When they reached the Barbican, they met Sheriff Tulyet, who was just walking out. Helbye saluted smartly.
‘Here he is, sir,’ he said, jerking a callused thumb over his shoulder at Moleyns. ‘One prisoner, delivered safe and sound.’
‘I am a personal friend of the King,’ declared Moleyns, disliking the disrespectful introduction, and aiming to let his new captor know how matters stood. ‘And I expect to be treated accordingly. If you have any doubts, read the letter your man carries.’
Obligingly, Helbye handed it over. ‘Apparently, it says the King wants him to have decent quarters, the best food, and the freedom to go out whenever he likes.’
‘The freedom to go out whenever I deem it safe,’ corrected Tulyet, scanning it briefly before shoving it rather carelessly into his tunic. ‘But Cambridge can be very disorderly, so I do not foresee many outings, I am sorry to say.’
He did not sound sorry at all, and Moleyns struggled to keep his temper. ‘You might want to reconsider that attitude,’ he said sharply. ‘I think–’
‘See him to his cell, Helbye,’ interrupted Tulyet, giving the distinct impression that he did not care two hoots what Moleyns thought. ‘I will speak to him later, if I have time.’
Outraged by the implication that his arrival was inconsequential, and alarmed by the word ‘cell’, Moleyns dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks, aiming to surge forward and give the Sheriff a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, he jabbed too hard – he had never been a very good rider – and the animal reared. He was saved from an embarrassing tumble by Tulyet himself, who jumped forward to grab the bridle.
‘You had better dismount,’ said the Sheriff coolly. ‘We cannot have you falling off and hurting yourself. Or worse, hurting someone else.’
Moleyns was incensed by the impertinence, but Tulyet was already striding away, clearly considering the conversation over. He ground his teeth in impotent fury, outraged that he should be treated with such rank and arrogant disregard.
‘We shall write to the King tomorrow,’ said Inge soothingly. ‘You will not suffer these indignities long, never fear.’
Moleyns nodded slowly, hot temper turning to something colder and darker.
‘Tulyet will be sorry he offended me,’ he said softly. ‘And so will his town.’
Chapter 1
Cambridge, February 1360
An enormous crowd had gathered outside St Mary the Great, and everyone in it was gazing upwards. On the top of the tower, high above, the University’s Chancellor was doing battle with the Devil, a desperate, frantic struggle that surged back and forth, perilously close to the edge. More than once it seemed the pair would plummet to their deaths. Or Chancellor Tynkell would: most suspected it would take rather more to eliminate Satan.
Master Ralph de Langelee of Michaelhouse and four of his Fellows were among the throng. They had been to visit friends in Peterhouse and were hurrying home when their attention had been snagged by the spectacle. All had teaching planned for that morning, but lectures had flown from their minds when they had seen what was happening on the roof.
‘Whatever possessed him to tackle such a foe?’ breathed Father William. He was famous for three things: a filthy Franciscan habit, scandalously bigoted opinions, and a dim-wittedness rare among those claiming to be academics. ‘Even I would not dare, and I am a priest.’
‘Let us pray he is strong enough,’ whispered Clippesby, the College’s Dominican. He crossed himself, then hugged the goose he was carrying. His habit of talking to animals – and claiming they talked back – naturally led most people to assume he was insane.
‘This wind does not help,’ added Langelee. He had been a henchman for the Archbishop of York before deciding that life as a scholar would be more fun. Like William, he was no intellect, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were generally satisfied with his rule. ‘One false step, and they will both be blown off.’
Even as he spoke, a violent gust made him stagger, then huddle more deeply into his cloak. It was bitterly cold, with streams and ditches frozen hard, and the occasional flurry of snow dancing in the air. He turned as Beadle Meadowman approached at a run. Beadles were the men who kept order in the University, under the command of the proctors. The Senior Proctor was currently Michael, a rotund Benedictine theologian, who was the third of Langelee’s Fellows.
‘We cannot open the porch door, Brother,’ Meadowman reported tersely. ‘The Devil must have tampered with it, to keep us out.’
‘Then try the one in the vestry,’ suggested Matthew Bartholomew, Michaelhouse’s physician and the last Fellow in the pack. Besides teaching medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died. He sincerely hoped that his services would not be required for Tynkell.
‘That is a good idea.’ Michael sighed irritably when Meadowman only gazed up at the tower in open-mouthed fascination. ‘Well, go on then, man!’
Meadowman shuffled away, but with such obvious reluctance that it was clear his efforts to enter the building had not been as assiduous as he would have his Senior Proctor believe.
‘He does not want to go in, because he is afraid of what he might encounter in there,’ said Bartholomew, watching him.
Michael scowled. ‘Tynkell is fighting a person, Matt, not Satan. I cannot imagine what he thinks he is doing, but unless my beadles stop them soon, blood will be spilled.’
‘It is the Devil.’ William sounded astonished that the monk should think otherwise. ‘Look at him, Brother – dressed in black from head to toe.’
‘So am I,’ retorted Michael, indicating his Benedictine habit. ‘But that does not mean–’
‘And he has that hunched, impish look of all demons,’ William went on earnestly. ‘Trust me, I know. I learned these things when I was with the Inquisition in France.’
Fortunately for that country’s ‘heretics’, William’s appointment had been a short one, and he had been assigned to Cambridge when his fellow inquisitors had deemed him too extreme.
There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as the wrestling pair lurched violently to one side, dislodging a coping stone, which crashed to the ground below. Then Tynkell managed to wrap his hands around his opponent’s throat. There was a cheer of encouragement from the crowd, especially when the Devil began to flail around in a frantic effort to breathe.
‘Those wretched beadles are more interested in gawping than putting an end to it,’ said Michael crossly, glaring at them. ‘I shall have to do it myself.’
‘Then hurry,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want the Chancellor to commit murder in front of half the town.’
‘Do not intervene!’ cried William in dismay, as the monk began to stride towards the church. ‘Not when Tynkell is winning. New scholars will race to study here once they learn that we are the kind of men who can conquer Lucifer.’
Michael did not grace the appeal with a response. He reached the church, Bartholomew at his heels, and inspected the vestry door. The beadles were more than happy to abandon their half-hearted attempts to open it, and scuttled off to join the other spectators in the High Street.
The vestry door was shut fast, but it only took a moment to ascertain that a key had been used, not some diabolical device. It was still in the hole, and a jab from one of Bartholomew’s surgical probes saw it drop to the floor on the other side. There was a large gap between door and flagstones, so it was easy for the physician to slip his hand beneath and retrieve it.