‘Are you certain?’ asked Michael, cautiously. ‘It was very dark and you have not mentioned Ivo before.’
‘Something jarred in my mind when I saw him with his cart,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was out of his usual context – the only other times I have seen him have been when he was crashing about in the kitchens at David’s, and suddenly, he was in the High Street with a cart, purporting to be an apple-seller. As I thought about it, and listened to his voice, I realised exactly where I had seen and heard him before. It struck me as odd.’
‘But this means that David’s is involved,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘And I thought we had settled on Valence Marie, Godwinsson and Maud’s.’
‘Only one of their servants,’ said Tulyet. ‘But this makes sense. I saw that fight on the High Street tonight, and I had a bad feeling that my men had not broken it up sufficiently for it not to begin afresh.’
‘Enough chattering,’ said de Wetherset, his agitation making him uncharacteristically rude. ‘Brother, take the beadles and clear the students off the streets. Bartholomew, go to Michaelhouse, and warn them that they may be about to be under siege. Master Tulyet,’ he added, peering up at the Sheriff, ‘could you try to prevent the looting of at least some the hostels near the Market Square? It is too late for Godwinsson, but perhaps we might save others. Heppel – perhaps you had better wait with me in the church.’
Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm, and gave him a brief smile before they parted to go in different directions.
Michael traced a benediction in the air at Bartholomew as he sped up the High Street and, after a moment’s consideration, sketched one at himself. He gathered his beadles together, and set off towards the Trumpington Gate, intending to work his way along the High Street and then back along Milne Street. The Chancellor watched them go and then bundled his frightened clerks and Junior Proctor into St Mary’s Church, taking care to bar the door.
Figures flitted back and forth at the junction between St Michael’s Lane and the High Street, and there was a good deal of noise. Bartholomew edged closer. One man in particular, wearing a dark brown tunic, yelled threats and jeers towards little St Paul’s Hostel that stood at the corner. Bartholomew, watching him, saw immediately what he was doing: St Paul’s had only five students and was poor. The man was using it to work his crowd up to fever pitch, at which point they would march on nearby Michaelhouse, bigger, richer, and well worth looting.
Bartholomew ducked down one of the streets parallel to St Michael’s Lane and then went along Milne Street, running as hard as he could. On reaching the opposite end of St Michael’s Lane, he peered round the corner and began to head towards the sturdy gates of his College. At the same time, a great cheer went up from the crowd and Bartholomew saw them begin to march down the lane.
They saw him at the same time as he saw them – a lone scholar in the distinctive gown of a University doctor. A great howl of enraged delight went up and they began to trot towards him. Bartholomew was almost at Michaelhouse’s gates when he faltered. Should he try to reach the College, or should he turn and run the other way? If he chose the latter, it would draw the mob away from Michaelhouse and they might not return. There was sufficient distance between him and the crowd so that he knew he could outrun them – and he could not imagine that such a large body of people would bother to chase him too far along the dark, slippery banks of the river.
His mind made up, he did an about-face. A second yell froze his blood. The crowd had divided – perhaps so that one group could try to gain access through the orchard, while the others distracted attention by battering at the front gates. He was now trapped in the lane between two converging mobs.
Both began to surge towards him, their inhuman yells leaving him in no doubt that he was about to be ripped limb from limb. He ran the last few steps to Michaelhouse, and hammered desperately on the gates, painfully aware that his shouts for help were drowned by the howls of the rioters. A distant part of his mind recalled that the surly Walter was on night duty that week and Walter was never quick to answer the door. By the time he realised one of Michaelhouse’s Fellows was locked outside, Bartholomew would be reduced to a pulp.
The crowd was almost on him and he turned to face them. The man in the brown tunic was in the lead, wielding a spitting torch. In the yellow light, his features were twisted into a mask of savage delight, revelling in his role as rabble-rouser. Around him, other faces glittered, unrecognisable – nothing but cogs in a violent machine. It was not a time for analysis but in the torch-light Bartholomew recognised the man in brown as Saul Potter, the scullion from Godwinsson.
Bartholomew screwed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, not wanting to see the violent hatred on the faces of the rioters. Some of them were probably his patients and he did not wish to know which ones would so casually turn against him. He cringed, waiting for the first blow to fall and felt the breath knocked out of him as he fell backwards. He struck out blindly, eyes still tightly closed. He felt himself hauled to his feet and given a rough shake.
‘You are safe!’
Finally, Master Kenyngham’s soothing voice penetrated Bartholomew’s numb mind. The physician looked about him, feeling stupid and bewildered, like Lydgate had been in the church just a short time before. He was standing in Michaelhouse’s courtyard, while behind him students and Fellows alike struggled to close the gate through which they had hauled him to safety.
‘It was lucky you were leaning against the wicket gate,’ said Gray, who was holding his arm. ‘If you had been standing to one side of it, we would never have got you back.’
‘It was me who heard your voice,’ said Deynman, his eyes bright with pride. ‘I opened the gate quickly before anyone could tell me not to and we pulled you inside.’
‘No one would have told you not to open the gate, Robert,’ said Master Kenyngham reproachfully. ‘But your quick thinking doubtlessly saved Doctor Bartholomew’s life.’
Deynman’s face shone with pleasure, and Bartholomew, still fighting to calm his jangling nerves, gave him a wan smile. Despite Kenyngham’s assertion, Bartholomew was far from certain the other scholars would have allowed the gates to be opened for him with a mob thundering down the lane from both directions at once, and even if they had, the merest delay would have cost him his life. Deynman’s uncharacteristically decisive action had most certainly delivered Bartholomew from a most unpleasant fate. He made a mental note to try to be more patient with Deynman in the future – perhaps even to spend some time coaching him away from the others.
Bartholomew noticed one or two students rubbing bruises, and eyeing him resentfully. It had not been the mob at which he had lashed out so wildly, but his colleagues and students. He grinned at them sheepishly and most smiled back.
The scholars trying to close the wicket gate against the throng on the other side were finding it difficult. The door inched this way and that, groaning on its hinges against the pressure of dozens of sweating bodies on either side.
‘The door! ‘ shouted Master Kenyngham, and Deynman and Gray hurried to assist their friends. ‘And ring the bell! Other scholars may come to our aid.’
‘No!’ cried Bartholomew. Kenyngham looked at him in astonishment, while Bartholomew tried to steady his voice. ‘Brother Michael is trying to keep the scholars off the streets in the hope that, with no one to fight, the rioters will disperse.’
He glanced around him. There were perhaps thirty students and commoners at Michaelhouse, and seven Fellows including the Master, as well as six servants and Agatha the laundress. Although there were at least twice that number in the horde outside, Bartholomew thought that with the aid of Michaelhouse’s sturdy walls and gates, they could hold out against the rioters. Kenyngham, however, appeared bewildered by the situation and his appalled passivity was doing nothing to improve their chances.
‘May I make some suggestions, Master Kenyngham?’ Bartholomew asked him urgently. The other Fellows clustered around anxiously.
Kenyngham fixed h
im with a troubled stare. ‘No, Matthew. Michaelhouse has always had good relations with the town and I do not want to jeopardise that by meeting its inhabitants with violence. I will climb on to the gate and try to talk reason to these people. They will leave when I point out the folly of their ways.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, while the more pragmatic Father William let out a snort of derision and jabbed a meaty finger towards the gate behind which the crowd howled in fury.
‘Listen to them, man! That is not a group of people prepared to listen to reason. That is a mob intent on blood and looting!’
‘They will be more likely to shoot you down than to listen to you,’ agreed Father Aidan, flinching as a stone hurled from the lane landed near him in a puff of dust.
‘Perhaps we could toss some coins to them,’ suggested Alcote hopefully. ‘Then they would scramble for them and forget about looting us.’
William gave him a pained look. ‘Foolish Cluniac,’ he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Alcote to hear. ‘What an absurd suggestion! Typical of one of your Order!’
‘I suspect that would only serve to convince them that we have wealth to spare,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing a row about to erupt between William and Alcote.
‘You are quite right, Matt,’ said Aidan. ‘But we must decide what we can do to prevent the mob entering the College. What do you have in mind, Master?’
All eyes turned to Kenyngham, who had been listening to the exchange with growing despondency. ‘Do none of you agree with me that we can avert such an incident by talking to these people?’
Alcote yelped as a pebble, thrown from the lane, struck him on the shoulder, and Bartholomew raised an arm to protect his head from a rain of small missiles that scattered around him.
‘What do you think, man?’ demanded William aggressively. ‘Talking would be next to useless – if you could even make yourself heard over the row. For once, Master Kenyngham, all your Fellows are in agreement. We need to defend ourselves – by force if need be – or that rabble will break down our gates and that will be the end of us.’
Kenyngham took a deep breath. ‘Very well. Tell me what you have in mind, Matthew. I am a scholar, not a soldier, and I freely admit to feeling unequal to dealing with the situation. But please try to avoid violence, if at all possible.’
Bartholomew quickly glanced around him again. The students had finally managed to close and bar the gate and were standing panting, congratulating each other, ignoring the enraged howls of the mob outside. But they would not be secure for long. Bartholomew began to bark orders.
‘Agatha, take all the servants, and find as many water containers as possible. Fill them from the well and be ready to act if they try to set us on fire. Alcote and Aidan, take a dozen students and make sure the College is secure at the rear. Post guards there. If the crowd breaks through into the orchard, do not try to stop them, but retreat into the servants’ quarters. Father William, take the Franciscans to the servants’ quarters and gather as many throwable items together as you can: stones, sticks, apples – anything will do. We might have to defend the back if the mob gets into the orchard. The rest of you, collect stones that can be thrown from the wall at the front. Pull down the stable if you need to.’
All, unquestioning, sped off to do his bidding, while Bartholomew considered the front of Michaelhouse. The gates were sturdy enough, but they would be unable to withstand attack for long if the mob thought to use a battering ram of some kind. He sent Bulbeck and Gray in search of anything that might be used to barricade the door, while he clambered up the side of the gate and on to the wall to look down at the surging mob below.
Michaelhouse had been founded thirty years before by a chancellor of Edward II, who was well aware that his academic institution might come under threat by a resentful local population at some point in the future.
Michaelhouse’s walls were strong and tall, and there was something akin to a wall-walk around the front.
The mob was eerily quiet; Bartholomew saw Saul Potter in a small clearing in the middle of them giving orders.
Despite straining, Bartholomew could not hear what was said, but a great cheer from the crowd as Potter finished speaking made his blood run cold.
‘I think we are in for a long night,’ he said unsteadily to Kenyngham as he scrambled down. ‘They are planning to attack us somehow. We must be ready.’
While Bartholomew and the students hurried to find usable missiles, the mob went ominously silent. Then an ear-splitting roar accompanied a tremendous crash against the gates, which shuddered and groaned under the impact.
Horrified, Bartholomew climbed back up the gate to the top of the wall, where a dozen or so scholars crouched there, each one armed with handfuls of small stones gathered from the yard. Deynman was enthusiastically applying himself to demolishing the derelict stable, and some very large rocks were being ferried to augment the waiting scholars’ arsenals. Below, the rioters had acquired a long, heavy pole, and willing hands grabbed at it as it was hauled backwards in readiness for a second strike.
‘Aim for the men holding the battering ram,’ Bartholomew called to the students, looking down at the seething mass of the mob beneath, searching for Saul Potter. The battering ram had a carved end; he realised with a shock that someone had taken the centre-post from one of the river people’s homes. He hoped it had not been Dunstan and Aethelbald’s house that had been destroyed in the mindless urge for blood and looting.
The gates juddered a second time as the post was smashed into them, accompanied by another mighty yell from the crowd. Bartholomew saw the head of the post shatter under the impact. One man fell away with a cry as one of the splinters was driven into his side. But the crowd was oblivious to his distress and the great post was hauled back for a third punch.
Bartholomew watched as the scholars pelted the rioters with their stones. At first, their defence seemed to make little difference, but gradually individuals in the crowd began to look up as the shower of pebbles continued to hail down on them. When a hefty rock landed on one man, the crowd wavered uncertainly. Immediately, Saul Potter was among them again.
‘Our lads have breached the rear!’ he yelled. An uncertain cheer went up. ‘Come on, lads!’ Saul Potter continued. ‘Think of what will soon be yours! Silver plate, jewellery, clothes and all the University’s ill-gotten gains. You will not let these snivelling scholars defeat the honest men of Cambridge, will you?’
This time the clamour was stronger. Encouraged, Saul Potter went on. ‘These wretched, black-robed scholars do nothing for this town but take our women and make us paupers. Will you let the likes of them get the better of us honest folk?’ There was no mistaking the enthusiasm this time, and rioters began to peel off from the group to head for the back gate. Ordering Gray to keep up the barrage of fire from the front, Bartholomew slithered down from the wall to race to the back of the College, gathering any idle hands as he ran.
Sure enough, the mob had broken through into the orchard and were besieging the servants’ quarters. Father William and his Franciscans were doing an admirable job in repelling them with a variety of missiles hurled from the upper floor, but the windows were small and allowed the defending scholars little room for manoeuvre.
The crowd’s reinforcements were beginning to arrive.
On the lower floor, the doors were thick, but nothing like the great gates at the front. They were already beginning to give way under the rioters’ kicks, despite Bulbeck’s desperate attempts to block them with chests and trestle tables.
‘This brings back memories,’ came a quiet, lilting voice from Bartholomew’s elbow.
‘Cynric!’ Bartholomew’s delight at seeing his book-bearer up again was tempered by the sight of his drawn face under the bandage that swathed his head. ‘You should not be here.’ He saw Cynric held a small bow and several arrows.
‘Just let me fire a few of these, boy, and I promise you I will be away to lie down like the ol
d man I am,’ said Cynric.
Bartholomew knew from the determined glitter in the Welshman’s eyes that he would be unable to stop him anyway. He moved aside.
‘Saul Potter,’ he said. ‘He is wearing a brown tunic.’
‘Oh, I know Saul Potter, lad,’ said Cynric, approaching the window and selecting an arrow. ‘Agatha told me he was boasting in the King’s Head about how he had kicked you witless last week. I was going to pay him a visit anyway. Perhaps I can settle matters with him now.’
Cynric’s arm muscles bulged as he eased back the taut bowstring. He closed one eye and searched out his quarry with the other. The Franciscans had ceased their stone-throwing and were watching Cynric intently.
Father William moved towards another window and began chanting a prayer in his stentorian tones. The effect on the crowd was immediate. They became still, their voices gradually faltering into silence and all faces turned to the window from where Father William’s voice emanated.
There was not a man in the crowd who did not recognise the words William spoke: the words spoken by priests when someone was going to die.
Saul Potter began to shout back, but his voice was no match for William’s, which had been honed and strengthened by long years of describing from the pulpit the fires and brimstone of hell and the dangers of heresy.
The sound of Cynric’s arrow singing through the air silenced William. It also silenced Saul Potter, who died without a sound, the arrow embedded in his chest. Cynric slumped back against the window frame with a tired but triumphant grin. Bartholomew helped him to sit down.
‘I have lost none of my skill by living with these learned types,’ Cynric muttered proudly. He tried to dismiss the admiring praise of the students who clustered around him, but the physician could see he was relishing every moment. Bartholomew stood to look out of the window again. Deprived of their leader, the crowd was milling around in confusion. Bartholomew made a sign to William, whose teeth flashed in one of his rare smiles.
A Bone of Contention хмб-3 Page 36
