Bartholomew led the way to the garden, where their approach was shielded by trees. He heard the bleat of a goat and reduced his speed, cautioning the monk to move stealthily. It was a waste of time; Michael was far too fat to be creeping anywhere. He tiptoed along like a hippopotamus, sticks and dried leaves crunching noisily under his feet.
Heltisle was lying in the grass when they found him. At first, Bartholomew thought he was dead, but he stirred when Michael touched his shoulder. There was a gash on the back of his head, and nearby was a branch. Someone had clubbed him, and the book that lay next to him suggested he had been taken unawares. Bartholomew helped him to sit, holding his arm when he reeled.
‘I was attacked,’ breathed Heltisle, when he had regained his senses.
‘What were you doing out here in the first place?’ asked Michael. ‘It is like a furnace, and most folk are looking for somewhere cool to lurk.’
‘I like the heat,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I have a skin condition that benefits from it, so I often bask. It is the cold I do not like. But who did this to me? I am in my own College!’
Bartholomew nodded through the trees, where he could just see Younge and his minions at the far end of the enclosure. Their attention was on the College goats, and they had not noticed what was happening around their fallen Master. ‘One of them, I should imagine.’
Heltisle was shocked. ‘But they are my loyal servants.’
Bartholomew thought otherwise. He watched the porters for a moment, then beckoned Heltisle and Michael to stand with him behind a sturdy oak, indicating that they were to remain silent. Michael complied readily enough, but Heltisle had to be convinced by a jab from the monk’s elbow. The Master’s jaw dropped when he saw Younge grab one of the goats and tie its legs together. The animal objected vociferously, but Younge was deft, and had clearly done it before. In moments, he had the creature trussed up. Then he dragged it to the nearest wall, and made a stirrup of his hands. One of his cronies stepped into it, another passed him the helpless animal, and it was quickly lobbed over the top of the wall. A voice on the other side indicated someone was there to receive it.
‘And that solves the mystery of the missing goats,’ said Michael, amused. ‘Younge waits until everyone is out, then he and his cronies work together to spirit the animals away.’
‘But it cannot …’ stuttered Heltisle. ‘I do not …’
‘Matt is right to say one of them hit you, too,’ Michael went on. ‘Although I am sure they will be terribly solicitous when they “find” you and declare that intruders were responsible.’
Heltisle was white-faced. ‘Younge has been with me for years, and I have never had cause to doubt him before. You must be mistaken.’
‘Then let us put him to the test,’ suggested Michael. ‘Go and lie down where you fell, and we shall see what happens.’
Heltisle opened his mouth, but then closed it again, confused and uncertain. He was prone on the ground by the time Younge and the others left the garden; Bartholomew and Michael hid behind the tree. Most of the porters did not even stop to look at the Master as they passed; Younge waited until they were out of sight before kneeling next to him and grabbing his shoulder.
‘Master Heltisle!’ he shouted, all anxious concern. ‘What happened? Did you see your attacker?’
‘Who said I was attacked?’ asked Heltisle coolly.
Younge was nonplussed. ‘There is blood on your head …’
‘There is blood on the back of my head,’ corrected Heltisle. ‘Which you cannot see, because of the way I am lying. I repeat: how did you know I was attacked?’
‘Because the thieves who took the goat must have hit you.’ Younge was becoming flustered.
‘And how do you know a goat has been stolen?’ pressed Heltisle. ‘I am sure you did not count them before coming to see if I was dead. Ergo, you must have guilty knowledge of–’
Younge gave up his efforts to salvage the situation and drew his dagger. His voice became hard and angry. ‘We took a few goats. So what? Bene’t can afford it. But you have guessed too much, Heltisle. Your death can be blamed on these elusive thieves.’
He raised his arm preparing to plunge the blade into his Master’s chest, and Heltisle released a monstrous shriek. Bartholomew leapt forward and grabbed the porter’s hand. Younge twisted, and flicked out a leg that sent the physician sprawling. Then one of Michael’s fists connected with Younge’s chin, and he dropped as if poleaxed. Bartholomew crawled towards him, afraid the blow might have been too vigorous. But Younge was still breathing, although a lopsidedness to his face showed that his jaw was probably broken.
‘I trusted him,’ breathed Heltisle, shocked. ‘And he was ready to kill me.’
‘I will fetch my beadles,’ said Michael. ‘I assume you want him and his cronies locked up?’
Heltisle nodded weakly. ‘But Bartholomew can fetch the beadles, while you stay here. Younge may wake up and I would rather have you protecting me than him. You were the one who felled the villain, while Bartholomew’s so-called intervention almost saw me stabbed.’
‘Not deliberately,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He was too quick for me.’
‘So you say,’ sniffed Heltisle.
Fortunately, Beadle Meadowman happened to be walking along the High Street when Bartholomew emerged from Bene’t College, and immediately took charge of the situation. He rounded up his colleagues and they went en masse to arrest the porters. People grinned as Younge and his henchmen were marched towards the gaol, and there were a lot of catcalls and jeers about comeuppance for surly manners. Heltisle was left with no staff, but help came from an unexpected quarter.
‘I cannot see the University in trouble,’ said Isnard, speaking loudly enough to ensure Michael would hear. ‘I shall stand in until suitable replacements can be found – hopefully fellows more polite than the last lot. Of course, I cannot stay long. My loyalties lie with Michaelhouse.’
‘You are just after the contents of their latrines,’ said Heltisle accusingly. ‘Like that heathen Arblaster. He wants dung for sinister reasons.’
‘What sinister reasons?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether basking in the sun for the benefit of his skin had left Heltisle a little deranged. ‘It is used to fertilise fields.’
‘It is also used in rituals that attract Satan,’ countered Heltisle. ‘Younge told me.’
‘Well, there is a reliable source of information,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Is that why you charged Isnard with being a necromancer this morning? Because he is keen to procure some dung?’
‘And the fact that he has a penchant for dozing in cemeteries,’ Heltisle mumbled. But the bargeman had just offered to do him a considerable favour, so he shot him an ingratiating smile. ‘It was nothing personal, and it transpires that I may have acted on inaccurate intelligence. You must forgive me.’
‘All right,’ agreed Isnard cheerfully. ‘But you must remember that without dung there would be no crops, no vegetables in the garden–’
‘Do not talk to me about gardens,’ muttered Heltisle, ushering the bargeman inside his College. Isnard paused just long enough to ensure Michael was watching.
‘Perhaps I will let him back in the choir,’ said the monk with a sigh. ‘I do not think I can stomach much more of this obsequiousness.’
He turned to make his way back to Michaelhouse, and Bartholomew followed. The physician glanced at the sky and was relieved to see the sun beginning to dip as evening approached. He was exhausted, and wanted no more than to sit in the conclave with a cup of cool ale. It had been days since he had had an opportunity to relax with his colleagues, although he hoped William would not be there.