‘He probably just enjoys teaching,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘Like me.’
But Michael agreed with Julitta. ‘Men do not give up lucrative posts for no reason, and I have always been suspicious of Lawrence. I strongly suspect that he did fail the old Queen, and aims to worm his way back into royal favour by making a success of Winwick.’
Bartholomew looked from one to the other, unwilling to concede they might be right. ‘We still need to talk to Holm,’ was all he said, then broke into a run that had them both scrambling to keep up.
It did not take long to reach the surgeon’s elegant house on Bridge Street, and Julitta led the way into the cosy parlour where she and Bartholomew had spent so many enjoyable evenings while her husband was out. Holm and Hugo were standing on either side of the hearth, and it was clear that a disagreement was in progress.
‘We have very little time and a lot of questions,’ began Michael, too breathless from the rapid dash to provide explanations. ‘If you cooperate, I shall see what can be done to save you.’
‘Save us from what?’ Holm glanced uneasily at the two beadles who stood in the doorway. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’
‘Except peddle false cures,’ growled Hugo. He wore a sword, and Bartholomew was suddenly seized with the conviction that the situation was going to turn ugly.
‘Leave, Julitta,’ he said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Find somewhere safe to wait while–’
‘They are not false,’ snapped Holm. ‘You just did not follow the instructions properly.’
‘Lawrence says my gums might never recover from your stupid tooth-whitener,’ snarled Hugo. ‘And your remedy for gout made my grandmother worse. You are a fraud!’
‘Now just a moment,’ said Julitta indignantly, pulling away from Bartholomew, who was trying to manoeuvre her towards the door. ‘No one forced you to take Will’s medicines, Hugo.’
‘See?’ sneered Holm. ‘You only have yourself to blame. It–’
The end of his sentence dissolved into a squeal of alarm when Hugo whipped out his blade. The beadles surged forward to prevent a skewering, and there followed a vicious exchange of blows. Michael snatched up a poker and waded into the affray, while Bartholomew hauled out his trusty forceps, shouting again for Julitta to leave. He had taken no more than a step forward when Holm moved. The surgeon had a dagger, and Bartholomew only just managed to avoid the swipe intended to disembowel him. Holm prepared to strike again, but the physician was quicker. He lunged with his forceps and knocked Holm to his knees.
Julitta released a horrified cry and darted forward to place herself between them, and it was sheer bad luck that the punch Bartholomew aimed at Holm struck her instead. She slumped to the floor, and while he gaped in stunned disbelief, Holm attacked again. Bartholomew raised the forceps so the killing blow was deflected, but he was off balance, and a well-aimed kick drove him headfirst into a pile of cushions.
By the time he had fought his way free of their pillowy softness, Hugo had been defeated by the beadles, Michael had Holm pinned against a wall with the poker, and Julitta lay where she had fallen. Stomach churning, he scrambled to her side. There was a cut on her nose, and she would have a black eye. He burned with shame: he had not only struck a woman, but one he loved. And at that moment he knew he would marry her as soon as her union with Holm was dissolved. Matilde was a distant dream, but Julitta was real, and he had learned to his cost the price of dallying. He hovered over her anxiously, willing her to open her eyes.
‘Will she live?’ asked Holm. When Bartholomew nodded, the surgeon smiled; it was not a nice expression. ‘Good. I am fond of her, although she should not have forced me to befriend Hugo so we could learn his father’s plans. It worked, of course. Hugo told me everything.’
‘What are you saying, you bastard?’ snarled Hugo, struggling furiously in his captors’ grip.
He might have broken loose, but rescue came in the form of Cynric, who appeared suddenly in the doorway. The book-bearer dealt Hugo a sharp tap on the head, which was enough to daze him without knocking him completely insensible. Michael indicated that the beadles were to drag him away before he regained his senses. Bartholomew saw none of it: all his attention was on Julitta. Cynric started to speak, but Holm cut across him.
‘You think Potmoor is the culprit,’ he crowed, ‘which is exactly what we intended. You are fools to have fallen for it.’
‘We fell for nothing,’ lied Michael. ‘We have known all along that the real villain is Illesy.’
‘Illesy?’ blurted Holm in unfeigned surprise. ‘He gave Julitta orders?’
‘I want the truth about this unsavoury affair,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Not malicious lies or a shameful attempt to place the blame on your unconscious spouse.’
‘It is the truth. Julitta was told what to do – by Illesy, if you can be believed – and she told me. I had to obey, or she would have made life unbearable for me. She found a loophole in her father’s will, you see, which means she controls our finances. Bartholomew should not have taught her how to read.’
‘You never loved her,’ snapped Bartholomew, goaded into responding. ‘You married her for money and now you are trying to implicate her in a crime, just to be rid of her. You are despicable!’
Holm sneered. ‘You think you know her, but you do not. She is more devious than any man alive – she takes after her sire in that respect. And do not think to have me hanged so that you can marry her instead. She would never allow it. You do not have a glittering future like I do.’
‘Enough!’ Bartholomew spoke so sharply that Julitta stirred. Cynric tried again to intervene, but Holm overrode him a second time.
‘She is not the generous soul you think. It was she who arranged for the beggars’ alms to go to Winwick Hall. And when I treat patients who fail to pay, she hires louts like Hugo, Fulbut and Verius to take my fees by force.’
‘We are more interested in your role in this affair,’ said Michael quickly, when Bartholomew came to his feet with a dangerous expression on his face. ‘The murders of Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Ratclyf, Knyt and Hemmysby; the burglaries; the attempt to blackmail–’
‘I know nothing of murder.’ Holm giggled in a manner calculated to aggravate. ‘However, it was a delight to watch Michaelhouse squirm over William’s tract. Langelee thought he could end it with ten marks. What an ass! Now the price is a hundred. However will you pay?’
‘You are involved in that, too?’ Bartholomew’s voice dripped disgust. ‘I might have known!’
‘You will be excommunicated when the essay appears in full, and will have to leave Cambridge. Your sister will miss you, especially as her loathsome son is in the process of slinking back to London. Would you like me to look after her for you?’
Bartholomew was gripped by a rage so intense that he barely heard Michael’s sharp words of caution about not letting himself be provoked. He took three or four steps towards the surgeon, but Cynric blocked his path.
‘Pummel him later, boy.’ The book-bearer turned to Michael, his voice urgent. ‘I came to tell you that there are two separate mobs on the rampage, Brother. The first is a mixture of matriculands and scholars from Winwick–’
‘No surprise there,’ interrupted Michael. ‘They are men brought here for that very purpose.’
‘They claim they are appalled by the University’s corruption and arrogance, and want to make an end of its evil ways.’
‘So that is how Illesy plans to be rid of his rivals,’ surmised Michael, ignoring Holm’s shrill giggle of triumph. ‘And the second mob? Who has joined that?’
‘A lot of troublemakers from the other Colleges, along with a smattering of fractious townsmen. They say Winwick is an upstart foundation and intend to teach it a lesson. I do not think I have ever seen an angrier horde.’