He looked around in despair. There were far more townsmen than scholars, but many students were trained warriors who could kill stick-wielding peasants with ease. If the evening did end in a fight, he would not like to bet on which side would win.
‘Why not send them all home?’ he asked Tulyet.
The Sheriff was watching Leger and Norbert try to instruct a gaggle of men from the Griffin, all of whom were much more interested in exchanging insults with the Carmelite novices than anything the knights could tell them about improving their stance and grip.
‘Because as long as they are here, we can monitor them,’ explained Tulyet tersely. ‘If we let them go, they will sneak around in packs and any control we have will be lost.’
‘How long do you think you can keep them from each other’s throats?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Hopefully, for as long as is necessary. Unfortunately, your new beadles are useless. Half are cowering behind the Franciscan Friary, while the rest itch to start a fight.’
He darted away when a Carmelite novice ‘accidentally’ hit Leger with a bow. Then Bartholomew heard Sauvage calling to him, urging him to abandon ‘them French-loving University traitors’ and stand with loyal Englishmen instead. Bartholomew pretended he had not heard, and retreated behind a cart, where he watched the unfolding crisis with growing consternation.
Most of King’s Hall had turned out. They included the four friends who had nearly come to blows with Isnard on the way to the Spital fire. They strutted around like peacocks, and other foundations were quick to follow their example, causing townsmen to bristle with indignation. The name Wyse could be heard, as townsfolk reminded each other that one such arrogant scholar had slaughtered a defenceless old man.
The King’s Hall men considered themselves far too important to wait for their turn to shoot, so they strode to the front of the queue and stepped in front of the Carmelites. Bartholomew held his breath, hoping the University would not start fighting among itself. If it did, the town would pitch in and that would be that. But Michael saved the day by promising the friars a barrel of ale if they allowed King’s Hall to go ahead of them.
First at the line was the scholar who had declared himself to be a Fleming – Bruges. He took a bow from Cynric without a word of thanks, and to prove that he was an accomplished warrior, he carried on a desultory conversation with his friends while he sent ten missiles thudding into the target. There was silence as everyone watched in begrudging admiration.
‘King’s Hall will never allow the French to invade,’ he bragged, thrusting the bow so carelessly at Cynric that the book-bearer dropped it. ‘It does not matter if these ignorant peasants can shoot, because Cambridge has us to defend it.’
‘We are not ignorant, you pompous arse,’ bellowed Sauvage, a ‘witticism’ that won a roar of approval from the town. ‘And we will defend the town, not you.’
‘You?’ drawled Bruges with a provocative sneer. ‘I hit the target ten times. What was your score, peasant?’
‘It was only four,’ scoffed the student from Koln. ‘And not one hit the middle.’
‘You two are foreign,’ yelled Sauvage, red with mortification as Koln’s cronies hooted with derisive laughter. ‘You are here to spy and report to your masters in Paris.’
‘And we cannot allow that,’ shouted Isnard, although what a man with one leg was doing at the butts, Bartholomew could not imagine. Archery required two hands, and the bargeman needed at least one for his crutches. ‘We should trounce them.’
‘Come and try, cripple!’ goaded Bruges. ‘We will show you what we do to cowardly rogues who stab elderly plagiarists.’
‘We did not kill Paris!’ declared Isnard, outraged. ‘You did. He–’
‘Enough!’ came Michael’s irate voice, as he and Tulyet hurried forward to intervene. ‘Koln, if you are going to shoot, get on with it. If not, stand back and let someone else have a turn.’
‘And do not even think of jeering at him, Sauvage,’ warned Tulyet, ‘unless you fancy a night in gaol. Now, take your bow again, and this time mark your target before you draw. Isnard, if you must be here, do something useful and sort these arrows into bundles of ten.’
‘Can he count that high?’ called Bruges, although he blanched and looked away when Michael swung towards him with fury in his eyes.
Tulyet began to instruct Sauvage, who was delighted to be singled out by so august a warrior, and called his friends to watch, drawing their attention away from the scholars. Unsettled by the Senior Proctor’s looming presence, there was no more trouble from King’s Hall either. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. Trouble had been averted – for now, at least.
For an hour or more, the two sides concentrated on the business at hand, each studiously ignoring the efforts of the other. Bartholomew began to hope that the evening would pass off without further incident after all, but then it was Bene’t College’s turn to shoot. Heltisle and his students shoved their way forward, full of haughty pride.
‘Allow me to demonstrate,’ Heltisle began in a self-important bray and, to everyone’s astonishment, proceeded to send an arrow straight into the centre of the target.
It was the best shot of the evening, and raised a cheer from the University, although the townsfolk remained silent. His second missile split the first, and he placed the remaining eight in a neat circle around them. Then he shoved Cynric aside, and began to instruct his students himself. He took so long that a number of hostel men grew impatient with waiting.
‘Take your lads home,’ ordered Michael, easing the Vice-Chancellor away from the line so that Ely Hall could step up. ‘There is no need to keep them here.’
‘I would rather they stayed, Brother,’ came a familiar voice. ‘There is much to be learned from watching the efforts of others.’
It was de Wetherset. Bartholomew had not recognised him, because it was now completely dark, and while torches illuminated the targets and the line, it was difficult to make out anything else. Moreover, the Chancellor had dressed for battle – a boiled leather jerkin, a metal helmet, and a short fighting cloak on which was pinned his pilgrim badge. Unfortunately, rather than lending him a warlike mien, they made him look ridiculous, and a number of townsfolk were laughing. So far, he had not noticed.
‘There will be a scuffle if too many men crowd the line,’ argued Michael tightly, ‘so, I repeat – Heltisle, go home.’
‘If he does, it will leave us in a vulnerable minority,’ countered de Wetherset. ‘Besides, this is our night – if we concede the butts today, what is to stop the town from taking advantage of us in other ways tomorrow?’
‘And you are here, Brother,’ said Heltisle silkily. ‘Or are you unequal to keeping us safe from revolting townsmen?’
‘Oh, we need have no fears on that score, Heltisle,’ said de Wetherset pleasantly. ‘I trust Michael to protect us. If I did not, I would have stayed at home.’
‘Then do what I tell you,’ hissed Michael, exasperated. ‘I cannot keep the peace if you overrule my decisions.’
‘Very well,’ conceded de Wetherset with an irritable sigh. ‘We shall leave the moment we have seen what Ely Hall can do.’
‘Did Suttone ever see you shoot, Heltisle?’ asked Bartholomew casually, although he knew it was hardly the time to quiz the Vice-Chancellor about what Mallett claimed to have overheard. ‘He often mentions you in his letters.’
‘Does he?’ asked Heltisle, instantly uneasy. ‘What does he say?’
‘That he wishes he had not resigned,’ bluffed Bartholomew, glad it was dark, so Heltisle could not see the lie in his face. ‘He is thinking of coming back and standing for re-election.’