Death of a Scholar

Holm sneered. ‘You think you know her, but you do not. She is more devious than any man alive — she takes after her sire in that respect. And do not think to have me hanged so that you can marry her instead. She would never allow it. You do not have a glittering future like I do.’

‘Enough!’ Bartholomew spoke so sharply that Julitta stirred. Cynric tried again to intervene, but Holm overrode him a second time.

‘She is not the generous soul you think. It was she who arranged for the beggars’ alms to go to Winwick Hall. And when I treat patients who fail to pay, she hires louts like Hugo, Fulbut and Verius to take my fees by force.’

‘We are more interested in your role in this affair,’ said Michael quickly, when Bartholomew came to his feet with a dangerous expression on his face. ‘The murders of Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Ratclyf, Knyt and Hemmysby; the burglaries; the attempt to blackmail-’

‘I know nothing of murder.’ Holm giggled in a manner calculated to aggravate. ‘However, it was a delight to watch Michaelhouse squirm over William’s tract. Langelee thought he could end it with ten marks. What an ass! Now the price is a hundred. However will you pay?’

‘You are involved in that, too?’ Bartholomew’s voice dripped disgust. ‘I might have known!’

‘You will be excommunicated when the essay appears in full, and will have to leave Cambridge. Your sister will miss you, especially as her loathsome son is in the process of slinking back to London. Would you like me to look after her for you?’

Bartholomew was gripped by a rage so intense that he barely heard Michael’s sharp words of caution about not letting himself be provoked. He took three or four steps towards the surgeon, but Cynric blocked his path.

‘Pummel him later, boy.’ The book-bearer turned to Michael, his voice urgent. ‘I came to tell you that there are two separate mobs on the rampage, Brother. The first is a mixture of matriculands and scholars from Winwick-’

‘No surprise there,’ interrupted Michael. ‘They are men brought here for that very purpose.’

‘They claim they are appalled by the University’s corruption and arrogance, and want to make an end of its evil ways.’

‘So that is how Illesy plans to be rid of his rivals,’ surmised Michael, ignoring Holm’s shrill giggle of triumph. ‘And the second mob? Who has joined that?’

‘A lot of troublemakers from the other Colleges, along with a smattering of fractious townsmen. They say Winwick is an upstart foundation and intend to teach it a lesson. I do not think I have ever seen an angrier horde.’

‘It sounds too deadly to stop,’ gloated Holm. ‘The University will be destroyed. What a pity!’

‘Lock this creature in the cellar,’ ordered Michael, but Cynric had hurried away the moment he had finished delivering his message, so the monk bundled Holm into the basement himself. Outraged howls drifted out.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew’s feelings were in turmoil. Julitta was not seriously hurt, but he was appalled by what he had done. Part of him blamed Holm, and he was sorry that Cynric had prevented him from battering the smug face to a pulp. He glanced up as the book-bearer reappeared, ushering Edith in front of him.

‘I saw her go past, so I fetched her back,’ Cynric explained. ‘She can look after Julitta, while we disband these two rabbles before they do serious damage.’

‘I will stay with Julitta, Matt,’ promised Edith. ‘You must help Michael before it is too late.’

‘I am not going anywhere as long as she is insensible,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘She may need me when she wakes.’

But at that moment, Julitta’s eyes fluttered open and she started to sit up.

‘Did you hit me?’ she asked, wincing as he eased her back down. ‘Where is Will?’

‘You see?’ said Edith. ‘She needs a kindly nurse, not a physician. Now go.’

Bartholomew was not happy about abandoning two people he loved when the town was on the verge of a serious disturbance, but Michael insisted that he could not manage alone, and when Julitta assured him that she did not need his protection, he was forced to relent. He glanced back at her before he left, hating leaving her.

Outside, the air rang with angry voices, and he could hear the clash of arms from at least two directions. All the shops were closed, their doors and windows barred against invaders. Anxious faces peered from the upper floors, and the acrid reek of smoke told of some building that was aflame. The wind was now a gale, ripping twigs and small branches from flailing trees. It blew so hard that it set the bells in St Clement’s swinging, sounding an eerily discordant alarm for the brewing turmoil.

‘I hope Tynkell manages to stop John Winwick from coming,’ gasped Michael as they ran. ‘He must not see us like this — especially as the last time he was here, my Junior Proctor was shot. He will think we spend all our time in a state of constant turmoil!’

‘But this turmoil is his fault,’ hissed Cynric. ‘Him and his upstart foundation.’