It was a move born of desperation, and was nowhere near its mark. Bartholomew sprang at Colet, forcing him to the ground.
Almost immediately, he felt himself hauled up, and, thinking it was Swynford, lashed out with his fists as hard as he could.
'Easy! Easy!' Bartholomew became aware of his surroundings, and his intense anger faded as quickly as it had come. Colet, already in the custody of two burly beadles, looked fearfully at Bartholomew, his face battered and bleeding. Bartholomew was held in a similar grip by Michael and one of the Benedictines.
A loud snap dragged their attention away from Colet and Bartholomew.
'The fire!' yelled Michael, releasing Bartholomew's arm. 'Stop the fire!'
The flames had secured a good hold on the rushes on the floor and were licking up the wall-hangings.
Bartholomew raced to drag them down before the flames reached the wooden ceiling. Outside, someone had started to ring the bell, and the hall filled with scholars using their black gowns to beat out the flames.
One of the students gave a shout, and, with a groan, the carved wooden screen behind the servery gave way, crashing onto the floor in an explosion of flames and sparks. More scholars poured into the hall, some from Michaelhouse, butmany from other Colleges and hostels. Bartholomew and Michael quickly organised them into a human chain passing all manner of receptacles brimming with water from the well.
Bartholomew yelled to Alcote, flapping uselessly at some burning rushes with his gown, to evacuate the sick from the commoners' room. Bartholomew knew that once the fire reached the wooden ceiling of the hall it would quickly spread to the wings. Thick smoke billowed everywhere, and Bartholomew saw one student drop to the floor clutching at his throat. He hauled him down the stairs and out into the yard where he coughed and spluttered. Bartholomew glanced up. Flames leapt out of the windows and thick, black smoke drifted across the yard.
The plague victims were brought to lie near the stable where they were tended by Michael's Benedictine room-mates, one still reeling from the effects of the drugged wine. Alcote hauled on the College bell, and scholars and passers-by ran in to help.
Bartholomew darted back up the stairs to the hall.
William and Michael had affixed ropes to the wooden gallery and rows of people were hauling on them to pull it over. Bartholomew understood their plan. If the gallery were down, the fire would be less likely to reach the wooden ceiling and might yet be brought under control. He took an empty place on one of the ropes and heaved with the others.
The gallery, wrenched from the walls, tipped forward with a screech of tearing wood and smashed onto the stone floor of the hall. Men and women dashed forwards and began to beat out the flames. The hot wood hissed under a deluge of water, and gradually the crackle of flames began to relent. Eventually, all was silent, and the men and women who had answered the bell surveyed the mess.
'It was about time the rushes on the floor were changed anyway,' said Bartholomew. He had intended his remark for Michael's ears only, but in the silence of the hall it carried. The tense atmosphere evaporated, and people laughed. Disaster had been averted.
Agatha, who had worked as hard as anyone, sent people here and there with brushes, and ordered that burned rushes, tables, benches, and tapestries be thrown out of the windows. At Bartholomew's suggestion, Cynric fetched all that remained of Wilson's fine collection of wine, and scholars and townspeople alike fortified themselves for their work with wines that cost more money than most of them would earn in a year.
In the panic to control the fire, Bartholomew had almost forgotten Colet, Stephen, and Swynford. He made his way over to a small group of people who stood around a figure lying on the floor. William was kneeling next to Swynford anointing him with oil, and muttering the words of the absolution. Swynford's eyes were closed, and blood bubbled through his blue lips.
He opened his eyes when William's mutteiings finished. 'The third Master to die in less than a year,' he said in a whisper. He looked around the group of people until he found Bartholomew.
'You are still alive,' he said. "I was not sure whether Colet would get you. You have really confounded my plans this time. Another few months, and I would have been Bishop, and I would never have needed to step in this accursed town again.'
He closed his eyes then, and did not open them again.
Colet and Stephen had already been hustled away to the Castle when Oswald Stanmore, his face white with strain, sought out Bartholomew.
'Oh, God, Matt,' he said. 'What happened?'
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, and made him sit on one of the benches that was not too singed and drink a cup of wine. Richard sat next to him, his face tear-streaked.
Stanmore sipped at the wine and then cradled the cup in shaking hands. 'He played me like a fool, Matt,' he said. 'He took my money, made me believe all Swynford's lies, and then tried to kill you. My own brother!'
Bartholomew rested his hand on his shoulder. 'What will happen to his wife and children?'
'Stephen and his wife had not been close for some time,' Stanmore said. 'She had been complaining about his absences during the night. I should have listened to her. Richard has offered to stay with her for a while at the house on Milne Street. There is plenty of room, so there is no reason she and the children should not stay. Also, Edith will help them as much as she can.' "I will help, too,' said Bartholomew.
Stanmore nodded. "I know you will. What will happen to him, Matt?'
Bartholomew did not know. He imagined there would be a trial, and there was enough evidence to hang them all. Michael told him that Stephen had started to confess everything before he was even out of the College gates, despite dire threats from Colet. On his evidence, the Sheriff and the Proctor would round up the others who had been involved.
"I am sorry, Matt,' sighed Stanmore. 'What a vile mess.'
'It is over now,' said Bartholomew. 'We both need to put it behind us and look to the future.'
'Yes, I suppose so,' Stanmore replied. Accompanied by Richard, he left to tend to his affairs. He was still not out of the woods, and there would be many questions to be answered and accounts to be examined before this business was over.
Brother Michael had been engaged in deep conversation with the Bishop in the solar. As Stanmore left, Michael poked his head round the door and beckoned Bartholomew over. The Bishop was wearing a plain brown robe, a far cry from his finery of the previous visit. He looked at Bartholomew's bruised hands. "I hear you tried to give Master Colet his just deserts,' he said.
Bartholomew looked at Michael. "I was stopped before I had really started.'
'Just as well,' said the Bishop. 'There has been enough murder in this College to last a century.'
'What happened?' Bartholomew asked Michael.
'How did you manage to arrive in the nick of time?
How did you escape Yaxley?' "I was sent a message, supposedly from the Bishop,' said Michael, 'asking me to meet him at the Carmelite Friary at Newnham. I saw nothing odd in this and assumed my lord the Bishop merely wanted me to provide him with the details of what I had learned before he arrived at Michaelhouse. As I walked, I heard St Mary's bell in the distance calling scholars to the Debate in the church and I suddenly realised I had made a dreadful mistake. We had already discussed Swynford's love of false messages, but I never thought he would dare to send me another.
'It became horribly clear. Me out of the way, perhaps heading into a trap, and all the scholars at the Debate.
You are a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and I knew the bell would not wake you. Colet, who knows you well enough, would also guess you would sleep through the bell. I knew he was going to come for you, Matt, as you slept alone in the College. I ran back as fast as I could, stopping at St Mary's to raise the alarm on the way.'