‘Who told you this ridiculous story?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘Weasenham?’
‘No, Uyten from Winwick Hall,’ replied the deputy smugly. ‘And the tale is true, because the tract containing these seditious remarks is being copied by Weasenham’s scribes as I speak.’
‘You are a fool, de Stannell!’ said Michael in disgust. ‘First, how can Tulyet have been executed for something that is not yet fully in the public domain? Second, it takes a full day for news to travel between London and Cambridge, even with the fastest messengers. And third, being Sheriff of a place where such statements originate is not a capital offence. Can you not see that this is a scheme to cause trouble between us?’
‘I see nothing other than that Tulyet’s association with the University has brought about his downfall.’ De Stannell was clearly delighted by the prospect of being rid of his superior. ‘You should watch yourself, Brother. He was popular, and I imagine folk will hold any Michaelhouse scholar responsible for his fate, regardless of who actually wrote the words that lost him his head.’
Michael strode away, unwilling to waste time listening to such rubbish, and Bartholomew followed. The wind chose that moment to hurl a mat of wet leaves into de Stannell’s face, and his indignant diatribe about unmannerly scholars dissolved into splutters.
‘So Uyten strikes again,’ said Bartholomew, torn between concern and disdain. ‘We will not survive to be excommunicated at this rate – we will be attacked and destroyed long before the King and the Pope read William’s stupid ramblings.’
‘It is an outrageous story,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘No one with wits will believe it.’
‘Unfortunately, the people who itch for a riot will not care whether it is true or not. Townsmen will feel justified in rising against the University, while scholars will feel justified in taking exception to such an outlandish claim.’
‘You are right,’ gulped Michael, breaking into a trot. ‘It may well provide the spark that sets us alight. Clever Uyten! Who would have thought he had it in him?’
Bartholomew was glad when Michael dragged half a dozen beadles from their peace-keeping duties to accompany them to Winwick, anticipating an ambush at every step. They arrived to find the gates still off their hinges, and as Jekelyn had not been replaced, there was no one guarding the entrance. They entered unopposed and were astonished to find the yard deserted. In confusion they looked around, and Bartholomew noted that a buttress had collapsed. It lay in a heap, and the wind was now so strong that it sent some of the smaller pieces tumbling across the yard.
‘Uyten!’ he exclaimed, spotting a pale hand poking from under the debris, so ham-like it could belong to no one else. He raced towards it.
‘Oh, no!’ groaned Michael. ‘Yet again, we are to be deprived of answers.’
They began hauling away debris. Fortunately for Uyten, the buttress was constructed of cheap rubble masonry – nothing heavier than lumps of damp mortar and small pieces of rock. If he had not suffocated, there was a chance that he was still alive. They grazed knuckles and tore fingernails in the frantic race to dig him out. The hand began to flap as they exposed an arm and then a shoulder, and ignoring Bartholomew’s pleas for care, Michael grabbed it and hauled with all his might. Uyten came free in an explosion of dust and gravel.
‘Help me,’ the student groaned, as Bartholomew knelt to examine him. ‘Illesy … he did this.’
‘Why would he mean you harm?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew take a bucket of water from one of the beadles and begin to rinse the filth from Uyten’s face.
‘Because I did not go to Ely as he ordered – I could not leave Winwick when the town felt so uneasy. You had better arrest him, Brother, before he kills anyone else.’
‘How did he cause you to be buried?’ Michael’s voice was thick with doubt. ‘Did he push the buttress over?’
‘Not that I saw.’ Uyten coughed when water went in his mouth. ‘But he is Provost. There is nothing he cannot organise.’
‘So where is he?’ Michael gestured at the deserted yard. ‘In fact, where is everyone?’
‘The students have gone?’ croaked Uyten, struggling to sit up. ‘The bastards! They could have dug me out first. They have been itching to join the fun outside for hours, but I have kept them in. I want them here to greet the founder when he arrives, you see.’
‘Where is Illesy?’ demanded Michael again.
‘Gone to the guildhall with his Fellows.’ Uyten began to pat himself all over to test for injuries. ‘Probably to consort with Potmoor and put some villainous plan into action.’
‘And what about your villainous plan? Let us start with the tale that Tulyet is beheaded.’
‘Oh,’ said Uyten sheepishly. ‘That was fast. Weasenham wastes no time.’
‘How could you have done such a thing?’ asked Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Tulyet has a wife and child. How do you imagine they will feel when they hear this story?’
Uyten waved a dismissive paw. ‘Dickon will not care. The boy is a monster.’
There was a cut on one of his fingers, and as he peered worriedly at it, Bartholomew saw blisters on the palms of his hands, of the type that often appeared when some unaccustomed activity was undertaken. An activity like rowing.
‘It was you who paddled the boat up the King’s Ditch last night,’ he surmised. ‘You were not the one who collected the parcel from the tomb – that person was smaller.’
With detached fascination, he watched Uyten’s ponderous mind sort through its options: deny the charge, bluster or own up. In the end, the lad settled for a scowl.
‘You should not have left us a packet of nails. It was stupid. You have cost yourselves extra money, and another uncomfortable rumour into the bargain.’
Michael regarded him with dislike. ‘You had better cleanse your soul with a full confession, because you are bound for a very dark place indeed. That head wound looks nasty. Does it hurt?’
Alarm flashed in Uyten’s eyes as he raised a hand to his temple and it came away stained with blood. He gulped audibly. ‘Confession? You mean I am dying?’
‘It is time to make amends,’ said Michael. ‘But quickly. Time is short.’
The colour drained from Uyten’s face, leaving him so white that Bartholomew was almost moved to pity. ‘I did not mean to embark on such wicked business. I swear it!’
‘Start with Fulbut,’ ordered Michael. ‘And do not think of lying, because we already know the truth. Jekelyn told us everything.’
‘Oh, Lord, did he? I knew he could not be trusted. He is a slippery–’
‘You hired Fulbut to shoot my Junior Proctor,’ interrupted Michael. ‘But when he reneged on the agreement to leave Cambridge, you sent Jekelyn to murder him, lest he broke his silence.’
‘Yes, but the orders came from Illesy. He does not have the courage to deal with me face to face, so he writes notes and gets poor blind Bon to deliver them. Bon thinks they are reading lists and lecture notes. Illesy does not work alone, though. He has help from the Guild.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Holm?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ gabbled Uyten, desperate to ingratiate. ‘Along with others. Richard Stanmore is easy to manipulate – a few careful words and he leapt at the chance to cause trouble. He thinks the town corrupted his father, although from what I understand, it was the other way around.’
‘How will having the town in flames benefit anyone?’ asked Michael, shooting Bartholomew a warning glance to prevent him from diverting the discussion by responding.
‘Simple – if the other Colleges are destroyed or weakened, Winwick can expand unfettered.’
‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew, seeing serious flaws in the plan.
‘Our founder wants it to be the biggest and best College in the country – a school of law founded by a lawyer, training men to rise to great power and influence. Illesy has a remit to do whatever is necessary to achieve it. He has been recruiting wealthy students as fast as he can, and he hates the fact that the Guild holds the purse strings. Please believe none of this is my fault.’