Michael shrugged. ‘The entire Benedictine community of Ely Hall just heard your confession. No one will doubt them.’
For the first time, Bartholomew saw Timothy’s mask of saintliness begin to slip; underneath was the face of a frightened man. ‘It was not us,’ he said, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘None of this was our idea.’
‘Give me your sword, and we will talk about it,’ said Michael, unmoved.
‘We were only obeying instructions,’ Timothy whined, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead and speckling the skin above his lips. ‘Do you really think we could have done this alone? Us? Two lowly men of God?’
‘Shut up,’ snapped Janius furiously. ‘They can prove nothing. The only evidence they have is an alleged confession overheard by a crowd of bumbling monks in ill health.’
Timothy was not convinced. ‘Perhaps we can come to some arrangement,’ he said, smiling nervously at Michael. ‘I will put up my sword and reveal to you the name of our associate; you will let me go free.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘You will hand me your sword, then you will come with me to the proctors’ cells, where you will await your trial.’
‘No gaggle of sinners will try us,’ said Janius viciously. Suddenly, there was a flash of metal, and Bartholomew saw that he held a dagger. He threw himself to one side as it whipped through the air towards him, then struggled to regain his footing as pandemonium erupted in the small room.
Timothy was wielding his sword in a series of savage arcs that threatened to decapitate anyone who went too close, while Janius was engaged in a deadly circling game with Cynric. With a howl of rage, Timothy turned on Bartholomew.
‘This is your fault! If you had not started questioning that grey cloak and telling Michael that the motive for the deaths of Kyrkeby, Walcote and Faricius was not the theft of their purses, then none of this would have happened. You deserve to die.’
Bartholomew ducked backwards as one of the blows whistled past his face, so close that he felt the wind of it on his skin. Timothy staggered with the force of the swing, but then recovered and prepared to make a swift end of the man he saw as the author of all his troubles. Michael tried to force his way into the room, but was blocked by Cynric and Janius, engaged in their own life or death struggle. Bartholomew came up hard against the wall, and knew he had nowhere else to go. Timothy raised the sword above his head in both hands and prepared to strike.
All at once, the expression on the monk’s face turned from fury to mild surprise. He dropped to his knees, and the sword clattered from his hands. Then he pitched forward, and Bartholomew saw the hilt of Richard’s decorative dagger protruding from his back. Richard gazed down at it, then looked up at Bartholomew, tears brimming in his eyes.
‘He laughed at my dagger yesterday,’ he said unsteadily. ‘He said it was all handle and no blade.’
‘There was blade enough to kill him,’ remarked Michael, still trying to insinuate himself through the door to put an end to the continuing skirmish between Janius and Cynric. ‘You did well, lad.’
‘Then it is the first thing I have done well since arriving in Cambridge,’ said Richard in a voice thick with self-pity. ‘I was looking forward to doing business with this pair, and now I discover they are killers. It is Heytesbury’s fault for befuddling my wits with wine. I have never felt so ill in my life as I have the last few days. I swear to you I shall never drink again. I will be a new man.’
Cynric’s eyes left Janius just long enough to wink at Bartholomew, to indicate his belief that the change in character was due to the charm he had applied. It was a mistake: Janius took advantage of his wandering attention to knock the Welshman from his feet. Bartholomew tensed, ready to spring at Janius and take him on with his bare hands if he threatened to harm Cynric. But Janius was not interested in the prostrate book-bearer; he had his sights fixed on larger prey.
‘You are no Benedictine,’ he hissed furiously, turning on Michael. ‘You are a fat, gluttonous pig who has no right to wear the sacred habit of a monk.’
Michael said nothing, but there was a blur of white followed by a sharp crack, and Janius staggered backwards holding his broken nose. Blood spurted from under his fingers and his dagger clattered to the floor.
‘I told you I would punch the next person who called me fat,’ said Michael mildly, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other. ‘Take him away, Cynric.’
Cynric leapt to his feet and pinned Janius against the wall, ignoring the monk’s cries of pain.
‘We were doing God’s will!’ shouted Janius, as Cynric began to haul him away. ‘It is you who are evil, and it is because of men like you that the Great Pestilence came in the first place. It will return if you are permitted to continue in positions of power.’
‘I thought the plague had come because some Cambridge scholars were nominalists,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in amusement. ‘That is what Lincolne told us.’
Janius glowered at him. ‘Lincolne is obsessed with the notion that nominalism is heresy. He is a fanatic.’
‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Take him away, Cynric. I want to hear no more of his raving.’
‘God will punish you for this!’ Janius howled, as he was wrestled out of the room and down the corridor. ‘He will not stand by and see evil men the victors. You will see.’
‘I hope he is wrong,’ said Richard nervously. ‘I thought his capture and Timothy’s death signified an end to all this vileness.’
‘They do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just ranting to unsettle us. He and Timothy were behind all this murder and mayhem, and neither of them is in a position to do anything more now.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew.
The following day was Easter Sunday. Clippesby’s predictions about the weather had been correct, and the rain clouds that had been dogging the town for the past few weeks were blown away by a cool, fresh wind from the south. The morning dawned with a blaze of gold when the sun made a rare appearance, and the sky was a clear and perfect blue.
Later than usual, because it was a Sunday, the Michaelhouse scholars gathered in their yard to process to St Michael’s Church for the high mass. There was an atmosphere of happy anticipation for the festival itself, the debate that was to follow in the afternoon and the feast that had been arranged for the evening. Every scholar seemed to have made an effort with his appearance to celebrate the end of Lent, and even Langelee’s exacting standards were surpassed by most of the students. Bartholomew had never seen so many polished shoes and brushed tabards.
In honour of the occasion, the Stanton silver had been brought out of the strong-room, and stood in a gleaming line along the altar. Patens, chalices and thuribles had been buffed until they shone like mirrors, and a new festive altar cloth, sewn by Agatha, was so brightly white that it hurt the eyes. The sun blazed through the east window, casting pools of coloured light into the chancel, and the parishioners had decorated the church with flowers of cream and yellow, so that the whole building was infused with the sweet scent of them.
Michael’s choir excelled themselves with an anthem they had been practising since Christmas, and the church rang with the joyous sound of their singing, making up in volume what they lacked in talent. Afterwards, the scholars spilled out into the sunlit churchyard, and Bartholomew saw that snowdrops were beginning to bloom among the grassy mounds. Langelee raised one lordly arm to indicate that his scholars were to fall in behind him, and began to lead the way back to Michaelhouse, where a special breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, boiled pork and fresh bread awaited them.