Death of a Scholar

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.