'It sounds like an army,' whispered Michael, edging further back.
Torches threw bouncing shadows in all directions as the mob surged past, yelling and calling to each other.
Bartholomew recognised some of them as tradesmen from the Market Square. They all carried weapons of one kind or another — staves, knives, scythes, sticks, even cooking pots. Where the torch-light caught the occasional face, Bartholomew saw that they appeared mesmerised. They chanted together, nonsense words, but ones that created a rhythm of unity. Bartholomew had heard that clever commanders were able to create such a feeling of oneness before battles and that the soldiers, whipped up into a frenzy, fought like wild animals until they either died or dropped from sheer weariness. The crowd that surged past Bartholomew and Michael ran as one, chanting and crashing their weapons together. Bartholomew knew that if he and Michael were spotted now in their scholars' garb, they would be killed for certain. No amount of reasoning could possibly work against this enraged mob.
As the last torch jiggled past and the footsteps and chanting faded, Michael crossed himself vigorously, and Bartholomew crept cautiously to the fringe of trees in the graveyard to check that the rioters did not double back.
'That was an evil-intentioned crowd,' he whispered, as Michael joined him. 'There will be murder and mayhem again tonight, Brother. Just as Bigod promised there would be.'
Michael regarded him sombrely. 'That was no random group of trouble-makers," he muttered. 'That was a rabble, carefully brought to fever-pitch, and held there until it is time to release it.'
'We had better return to Michaelhouse,' said Bartholomew, his voice loud in the sudden silence. The fat monk tried to muffle Bartholomew's voice with a hand over his mouth.
'Hush! Or they will release it on you and me!' he hissed fiercely.
Bartholomew had never seen Michael so afraid before and it did little to ease his troubled mind.
Michael's beadles seemed pathetic compared to the confident mob that Bartholomew had seen thunder past. They looked terrified, too. Each time an especially loud yell occurred, they glanced nervously over their shoulders, and at least two of them were so white that Bartholomew thought they might faint. One took several steps backwards and then turned and fled. Bartholomew did not blame him: the group that had been hurriedly assembled in St Mary's churchyard was pitifully small, and would be more likely to attract the violent attentions of the crowd than to prevent trouble. To one side, Guy Heppel stood in the shadows and trembled with fear. His hands rubbed constantly at the sides of his tabard in agitation.
The Chancellor stalked up and down in front of his frightened army, twisting a ring around on his finger with such force that he risked breaking it.
A sudden shout made several of the beadles shy away in alarm, and all of them jumped. It was Tulyet, his face streaked with dirt, and his horse skittering and prancing in terror. Only Tulyet's superior horsemanship prevented him from being hurled from the saddle.
'At last! ' breathed de Wetherset, and smiles of relief broke out on the faces of one or two of the beadles. 'What is the news? Is the mob dispersing?'
Tulyet leaned towards him so that the fearful beadles would not overhear.
'One hostel has been fired, but it seems that most, if not all, of the scholars escaped. St Paul's Hostel is under siege but is holding out. Townsfolk are gathering near St Michael's Church and it looks as though there will be an attack on Michaelhouse soon. And at least three other hostels have been sacked.'
'Are the scholars retaliating?' asked Bartholomew, trying to stay clear of the horse's flailing hooves.
'Not yet,' said Tulyet. He flashed Michael a grin of thanks as the fat monk took a firm hold of his mount's reins, preventing it from cavorting by sheer strength of arm. 'But I have had reports that they are massing.
Valence Marie are out and so are King's Hall.'
'What of Godwinsson?' asked Michael, stroking the horse's velvet nose, oblivious to the white froth that oozed from its mouth as it chewed wildly on the bit.
'That is the one that has been fired,' said Tulyet. 'The students are out somewhere.'
'What do you plan to do?' asked the Chancellor. There was a loud crash from the direction of the Market Square, and he winced. It was only a short distance from the Market Square to St Mary's Church, the centre of all University business, and the place where all its records were stored. It would take very little for the townspeople to transfer their aggressions from the market stalls to the obvious presence of the University in Cambridge's biggest and finest church.
Tulyet scrubbed at his face with his free hand. 'I scarcely know where to begin,' he said. 'It is all so scattered. The best plan I can come up with is to remove temptation from the mob's path. I want all scholars off the streets, and I want no action taken to curb the looting of the hostels that have already fallen — if there are no bands of scholars with which to fight, the fury of the mob will fizzle out.'
'It is not the University that precipitated all this,' said de Wetherset angrily. 'The townspeople started it.'
'That is irrelevant!' snapped Tulyet impatiently. 'And believe me, Master de Wetherset, the University will lose a good deal less of its property if you comply with my orders, than if you try to meet the rabble with violence.'
'You are quite right, Dick,' said Michael quickly, seeing de Wetherset prepared to argue the point, his heavy face suffused with a deep resentment. 'The most useful thing we can do now is to urge all the scholars indoors, or divert them from the mob. Heppel — take a dozen beadles and patrol Milne Street; I will take the rest along the High Street.'
Heppel looked at him aghast. The?'
'Yes,' said Michael. 'You are the Junior Proctor and therefore paid to protect the University and its scholars. '
' God help us I ' muttered de Wetherset under his breath, regarding the trembling Heppel in disdain. Bartholomew could see the Chancellor's point.
'But do you not think it would be better to lock ourselves in the church?' Heppel whispered, casting fearful eyes from Michael to the Chancellor. 'You said it would be best if all scholars were off the streets.'
'I was not referring to the Proctors and the beadles,' said Michael, placing his hands on his hips. 'It is our job to prevent lawlessness, not flee from it.'
'I did not anticipate such violence when I took this post!' protested Heppel. 'I knew Cambridge was an uneasy town, but I did not expect great crowds of townsfolk lusting for scholars' blood! I was not told there would be murder, or that the students would be quite so volatile!'
De Wetherset swallowed hard, and glanced around him uneasily, as if he imagined such a mob might suddenly converge on the churchyard. Meanwhile, Heppel's fear had communicated itself to the beadles and there were two fewer than when Bartholomew had last looked.
Michael raised his eyes heavenward, while Tulyet pursed his lips, not pleased that the University was producing such a feeble response to its dangerous situation.
'The students are always volatile,' said Bartholomew who, like Tulyet and Michael, was unimpressed at Heppel's faint-heartedness. 'Just not usually all at once. And not usually in conjunction with the entire town. However, like the last riot, this is no random occurrence. It was started quite deliberately. And this time, I know at least one of the ringleaders.'
'Who?' demanded Tulyet, fixing Bartholomew with an intent stare. His horse skittered nervously as another volley of excited shouts came from the direction of the Market Square.
'Ivo, the noisy scullion from David's Hostel,' said Bartholomew, thinking about what had clicked into place when the stone had been hurled at him as he and Michael had gone to meet Lydgate. 'He was the man whose cart was stuck on the High Street earlier today.
A fight broke out when it blocked the road for others.
He threw a stone at us as we passed — it hit a wall, but he was probably hoping to start a brawl between scholars and townsfolk there and then. And then I saw him quite clearly leading the mob past St Botol
ph's, calling to them, and keeping their mood ugly. He was also one of the seven that attacked Michael and me last week, looking for the book and its hidden documents.'
'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?'
Barthol
omew asked him urgently. The other Fellows clustered around anxiously.
Kenyngham fixed him 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.'
A Bone of Contention Page 35
