‘It sounds too deadly to stop,’ gloated Holm. ‘The University will be destroyed. What a pity!’
‘Lock this creature in the cellar,’ ordered Michael, but Cynric had hurried away the moment he had finished delivering his message, so the monk bundled Holm into the basement himself. Outraged howls drifted out.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew’s feelings were in turmoil. Julitta was not seriously hurt, but he was appalled by what he had done. Part of him blamed Holm, and he was sorry that Cynric had prevented him from battering the smug face to a pulp. He glanced up as the book-bearer reappeared, ushering Edith in front of him.
‘I saw her go past, so I fetched her back,’ Cynric explained. ‘She can look after Julitta, while we disband these two rabbles before they do serious damage.’
‘I will stay with Julitta, Matt,’ promised Edith. ‘You must help Michael before it is too late.’
‘I am not going anywhere as long as she is insensible,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘She may need me when she wakes.’
But at that moment, Julitta’s eyes fluttered open and she started to sit up.
‘Did you hit me?’ she asked, wincing as he eased her back down. ‘Where is Will?’
‘You see?’ said Edith. ‘She needs a kindly nurse, not a physician. Now go.’
Bartholomew was not happy about abandoning two people he loved when the town was on the verge of a serious disturbance, but Michael insisted that he could not manage alone, and when Julitta assured him that she did not need his protection, he was forced to relent. He glanced back at her before he left, hating leaving her.
Outside, the air rang with angry voices, and he could hear the clash of arms from at least two directions. All the shops were closed, their doors and windows barred against invaders. Anxious faces peered from the upper floors, and the acrid reek of smoke told of some building that was aflame. The wind was now a gale, ripping twigs and small branches from flailing trees. It blew so hard that it set the bells in St Clement’s swinging, sounding an eerily discordant alarm for the brewing turmoil.
‘I hope Tynkell manages to stop John Winwick from coming,’ gasped Michael as they ran. ‘He must not see us like this – especially as the last time he was here, my Junior Proctor was shot. He will think we spend all our time in a state of constant turmoil!’
‘But this turmoil is his fault,’ hissed Cynric. ‘Him and his upstart foundation.’
He shoved the two scholars off the road and into an alley, and moments later a vast body of men thundered past. They were the matriculands and Winwick students. Michael blurted an oath, appalled by the size of the multitude that had been mustered.
‘And that is not all of them,’ cautioned Cynric when they had gone. ‘They have another group laying siege to Bene’t College.’
They continued on their way, buffeted by the wind and the occasional rock lobbed by those who recognised the Senior Proctor’s distinctive bulk – it was not easy to disguise so princely a figure in its flowing Benedictine habit, even with the cowl drawn up to hide his face.
‘What will happen, Brother?’ called Warden Shropham from the top of the King’s Hall gatehouse. ‘There is talk of a mob coming to attack us.’
Michael skidded to a standstill. ‘One might, so keep your lads inside until further notice.’
‘I am afraid most are already out,’ said Shropham apologetically. ‘Aiming to teach Winwick a lesson. Do you want the rest of us go and look for them?’
‘No!’ Michael was alarmed at the notion of yet more angry scholars on the streets, sure the ineffectual Shropham would be unequal to keeping them in order. ‘Stay where you are.’
Bartholomew began sprinting again. He was so tense that his head throbbed, and he felt cloudy-witted. Or perhaps it was fear for Julitta and Edith that prevented him from concentrating on the mass of facts he had accumulated. He knew he had learned enough to answer some of the questions that had plagued him that week, but he was wholly unable to apply his mind to the task.
A sudden roar from outside Gonville Hall made him stop to look. An enormous crowd had gathered, and he recognised several Winwick students. They were hurling stones and howling abuse. Rougham appeared in the gatehouse window and the clamour slowly died away.
‘Go away,’ the medicus ordered imperiously, his voice shrill above the wind. ‘Because if so much as a single tile of ours is damaged, Winwick Hall will pay the bill.’
There was a furious bellow at this, and another barrage of missiles was loosed. Fortunately for the defenders, Gonville, like all Colleges, had been built to withstand such onslaughts. Some of the besiegers had swords, and most had cudgels and knives, but as long as the gates held, there was little such weapons could do. If one gave way, however, the slaughter would be terrible.
‘Come away, Matt,’ hissed Michael. ‘I would intervene if I had my beadles, but I am not such a lunatic as to try it alone.’
It was not far to Winwick Hall, and they arrived to find it much as it had been left. A solitary beadle – a squat, dim-witted fellow named Giles – was on guard outside, while the doors still leaned uselessly against the wall. He almost wept with relief when he saw Michael.
‘I think a mob is about to descend on us, Brother! A lot of College men and townsfolk are in the Market Square, listening to rousing speeches. The College men are fools! They should be securing their own foundations, not attacking this place.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘They–’
‘I told Provost Illesy about the danger,’ Giles gabbled on. ‘But he does not believe me. He says no one will dare assault Winwick, and–’
‘Where is he?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Inside?’
Giles nodded. ‘With Potmoor.’ He said no more, but the expression on his face made it clear that he disapproved of anyone in the University associating with such a man.
‘Who else is in?’ demanded Michael. ‘Or are they alone?’
‘He is with his three Fellows and half a dozen students. The rest are off assaulting Gonville, and they plan to march on King’s Hall afterwards. Michaelhouse is safe, though, because the choir is guarding it. They know where their free bread and ale comes from.’
‘At least they are good for something then,’ muttered Cynric.
‘Come inside and shut the gates,’ instructed Michael. ‘With luck, the mob will lose interest when they see they cannot get in.’
‘I wish I could, Brother, but the doors are off their hinges.’
‘Then we shall lift them into place.’ Michael indicated that Bartholomew and Cynric were to help. ‘It may be enough of a deterrent, although obviously a good shove would see them topple.’
‘Then let us hope no one shoves,’ grunted Giles, as he lent his strength to the task. It was quickly done, although the wind was strong enough to make them sway precariously.
‘If we can squeeze a confession from Illesy, we may yet avert a crisis,’ said Michael. ‘I shall order him to make a public apology, which might take the wind out of the College men’s sails.’
‘But what if they meet the other horde?’ asked Cynric worriedly. ‘The Winwick lads?’
‘One thing at a time,’ said Michael.
When six indignant students raced from the hall, demanding to know why the Senior Proctor was meddling with their property, Michael ordered them to build a barricade to shore up the gates. He started to stride to the parlura to confront Illesy, but the Provost saved him the trouble.
‘What are you doing here, Brother?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you–’
‘I am trying to save your College,’ snarled Michael. ‘Although God knows it does not deserve it. And you have a lot of explaining to do. Where is Potmoor?’
‘Potmoor? How should I know where he–’
‘Enough!’ snapped Michael, as a vengeful cheer from the Market Square indicated that the speakers had almost inflamed their listeners to the point where they would be ready to march. ‘This is no time for lies. Where is he? In the Provost’s Suite?’