The first of the four broke into a run. He reached the College gates, and was hauled through them by those already safe inside. Bartholomew noticed that Henry had the sturdy oak gates all but closed already, just a crack remaining to allow the stragglers in before they would be slammed shut on the mob outside.
As Elias drew level with Bartholomew, the blacksmith drew a wicked-looking blade from his apron, and jabbed wildly with it. Bartholomewwrenched Elias outof the path of the slicing blade and, abandoning all further pretence of calm, yelled for the last three students to run for their lives. White-faced, they obeyed, only just staying ahead of the mob, which surged after them. Gasping for breath, the three, with Bartholomew at the rear, shot through the gates, which were slammed shut; heavy bars were shot across as the mob crashed into them.
Bartholomew heard screams and yells, and knew that the people in the front were being crushed against the gates and walls by those behind. A student slumped to the ground as a further barrage of stones flew over the high walls. Master Wilson came scurrying out of the hall, flanked by his Fellows and guests, to see what all the commotion was about, and stopped short as he saw the lethal volley of missiles raining over the walls.
'A fitting end to a miserable day.' Bartholomew turned, and saw Giles Abigny helping to hold the gate against the battering from outside. He winced as a particularly heavy thump jarred it. Leaving his post to be filled by the students that came pouring from the dormitories at the sound of the affray, most already in their cleanest gowns in anticipation of the feast to come, he motioned Bartholomew into a doorway where they could not be overheard, his fresh face unusually serious.
'We should pick our scholars more carefully, Matt. Young Henry Oliver was all set to slam the door before you were inside, and would have done had I not been there.'
Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief. 'You must be mistaken, he…'
'No mistake, Matt. I heard him say to that spotty student of yours, the one from Fen Ditton who always has a cold…'
'Francis Eltham?'
'Indeed. I heard him tell Eltham to make sure that the gate was closed before you reached it. I ensured it remained open, but Oliver was furious. Look at him now.'
Bartholomew easily spotted the Oliver brothers among the milling students — they stood a head taller than the rest. Now that the immediate danger was over, the scholars had regained their confidence, and were shouting taunts to the people outside. Henry Oliver did not join in. He stood glowering, his face distorted with anger. Bartholomew saw him raise a bunched fist, and Eltham shrank back. As if he felt their eyes on him, Oliver turned his head slowly and stared back. Bartholomew felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he felt the venom of his stare. Abruptly, Oliver turned away, and stalked off towards his room.
'What have you done to deserve that?' wondered Abigny, disconcerted at such raw hatred.
'Prevented him from starting a riot, I suppose,' said Bartholomew. "I had no idea he was so dedicated to causing chaos.'
The shouting outside the gates increased, and then faltered. Bartholomew heard horses' hooves, and knew that the Sheriff and his troops had arrived, and were beginning to disperse the crowd. The battering on the College gates stopped, and the only sounds were the Sheriffs men telling people they could either go home or spend the night in the Castle, and the groans of the people who had been crushed against the gates.
'Michaelhouse!' Bartholomew recognised the voice of the Sheriff, and went to help open the gates.
The Sheriff had been compelled to use his garrison to break up many a fight between the University and the townspeople, and was heartily sick of it. Since he was unlikely to be able to rid himself of the townspeople, he often felt he would like to rid himself of the University and all its bickering and warring factions. Students from Norfolk, Suffolk, and Huntingdonshire fought scholars from Yorkshire and the north, and they all fought the students from Wales, and Ireland. Masters and scholars who were priests, friars, or monks were always at odds with those who were not. And there was even dispute between the different religious Orders, the large numbers of Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Carmelite friars, who begged their livings, at loggerheads with the rich Benedictines and the Austin Canons who ran the Hospital of St John.
As the gates opened, he glowered in at the assembly, making no attempt to enter. The Senior Proctor, the man who kept law and order in the University, stood next to the Sheriff, his beadles — men who were University constables — ranged behind him. Master Wilson hurried forward, his gorgeous purple gown billowing about him.
'My Lord Sheriff, Master Proctor,' he began, 'the townies have attacked us totally unprovoked!' "I admire a man who takes such care to seek the truth before speaking,' Bartholomew said in an undertone to Abigny. Wilson's was also an imprudent remark, considering many of his guests were townspeople.
Abigny snorted in disgust. 'He should have known better than to try to distribute money today. He must have known what might happen.' "I suggested he should let the priests give it out at mass on Sunday,' said Bartholomew, watching with distaste as Wilson regaled the Sheriff with claims that the townspeople had attacked the College out of pure malice.
'But that might have entailed some of the credit passing to the priests and not to him,' said Abigny nastily.
He gestured outside. 'See to your patients, Physician.'
Bartholomew remembered the groans and shrieks as the crowd had surged against Michaelhouse's wall, chastened that he had not thought to see to the injured sooner.
By the gate, a beadle stood by two prostrate forms, while more beadles bent over others further down the lane.
'Dead, Doctor,' said the beadle, recognising Bartholomew.
Bartholomew knelt to examine the bodies.
Both were young men, one wearing the short coat of an apprentice. He pressed down on the young man's chest, feeling the sogginess that meant his ribs were broken and the vital organs underneath crushed. The neck of the second man was broken, his head twisted at an obscene angle. Death would have come instantly to both of them. Bartholomew crossed himself, and paused at the gate to shout for Brother Michael to do what he could for their unshriven souls.
The other beadles moved aside to allow Bartholomew to examine the injured. Miraculously, there were only four of them, although Bartholomew was sure others had been helped home by friends. None of the four was in mortal danger. One middle-aged man had a superficial head wound that nevertheless bled copiously.
Bartholomew gave him a clean piece of linen to stem the bleeding, and moved on to examine the next one.
The woman seemed to have no injuries, but was deeply in shock, her eyes wide and dull, and her whole body shaking uncontrollably.
'Her son is over there.' Bartholomew saw that the speaker was the blacksmith, lying against the wall with his leg at an awkward angle. He followed the blacksmith's nod and saw that he meant one of the men who had died. He turned back to the woman and took her cold, clammy hands in his.
'Where is her husband? Can we send for someone to come to take her home?'
'Her husband died last winter of the ague. The lad was all she had. Doubtless she will starve now.'
'What is her name?' Bartholomew asked, feeling helpless.
'Rachel Atkin,' the blacksmith replied. 'What do you care?'
Bartholomew sighed. He saw cases like Rachel's almost every day, old people and women with children deprived of those who could provide for them. Even giving them money, which he did sometimes, did no more than relieve the problem temporarily. Poverty was one of the aspects of being a physician he found most difficult to deal with. Often, he would tend to an injury or an illness, only to find that his patient had died from want of good food or warmth.