A Bone of Contention

by Susanna GREGORY

  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 old 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 anotherwindow 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.

  The friar took a deep breath and began chanting a second time.

  The meaning was clear. As one, the crowd edged back and then began to run, leaving the body of Sa
ul Potter behind. After a few minutes, Bartholomew took a group of scholars and scoured the orchard for lingerers. But there were none: the mob, to its last man, had fled. He left Father Aidan to secure the back gate and walked back through the orchard with William.

  'Is it over?' asked William, the strong voice that had boomed over the mob hoarse with tiredness.

  'It is at Michaelhouse,' said Bartholomew. 'But I can still see the glow from the fires in the rest of the town. And Michael is still out there with his frightened beadles.'

  William slapped a hand on Bartholomew's back. 'Do not fear for Michael,' hesaid. 'He is clever and resourceful but also sensible. He will not attempt more than he knows he can achieve.'

  They walked in silence, watching torches bobbing here and there among the trees, as the students still searched for hidden rioters. The immediate danger over, Bartholomew felt his legs become wobbly, and he rested his hand on the friar's shoulder after stumbling in the wet grass for the second time.

  'I recognised the man Cynric killed,' said William, taking a fistful of Bartholomew's tabard to steady him.

  'He is a servant from Godwinsson.'

  'Yes,' said Bartholomew. His mind began to drift. He tried to imagine what Norbert might look like now, so that he might find him. He caught the end of William's sentence, and turned to face him in shock.

  'I am sorry, Father. Could you repeat that?'

  William clicked his tongue irritably, never patient with wandering minds. 'I was telling you, Matthew, that the University seems to be inundated with people who are not all they seem. That Godwinsson scullion was clearly no ordinary servant — it takes skill and experience to manipulate a crowd as he did and anyone with such abilities would hardly be satisfied with a position as scullion. And then I told you about my encounter with Father Andrew of David's. I told you I believe he is no Franciscan. I went to a mass of his last week and he did not know one end of his missal from the other. His Latin was disgraceful. I checked up on him with my Father Prior and learned that the only Father Andrew from Stirling in our Order died two months ago.'

  Bartholomew recalled that William had been with the Inquisition for a time, an occupation that must have suited his tenacious mind. If William's suspicions had been aroused, he would not rest until they had been sufficiently allayed.

  'What are you saying?' asked Bartholomew, exhaustion making his thoughts sluggish.

  William sighed in exasperation. 'I will put it simply, Matthew, since your mind seems to lack its normal incisive skills. Father Andrew, friar and master of theology at David's Hostel, is an impostor.'

  CHAPTER 11

  Few Michaelhouse scholars felt like sleeping as the last of the mob disappeared up St Michael's Lane. Bartholomew worked hard to buttress the main gates further and ordered the stones and sticks that the scholars had hurled from the walls to be collected to use again if necessary. Once he was satisfied that as many precautions as possible had been taken against further attack, the scholars relaxed, sitting or standing in small groups to talk in low voices.

  Saul Potter's body was brought from the orchard and laid out in the conclave, where Kenyngham insisted a vigil should be kept over it.

  'At least he did not die unshriven,' said Alcote maliciously.

  'Father William yelled an absolution from the window in the servants' quarters before he was killed.'

  Kenyngham crossed himself, his eyes fixed on the body and the arrow that still protruded from its chest. 'I asked that there be no violence,' he admonished, tearing his gaze from the corpse to Bartholomew. 'And now a man lies dead.'

  'And you, Master Kenyngham, might have been lying here instead of this lout had Cynric not acted promptly,' said Agatha hotly. 'You owe your life to Cynric, Father William and Matthew.'

  'But surely it could have been managed without bloodshed?' insisted Kenyngham. 'Now we have this man's death on our hands.'

  'Nonsense, Master,' said William irritably. 'He brought about his own demise by his rabble-rousing. That mob intended serious mischief and Matthew's organisation of our defences and Cynric's marksmanship saved all our lives — to say nothing of the survival of the College.'

  Aidan agreed. 'The College would have been in flames by now and all of us slaughtered, had the rioters gained access,' he lisped, his pale blue eyes flicking restlessly between his colleagues' faces.

  'But to shoot an unarmed man in our orchard…' began Alcote, enjoying the dissension between the Fellows and seeking to prolong it until he could turn it to his own advantage.

  'He was not unarmed!' said William loudly. 'He had a sword and a large dagger that should, by rights, be slitting your scrawny throat at this very moment. After all, you are the only one among us to own anything worth stealing.

  You would have been their first victim.'

  'Hear, hear. And good riddance, too,' put in Agatha, eyeing Alcote with dislike.

  Alcote swallowed nervously, disconcerted by the frontal attack from a combination of the forceful personalities of William and Agatha. 'But-'

  'No buts,' said William firmly. 'And the man was probably a heretic anyway. At least the last thing he heard were the sacred words uttered by me. Perhaps I was his salvation.'

  He glared round at the others, daring them to contradict him and then strode away to organise the students to patrol the College grounds until morning. Alcote slunk back to his room and, through the open window shutters, Bartholomew saw him unlock a chest to begin checking that none of his valuables had gone missing during the affray. Aidan knelt next to Saul Potter's body and began the vigil, while Bartholomew prepared to follow Kenyngham through the hall and down the spiral stairs to the yard. Agatha stopped him.

  She poked him in the chest with a thick forefinger. 'Do not allow the Master and that loathsome Alcote to bother you, Matthew, for I am telling you what you did was right,' she said grandly. 'You, Father William and Cynric saved the College tonight. Now, I have business to attend — the kitchens do not run themselves, you know.'

  She marched away, large hips swaying importantly as scholars scattered in her path. Bartholomew smiled.

  Agatha was of the firm belief that she was one of God's chosen because she had not been struck by the plague, and had used that belief to add credence to all manner of wild claims ever since. He supposed he should be grateful that Agatha thought his actions defensible no Michaelhouse scholar enjoyed being in opposition to the formidable laundress, unless he did not mind clothes damaged in the wash and the worst of the food.

  Outside in the yard Kenyngham took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars. 'Tonight saw some foul deeds, Matthew,' he said. 'No matter how Father William and Agatha might seek to justify them, a member of Michaelhouse murdered a townsman. How do you think the citizens of Cambridge will react to that? I, and Master Babington before me, have worked hard to establish good relations between Michaelhouse and the town, and now all is lost.'

  'All might have been lost anyway had the rioters gained access to the College,' said Bartholomew. 'I agree that the death of a man in such circumstances is a terrible thing, but better Saul Potter than some of our students, or even one of the rioters. They are probably as much victims of Saul Potter's rabble-rousing as we might have been.'

  Kenyngham remained unconvinced. 'This will have repercussions for months to come,' he sighed. 'How can I allow you to continue your good work in the town now?

  You might be slain in retaliation. Any of us might.'

  'I do not think so,' said Bartholomew, stretching limbs that ached from tension and tiredness. 'The riot tonight was no random act of violence but a carefully planned event with Saul Potter at its centre. I do not think the townspeople will mourn — or seek to avenge — him once his role in all this becomes clear.'

  Kenyngham eyed him doubtfully. 'I hope you are right, Matthew,' he said. 'Meanwhile, I must now ensure that none of our students slips away to take their revenge for the attack. And you should determine that Cynric has suffered no harm from all this.'r />
  Bartholomew walked briskly to the servants' quarters to where Cynric slept peacefully. The physician smiled when he saw the book-bearer still held his bow; he imagined that Cynric might expect considerable acclaim as a hero by the students who had witnessed his shot, regardless of Kenyngham's misgivings. Bartholomew sat for the rest of the night listening to the Welshman's easy breathing as he slept, thinking over the events of the past two weeks.

  Dawn came, and Bartholomew slipped out of Cynric's room to assess the damage to the gates. With Walter, he ran his hands over the splintered wood, impressed at the quality of workmanship that had withstood the assaults of the battering ram. He walked to the wharves and saw that the mob had demolished the first of the rickety structures that served as homes to the river folk in their hunt for a sturdy post. He knew that the old lady that lived there was away, and was relieved that the rioters had limited their violence to the destruction of a house and not turned it towards the people who lived nearby.

  Dunstan and Aethelbald were already up and greeted him with enthusiastic descriptions of the events of the night before. Bartholomew was so grateful to see that they had been left unmolested, he did not even notice Dunstan stooping to fill his drinking cup from the river shallows.

  He fetched warmed ale and oat mash for Cynric, then began to pace the yard as he waited for Michael to return.

  When the scholars, led by Kenyngham, went to a mass of thanksgiving for their deliverance the night before, Bartholomew asked to be excused.

  After an hour, the scholars began to trickle back from St Michael's Church and made their way to the hall for breakfast. Bartholomew followed, but had no appetite, and looked up expectantly for Michael each time the door opened. Traditionally, meals were taken in silence at Michaelhouse, or eaten while the Bible scholar read tracts from religious and philosophical texts. But Master Kenyngham was lenient and often allowed intellectual debate at mealtimes, although the language was restricted to Latin. That morning, however, Bartholomew heard English, French, and even Flemish but no Latin, and the subject chosen was far from academic. Kenyngham chose to ignore it, although the Franciscans complained bitterly about the breach in discipline.