‘Then the proctors’ coffers will soon be overflowing,’ said Michael. ‘And speaking of fines, you owe three shillings for the fracas last night. If you do not pay by noon tomorrow, I shall send beadles to seize the equivalent amount in goods. I am sure you have plenty of books we can take.’
Morys was furious. ‘You cannot! The Chancellor will not permit it.’
‘You have already summoned his mother, so he has nothing to gain by opposing me now.’ Michael smiled archly. ‘You should have confined yourself to threats, because then he would have been yours to manipulate as long as you wanted. You made a tactical error, Morys.’
‘How dare you–’ began Morys, but Michael overrode him.
‘Have any of you seen Wauter? He has disappeared, and while you may look the other way while your scholars wander where they please, we have rules at Michaelhouse. Unless Wauter returns immediately, he will lose his Fellowship.’
‘We no longer consider him a friend,’ said Kellawe sullenly. ‘He made a serious mistake when he abandoned us for another foundation. As far as I am concerned, he is dead.’
‘Figuratively speaking,’ added Morys quickly, shooting his colleague a warning glance. ‘We do not mean him physical harm, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ agreed Michael flatly. ‘But when he was still alive in your eyes, did you ever talk about the University moving to the Fens?’
The Zachary men exchanged glances that were impossible to interpret.
‘No,’ replied Kellawe shiftily. ‘But we are not discussing him or anything else with you. Now go away or we will–’
He was interrupted by the sound of a door being thrust open, after which Cynric burst in.
‘A number of scholars have marched against the dyeworks,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘And Mistress Stanmore needs you to disperse them.’
Chapter 10
Bartholomew was out of Zachary before Cynric had finished speaking, deftly jigging away when the book-bearer tried to grab his arm to explain further. However, Cynric had dealt with far more awkward customers than agitated physicians, and Bartholomew had not gone far down Water Lane before he found himself jerked roughly to a standstill. He tried in vain to struggle free.
‘Mistress Stanmore is safely inside with the door locked,’ Cynric said briskly, ‘as are her ladies and their guards. They are in no danger, but you will be if you race up to the protesters alone. Everyone knows she is your sister, and they will consider you a target. Now wait for Brother Michael and his men.’
Bartholomew wanted to argue, but the monk was puffing towards them anyway, a dozen beadles at his heels. Gripping the physician’s sleeve to ensure he did not outrun them, Cynric fell in behind. They arrived to find thirty or so scholars in a howling throng in front of the dyeworks. All had demonstrated there before, but never at the same time.
Bartholomew felt the cold hand of fear grip him. Was it coincidence that they should all decide to come at once, or had someone whispered in suggestible ears?
‘Here comes Zachary to swell their number,’ muttered Michael. ‘Damn it, Cynric! I wish you had taken us outside before announcing what was happening.’
It was not just scholars who were massing in the square. So were a number of townsmen, led by Hakeney, who brazenly sported Robert’s cross around his neck. As it would be like a red flag to a bull if the demonstrating scholars saw it, Bartholomew went to suggest that he tuck it inside his tunic. Only when the townsmen surrounded him menacingly did it occur to him that it had been stupid to move away from the beadles.
‘No, I will not hide it,’ snarled Hakeney indignantly. ‘I want everyone to know that I retrieved it from that thieving Robert.’
The townsmen closed in even tighter, and Bartholomew braced himself for a trouncing, but suddenly Cynric was among them, hand on the sword at his side.
‘We were just talking,’ said Hakeney quickly, evidently aware of the Welshman’s military prowess. ‘No harm has been done, eh, Bartholomew? But you had better go and defend Brother Michael – those scholars look ready to attack him.’
He was right: tempers were running high in the University faction. The situation was aggravated by Kellawe, who directed a stream of invective not only against the dyeworks, but also against some of his fellow protesters. Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan would be quite so vociferous if someone took a swipe at his pugnacious jaw and broke it.
‘We want those whores out!’ he screeched. ‘They are not welcome near Zachary. Put them by White Hostel instead – their members are not fussy about the company they keep.’
‘Now just a moment,’ objected the dim-witted but vocal priest named Gilby, who happened to be a member of that particular foundation. ‘We are not–’
‘Do not call us names,’ bellowed Yolande from inside the besieged building. ‘Especially as most of you have been our customers for years – from Zachary and from White.’
‘We can prove it, too,’ called another woman. ‘We know all your little foibles. Go on, Brother. Ask us a question about any of this rabble, and we will tell you exactly what he likes to do behind closed doors. You will be entertained royally, I promise.’
‘Lies,’ cried Morys, although his flaming cheeks and uneasy eyes suggested otherwise.
‘The debilitas is in Physwick Hostel now,’ raged Kellawe, not about to be sidetracked. ‘And these whores put it there. They are as base and corrupt as the filth they hurl in the river.’
Bartholomew’s heart lurched as the dyeworks door opened and Edith strode out. She was not particularly tall, but she was like a giant when she was angry, and the power of her personality had been known to cow even Dickon. Everyone fell silent as her eyes raked across them.
‘My workers are good women,’ she said frostily, once the protesters had gone so quiet that a pin could have been heard dropping, ‘who are doing their best for their families. Now, I suggest we dispense with this unseemly hollering and resolve our differences with proper decorum. I shall listen to your complaints, and you will listen to my replies.’
‘Listen to you?’ spluttered Kellawe. ‘I do not think so! Decent men are dying all over the University, thanks to you and your trollops.’
Morys and a few Zachary men cheered, but support from the other foundations was suddenly half-hearted – Edith’s quiet dignity had unnerved them. She waited for the clamour to die away before speaking again.
‘First, they are not trollops, they are women who have fallen on hard times. We have rectified the matter, and they are now gainfully employed. And second, we accept your objection about the river. In future, we shall ensure that all our waste is transported to the Fens.’
‘To the Fens?’ cried Morys. ‘But that is where we plan to move our University.’
‘Then you cannot complain about us poisoning the town,’ called Yolande provocatively. ‘Not if you do not intend to live here.’
Edith shot her a warning scowl, then turned back to the scholars. ‘It is a large area, Principal Morys. You cannot occupy it all.’
‘But even if you do cart your rubbish away, there will still be a smell.’ Kellawe appealed to his students. ‘Will we listen to her? She is a strumpet, just like her women!’
Bartholomew took a furious step forward, but Cynric was there to stop him from taking another. Unfortunately, the movement had attracted attention.
‘There is her brother,’ shrieked Kellawe, stabbing a vengeful finger. ‘A member of the University, but not really one of us because of his ties to her. We should eject him, because we do not want scholars who are tainted with links to the town. All townsfolk are scum, after all.’