It was an uncomfortable journey to Bene’t, as more than one person pointed out Bartholomew and Michael as men who hailed from a foundation housing foreigners. One was a patient, so Bartholomew stopped to reason with her, but Michael pulled him on. She had been drinking, which meant she was unlikely to listen.
Bene’t was like a fortress, with students in armour stationed along the top of its walls and archers guarding its gates. Bartholomew was dismayed to note that several held weapons that shone with fresh blood. If they were willing to fight in broad daylight, what would the town be like when it was dark?
‘Master Heltisle was here,’ called a student, shouting down from the wall because he refused to open the gate. ‘But then he went out again.’
‘Where did he go?’ demanded Michael, making no effort to disguise his exasperation.
‘To rid the University of French infiltrators,’ came the belligerent reply. ‘And to make sure that the town scum know their place – which is under our heel.’
‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that last remark had been heard by several passing apprentices, so was sure to bring Bene’t reprisals later.
‘Back to St Mary the Great. Perhaps he went there while we have been chasing our tails out here.’
Heart pounding with tension, Bartholomew turned to run back along the High Street. They passed Tulyet on the way, who reported tersely that Heltisle had refused to support another curfew on the grounds that scholars had a right to go where they pleased.
‘But we would have a riot for certain if there was one rule for you and another for us,’ finished Tulyet, his voice tight with anger. ‘So now everyone has licence to be out tonight.’
‘Have you heard from Leger?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
‘He sent a message to say that he will try to whisk his charges away as soon as darkness falls,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Pray God he succeeds, because I cannot help him.’
They went their separate ways, although Bartholomew paused for a moment to listen to Verious howling for all loyal Englishmen to destroy the enemy spies. The ditcher’s face was bloated with drink, and Bartholomew doubted he was capable of distinguishing between an ‘enemy spy’ and folk he had known all his life. This was borne out when Isnard approached, and he would have been punched if the bargeman had not swiped irritably at him with a crutch.
Bartholomew felt as though he was in a nightmare, where every step took longer than it should, and St Mary the Great never seemed to be getting any closer. But they reached it eventually, and Michael aimed for the door.
‘Heltisle has been here since we left,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly hesitating.
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael uneasily.
‘Because your beadles are no longer in place. I suspect he sent them away in the hope that this church will be attacked. It will be seen as a direct assault on the University, and will allow him to claim that you are incapable of defending us.’
‘If you are right, then this is the last place he will be,’ said Michael. ‘He will not want to be inside when a mob marches in.’
‘He knows nothing serious will happen until nightfall,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Until then, he will be busily gathering the documents he thinks he will need for when you have gone.’
The door was open, so they slipped inside. The church was empty, and not so much as a single clerk laboured over his ledgers.
‘Good,’ breathed Michael. ‘They all have had the sense to hide.’
‘Or gone to join the fighting,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Now follow me quietly. I want to see what Heltisle is doing before we challenge him.’
He crept through the shadowy building to the grand room that had so recently been Michael’s, and peered around the door. Then it was all he could do not to gasp in shock at what he saw. De Wetherset stood there with a stone in his hand, looming over someone who lay prostrate on the floor. The victim was Vice-Chancellor Heltisle.
Chapter 15
Bartholomew’s insistence on stealth meant that he and Michael had several moments when they could see de Wetherset, but the Chancellor was unaware of them. He was muttering to himself, and the savage expression on his portly features told them all they needed to know about the identity of the killer. He had donned his armour, suggesting that he aimed to be in the thick of whatever happened that night, making sure it did not fizzle out before it had achieved what he intended.
‘I cannot believe it,’ breathed Michael. He was ashen, partly from shock that de Wetherset should be guilty, but mostly from knowledge of the harm it would do the University when the truth emerged. ‘How could he?’
De Wetherset crouched next to Heltisle, peered at the wound he had inflicted, and raised the rock for a final, skull-crushing blow.
‘Stop!’ howled Bartholomew, not about to stand by while it happened, even if the victim was the detestable Heltisle. ‘No more, de Wetherset. It is over.’
The Chancellor whipped around in alarm. ‘Thank God you are here!’ he cried in feigned relief. ‘It transpires that Heltisle is a false friend. I asked why he had sent all the beadles away from our church, and his response was to race forward and stab me.’
Bartholomew was amazed that de Wetherset should expect them to believe it. ‘The wound is to the back of his head, which means he cannot have been rushing at you. I suspect he was sitting at the desk when you hit him. Besides, you have no injury.’
‘He missed,’ said de Wetherset, eyeing him with dislike. ‘Although not from want of trying – his metal pen was aimed right at my heart. Of course I defended myself.’
‘With a stone that just happened to be to hand?’
‘One I brought here to prevent documents from blowing around,’ replied de Wetherset. He smiled at Michael. ‘I forgot how draughty this chamber is. You may have it back, Brother, because I prefer the smaller one. I wish Heltisle had not insisted on uprooting you.’
‘Do you,’ said Michael expressionlessly.
De Wetherset shrugged. ‘I made a mistake in appointing him Vice-Chancellor – his judgement is very poor. But I am sure you and I can work together to rectify all the harm he has done with his ambition and greed.’
Michael glanced at Bartholomew. ‘You had better see if you can help Heltisle.’
Bartholomew stepped forward, but de Wetherset blocked his path.
‘Stay back for your own safety,’ he urged. ‘He is a very dangerous man.’
‘Let me see him,’ ordered Bartholomew, trying to peer around de Wetherset’s bulk. ‘He may still be alive, and you do not want another death on your conscience.’
‘I have nothing on my conscience,’ objected de Wetherset indignantly. ‘I cannot be condemned for defending myself against a lethal attack, especially from Heltisle. No one likes him, and it is common knowledge that his policies have done much damage.’
Bartholomew was disgusted that the Chancellor aimed to blame a friend for his own misdeeds, but supposed he should not be surprised. De Wetherset had always been ruthless.
‘Then how do you explain your pilgrim badge clutched in the hand of a murdered abbess?’ he demanded, and brandished the brooch aloft.
‘You found it?’ cried de Wetherset. ‘Thanks be to God! It was stolen last night, and I thought it had gone for ever. Heltisle was the thief, of course, and you have just told me why – to see me accused of a crime I did not commit.’
He had an answer for everything, thought Bartholomew angrily, wishing Michael would just arrest the man so they could leave. He did not want to be in St Mary the Great when the inevitable mob marched in. Seeing Bartholomew did not believe him, the Chancellor turned to Michael.