‘Really?’ asked Aynton keenly. ‘Who is it?’
‘You will be the first to know when an arrest is made,’ lied Michael. ‘However, as I am here, perhaps you will tell me what you saw and heard at the butts last night.’
De Wetherset raised his hands apologetically. ‘It was dark, and I was more concerned with staying away from jostling townies. I knew the contestants had gone to assess the targets, but I assumed they were all back when the order came to send off the next volley. I did not see who called it.’
‘Nor did I,’ said Heltisle. ‘But I heard it, and I can tell you with confidence that it was a townsman. For a start, it was in English, and what scholar demeans himself by using the common tongue?’
‘You were there?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘You are our best archer, but neither you nor your students could be found when the town issued the challenge. Ergo, you were not at the butts at that point.’
Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘We were on our way home, but raced back when we heard about the contest. So I am able to say with total conviction that the order to shoot came from the town.’
‘I am not so sure,’ demurred Aynton. ‘The yell was in the vernacular, but I thought it had a French inflection.’
‘I hope you are mistaken, Commissary,’ gulped de Wetherset. ‘Because if not, your testimony might lead some folk to think that the culprit is a scholar.’
‘We are not the only ones who speak French,’ said Aynton. ‘Have you not heard about the spies in the Spital? It seems you two did not hire lunatics to act as your proxies in the call to arms, but members of the Dauphin’s army!’
Heltisle gaped his horror. ‘If that is true, I want my money back! I do not mind giving charity to a lunatic’s orphan, but I will not have it used to coddle some French brat.’
De Wetherset was equally appalled, but not about the money. ‘Are you saying that one of these French spies came to the butts with the express purpose of making us and the town turn on each other?’ he asked in a hoarse, shocked voice. ‘And we obliged him with a riot?’
Aynton nodded. ‘Perhaps in revenge for his five countrymen being stabbed and burned.’
Bartholomew and Michael took their leave as the triumvirate began to debate the matter among themselves.
‘Personally, I think Aynton yelled the order to shoot,’ said Michael, once he and Bartholomew were out of earshot, ‘and he accuses the peregrini to throw us off his scent. But his claim is outrageous, because not even Delacroix would take such a risk.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew soberly. ‘It was dark and crowded, so none of us would have recognised him. Moreover, Aynton was right about one thing – setting us at each other’s throats would be an excellent way to avenge his murdered friends.’
‘I suppose it would,’ conceded Michael unhappily.
Outside in the street, they met Warden Shropham from King’s Hall, who had come to discuss funeral arrangements for his two dead scholars. He was a shy, diffident man, who was not really capable of controlling the arrogant young men under his command, which explained why his College was nearly always involved when trouble erupted. Feeling he should be there when the Warden spoke to de Wetherset, Michael accompanied him back inside the church. Bartholomew went, too.
‘De Wetherset is in there?’ whispered Shropham when Michael indicated which door he should open. ‘But that is your office, Brother!’
‘Heltisle decided to make some changes,’ said Michael, speaking without inflection.
Shropham made an exasperated sound. ‘It was a bad day for the University when he was appointed. Do not let him best you, Brother – we shall all be the losers if you do.’
He opened the office door and walked inside, leaving Michael smugly gratified at the expression of support from the head of a powerful College.
‘We have been discussing your deceased students, Shropham,’ de Wetherset told the Warden kindly. ‘And we have agreed that the University will pay for their tombs – two very grand ones.’
Shropham looked pained. ‘I would rather not draw attention to the fact that they died fighting, if you do not mind – their families would be mortified.’ His grimace deepened. ‘I still cannot believe that you kept everyone at the butts once the townsfolk began to show up. If you had sent us home, Bruges and Smith would still be alive.’
‘You blame us for last night?’ demanded Heltisle indignantly. ‘How dare you!’
De Wetherset sighed. ‘But he is right, Heltisle – it was a poor decision. I assumed the beadles would keep the peace, but I was wrong to place my trust in a body of men who are townsmen at heart.’
Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘My beadles did their best – and they are loyal to a man.’
‘Although the same cannot be said of the ones Heltisle hired,’ put in Bartholomew, who had tended enough injured beadles to know who had done his duty and who had not. ‘Most fled at the first sign of violence, and the ones who stayed were more interested in exacerbating the problem than ending it.’
‘I am glad you are leaving at the end of term,’ said Heltisle coldly. ‘It will spare me the inconvenience of asking you to resign. I will not tolerate insolence from inferiors.’
‘Even though he speaks the truth?’ asked Shropham. ‘Because I saw these men myself – they were useless.’
Heltisle indicated Michael. ‘Then he should have trained them properly.’
Michael shot him a contemptuous look before turning back to Shropham. ‘Do you know who called for the archers to shoot? Could you see him from where you stood?’
Shropham shook his head. ‘I wish I had, because I should like to see him face justice. It is ultimately his fault that Bruges and Smith died.’
‘Bruges was stabbed with this,’ said Michael, producing the dagger. ‘Is it familiar?’
‘We scholars do not demean ourselves with weapons,’ declared Heltisle before Shropham could reply. ‘Of course, if it were a pen–’ He picked up a metal one from the table, and turned it over lovingly in his fingers. ‘Well, we can identify those at once.’
Bartholomew was not about to let him get away with so brazen a lie. ‘You had the only perfect score at the butts last night and you once told us that you are handy with a sword. Ergo, you do demean yourself with weapons.’
Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘Skills I acquired before I devoted my life to scholarship, not that it is any of your business.’
Meanwhile, Shropham had taken the dagger from Michael and was studying it carefully. He had been a soldier before turning to academia, although Bartholomew found it difficult to believe that such a meek, sensitive man had once been a warrior of some repute.
‘It is French,’ he said, handing it back. ‘From around Rouen, to be precise. I had one myself once, but most are sold to local men. You should find out who hails from that region and ask them about it.’
‘So there you are, Brother,’ said Heltisle. ‘Run along and do as you are told, while the rest of us decide how best to honour King’s Hall’s martyred scholars.’
Michael bowed and took his leave, while Bartholomew marvelled at his self-control – he would not have allowed himself to be dismissed so insultingly by the likes of Heltisle.
‘The peregrini hail from near Rouen,’ the physician said, once they were outside. ‘And the Jacquerie was strong in that region …’