third Frenchman, his eyes raw from the dust he had rubbed from them, called for the other one to come away, his voice becoming more urgent when he perceived their friend’s fate. The student ignored him, and advanced on Bartholomew, his sword whistling in a series of hacking sweeps. Bartholomew, seeing defence was useless, dived at him when he was off-balance from a particularly vigorous thrust. Both men fell to the ground in a frenzy of flailing arms and legs, and Bartholomew’s hands fumbled for the Frenchman’s throat. Ignoring the pounding of fists on his chest and arms, he began to squeeze as hard as he could.
He was dimly aware of the other man coming to his friend’s rescue, and heard the Tylers renew their assault on him with any missiles they could find. There was a heavy thud as he fell. The student Bartholomew held was almost unconscious now, and Bartholomew forced himself to release him. The man flopped on to his side, concerned only with dragging sweet air down his bruised throat, while his friend crawled towards him.
Breathing heavily himself, Bartholomew grabbed Mistress Tyler’s arm and hauled her from the street into the small alley that ran down the side of the Brazen George, trusting the daughters would follow. In the comparative peace, the five of them regained their breath, the girls holding on to each other for comfort. Mistress Tyler was the first to recover, while Bartholomew leaned against a tall fence, hoping he would not disgrace himself by being the only one to allow his shaking legs to deposit him on the ground.
Although Oswald Stanmore had been to some trouble to teach his young brother-in-law the rudiments of sword play, archery and boxing, Bartholomew had not taken easily or happily to such training, preferring to seek out the company of Trumpington’s rector, and ply him with an endless barrage of questions about natural philosophy and logic. Occasionally, however, Bartholomew wished he had paid more attention to Stanmore’s lessons – the learning he had acquired over the years would not save him from a sword thrust, and Cambridge seemed to be growing ever more dangerous, with murders and riots at every turn.
He winced as a student friar tore past the top of their alleyway, screaming like an infidel. Students and townsfolk alike ran this way and that, most in small groups for safety. Distant yells indicated that the riot was spreading to other parts of the town, and the dark night sky was glowing orange in at least two places, suggesting that fires were not confined to the High Street. Several riderless horses galloped by, adding to the mayhem. Bartholomew wondered how the Sheriff would manage to control such widespread disorder with troops that had been sorely depleted during the plague and never replaced. Bravely, Mistress Tyler seized on a brief lull in the chaos to peer into the High Street, starting backwards when a shower of sparks danced across the road towards her.
‘The fire is more or less out,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘But there are people inside our house – probably looting, although they will find precious little to take.’
She put her arms around the elder girls’ shoulders, while the youngest clung to her skirts. ‘This is my treasure,’ she whispered shakily. ‘I will not risk it to save a few sticks of furniture.’
‘Shall I try to drive the looters out?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether his aching limbs would allow it, and regretting his offer the moment it was made.
Mistress Tyler looked at him aghast. ‘Of course not!
You have done enough for us already by rescuing my Eleanor from those French devils. But if you will do us a final kindness, Doctor, and escort us to my cousin’s house, we would much appreciate it.’
Bartholomew agreed readily enough, but wondered whether his presence – a single, unarmed man – could do much to protect the Tyler women from further assault.
He felt something pressed into his hand, and met the clear, grey eyes of Eleanor as she returned his knife to him, sticky and glistening black with blood. She must have retrieved it before following her mother to the alley. He was grateful, knowing that his knife found in the back of a corpse might well have been considered sufficient evidence to hang him for murder in one of the hasty and vengeful trials that often followed such disturbances, regardless of the fact that he was innocent.
He gave her a wan smile, and followed the women down the alley. They reached Shoemaker Row, where they kept to the shadows, avoiding the groups of apprentices that ran this way and that armed with a wicked assortment of weapons. At the Franciscan Friary, the stout doors were firmly closed: the friars obviously intended to keep well clear of the mischief brewing that night, and to protect their property from harm. One priest, braver or more naïve than his fellows, stood atop the gate, exhorting the rioters to return to their homes or risk the wrath of God.
Few heeded his words, and he was eventually silenced by a well-aimed stone.
Finally, having pursued a somewhat tortuous route to avoid confrontations, Mistress Tyler stopped outside the apothecary’s house.
‘Is Jonas the Poisoner your cousin?’ asked Bartholomew, using without thinking the usual appellation for the apothecary, following an incident involving confusion between two potions many years before.
‘His wife is,’ answered Mistress Tyler. She took Bartholomew’s arm and, when the door was opened a crack in response to her insistent hammering, she bundled him inside with her daughters.
While she told her fearful relatives of their near escape, Bartholomew allowed himself to be settled comfortably in a wicker chair, and brought a cup of cool wine. As he took it, his hands shook from delayed fright, so that a good part of it slopped on to his leggings. Mistress Tyler’s middle daughter – a young woman almost as pretty as her elder sister – handed him a wholly inadequate square of lace with which to mop it up. She was unceremoniously elbowed out of the way by Eleanor, and dispatched to fetch something larger, overriding Bartholomew’s embarrassed protestations that it was not necessary.
‘I did not thank you,’ said Eleanor, smiling at him as she refilled his cup. ‘You were more than kind to come to our rescue – especially given that you are clearly no fighting man.’
Such a candid assessment of his meagre combat skills was scarcely an auspicious start to the conversation, but he decided her comment was not intentionally discourteous.
‘We were more evenly matched than the Frenchmen imagined,’ he said, acknowledging the Tylers’ own considerable role in the skirmish. ‘And I should thank you for not running when I told you to.’
‘Yes, or you would have been dead by now for certain,’ she said bluntly. Bartholomew took a sip of wine to hide his smile, certain she was oblivious to the fact that many men would have taken grave exception to such a casual dismissal of their martial abilities.
She looked thoughtful. ‘You are a scholar: tell me why the students are so intent on mischief this term. They are always restless and keen to fight, but I have never known such an uneasy atmosphere before.’
‘We have discussed this at Michaelhouse several times, but we have no idea as to the cause,’ he answered, sett
ing his cup down on the hearth before he could spill it again. ‘Should you discover it, please let us know. We must put a stop to it before any more harm is done.’
The middle daughter returned with water and a cloth with which to wipe up the slopped wine, and a slight, somewhat undignified tussle for possession of them ensued between the two sisters, a struggle that ended abruptly when the bowl tipped and a good portion of its contents emptied over Bartholomew’s feet. Quickly, he grabbed the rest of it before they drenched him further.
Across the room, Mistress Tyler tried to see what was happening.
‘Hedwise, give the doctor more wine,’ she called, before turning her attention back to the persistent questioning of her anxious relatives.
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, as Hedwise tried to pour more wine into a cup that was already brimming. He did not want to return to Michaelhouse drunk.
Hedwise looked crestfallen, and Eleanor smiled enigmatically.
‘Fetch some cakes, Hedwise. I am sure Doctor Bartholomew is hungry after his ordeal.’
The last thing Bartholomew’s unsteady stomach needed was something to eat. He declined, much to Hedwise’s satisfaction, and she settled herself on a small stool near his feet, still clutching the wine bottle so that his cup could be refilled the instant he took so much as a sip. Eleanor knelt to one side, leaning her elbows on the arm of his chair.
‘When the weather is good, I sit outside to work – you know our family makes lace for a living – and students often talk to me. I will ask around to see if I can discover the cause of this unease for you.’
‘Me too,’ said Hedwise eagerly.
‘It might be better if you were to stay inside,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Supposing those French students return?’
‘Oh, they will,’ said Eleanor confidently. ‘They have been pestering me for weeks.’
‘And me,’ said Hedwise.
Eleanor ignored her. ‘Our mother was forced to speak to their Principal about them.’
‘Which hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling a strange sense that he already knew the answer.
‘Godwinsson,’ the women chorused.
‘Do you know Dominica?’ Bartholomew asked, looking from one to the other. The daughter of Master Lydgate, the Principal?’
Eleanor smiled, her teeth white, but slightly crooked.
‘Dominica is the only decent member of that whole establishment. She was seeing a student, but her parents got wind of it. They sent her away to Chesterton village out of harm’s way.’
Hedwise giggled suddenly. ‘They think she has chosen a student from their own poxy hostel, but the reality is that she has far too much taste to accept one of that weaselly brood. It is another she loves.’
‘Her parents do not know the identity of her lover?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.
‘Oh, no!’ said Eleanor. ‘But they would do anything to find out. They even offered money to their students to betray their fellows. A number of them did, I understand, but when stories and alibis were checked, the betrayals were found to be false, and stemmed from spite and malice, not truth.’
‘What an unpleasant place,’ said Bartholomew in distaste, recalling his own brief visit there – only a few hours ago, although it felt like much longer. ‘Do you know who Dominica’s lover is?’
‘Dominica tells no one about her lovers, for fear their names would reach her father,’ said Eleanor. ‘She is clever though, never meeting in the same place twice, and ensuring there are no predictable patterns to her meetings.’
Had Dominica chosen the King’s Ditch to meet Kenzie then, Bartholomew wondered, and the Scot had been killed as he waited for her to appear? If Dominica chose a different location each time she and Kenzie met, then she might well have been reduced to using a place like the shadowy oak trees near Valence Marie if the relationship had lasted for any length of time.
Feeling water squelch unpleasantly in his shoes, Bartholomew stood to take his leave of the Tylers and Jonas, declining their offer to stay the night. He wanted to return to Michaelhouse and sleep in his own bed.
Eleanor reached out to take his hand. ‘We will worry about you until we see you again, Doctor Bartholomew. Visit us, even if it is only to say you arrived home safely.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Hedwise, forcing her way between Bartholomew and her sister. ‘Come to see us soon.’
Mistress Tyler looked from her daughters to Bartholomew as she ushered him out of the door, first checking to see that it was safe. She touched his arm as he stepped into the street. ‘Eleanor and Hedwise are right,’ she said. ‘You must visit us soon. And thank you for your help tonight. Who knows what might have happened to us had you not come to our aid.’
Bartholomew suspected that they would have thought of something. The Tyler women were a formidable force – resourceful and determined. Eleanor caught his hand as he left, and it was only reluctantly that she released him into the night.
The streets were alive with howling, yelling gangs. Some were scholars and some were townspeople, but all were armed with whatever they had been able to lay their hands on: a few carried swords and daggers, a handful had poorly strung bows, while others still wielded staves, tools, and even gardening equipment. Bartholomew, his own small knife to hand, slipped down the noisy streets hoping that his scholar’s tabard would not target him for an attack by townspeople. There was little point in removing the tabard, for that would only expose him to an assault from scholars.
Here and there fires crackled, although none were as fierce or uncontrolled as the one that had destroyed Master Burney’s workshop. In places, window shutters were smashed, and from one or two houses, shouts of terror or outrage drifted, suggesting that looting had begun in earnest. Bartholomew ignored it all as he sped towards Michaelhouse. He could do very little to help, and would only get himself into trouble if he interfered.
He felt someone grab his arm as he ran, pulling him off balance so that he fell on one knee. He brought his knife up sharply, anticipating another fight, but then dropped it as he recognised Cynric ap Huwydd, his Welsh bookbearer. Cynric was fleet of foot and possessed of an uncanny ability to move almost unseen in the night shadows; Bartholomew supposed he should not have been surprised that the Welshman had tracked him down in the chaos.
Cynric tugged Bartholomew off the road, and into the shadows of the trees in All Saints’ churchyard.
‘Where have you been, boy?’ Cynric whispered. ‘I have been looking for you since all this fighting started. I was worried.’
‘With Mistress Tyler’s family at Jonas the Poisoner’s house. Is Michaelhouse secure? Are all our students in?’ asked Bartholomew, peering through the darkness at the man who, although officially his servant, would always be a friend.
Cynric nodded, looking through the trees to where a large group of students was systematically destroying a brewer’s cart with stout cudgels. The brewer was nowhere to be seen, and his barrels of ale had long since been spirited away. ‘All Michaelhouse students are being kept in by the Fellows – some by brute force, since they are desperate to get out and join in the looting. Only two are missing as far as I can see: Sam Gray and Rob Deynman.’
‘Both my students,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘I hope they have had the sense to lie low.’ He coughed as the wind blew thick, choking smoke towards them from where a pile of wreckage smouldered. ‘As should we. We must get home.’
Cynric began to glide through the shadows, with Bartholomew following more noisily. They had to pass the Market Square to reach Michaelhouse, and the sight that greeted them reminded Bartholomew of the wall paintings at St Michael’s depicting scenes from hell.
For a few moments he stood motionless, ignoring the rioters who jostled him this way and that. Cynric, ever alert to danger, pulled him to one side, and together they surveyed the familiar place, now distorted by violence.
Fires, large and small, lit the Market Square. Some were under control, surrounded by cavo
rting rioters who fed the flames with the proceeds of looting forays; others raged wildly, eating up the small wooden stalls from which traders sold their wares in the daytime. The brightly coloured canvasses that covered the wooden frames of the stalls, flapped in the flames, shedding sparks everywhere, and causing the fires to spread. Bartholomew saw one man, his body enveloped in fire, run soundlessly from behind one stall, before falling and lying still in his veil of flames. Bells of alarm were ringing in several churches, occasionally drowned by the wrenching sound of steel against steel as the Sheriffs men skirmished with armed rioters.
Here and there, people lay on the ground, calling for help, water or priests. Others wandered bewildered, oblivious to the danger they were in from indiscriminate attack. A group of a dozen students sauntered past, singing the Latin chorus that Bartholomew had heard sung outside St Mary’s Church the previous day. One or two of them paused when they saw Bartholomew and Cynric but moved on when they glimpsed the glitter of weapons in their hands.
Bartholomew saw the voluminous folds of Michael’s habit swirling black against the firelight. Two of his beadles were close, all three laying about them with staves, as they fought to break up a battle between two groups of scholars – although, in their tabards and in the unreliable light of the fires, Bartholomew wondered how they could tell who was on whose side. He took a secure hold on his knife, and went to help Michael, Cynric following closely behind him.
He was forced to stop as one of the stalls in front of him suddenly collapsed in a shower of sparks and cinders, spraying the ground with dancing orange lights. By the time he was able to negotiate the burning rubble, he had lost sight of Michael. Then something thrown by a passing apprentice hit him on the head, and he sprawled forward on to his hands and knees, dazed. He heard Cynric give a blood-curdling yell, which was followed by the sound of clashing steel. With a groan another stall began to collapse, and Cynric’s attackers were forced to back off or risk it falling on them. Once away, they obviously thought better of dealing with Cynric, a man more experienced with arms than any of them, and went in search of easier prey. Bartholomew crawled away from the teetering stall, reaching safety moments before the whole thing crashed to the ground in a billow of smoke that stung his eyes and hurt the back of his throat. Cynric joined him, his short sword still drawn, alert for another attack.
A Bone of Contention хмб-3 Page 9
