Bartholomew watched helplessly as baying College men and townsfolk began to swarm across the fallen barrier. De Stannell, who should have been leading the effort to drive them back, promptly turned and bolted for the sanctuary of the hall, so it was Cynric and Nerli who bore the brunt of the invaders’ charge. Lawrence and Eyer tried to help by jabbing with sticks, but it was a battle they could not win, given the attackers’ superiority of numbers. Bartholomew leaned out of the window, unwilling to watch them die for a lost cause.
‘Fall back!’ he yelled, struggling to make himself heard over the wind. ‘To the hall.’
Nerli and Cynric stood shoulder to shoulder, repelling the attackers with their swords until the others had staggered to safety, then turned and fled themselves. They reached the hall, and there came the sound of the door being slammed shut and a bar being slotted into place across it.
‘Such rough treatment!’ cried Illesy in alarm. ‘I am not sure the building can take it. A buttress fell today…’
‘Uyten claims you arranged for it to collapse on him,’ said Michael, although he spoke distantly, as the answer no longer mattered.
‘On the contrary, I warned everyone against going too close,’ objected Illesy indignantly.
‘It sounds to me as if Uyten and Richard have made some very unpleasant accusations,’ mused Potmoor, his small eyes hard and cold. ‘But we shall discuss them later, when we do not have a fight on our hands. Everyone upstairs to the main hall. It will be easier to defend.’
They followed him up the steps, and by the time they arrived, the yard had filled with rioters. Michael flung open a window and yelled an order for them to disperse. The wind tore away his words, but the mob would not have obeyed anyway. Most were inveterate troublemakers, who liked nothing more than an opportunity to go on the rampage, and where better than a foundation they all hated? They surged towards the door with the clear intention of forcing their way in.
‘It will not hold for long,’ predicted Nerli grimly. He turned to Cynric, instinctively recognising a fellow warrior, thus telling Bartholomew that the Florentine had lied about being a scholar all his life. ‘Cynric, go to the dormitory, and start organising something that will make them think twice about using a battering ram. I will try to brace it with another bench.’
Bartholomew followed the book-bearer to the top floor, where the wind was shaking the tiles on the roof, making a tremendous clatter. The students, Eyer, Lawrence and Beadle Giles were peering out of the windows in horror at the scene below. Cynric quickly set them to filling basins, buckets and jugs with water from the washing butt. Bartholomew raced back down to the hall and, not caring that he was overstepping his authority, ordered everyone upstairs to help. De Stannell opened his mouth to object, but Potmoor muttered something about it being wise to obey a veteran of Poitiers, and led the way. Only Bon remained, on his knees at the far end of the room, praying fervently that any damage would be repaired before the founder arrived.
‘We are not deprived of all our suspects,’ said Michael, speaking in a low voice so as not to disturb him. ‘We still have the falsely smiling Lawrence and the sinister Nerli, who is rather too competent a military strategist for my liking. And he was the one who insisted on a hasty burial for our murder victims.’
Below, the mob clustered around the door as they debated how best to break it down. They scattered angrily when water was hurled down on them, and several prepared to lob missiles of their own. Then someone jabbed an indignant finger to where some of their number were disappearing inside the Fellows’ quarters.
‘They are going to loot without us!’
There was a furious howl, and everyone piled after them. The respite would not last long – they would return with renewed vigour when they found there was nothing to steal.
‘The culprit is de Stannell,’ said Bartholomew in the eerie silence that followed. ‘It explains why he is always with Potmoor, grovellingly determined to win his favour.’
‘But Potmoor is irrelevant,’ said Michael, most of his attention on the yard as he waited tautly for the assault to resume.
‘Not so. He has just told us that all the burglaries were committed when he was with Olivia Knyt – times when he had no usable alibis. And who knew where he planned to be? His dogged shadow de Stannell.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘And why would de Stannell want Potmoor accused?’
There was a sound behind them, and both scholars whipped around to see the deputy standing in the doorway, a crossbow trained on them.
‘You should have kept your mouths shut. Now I am going to have to kill you.’
De Stannell kicked the door closed behind him, and although Bon turned slightly at the sound, he immediately resumed his prayers. Bartholomew considered yelling a warning, but what would be the point? A man with hypochyma could do little to help.
‘Yes, it has suited me to have Potmoor blamed for the burglaries,’ whispered de Stannell. He glanced at Bon, but the murmured prayers did not falter. ‘Why do you think I have kept him such close company recently? It is so I shall know his whereabouts and plans. It has not been pleasant, but it has certainly worked.’
‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘People do think Potmoor is guilty. Unfortunately for you, they also think you are his accomplice, and that is not the sort of man they want running their shire. You will not retain your post for long after Tulyet returns.’
‘He will not return,’ said de Stannell confidently. ‘And if he does, I shall arrange for him to have an accident. Do not think of calling for help, by the way. I shall shoot whoever tries, and cut down the other with my sword. Bon will not see, and everyone else will assume the mob did it.’
‘So are we to believe that you are the burglar?’ asked Michael, eyeing him in distaste. ‘Slipping out to raid your town while Potmoor frolics with Olivia Knyt?’
De Stannell shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Of course not. Potmoor’s religious conversion left a number of his henchmen unemployed, and as Sheriff, I knew their names. They now work for me.’
‘But why involve yourself in such a vile scheme? You are already wealthy.’
De Stannell gestured to the hall. ‘This place is costly, and some guildsmen are beginning to object to the amount of money we plough into it, so I have been obliged to devise other ways of raising funds. None of the proceeds have been for me.’
‘So what do you gain from the arrangement?’
‘Immortality! The College will soon be renamed Winwick and de Stannell Hall.’
‘I think the founder will have something to say about that.’ Michael regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And Matt is wrong, because you are not the clever mastermind behind this scheme. To be frank you are not sufficiently intelligent.’
De Stannell scowled as he aimed the weapon, but the monk only gazed back defiantly, and the crossbow wavered. Young Dickon had been right to question the deputy’s abilities as a soldier, thought Bartholomew. Clearly, de Stannell did not have the courage to shoot.
‘Your master is Lawrence,’ Michael went on. ‘The man whose incompetence killed the Queen, who lied about his interactions with Hemmysby, who has poached his medical colleagues’ best patients, and who ensured that Hugo and Holm became friends so that he would have a second spy among Potmoor’s intimates.’
Bartholomew was suddenly assailed with an uncomfortable thought. All Michael’s ‘evidence’ had come from one source: Julitta, who had always been quick to disparage the elderly physician. Irritably, he pushed such treacherous suspicions away. This was the woman he intended to marry!
‘You should have asserted your authority as Senior Proctor more rigorously,’ said de Stannell, and the sly grin he flung at Bartholomew told the physician exactly what was coming next. ‘If you had put an end to your friend’s unseemly lust for the wife of—’
‘Stop,’ snapped Bartholomew through clenched teeth. ‘Leave Julitta out of it.’
‘She is a cunning woman,’ de Stannell went on g
leefully. ‘The clever daughter of a powerful and extremely ruthless man, from whom she learned her business acumen and her ability to deceive. It has not once occurred to you that she has been using your infatuation for her own ends.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew fiercely. ‘She would never—’
‘She has been monitoring Michael through you ever since we feared he might interfere with our plans – long before you went to Peterborough. But you will never have her. She loves Holm and he loves her, as far as he is able. They are more similar in temperament than you know.’
‘And why would Julitta conspire with the likes of you?’ asked Michael scornfully.
‘Why do you think? The rewards for supporting Winwick Hall will be vast. Powerful men will appreciate clerks trained to their specifications, and the clerks themselves will be grateful for the opportunity to further their ambitions.’
‘So you ordered Felbrigge shot to ensure that the College could expand unfettered,’ surmised Michael, while Bartholomew shook his head, unwilling to believe de Stannell’s gloating words. ‘But why kill Elvesmere? Surely he was happy to have won such determined supporters?’
‘I thought the same, and was astonished when he announced his conviction that Winwick should remain a modest foundation. I was obliged to stab him, to shut him up.’
Illesy had mentioned Elvesmere’s preference for moderation, so that was likely to be true, thought Bartholomew, but de Stannell was no killer. Again, it was something Dickon had said that provided the proof that the deputy was no threat.
‘You were taking a riding lesson at the castle when Elvesmere died. You are not the culprit, so do not try to claim credit in the hope of making us think you are dangerous. You are a pitiful excuse for a villain.’
‘Then who did dispatch him?’ asked Michael, while de Stannell blustered and huffed in indignation. Both scholars ignored him.
Bartholomew had been aware for some time that the devotions muttered by the window were gibberish. Bon was not praying, but listening to every word. And he knew why.
‘Bon,’ he said softly. ‘De Stannell is just his monkey.’
The wind was gusting so hard that it made the timbers in the hall creak and its steady roar was almost louder than the racket made by the invaders, who were pouring back into the yard after their fruitless foray to the Fellows’ quarters. Bartholomew jumped in alarm when a violent blast cracked one of the windowpanes, and there was a series of crashes as tiles were torn from the roof. There were screams, too, either because they had landed on the men milling outside, or as a result of Cynric’s resumed barrage from the dormitory.
‘Me?’ asked Bon, turning his milky eyes towards Bartholomew as he climbed to his feet. ‘How? I am blind, in case you had not noticed.’
‘You cannot deceive me about hypochyma,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know what it entails. You cannot read, perhaps, but you have sufficient vision to let you carry out your wicked plans. And you had Uyten. Through him, you hired Jekelyn and Fulbut to commit murder, and tricked Richard into bringing his friends here.’
Bon spread his hands. ‘Uyten told you that Illesy did all that.’
‘A claim you cannot have known unless it originated with you,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘We have told no one else, and he is in prison.’
‘In prison?’ echoed Bon uneasily.
‘You used and misled him, just as you have used and misled everyone else. He will not stand by you when he learns what you have done. He will tell us everything in an effort to save himself.’
‘But I cannot see,’ pressed Bon, all wounded reason. ‘How can I have written letters to Uyten purporting to be from Illesy?’
‘And there is another slip! How could you know that the orders came in the form of letters unless you had sent them? And you do not need to have written them yourself. You can dictate.’
For the first time, Bon looked directly at him, and the smile he gave was cold. ‘But no one can prove it. Uyten thinks he was following Illesy’s instructions, and you will not be in a position to put him right. I shall not bear the blame for any scandal that comes to light. Illesy will.’
There was a sudden cheering roar from the invaders below. Someone had found a robust piece of scaffolding that would serve as a battering ram.
‘What is going on, de Stannell?’ demanded Bon, going to the window. ‘I cannot make out who is doing what. Tell me!’
‘It is the sound of your machinations about to destroy you,’ said Michael. ‘The burglaries, the murders, the blackmail of another foundation – all these have made you enemies.’
‘I did what was necessary to ensure our survival. This is a noble venture, and I look to the day when the whole country is run by Winwick-trained lawyers. Nothing can stand in the way of such a dream. Our founder is a true visionary.’
‘Then I imagine he will be appalled when he learns what you have done.’
‘He will never find out. Everyone who knows the truth is either an ally or will be dead.’
Bon turned to de Stannell, to give the order to shoot, but both Bartholomew and Michael knew that by far the greater danger was the mob below. Desperately, the physician racked his brain for ways to restore calm, but nothing came to mind.
‘Elvesmere was your friend,’ said Michael, his voice full of distaste. ‘But you killed him without a second thought. You stabbed him, not this silly deputy here, but your poor eyesight prevented you from making a clean job of it.’
Bon grimaced. ‘It was fortunate a more loyal friend was on hand with poison – and to carry the corpse out of my room, where its discovery would have been awkward. I wanted to take it to another College, but there were too many beadles about, so we were forced to settle for the latrine.’
Bartholomew took over the discussion, to give the monk a chance to think of a way to quell the turmoil that boiled in the yard below, for his own mind was blank. He realised that they had been unforgivably careless when they had interrogated Uyten: they had not asked who had been with him in the boat, and Uyten had not volunteered the information.
‘Your hypochyma is no obstacle to collecting blackmail money in the dark,’ he said to Bon. ‘You have skills the rest of us lack, as you spend your whole life moving through shadows. Afterwards, Uyten rowed you away.’
‘Did you really think I would not guess that you were waiting? Or that I would march openly along a main road to collect my spoils? You should have paid and been done with it. The other Colleges did.’
‘You have blackmailed them, too?’ Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised.
‘They all have secrets – and money to spare. Why did Michaelhouse refuse?’
Another violent gust shook the building, and an agonised yowl caused Bartholomew to glance through the window. Nerli’s sword, hurled like a spear, had impaled someone. Unfortunately, far from deterring the invaders, it drew a chorus of outraged yells, and the assault intensified.
‘Enough,’ snapped Michael. ‘We must bring an end to this before we are all torn to—’
‘No one will touch de Stannell and me,’ averred Bon confidently. ‘We are members of the Guild of Saints, which is loved for its charity.’
‘Not since you have taken the food from the mouths of widows and beggars,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘Which is why you killed Knyt, of course – a man who was beginning to baulk at the amount of money Winwick wanted. And you tried to kill Michael with poisoned cakes, while you succeeded in dispatching Hemmysby with a gift – no doubt sent after he overheard you making plans to burgle Michaelhouse.’
Bon’s milky eyes narrowed. ‘I killed Hemmysby for humiliating me at the debate. He should have eaten the raisin tart on the evening of the first day, and I was livid when he appeared to belittle me again the following morning. I shall kill Thelnetham when he arrives to take up his Fellowship, too, but only after he changes his will in Winwick’s favour, of course.’
‘Ratclyf was not poisoned with dormirella, though,’ said de Stannell. ‘Regar
dless of the tale you put about.’
‘He died of remorse,’ declared Michael. ‘Lawrence saw him next to Elvesmere’s coffin, weeping and begging for forgiveness. He felt guilty about a colleague’s murder, even if you do not.’
‘You were afraid he would break and expose you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was poisoned, but not with dormirella. He had a sore throat, so you gave him liquorice root, knowing exactly what it would do to his weak heart.’
Bon shrugged. ‘It was for the greater good – the future of Winwick Hall. He was a vile man.’
‘What is wrong with letting Winwick grow naturally, like the other Colleges?’
‘That will take years, and I want my rewards now,’ replied de Stannell. He smirked. ‘So the decision was made to speed it along.’
Bon ignored him, and Bartholomew saw he had scant regard for his helpmeet. ‘Our founder took a chance with me – no one else wanted a blind scholar – so I have taken one for him.’ He turned to de Stannell. ‘He will be here soon, so oust those louts from our yard before—’
‘What about Heyford?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Did you poison him, too, after Jekelyn failed to incinerate him for you?’
‘Yes, with dwale. It did not work.’ There was another chorus of howls from below, and Bon made an impatient gesture to de Stannell. ‘Shoot this pair, and then get rid of that mob before they do us any damage. We cannot have the founder—’
‘It is the burglaries that have done the greatest harm,’ interrupted Michael, ignoring the deputy’s show of taking a firmer grip on the weapon. ‘By stealing for Winwick Hall, you have destroyed the fragile truce between University and town, and set us at each other’s throats.’
‘Which is exactly what Bon intended,’ explained de Stannell, clearly glad of a few more moments to summon up his courage. ‘The other Colleges will be destroyed or weakened by it, thus eliminating the competition. Moreover, it was clever to have Potmoor blamed.’
‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘He is Winwick Hall’s biggest benefactor.’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 41
