‘Very well.’ Langelee raised the hood on Albon’s cloak to hide his face. ‘What will you do?’
‘Find Anne and Nicholas,’ replied Michael grimly, ‘and see if we can put an end to what they have ignited. Nicholas’s house is as good a place as any to begin our search.’
The atmosphere outside was poisonous, and a steadily strengthening wind did nothing to help. It made the trees roar, and it whistled through the gravestones, an agitated, unsettling sound that made the crowd more jittery. Bartholomew and Michael were jostled and shoved mercilessly as they hurried to the vicarage, careful to keep their heads down lest even a wrong look should encourage someone to swing a punch. When they arrived at the vicarage, Marishal was just coming out.
‘If you want Nicholas, you are out of luck,’ he reported tersely. ‘He has abandoned us, taking most of his belongings and all the church’s silver with him. I suppose he is offended, because Heselbech was chosen to take tonight’s ceremony.’
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Michael. ‘You are meant to be looking for the squires.’
‘We found them – they are safely back inside the castle. And I am here because Ereswell could not find the church silver in the vestry, and it is needed for tonight’s ceremony. I came to ask Nicholas where he had stored it.’
Bartholomew pushed past him and gazed around the handsome room in which he and his colleagues had been entertained only a few nights before. It had been stripped of anything portable, and because the floor was devoid of rugs, he saw the trapdoor near the hearth. He pulled it up to reveal the tunnel. A closer inspection revealed fresh boot prints – Anne had donned footwear suitable for travel. He hurried back outside, where Michael was trying to reason with the steward.
‘Take your people home. You may lose the confrontation that–’
‘Why should we withdraw?’ demanded Marishal angrily. ‘Anne is right: it is time the townsfolk learned their place, and if I do not teach them, no one will.’
‘Anne?’ groaned Michael. ‘You have been listening to her? Can you not see what she is doing? She wants you to tear each other apart. And you are playing right into her hands.’
‘She would never hurt us,’ stated Marishal stubbornly. ‘She raised my children and she was born in the town. The Lady treated her harshly it is true, but–’
‘The Lady,’ interrupted Michael urgently. ‘Where is she? She will listen to sense, even if you are too obstinate to–’
‘It is too late,’ gulped Bartholomew. ‘Look!’
Near the church’s north porch, several hundred townsfolk were facing a thin line of heavily armed guards. The soldiers would almost certainly be killed, but not before giving a good account of themselves with their wickedly honed blades. With sickening inevitability, the two sides began to close in on each other amid a frenzy of howled insults and abuse.
‘For God’s sake, Marishal!’ cried Michael. ‘Stop it!’
But Marishal could only stand in open-mouthed shock at the scale of the trouble, and then the opportunity to intervene was gone. The two factions clashed. Horrified, Bartholomew watched as several men fell and were trampled. He raced towards the mêlée, and managed to drag one to safety before he was crushed to death. It was Paycock.
‘Christ God!’ the bailiff gulped. ‘Anne said the castle would never dare fight us if we turned out in force. If I had known that we would come to actual blows, I would never have …’
Bartholomew ducked into the fray a second time, and managed to retrieve a second casualty. It was someone small and light, although it was not until Michael appeared with a lamp that he was able to recognise the victim as Badew. The elderly scholar was dying, bleeding from a dozen wounds, all in his back – he had been trying to run away when he had been cut down.
‘I only went out for a moment … to see what was happening,’ Badew whispered, white with shock. ‘But I was caught by the mob … swept forward …’
Bartholomew did what he could, but to no avail. Badew’s last words were characteristic of the man he had become since losing University Hall.
‘The Lady … a whore,’ he whispered, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist with hard, bony fingers. ‘Her name cannot … be associated … with a College … it must be … Badew Hall.’
‘Hush,’ chided Bartholomew in distaste. ‘This is not the time to–’
‘She is … a harlot.’ Badew’s grip tightened. ‘I hid in her chamber … saw her relieved of … an unwanted child … with my own eyes …’
Bartholomew struggled to mask his revulsion for the old man’s malevolence. ‘Enough! If you really did witness such an incident, you would have made it public years ago, so do not–’
‘She would have … denied it.’ Badew’s fingers were like hooks in Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Or sent … Bonde to kill … had to wait … until her tongue … stilled by death. My tale is true … swear on my soul.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hurrying forward a few moments later with the accoutrements needed to give last rites, although he would be anointing a corpse with his chrism.
‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking it was best to let such poisonous words die with their speaker. ‘Where is Langelee? He should have fetched the Austins by now.’
‘I hope he has come to no harm,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘He was wearing – Matt!’
The last was delivered in a gulp of alarm. The skirmish had expanded quickly, as more people had raced to join in, and it was now converging on them from two different directions. The combatants were so intent on trouncing each other that they cared nothing for the scholars caught in between. Michael hauled Bartholomew roughly to his feet.
‘Stand tall, Matt. If we are to die tonight, then we shall do it with dignity.’
Chapter 15
The two raging battles edged ever closer, and just as Bartholomew was bracing himself for the impact, there came the shrill bray of a trumpet, followed by the thundering beat of drums. Both were loud enough to rise above the screams and clash of weapons, and most participants broke off the engagement in alarm, looking around wildly for the source of the racket.
‘The Queen!’ gulped Ereswell. ‘She has come after all, and will fine us for breaking the King’s peace.’
A ripple of consternation went through the ranks of castle and town alike. However, it was not a royal procession that marched towards them in neat, military formation, but the Austins. Each wore a helmet and a breastplate painted with a bright white Crusader’s cross, and was armed with a sword or an axe. Their religious habits were kirtled around their knees.
Bartholomew looked for Langelee, and saw him in the middle of the platoon, similarly attired, but with Albon’s cloak wrapped around his body in lieu of a breastplate, black side out. It served to make him appear bigger and more powerful than ever, a Goliath compared to those around him.
‘By my mark … halt!’ bellowed Weste, who looked particularly warlike with his eyepatch. The column came to a neatly executed standstill. ‘Prepare arms!’
There was a businesslike clatter as weapons were brought into a position where they could be deployed. Then there was silence. The Austins stood like stone, a human wall bristling with sharp points, strategically placed to prevent the different skirmishes from uniting into one massive brawl.
‘We are warriors of Christ,’ declared Prior John in a ringing voice. ‘Ready to defend God’s peace against sinners who would break it.’