‘Something Illesy should have told me sooner,’ said Bon sourly, while de Stannell blinked his astonishment at the revelation. ‘I thought Potmoor was just a felon whose fondness for our College was an affront. I would have used another scapegoat had Illesy been open with us.’
‘Do you really think the University will survive with just Winwick and a handful of hostels?’ asked Michael scornfully. ‘The Colleges give it stability: without them it will founder. So unless you want Winwick to fail before it is properly established, help me put an end to this mischief.’
‘Winwick will not fail.’ Bon glanced irritably towards de Stannell. ‘Hurry up, man! Or do you want me to come and do it?’
Bartholomew winced as the battering ram dealt the door such a blow that he felt the vibrations through the floor. ‘Winwick will fail if they break in. They mean you serious harm.’
‘De Stannell!’ barked Bon. ‘For God’s sake, kill this pair and oust that rabble before—’
‘Oust them?’ echoed Michael. ‘And how do you propose he does that?’
‘They will disperse on my orders,’ bragged de Stannell. ‘I have soldiers waiting. All I have to do is yell, and they will race to save us. Bon? Shall I?’
The battering ram struck home so violently that the whole edifice trembled, and a clump of plaster dropped from the wall. Bon started in alarm.
‘Yes, call them. Quickly!’
The deputy went to the window and bellowed at the top of his voice. The wind snatched his words away, although there were answering jeers from the yard. He tried again.
Suddenly, there was a crack that was far louder than anything they had heard so far. Everyone looked around in alarm, and Michael stabbed his finger at a large fissure that had appeared in the wall. Moments later, Illesy thundered down the stairs and flung open the door.
‘The fallen buttress, the wind and the battering ram have rendered the building unstable,’ he yelled. ‘We cannot stay here a moment longer. It is set to collapse!’
‘Collapse?’ echoed Bon. ‘No! It is the best hall in the—’
‘Fool!’ shrieked the Provost. ‘It was raised so fast that the foundations are too shallow, the mortar was not given time to set, and the workmanship is shoddy. If you were able to see, you would not be making asinine claims about its quality.’
Furious at the insult, Bon tore forward with a knife in his hand. The Provost was too startled to defend himself, and went down in a flurry of blows. He was dead before Bartholomew or Michael could move to help him.
‘There,’ said Bon in satisfaction, keeping a grip on the weapon and obviously ready to use it again. ‘Now I shall be Provost.’
When Bon and de Stannell began an urgent discussion in hissing undertones, Bartholomew decided it was time to make a move before anyone else died. De Stannell posed no threat, so he hurtled towards Bon, but the lawyer’s reactions were faster than he had anticipated, and he was sent sprawling by a well-timed punch. Moments later, Lawrence entered. He faltered at the sight of Bartholomew on the floor and de Stannell with a crossbow. When he saw Illesy, his face drained of colour and he hurried to kneel next to him. Then Nerli arrived.
‘What is going on?’ demanded the Florentine. ‘Did that rabble kill Illesy? By God and all that is holy I will track down the villain and make him pay.’
‘I think we have found our culprits at last, Nerli,’ said Lawrence in a small voice, looking first at de Stannell and then at Bon. ‘You crossed Bon off our list of suspects, but…’
‘You have been investigating?’ asked Bon dangerously.
Nerli reached for his sword, only to find it was not at his side. He grimaced, but his voice was steady as he replied. ‘Two of our Fellows vilely poisoned, along with Knyt and Hemmysby, who were the best of men? Of course we were looking into the matter.’
‘You are part of it, Lawrence,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘Do not try to deceive us.’
Bartholomew glanced at Nerli, and saw the Florentine’s muscles bunch as he prepared to leap at Bon. But there was a sudden movement behind him, and he pitched forward with a cry of pain. Eyer stood there, his pink face cold and hard. The apothecary held a crossbow in one hand and a bloodstained dagger in the other.
‘No,’ whispered Bartholomew in stunned disbelief. ‘Not you as well.’
‘I should have known,’ said Lawrence contemptuously. ‘You were a rogue at Oxford, and you are a rogue now. I should have spoken out the moment I recognised you, but I thought you deserved a second chance. I suppose you did it for money? You always were a greedy fellow.’
Eyer shrugged. ‘Establishing a new business is expensive, so I was delighted to start earning profits sooner than I expected.’
‘But you are wealthy,’ objected Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘A member of the Guild of—’
‘I joined for appearances’ sake, as I told you,’ snapped Eyer. ‘People are more likely to trust a rich apothecary than one who can barely make ends meet.’
‘Then why have you been giving me free remedies for the poor?’
‘To put you in my debt, so you will feel obliged to buy medicines from me in the future. I did the same with the other physicians, careful to make each think that he is the only one so favoured.’
Answers tumbled into Bartholomew’s head. ‘You tried to make me suspect Lawrence and Nerli by telling me that they were Potmoor’s minions. You also said they engaged in questionable business after dark, and bought realgar, dwale and hemlock—’
‘Lies,’ interrupted Lawrence contemptuously. ‘I am too old to venture out at night, and I rarely use potent herbs – I have seen too many accidents to be comfortable with them. Such as at Oxford, when a certain patient was killed with liquorice root.’
Eyer smiled coldly. ‘A lesson that has been of considerable use to me in eliminating rivals, as Ratclyf learned to his cost. I imagine your heart is not what it was when you were young, so perhaps I shall give you a dose, too.’
‘Enough!’ snapped Bon, as another crash on the door caused a sconce to drop off the wall. He gestured to Bartholomew. ‘Pick up Nerli, and put him in the corner. I can hear him breathing, and we do not want him sneaking off while we are not looking.’
The Florentine had been saved from serious injury by the thick leather of his sword belt, and feigned unconsciousness as he was dragged across the room. Unfortunately, Eyer was alert for tricks, and Bartholomew hoped Nerli understood the warning pinch he managed to deliver before he was ordered to stand with Michael and Lawrence against the far wall. Eyer kept the crossbow trained on his captives while he held a muttered conference with his associates.
‘We should have rushed de Stannell while we could,’ whispered Michael, disgusted with himself. ‘Now we are in trouble, because Eyer will not scruple to shoot unarmed men. We were stupid, too greedy for answers.’
Upstairs, and oblivious to the drama unfolding in the hall below, the defenders continued to lob anything they could find out of the windows, while the wind screamed through the broken panes and made the timbers groan. Bon broke away from his accomplices, and began to strip the rings – Potmoor’s rings – from Illesy’s fingers.
‘I am the stupid one,’ mumbled Lawrence. ‘Eyer is often here with potions for Bon’s eyes, but we all know there is no cure for hypochyma. He came to plot with his paymaster, and I should have guessed it, especially knowing what he was capable of from Oxford.’
‘The writing on the blackmail letters,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘Now I know why it was familiar: it is on the medicines I buy. Doubtless, Eyer also penned the notes to Uyten, the ones purporting to be from Illesy.’
Eyer overheard and shrugged. ‘Your Michaelhouse colleagues are unlikely to make the connection, and you will not be alive to tell them. I defeated them with ease when I collected the five marks they tried to fob us off with on Monday.’
‘You mean ten marks,’ said Michael.
‘He is trying to make trouble,’ said Eyer to Bon. ‘For spite, becau
se I flung sand in his Master’s eyes. It was only five marks, I assure you.’
‘Never mind this now,’ said de Stannell urgently. ‘Illesy was right when he said the building is ripe for collapse. That crack is getting bigger.’
Everyone looked at it: the dust that trickled out in a continuous stream did not bode well. Another thud from the battering ram shook loose a more vigorous fall. When a mighty gust of wind buffeted the building, it opened even wider.
Bartholomew turned back to Eyer. ‘You are the “friend” who helped Bon poison Elvesmere when the stabbing went awry. And you supplied him with dormirella, confident in the belief that it is undetectable.’
‘I thought it was undetectable. I have never read anything about blue lips.’
‘Did you invade Michaelhouse, too?’ asked Michael. ‘And steal William’s tract when the Stanton Hutch was unavailable?’
‘The tract,’ grinned Bon. ‘As soon as it was read to me, I knew we could put it to good use. We shall make it public later, and when you and Bartholomew fail to return home today, everyone will assume you fled to avoid the consequences.’
‘Potmoor has suffered from headaches ever since I used your sal ammoniac,’ said Bartholomew, fearful now that he knew the apothecary was so coldly ruthless. ‘What was in it?’
‘A toxin of my own creation,’ replied Eyer. ‘I shall sell it to wealthy clerks in time, men who will pay handsomely for an easy way to be rid of inconvenient enemies.’
‘We hoped you would kill a few paupers with it,’ added Bon, ‘which would have turned the town against Michaelhouse and reduced the number of beggars demanding alms – money that could then come here. It seems our plan misfired, given that Potmoor has been generous to us.’
Bartholomew continued to stare at Eyer. ‘But you are not a bad man. You helped me rescue Heyford from the fire.’
‘You misread my intentions.’ When Nerli stirred slightly on the floor, Eyer tensed, fingers poised ready to shoot. ‘I was going to stop you from saving him, but then I remembered that you had fought at Poitiers.’
The whole building released an ominous creak, and the wind ripped another four panes of glass from their lead frames with sharp pops.
‘No!’ cried Bon, gazing at the ruined windows in dismay. Then he became businesslike. ‘De Stannell, go and delay the founder for the time it will take us to disguise the damage. Potmoor will lend us a tapestry to hide the crack, and a glazier can be hired to—’
‘It will take more than a tapestry and a few new panes to convince John Winwick that all is well,’ interrupted Michael. ‘It is over, Bon! You have lost.’
‘The barrage from upstairs has stopped.’ De Stannell’s voice was suddenly shrill with alarm. It grew more so when he glanced out of the window to assess what was happening in the yard. ‘And the mob is now swollen with matriculands who seem to have forgotten which side they are on. Perhaps the Michaelhouse men are right – we are in danger!’
‘There is only one way to survive,’ declared Michael. ‘By putting aside our differences and joining forces. The invaders want blood, and if we fight among ourselves, they will have it.’
‘Shoot him, Eyer,’ snapped Bon. ‘Then kill the physicians. De Stannell, shout to your troops again. The rabble will disperse when they see armed soldiers coming.’
There was another almighty crash from downstairs, followed by a deep, penetrating groan that suggested some vital support was in the process of disintegrating. Then the floor tipped violently to one side. Bon staggered and Eyer grabbed a windowsill for support. De Stannell dropped his crossbow.
It was the chance Bartholomew had been waiting for. He hurled himself at Eyer, and was aware of Nerli leaping up to tackle de Stannell, leaving Bon for Michael. Physician and apothecary crashed to the floor, where they began a frantic tussle for the weapon. Upstairs, the students screamed in terror, and part of the ceiling fell, narrowly missing Lawrence. The building torqued enough to pop out all its remaining panes, and there was a wild cheer from the yard below.
‘The stairs!’ shouted Lawrence. ‘Quickly! It is—’
But his words were lost in another deafening groan and the building began to topple.
For a moment, Bartholomew heard nothing but the tortured squeals of flexing timbers. He staggered upright, which was not easy when the floor was tilting at such a crazy angle. Eyer snatched at his legs, then disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Coughing hard, Bartholomew scrambled towards the door, stopping only to haul Nerli to his feet. He saw Michael’s bulky form ahead, but there was no sign of the others. They had been closer to the exit, so he could only assume they had already left.
‘Follow me!’ cried Lawrence, arriving from the dormitory with the surviving defenders at his heels. Bartholomew was relieved to see Cynric among them. ‘The back door – hurry!’
It was a terrifying journey down the stairs. Lumps of masonry plummeted all around them, and the student in front of Bartholomew was killed instantly when a piece landed on his head. Lawrence stopped to tend him, but Bartholomew shoved him on, not wanting those behind them to be delayed for a lost cause. Grit and dust swirled so thickly that they could not see their own feet. Then Lawrence fell, tumbling down several steps in a flurry of flailing limbs.
‘I cannot see,’ he rasped. ‘I am disorientated…’
Bartholomew staggered as someone tried to shove past him. It was Bon, for whom blinding dust was less of a problem. Bartholomew grabbed his tabard, and although the Winwick Fellow tried to punch him away, he refused to let go. Bon screeched when a stone struck his shoulder, and broke into a stumbling trot, unwillingly towing Bartholomew after him. The physician kept hold of Nerli with his other arm, yelling for the others to follow his voice. They struggled down more stairs and along a hallway.
He felt wind on his face, and although he still could not see, he was aware of daylight ahead. Lawrence surged past, and began to wrestle with the clasp on a window. It flew open with a metallic screech, ripped from his hand by the gale. De Stannell batted him out of the way, desperate to escape first, but the mob was at the back of the hall as well as the front, and the deputy disappeared in a sea of clawing, punching hands.
‘A cruel choice,’ gasped Michael. ‘Being crushed or torn to pieces.’
Another beam fell, and dust belched thickly out of the window. It drove the invaders back, so Bartholomew used it as a shield to conceal him as he scrambled out – it was more instinct than a rational decision about the way he wanted to die. Michael followed, murmuring prayers of contrition under his breath.
Then Potmoor emerged with a sword, and the diabolical shriek he gave as he plunged among the attackers was enough to scatter them in alarm. He laid about him wildly until someone lobbed a knife that took him in the back. Bartholomew hurried towards him, but was knocked to the ground with a cudgel. Dazed, all he could think was that he had to reach Potmoor and help him. More of the building fell, and no one took any notice as he crawled towards the fallen felon through a sea of milling legs.
‘You will have to resurrect me again,’ whispered Potmoor. ‘Where are your smelling salts?’
Bartholomew had lost his medical bag in the hall, but Potmoor’s eyes closed in death, so it did not matter. He sensed, rather than saw, someone come up behind him, and whipped around just in time to avoid a jab from a makeshift spear. He recognised his assailant as one of the soldiers from Fulbut’s party, and supposed the fellow had joined the riot to avenge his friend. The soldier raised the weapon to strike again, but Bartholomew managed to grab a piece of scaffolding from the ground and sent the fellow flying with a wild swing that hit its target more from luck than skill.
There was a low rumble as more of the hall fell, sending a blast of debris into the desperate mêlée. Several attackers dropped as if poleaxed. Then someone came at Bartholomew with a sword. He raised the strut, but it flew to pieces in his hands, leaving him defenceless. The swordsman prepared to strike the killing blow, but the swipe was blo
cked by another weapon. Bartholomew could not see his rescuer in the billowing dust, but there was a waft of familiar perfume.
‘Richard?’
His nephew was howling at the top of his voice, but Bartholomew could not make out the words at first. Then he caught ‘Michaelhouse Choir’, and was suddenly aware that a number of those around him were singers. Verius was fighting like a lion, valiantly repelling a group of townsmen determined to make an end of an enticingly prostrate Senior Proctor.
The fracas ended when the hall finally gave up the ghost, and combatants on both sides were forced to run for cover or risk being buried alive. Bartholomew, Verius and Richard dragged Michael to his feet, and took refuge behind a stable as the wind swept a treacherous barrage of splinters and plaster fragments over them, forcing them to hunker down with their arms over their heads. It seemed an age before they were finally able to stand up.
‘Well,’ breathed Michael, staring at the heap of rubble that was unrecognisable as Cambridge’s newest College. ‘I wonder what John Winwick will say about that when he arrives.’
‘He is not coming, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘At least, not today – Tynkell just told me. He sends his apologies, and hopes you will enjoy the start of term without him.’
Michael sagged. ‘I do not know whether to laugh or cry.’
He emerged unsteadily from behind the shed, then flinched when someone lobbed a rock at him. The culprit was Sir Joshua Hardwell, the soldierly matriculand who had been left in charge when Winwick’s Fellows had gone to practise for the debate with Michaelhouse.
‘The next person who does that is a dead man,’ came the angry and distinctive voice of Isnard the bargeman. ‘Brother Michael is under my protection.’
Hardwell gave a jeering bray of laughter. ‘You imagine you are a match for me?’
He stepped forward threateningly, but stopped when Isnard bellowed a summons and choir members appeared from all directions to stand at his side.
‘Fight him, and you fight us all,’ growled Verius. ‘Right, lads?’
There was a chorus of rumbled agreement, deep from the basses and higher from the tenors.
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 42
