‘On the contrary, I warned everyone against going too close,’ objected Illesy indignantly.
‘It sounds to me as if Uyten and Richard have made some very unpleasant accusations,’ mused Potmoor, his small eyes hard and cold. ‘But we shall discuss them later, when we do not have a fight on our hands. Everyone upstairs to the main hall. It will be easier to defend.’
They followed him up the steps, and by the time they arrived, the yard had filled with rioters. Michael flung open a window and yelled an order for them to disperse. The wind tore away his words, but the mob would not have obeyed anyway. Most were inveterate troublemakers, who liked nothing more than an opportunity to go on the rampage, and where better than a foundation they all hated? They surged towards the door with the clear intention of forcing their way in.
‘It will not hold for long,’ predicted Nerli grimly. He turned to Cynric, instinctively recognising a fellow warrior, thus telling Bartholomew that the Florentine had lied about being a scholar all his life. ‘Cynric, go to the dormitory, and start organising something that will make them think twice about using a battering ram. I will try to brace it with another bench.’
Bartholomew followed the book-bearer to the top floor, where the wind was shaking the tiles on the roof, making a tremendous clatter. The students, Eyer, Lawrence and Beadle Giles were peering out of the windows in horror at the scene below. Cynric quickly set them to filling basins, buckets and jugs with water from the washing butt. Bartholomew raced back down to the hall and, not caring that he was overstepping his authority, ordered everyone upstairs to help. De Stannell opened his mouth to object, but Potmoor muttered something about it being wise to obey a veteran of Poitiers, and led the way. Only Bon remained, on his knees at the far end of the room, praying fervently that any damage would be repaired before the founder arrived.
‘We are not deprived of all our suspects,’ said Michael, speaking in a low voice so as not to disturb him. ‘We still have the falsely smiling Lawrence and the sinister Nerli, who is rather too competent a military strategist for my liking. And he was the one who insisted on a hasty burial for our murder victims.’
Below, the mob clustered around the door as they debated how best to break it down. They scattered angrily when water was hurled down on them, and several prepared to lob missiles of their own. Then someone jabbed an indignant finger to where some of their number were disappearing inside the Fellows’ quarters.
‘They are going to loot without us!’
There was a furious howl, and everyone piled after them. The respite would not last long – they would return with renewed vigour when they found there was nothing to steal.
‘The culprit is de Stannell,’ said Bartholomew in the eerie silence that followed. ‘It explains why he is always with Potmoor, grovellingly determined to win his favour.’
‘But Potmoor is irrelevant,’ said Michael, most of his attention on the yard as he waited tautly for the assault to resume.
‘Not so. He has just told us that all the burglaries were committed when he was with Olivia Knyt – times when he had no usable alibis. And who knew where he planned to be? His dogged shadow de Stannell.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘And why would de Stannell want Potmoor accused?’
There was a sound behind them, and both scholars whipped around to see the deputy standing in the doorway, a crossbow trained on them.
‘You should have kept your mouths shut. Now I am going to have to kill you.’
De Stannell kicked the door closed behind him, and although Bon turned slightly at the sound, he immediately resumed his prayers. Bartholomew considered yelling a warning, but what would be the point? A man with hypochyma could do little to help.
‘Yes, it has suited me to have Potmoor blamed for the burglaries,’ whispered de Stannell. He glanced at Bon, but the murmured prayers did not falter. ‘Why do you think I have kept him such close company recently? It is so I shall know his whereabouts and plans. It has not been pleasant, but it has certainly worked.’
‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘People do think Potmoor is guilty. Unfortunately for you, they also think you are his accomplice, and that is not the sort of man they want running their shire. You will not retain your post for long after Tulyet returns.’
‘He will not return,’ said de Stannell confidently. ‘And if he does, I shall arrange for him to have an accident. Do not think of calling for help, by the way. I shall shoot whoever tries, and cut down the other with my sword. Bon will not see, and everyone else will assume the mob did it.’
‘So are we to believe that you are the burglar?’ asked Michael, eyeing him in distaste. ‘Slipping out to raid your town while Potmoor frolics with Olivia Knyt?’
De Stannell shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Of course not. Potmoor’s religious conversion left a number of his henchmen unemployed, and as Sheriff, I knew their names. They now work for me.’
‘But why involve yourself in such a vile scheme? You are already wealthy.’
De Stannell gestured to the hall. ‘This place is costly, and some guildsmen are beginning to object to the amount of money we plough into it, so I have been obliged to devise other ways of raising funds. None of the proceeds have been for me.’
‘So what do you gain from the arrangement?’
‘Immortality! The College will soon be renamed Winwick and de Stannell Hall.’
‘I think the founder will have something to say about that.’ Michael regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And Matt is wrong, because you are not the clever mastermind behind this scheme. To be frank you are not sufficiently intelligent.’
De Stannell scowled as he aimed the weapon, but the monk only gazed back defiantly, and the crossbow wavered. Young Dickon had been right to question the deputy’s abilities as a soldier, thought Bartholomew. Clearly, de Stannell did not have the courage to shoot.
‘Your master is Lawrence,’ Michael went on. ‘The man whose incompetence killed the Queen, who lied about his interactions with Hemmysby, who has poached his medical colleagues’ best patients, and who ensured that Hugo and Holm became friends so that he would have a second spy among Potmoor’s intimates.’
Bartholomew was suddenly assailed with an uncomfortable thought. All Michael’s ‘evidence’ had come from one source: Julitta, who had always been quick to disparage the elderly physician. Irritably, he pushed such treacherous suspicions away. This was the woman he intended to marry!
‘You should have asserted your authority as Senior Proctor more rigorously,’ said de Stannell, and the sly grin he flung at Bartholomew told the physician exactly what was coming next. ‘If you had put an end to your friend’s unseemly lust for the wife of–’
‘Stop,’ snapped Bartholomew through clenched teeth. ‘Leave Julitta out of it.’
‘She is a cunning woman,’ de Stannell went on gleefully. ‘The clever daughter of a powerful and extremely ruthless man, from whom she learned her business acumen and her ability to deceive. It has not once occurred to you that she has been using your infatuation for her own ends.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew fiercely. ‘She would never–’
‘She has been monitoring Michael through you ever since we feared he might interfere with our plans – long before you went to Peterborough. But you will never have her. She loves Holm and he loves her, as far as he is able. They are more similar in temperament than you know.’
‘And why would Julitta conspire with the likes of you?’ asked Michael scornfully.
‘Why do you think? The rewards for supporting Winwick Hall will be vast. Powerful men will appreciate clerks trained to their specifications, and the clerks themselves will be grateful for the opportunity to further their ambitions.’
‘So you ordered Felbrigge shot to ensure that the College could expand unfettered,’ surmised Michael, while Bartholomew shook his head, unwilling to believe de Stannell’s gloating words. ‘But why kill Elvesmere? Surely he was happy to have won such determined supporters?’