‘Lynch a corpse?’ asked Tulyet uncertainly. ‘Oh well, it is better than lynching a live person, I suppose. Come on. Let us put a stop to all this madness before any real harm is done.’
He made as if to inspect the crumpled figure of Adela as he passed, but Bartholomew took his arm and hurried him on, thinking the Sheriff’s duties lay with the living first; he could deal with the dead later. Michael and Cynric followed them the short distance along the High Street to the Market Square.
‘That was Adela Tangmer,’ said Tulyet as they ran. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She fell off her horse,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘I will tell you the details later. Right now, it is more important to deal with these rioters.’
‘We can only deal with them if we know what they are doing,’ said Tulyet, skidding to a halt as they reached the Market Square. ‘And I have no idea what they plan to do.’
He was not the only one. Standing next to him, Bartholomew regarded the scene warily. The crowd, having reached the Square with their intended victim, was suddenly at a loss at what to do. Without the yells and encouragement of Osmun – and Dunstan was too old to have kept up with the main body of the mob and was still huffing his way from the church – they milled around like lost sheep. The body of Runham in its fine coffin was set down gently near the fishmonger’s stall, while the effigy was propped nonchalantly against the water pump that stood in the centre of the Square.
‘I think the answer to your question is simple,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These people do not know what they are going to do, either. Tell them all to go home, Dick.’
‘Michaelhouse will not press charges over this?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You would be within your rights to do so. Snatching the corpses of scholars is not generally regarded as good civic behaviour.’
‘Depends on the corpse,’ said Michael. ‘But Matt is right. The sooner this incident is over and forgotten, the better. Tell them to disperse and that there will be no reprisals from Michaelhouse.’
‘Right,’ yelled Tulyet, striding forward and taking control while he had the chance. ‘I want eight volunteers to transport Masters Runham and Wilson back to St Michael’s Church, and then we will say no more about this disagreeable spectacle.’
Several of the choir shuffled forward, and Runham was heaved off the ground to begin his return journey. Aethelbald was one of the ones who volunteered to lift the effigy, but it was heavy, and his frail old arms were not strong enough to take the weight. With a crash that echoed all over the Market Square, it slipped from his grasp and smashed to the ground. The head rolled in one direction, the legs in another, while the torso cracked in two. And out from the breaks rolled Master Runham’s hidden treasure.
For a moment, no one moved, and the tinkle of coins flowing from the statue was all that could be heard. And then there was chaos. Runham was rudely dropped to the ground, where his corpse flopped from its coffin and his white shroud became splattered with dirt. The crowd surged forward, Michael among them, and uncountable hands reached, grabbed and snatched for the bright gold that lay in the mud. People were trampled, hair was yanked, clothes were ripped, and faces were slapped and thumped. Bartholomew watched it all aghast, while Tulyet used the flat of his sword in a hopeless attempt to try to restore some sort of order.
News that there was gold to be had near the fish stalls carried faster than the wind, and more people raced to join the affray. Those staggering away from the chaos found themselves mugged for their new acquisitions, and Bartholomew was wrestled to the ground by two apprentices who were certain his pockets were stuffed with coins, but backed off when Cynric came to his rescue.
‘Come away, boy,’ the Welshman urged with distaste. ‘This is no place for honest men.’
‘But we cannot just leave,’ said Bartholomew, appalled both by the display of naked greed and by the fact that the gold that was being spirited away in a hundred different pockets was stolen property and would never be returned to its rightful owners. ‘Some of that gold belongs to Michaelhouse.’
‘Not any more,’ said Cynric with a grin.
Epilogue
THE FOLLOWING DAY, WHEN PEACE HAD BEEN restored to the town and Master Runham’s body had been restored to St Michael’s Church, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the conclave with Langelee, William and Kenyngham. It was a lovely afternoon, with a pale winter sun shining in a clear, cloudless sky that bathed the room with its warm brightness. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, and Agatha had just brought a platter of freshly baked oatcakes for the Fellows to eat while they waited for the bell to call them to supper. The students were all gainfully employed removing the last of the scaffolding under the watchful eye of a shame-faced Robert de Blaston, while Cynric moved around the room refilling goblets with wine. Michael was happily contemplating a resumption of his hoodwinking of William Heytesbury of Merton College, while Bartholomew was anticipating with pleasure his meeting with Matilde that evening.
‘It is good to have you back, Cynric,’ said Michael, holding out his cup. ‘The College was not the same without you.’
‘A life of evenings at home is very nice,’ said Cynric, ‘but I found I missed the occasional adventure with you. I have decided to work at Michaelhouse during the day and return to Rachel at night – unless you have any prowling or fighting you need done.’
‘I hope that will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I have had more than my share of that sort of thing for a while, and I do not think Rachel would approve of us leading you astray.’
‘She wants whatever makes me happy,’ said Cynric with smug contentment. ‘You always claim you do not like these adventures of Brother Michael’s, but I think you do, really.’
‘I do not!’ began Bartholomew vehemently. ‘In fact–’
‘Has anyone seen the real Master Suttone today?’ asked Langelee, downing his wine in a single draught and holding out his cup to Cynric for more. ‘Or is he still skulking in the Carmelite Friary?’
‘Is that how he will be known from now on?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘The real Master Suttone?’
‘It is better to be clear on this matter, Michael,’ said William pompously. ‘Or who knows what confusion might arise? On the one hand we had a man prepared to lie and kill for a woman, and on the other we have a weaselly coward who ran away the first time his College needed him, and who remained in his bed for nigh on two weeks with little more than a scratched arm.’
‘Do not despise the real Master Suttone for his cowardice, Father,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘He may have done more for Michaelhouse than he will ever know – it was because of him that we are now rid of the dreadful Runham and his wicked deeds.’
William gazed at him. ‘Then perhaps the real Master Suttone should have stayed away longer still. Then we might have been able to rid ourselves of that mad-eyed Clippesby, too.’
‘We believed the mad-eyed Clippesby had killed Runham,’ mused Michael. ‘Now it seems that the man is innocent – he just happens to be insane.’
‘He is not insane, he is disturbed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has delusions and is unable to view the world in the same way as a rational man.’
‘The sedate, calm life of a scholar should heal him, given time,’ said William, following Langelee’s example and downing his wine so that he could have more.
‘Perhaps he should go elsewhere, then,’ said Kenyngham anxiously. ‘The events of the last few days have indicated that Cambridge is not the place to be if you desire a sedate, calm life.’
‘Are you saying that one of the Fellows is genuinely insane?’ asked Cynric, not sounding as surprised as Bartholomew thought he should.