Death of a Scholar

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, because 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.’