‘To Michaelhouse!’ shouted Osmun. ‘We will tear it stone from stone to its foundations!’
‘We have been thinking about that,’ said Dunstan uneasily. ‘If we destroy Michaelhouse, we will never be invited to sing in a choir again – none of the other colleges would have us.’
‘Will you let music interfere with justice?’ yelled Osmun, outraged. ‘To Michaelhouse, lads, and all its ill-gotten wealth will be ours!’
‘But that is the problem,’ Blaston pointed out. ‘It does not have any ill-gotten wealth. If it did, we would not be here now, using the tools of our trade as weapons. We would be working on their north court. Michaelhouse is destitute.’
‘Hardly that,’ muttered Michael indignantly. Cynric jabbed him hard in the ribs to silence him before he gave them away.
‘To Michaelhouse!’ yelled Osmun, ignoring the carpenter.
‘It is all that Runham’s fault,’ said Dunstan, climbing unsteadily on another tombstone, using his brother as a prop. ‘He dismissed the choir and he made the deal with the craftsmen that he knew he could not fulfil. It is not the fault of the other scholars – only him.’
‘Where is Runham?’ screamed Isnard the bargeman from the back of the crowd. ‘It is him we will tear apart! And then we will march on Michaelhouse and demand our bread and ale.’
‘He is in the church, God rot his wicked soul,’ said Dunstan, addressing the crowd from his little pulpit, just as Osmun had been doing. ‘He is lying under a lovely piece of silk – unlike his own book-bearer, whom he left to rot for days. Justus would still be there now if Doctor Bartholomew had not arranged his burial.’
‘When was that, then?’ asked Isnard conversationally. ‘I would have attended Justus’s requiem mass had I known when it was going to happen. I like a good funeral.’
‘Justus was my cousin,’ yelled Osmun. ‘I had to plead and beg on bended knees for Michaelhouse to honour his poor remains and do its duty. Bene’t would never have left a man unburied for more than a week.’
‘Why did you not bury Justus, then?’ asked Dunstan. ‘If he was your cousin–’
‘March on Michaelhouse now, and demand all they have!’ shrieked Osmun, sensing he was losing control of his small crowd to the old man. ‘We will have their silver and gold, and their rich cloaks and fine food.’
‘Michaelhouse does not have fine food,’ said Isnard. ‘You are thinking of Peterhouse. Michaelhouse is the College with the worst food in Cambridge.’
‘I think you will find that honour goes to Gonville Hall,’ muttered Michael indignantly. Cynric prodded him again.
‘And the food has got worse since Runham was made Master,’ shouted Dunstan, although there was no reason why he should be privy to such facts, now that he no longer earned his Sunday bread and ale. ‘And it was bad food that made Brother Michael ill. Runham tried to starve him to death!’
There was an ominous, angry rumble from the members of the choir, although the craftsmen appeared sceptical, and Bartholomew buried his face in his hands so that Michael would not see him smile. He wondered whether any of the crowd would question why Michael should be made ill with bad food, if Runham was starving him. None did.
‘And Runham was going to stop Doctor Bartholomew coming to visit the sick,’ continued Dunstan, now enjoying his role as spokesman for the underclasses. ‘How can we afford the high fees of Master Lynton when we are ill? We need Doctor Bartholomew, and Runham was trying to take him from us.’
The angry rumble increased in volume. Dunstan had succeeded where the aggressive Osmun had failed.
‘And Doctor Bartholomew gave my Yolande a green ribbon, too,’ added Blaston, drawing the bemused glances of several of the choir. ‘He is a kind man who is fond of his patients – us.’
‘To Michaelhouse then,’ shouted Osmun, waving his stave, ‘to avenge all these wrongs.’
‘No!’ wailed Dunstan in his reedy tenor. ‘To St Michael’s Church to where that vile Runham’s corpse lies. We will string it up.’
This time, the yell of approval from the crowd was distinctly more enthusiastic.
‘What for?’ demanded Osmun, startled. ‘Hanging a corpse will do you no good. Looting the College will bring you fortunes beyond your wildest dreams.’
‘How many more times do we have to tell you?’ demanded Blaston, shoving the porter out of his way. ‘Michaelhouse does not have this great fortune you keep talking about. And it is Runham we want. Runham is responsible for all our troubles.’
‘Wait!’ shouted Osmun, as the crowd surged forward and elbowed their way into the church.
But no one paid him any heed, and there was no more for him to do than to pick up the body of Caumpes, sling it over his shoulder, and be on his way. Smashing sounds came from inside the church. Bartholomew leapt to his feet and tried to move forward, but Cynric held him back.
‘Are you mad, boy?’ he hissed. ‘They will see a Michaelhouse tabard and turn their rage on you.’
That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew, easing back into the cover of the trees. He had almost been the victim of the choir once before in St Michael’s Church.
‘But they will destroy it,’ he whispered. ‘And they will take the church silver.’
‘I have that here,’ said Michael, holding up Adela’s saddlebag. ‘And there is nothing else to steal. The only thing of any value in that poor church is the silk sheet that is draped over Runham’s corpse – and they are welcome to that.’
‘But they are smashing things. I can hear them.’
‘Only the vase that contains the flowers Runham left for Wilson,’ said Michael. ‘And that has been empty this past week.’
There was some angry shouting, and the crowd began to emerge from the church, carrying Runham’s coffin with them. Dunstan, wearing the silk sheet around his thin shoulders, led the strange procession like some bizarre priest. Behind him, Runham shuddered and bumped as he was carried head-high along the High Street, willing hands reaching up to be part of the grisly celebration. Not far behind, the gilt effigy of Wilson was being given similar treatment, joggling in grabbing hands as it was borne away towards the Market Square.
It was not long before the church was empty. Fearful for it, Bartholomew darted from his hiding place and through the door. But Michael had been right, and the only thing that had been smashed was Runham’s clay vase. He started in alarm when the door clanked open.
‘Where have they gone now?’ asked Sheriff Tulyet wearily. ‘I thought that by showing them all my soldiers, armed and willing to use force, I had convinced them to go home peacefully. They were perfectly calm when I left them, and then I heard the whole thing had started again.’
‘Osmun from Bene’t was whipping them into a frenzy,’ said Michael. ‘Or was trying to. They do not seem a particularly frenzied mob to me – just people who have been badly treated.’
‘So where are they?’ said Tulyet. ‘I have better things to do than chase around after frustrated choristers. I will have that Osmun in my gaol for his role in this.’
‘Quite right, too,’ agreed Michael. ‘And then he can enjoy a spell in the proctors’ prison – that will cure his riotous fervour for a while. But the mob snatched Runham’s corpse and Wilson’s effigy and were heading off to the Market Square with them.’
‘Oh, horrible!’ exclaimed Tulyet in distaste. ‘What do they plan to do? Have a spit roast?’
‘There would be plenty of lard to baste the meat if they did,’ said Michael, unaware that he was not in a position to criticise the fat of others. ‘I think they intend to lynch him.’