‘I do not believe you,’ said Adela. ‘Shoot him, Caumpes.’
But Michael was right: Caumpes had no intention of shooting anyone. He hurled the crossbow from him in revulsion and started running up the nave towards the door. Before Bartholomew could react, Adela made a quick, decisive movement, and Caumpes fell, scrabbling helplessly at the metal that was embedded in his back. She turned to Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric, showing that she held another four or five shining silver spikes in her hands.
‘I am good with these,’ she said. ‘I advise you to stay where you are.’
Bartholomew gazed at Caumpes who was gasping for breath on the patterned tiles of the nave, and then watched him painfully continue his journey to the door. The physician guessed the wound had pierced a lung, and doubted whether Caumpes would survive. How many more people would die in their church, he wondered, before the curse of Wilson’s stolen treasure was exorcised?
A short distance away, the cheated workmen and the wronged singers were definitely making their move. The shouting was louder, and Bartholomew could hear ringing curses from carters on the High Street as the rioters began to stream from the Square towards Michaelhouse, blocking the road. Caumpes had reached the church door and opened it, allowing the sounds to drift in more clearly. A horse neighed in panic at the sudden increase in noise.
‘Horwoode!’ exclaimed Adela in alarm, glancing at the door.
‘He sounds panicky,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing an opportunity to break the stalemate. ‘Perhaps someone is trying to steal him.’
‘No one in this town would steal a horse of mine,’ she said, raising her throwing hand to warn Bartholomew against moving. She glanced towards the door in agitation, then snapped her attention forward again as Bartholomew braced himself to stand. ‘They would not dare.’
‘Then perhaps it is an outsider,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To a poor man with a starving family, Horwoode would be well worth stealing.’
‘And eating,’ added Michael. ‘After all, it could not be sold, given that it is so distinctive, but it would keep a family in meat for a week.’
It was enough. Without a word, Adela turned and raced up the nave, her mind fixed on the rescue of her horse. Bartholomew followed her, ignoring the warning cries of Michael and Cynric to let her go. By the time he reached the door, she was mounted and the horse was prancing skittishly among the graves. She pulled back her arm, and Bartholomew ducked back inside the porch. One of her spikes thudded into the door.
‘Stay away!’ she yelled. ‘Let me go – we have a pact to help each other, remember?’
‘I would not have made it had I known what you planned,’ he shouted back. His medicine bag caught on the door latch, and as he struggled to free it, he felt the smooth metal of his new childbirth forceps. He hauled them out and held them like a weapon. Adela gave a bitter smile.
‘What will you do, Matthew? Club me off my horse with the implement you use to save women’s lives? Believe me, I will kill you before you close half the distance.’
To prove her point, another of the silver missiles appeared in her hand, and her arm came up as she prepared to throw. A furious yell from the mob unnerved Horwoode. Hooves flailed and Bartholomew took the opportunity to dash to the back of the bucking horse. It did not like the sensation that someone was behind it, and began to prance and rear even more frantically. Despite her skills as a horsewoman, Adela was having difficulty in controlling it. Meanwhile, Caumpes had reached the High Street, and was clinging to the churchyard gate for support.
Bartholomew dodged this way and that, trying to get close enough to knock Adela from her saddle. Horwoode became more agitated, and a sudden sideways skip made the horse collide with Bartholomew, causing him to drop the forceps to the ground. The metallic clatter and the sight of something shiny under its feet was the last straw. Horwoode bolted.
At that precise moment, Caumpes released his grip on the wall that supported him and began to lurch forward, following some final desire to make his way back to the College he had loved. Startled by another movement under its front legs, the horse jolted backward, rolling its eyes in terror, and then fell.
Caumpes was crushed under the falling body, while Adela lost her grip on the saddle and slid to the ground. She recovered herself quickly and maintained her grip of the horse’s reins, but the horse was on its side with its hooves flailing wildly. There was a sickening crack as one of them caught her on the side of her head. She stood immobile for a moment, and then crumpled to lie twitching on the ground. The horse scrambled to its feet and darted off along the High Street.
Bartholomew dashed forward and knelt next to her, but he could see she was beyond anything he could do. The hoof had cracked the skull at the temple, and crushed the brain inside. Despite her convulsive struggles, her eyes already had the glassy look of death in them.
‘The horse killed her,’ whispered Cynric, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. ‘She was killed by one of the animals she loved.’
Adela’s uncontrolled shuddering ceased as the brain relinquished its damaged grip on her body.
‘The horse has killed Caumpes, too,’ said Michael, who crouched next to the scholar from Bene’t. ‘He is dead.’
‘This is no place for us,’ said Cynric urgently, grabbing Bartholomew’s tabard and hauling him to his feet as an ear-splitting howl echoed through the churchyard. ‘The mob is here.’
Dragging Bartholomew behind him, and with Michael following with uncharacteristic speed, Cynric darted to the back of the graveyard and hid among the tangle of bushes and small trees that grew there. They had been wrong when they had assumed the mob would go straight to Michaelhouse. The gaggle of workmen and singers had known perfectly well that they would be unlikely to make an impression on a sturdy foundation like the College, and had marched instead on that most prominent piece of Michaelhouse property – St Michael’s Church.
From his frighteningly inadequate hiding place, Bartholomew watched the rioters pour into the churchyard. At the head of them was Osmun. He faltered as he saw Caumpes’s body, and his pugilistic features hardened. He jumped on a tombstone to address his followers.
‘This is the body of Master Caumpes of Bene’t College!’ he howled in fury. ‘Caumpes was a good and honest man, and it is obvious who killed him – Michaelhouse men!’
‘Why is that obvious?’ piped up old Dunstan the riverman from the front of the crowd. The question was not put in such a way as to question Osmun’s authority, but in a manner that suggested the old riverman merely wanted the information.
‘Because his murdered body lies in the graveyard of the church Michaelhouse owns,’ yelled Osmun, spittle flying from his mouth in his fury. ‘Use your wits, old man!’
‘I do not see that proves anything,’ said Aethelbald, Dunstan’s brother, scratching his head in genuine puzzlement. ‘Anyone could have killed your Master Caumpes and left the body here.’
‘Michaelhouse hates Bene’t scholars,’ fumed Osmun. ‘Poor Caumpes was killed only because he wore the blue tabard of the College I serve.’
‘In that case, why is Adela Tangmer also dead?’ asked Robert de Blaston the carpenter. ‘She was not a scholar from Bene’t.’
‘And anyway, those Michaelhouse men are a cunning brood,’ said his friend Newenham knowledgeably. ‘They would not leave the bodies of people they killed on their own property.’
Osmun was not stupid. He could see that the crowd’s fury was fading as he argued with them. He gave a warlike whoop and waved a long, gnarled stick in the air. There were some answering cries and a few weapons were rattled, although it all seemed rather feeble to Bartholomew.