‘I thought you were going to cancel it.’
‘I shall, but scholars will still congregate, and so will many townsfolk.’
They ducked as a shower of pebbles sailed towards them, lobbed by a group of matriculands. Catcalls followed, centred around the claims that Bartholomew was a necromancer and Michael had murdered his deputy. Then the leader muttered an order, and the accusing jeers faded into a silence that was far more unnerving. The matriculands began to advance, slowly and with unmistakable menace.
‘Stop!’ roared Michael in his most commanding voice. ‘And go home before–’
‘He thinks he can tell you what to do,’ interrupted the leader mockingly, and Bartholomew was not surprised to recognise Goodwyn. ‘What do you say to that?’
There was a howl of outrage and weapons were drawn. Bartholomew fumbled for his childbirth forceps, knowing there was little he could do against so many but determined to put up a fight; Michael produced a stout stick from somewhere about his person. Just when they thought it could get no worse, Goodwyn and his cronies were joined by men from one of the new hostels. The ex-student’s face was bright with vengeful triumph when he saw his little army double in size, and Bartholomew knew that he and Michael would not be allowed to escape alive.
Then a score of warrior-nobles from King’s Hall happened past. Goodwyn’s mob outnumbered them two to one, but forty cudgels were no match for twenty swords, and King’s Hall knew it. They surged forward with bloodcurdling whoops, scattering Goodwyn and his men in terror. The King’s Hall party was too dignified to give chase, and war cries turned to laughter as their charge petered out. They went on their way without so much as a backward glance at the men they had saved. Bartholomew shot Michael a feeble grin.
‘There is nothing like the threat of death to sharpen one’s wits. I do not feel at all tired now.’
‘Then use them.’ Michael’s voice was urgent. ‘Did you see what happened just now? Hostel men racing to support Goodwyn’s louts?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘They mingled, Matt! They did not form discrete groups, as they would normally have done, but stood shoulder to shoulder with people who should have been strangers. However, I strongly suspect they were not.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘They knew each other,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘Not a superficial acquaintance from a night in a tavern, but something of longer duration. They are all recent arrivals, which means they must have been friends already. So why did they all suddenly decide to come here?’
‘Because Winwick is recruiting, and they are eager for a lucrative career in law.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘We have never been overwhelmed with new students in such numbers before. I think some came in the hope of winning a place at the University, but many have no intention of studying. They roam in packs, doing nothing but drink and carouse. So if they did not come for scholarship, they came for some other purpose, and the way they have behaved from the start suggests to me that the whole thing is orchestrated.’
‘You mean someone told them to descend on us?’
‘Yes. And as most hail from London, I suggest we discuss this with your nephew.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You think Richard brought them? But that is ludicrous!’
‘Is it? Then why does he stay here when our little town must be dull after the wild delights of the city? Why do so many of these matriculands come from the place where he lived until recently? Why does he know so many of them? And why is he always on hand when trouble arises?’
‘He would never do such a thing. And he has stayed for two reasons. First because he, thinks his father was murdered–’
‘A recent suspicion. Not one that explains his presence here since August.’
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘And second, because he wants a Fellowship at Winwick Hall.’
Michael pointed. ‘Well, there he is now with some of the worst offenders. And look at them – men in their mid-twenties, too old to be aspiring students. They are not here to study. There is mischief afoot, and we need to find out what it is before our poor town explodes into violence.’
Richard and his cronies numbered roughly a dozen men, all dressed in the latest Court fashion: long hair, shoes with pointed toes, and elaborately embroidered gipons. Bartholomew recognised at least three who had led packs of matriculands at different times, while others had been in the King’s Head two nights before. Michael was right, he thought: these were not men who wanted to study.
Moreover, something Clippesby had said was niggling at the back of his mind: that the Bene’t hedgehog thought Richard had encouraged the matriculands to try their luck at Winwick Hall. In other words, the Dominican had detected something odd in Richard’s behaviour, even if his saner colleagues had missed it. Then Bartholomew shook himself impatiently. No! This was his nephew – the lad he had known since birth. Richard would never orchestrate such dark mischief.
Michael strode up to Richard and pulled him to one side. The others immediately stepped forward to intervene, but Richard made a sharp gesture telling them to stay back. They obeyed at once, and Bartholomew felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The fact that his nephew could so effortlessly control a lot of arrogant hotheads told him more than words ever could.
‘There are an unprecedented number of matriculands this year,’ began Michael, ice in his voice. ‘Can you tell us what brings them here?’
‘Perhaps they have heard of you, Brother,’ said Richard with an insolent smirk. The grin did not quite touch his eyes, though, which were wary. ‘And they came to see you in action.’
‘They came because of you,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Goodwyn told us that he knew you from a London tavern, and you are friends with a lot of other louts as well.’
Richard laughed harshly. ‘I know I am popular, but I do not have hundreds of acquaintances who would follow me into the Fens. And you have it the wrong way around, anyway: I choose to stay because so many of my London companions have elected to study here.’
Bartholomew felt sick: he could tell Richard was lying. ‘You met Uyten in London – the man whose Provost has sponsored your election to the Guild of Saints, and has promised you a Fellowship at Winwick.’
‘What of it?’ shrugged Richard. ‘It is not a crime to know people.’
‘Please tell us the truth! Edith will suffer if there is trouble. Cambridge is her home.’
‘Yes, and it should not be,’ flared Richard. ‘She should be living in respectable widowhood at Trumpington, not prodding around in Father’s affairs to expose his … oversights.’
Bartholomew’s first reaction was indignation that Richard should presume to judge Edith, but then he saw the angry confusion in his nephew’s eyes, and irritation gave way to understanding. ‘You tried to burn those documents, then ordered her to stay away from them because you guessed what she might find.’
‘I guessed nothing!’ snarled Richard, although the truth was in his eyes. ‘Father was a good man. He founded the Guild of Saints and was generous with alms.’
‘Yes, he was,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But that does not mean he always stayed on the right side of the law. What happened? Did someone in London tell you that Oswald’s affairs were not always honest?’
Richard glared at him, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I was made aware of certain rumours, so I hurried here to put an end to them. Unfortunately, a brief glance through that box told me that there might be some justification to the tales.’
‘So why did you not destroy its contents – prevent Edith from learning things that have hurt her?’
‘I thought I had,’ replied Richard shortly. ‘I put it on a fire at the bottom of the garden, but the flames must have gone out, and she found it – unscathed – when she went for a walk last week.’