He trailed off when he saw Dickon listening with far too much interest.
‘Get the chapel key from his purse,’ instructed Michael, climbing out of the ditch and pulling the dazed Robert with him. ‘Hurry!’
Bartholomew obliged, then used Dickon’s sword to urge Robert and the limping student towards the chapel. He glanced up at the sky as they went. Dawn would come soon, and he wondered what horrors daylight would reveal.
They reached the chapel to find that the Austins had been suspicious when Joliet had accused Robert of shutting them in when they knew he had the key himself. One had also seen Morys forcing Michael towards the King’s Ditch at knifepoint. They were sorry when the monk gave a brief summary of what had happened, but not surprised, and informed him that their concerns had been mounting for some time.
‘The Zachary men often visit at night,’ said Overe, watching Dickon shove the two prisoners into the chapel and lock the door. ‘And Prior Joliet hated the fact that the University is surrounded by what he called the corrupting influence of the town.’
‘But we want to stay,’ said another. ‘How can we succour the poor from the marshes?’
‘A move would have gone against everything we believe in,’ said Overe. ‘Yet Joliet and Robert were not bad men – just ones who did what they thought was right.’
‘Setting an entire town alight with hatred and bigotry is right?’ asked Michael archly.
Bartholomew, Michael and Dickon hurried to the High Street to see that Bene’t College was under siege from a gang of hostel men, while a mob from the town was looting a house that had been left empty when its residents had decanted to the Fens. More trouble was brewing at the Trumpington Gate, where a host of scholars had again gathered to leave, and a rival contingent led by King’s Hall aimed to stop them. Townsfolk had gravitated towards the confrontation.
‘Where have you been, Brother?’ demanded Tulyet between gritted teeth. ‘Your hostel men have not brought travelling packs with them this time – they carry staves and knives, and they intend to do battle with the Colleges.’
‘Where is Tynkell?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he not tell them to go home?’
‘They are well past taking orders,’ said Tulyet. ‘We need a miracle if we are to avert a massacre.’
‘Their leader is dead,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But it seems his plan might work anyway.’
‘It was Prior Joliet and Master Morys,’ piped Dickon. ‘Prior Joliet fell on an axe that punctured something, while I killed Master Morys with a blow that sliced clean through his head.’
Tulyet grimaced irritably, clearly thinking it was another of his son’s exaggerations. Michael did not enlighten him, but hurried to interpose himself between the two factions, calling for his beadles as he went. Unfortunately, the lines were blurred, so it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began. Townsfolk were everywhere, adding to the confusion and the din.
He started to shout, but although those closest to him turned to listen, the general racket was so great that his words were inaudible to most. Then another voice joined in, one that did still the cacophony.
‘Brother Michael is talking,’ roared Isnard the bargeman, his powerful voice explaining why the Michaelhouse Choir had a reputation for being able to sing at such a tremendous volume. ‘So shut your mouths and listen.’
‘Why should we?’ demanded Gilby. He carried a stave, and had a pack of hostel men at his heels, all of whom looked as though they would rather skirmish than embark on a life of scholarly contemplation in the marshes. ‘He is friends with the woman who is poisoning our river – which is another reason why we should abandon this filthy place.’
‘No one is poisoning the river,’ shouted Bartholomew, eager to clear his sister’s name. He baulked at adding more, though, suspecting that naming the brewery as the culprit was unlikely to help the cause of peace.
‘He is right,’ boomed Michael. ‘It was a misunderstanding, which will be explained in full later this morning. So go home and wait there for news.’
‘You heard him,’ bellowed Tulyet, going to stand next to the monk in a gesture of unity. His voice was hoarse from previous appeals. ‘Stand down, all of you.’
‘We will stand down when these hostel vermin slink back to their hovels,’ declared Wayt, who was clad in full armour and carried a halberd. ‘Until then, we stay here.’
‘We want you all to leave our town,’ shrieked Hakeney. He had abandoned the sanctuary of the King’s Head, and was with a contingent of heavily armed cronies who looked delighted at the prospect of going to war with scholars. ‘None of you are welcome here.’
Howls of fury vied with cheers and a lot of menacingly brandished weapons. Then Michael’s eye lit on the Chancellor, who had donned his ceremonial finery in the hope of rendering himself more imposing. It had not worked, and he looked like a frightened man wearing robes that were too big for him. Michael was desperate enough to make an appeal anyway.
‘Do something, Tynkell,’ he begged. ‘For God’s sake, help me!’
Tynkell cleared his throat nervously as the clamour began to die down. ‘This is all very silly,’ he began feebly. ‘So go home. It looks like rain anyway, and you will not want to get wet.’
There was a startled silence, followed by jeering laughter from townsmen and scholars alike. But the atmosphere soon turned menacing again.
‘Will we listen to a man who is afraid of his mother?’ asked Wayt sneeringly of his cronies. ‘Or shall we leave that sort of nonsense to the hostels?’
‘We are not afraid of women,’ declared Gilby. He turned to the men who were ranged at his back. ‘Are you ready? Then let us attack and be away from this evil place once and for all!’
Gilby’s charge never materialised, because there was a sudden rumble of hoofs on the road outside the gate. A cavalcade was thundering towards it, comprising an elegant carriage, two heavily loaded wagons and a pack of liveried knights on horseback. There was immediate curiosity – and consternation – as only nobility or high-ranking churchmen travelled in that sort of style.
The vehicles clattered through the gate and rolled to a standstill. The warriors took up station on either side of them, their faces dark and unsmiling. A nervous murmur ran through the crowd, but it petered out quickly, and the silence was absolute as one horseman flung back his hood and dismounted.
‘Wauter!’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘Now what?’
The geometrician strode towards the carriage and offered his hand to its occupant. A woman alighted. She was well past her prime and not very tall, but there was a gleam in her eye and a set to her chin that indicated she was not someone to trifle with.
‘Oh, Lord!’ gulped Tynkell, as she gazed around with an imperious stare that caused more than one person in the crowd to shuffle his feet and look away. ‘It is my mother!’
‘Lady Joan de Hereford,’ announced Wauter in a ringing voice. ‘Wife of Robert Morys of Brington Manor and friend of Her Majesty the Queen. And with her are members of the royal guard – men who know how to deal with those who break the King’s peace.’
‘What is going on here?’ demanded Joan. ‘Why are you not at your devotions? It is time for morning service, is it not? To be attended by scholars and townsfolk.’
‘We are about to teach the University a lesson,’ shouted Hakeney, hopping from foot to foot in excitement, so that the cross he wore around his neck bounced wildly and was in danger of knocking his teeth out. However, if he was expecting support from his ruffianly friends, he was disappointed, because they shot away from him as though he had the plague.
Joan fixed him with a hard stare. ‘You intend to attack my son?’
Hakeney swallowed hard when he found himself standing in splendid isolation. ‘Not him, specifically, but scholars in general. They are an unruly horde, given to stealing crucifixes and suing people. Not to mention wearing clothes that make them look like courtiers. Not that there is anything wrong with courtiers, of course,’ he added prudently.