Upstairs, and oblivious to the drama unfolding in the hall below, the defenders continued to lob anything they could find out of the windows, while the wind screamed through the broken panes and made the timbers groan. Bon broke away from his accomplices, and began to strip the rings – Potmoor’s rings – from Illesy’s fingers.
‘I am the stupid one,’ mumbled Lawrence. ‘Eyer is often here with potions for Bon’s eyes, but we all know there is no cure for hypochyma. He came to plot with his paymaster, and I should have guessed it, especially knowing what he was capable of from Oxford.’
‘The writing on the blackmail letters,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘Now I know why it was familiar: it is on the medicines I buy. Doubtless, Eyer also penned the notes to Uyten, the ones purporting to be from Illesy.’
Eyer overheard and shrugged. ‘Your Michaelhouse colleagues are unlikely to make the connection, and you will not be alive to tell them. I defeated them with ease when I collected the five marks they tried to fob us off with on Monday.’
‘You mean ten marks,’ said Michael.
‘He is trying to make trouble,’ said Eyer to Bon. ‘For spite, because I flung sand in his Master’s eyes. It was only five marks, I assure you.’
‘Never mind this now,’ said de Stannell urgently. ‘Illesy was right when he said the building is ripe for collapse. That crack is getting bigger.’
Everyone looked at it: the dust that trickled out in a continuous stream did not bode well. Another thud from the battering ram shook loose a more vigorous fall. When a mighty gust of wind buffeted the building, it opened even wider.
Bartholomew turned back to Eyer. ‘You are the “friend” who helped Bon poison Elvesmere when the stabbing went awry. And you supplied him with dormirella, confident in the belief that it is undetectable.’
‘I thought it was undetectable. I have never read anything about blue lips.’
‘Did you invade Michaelhouse, too?’ asked Michael. ‘And steal William’s tract when the Stanton Hutch was unavailable?’
‘The tract,’ grinned Bon. ‘As soon as it was read to me, I knew we could put it to good use. We shall make it public later, and when you and Bartholomew fail to return home today, everyone will assume you fled to avoid the consequences.’
‘Potmoor has suffered from headaches ever since I used your sal ammoniac,’ said Bartholomew, fearful now that he knew the apothecary was so coldly ruthless. ‘What was in it?’
‘A toxin of my own creation,’ replied Eyer. ‘I shall sell it to wealthy clerks in time, men who will pay handsomely for an easy way to be rid of inconvenient enemies.’
‘We hoped you would kill a few paupers with it,’ added Bon, ‘which would have turned the town against Michaelhouse and reduced the number of beggars demanding alms – money that could then come here. It seems our plan misfired, given that Potmoor has been generous to us.’
Bartholomew continued to stare at Eyer. ‘But you are not a bad man. You helped me rescue Heyford from the fire.’
‘You misread my intentions.’ When Nerli stirred slightly on the floor, Eyer tensed, fingers poised ready to shoot. ‘I was going to stop you from saving him, but then I remembered that you had fought at Poitiers.’
The whole building released an ominous creak, and the wind ripped another four panes of glass from their lead frames with sharp pops.
‘No!’ cried Bon, gazing at the ruined windows in dismay. Then he became businesslike. ‘De Stannell, go and delay the founder for the time it will take us to disguise the damage. Potmoor will lend us a tapestry to hide the crack, and a glazier can be hired to–’
‘It will take more than a tapestry and a few new panes to convince John Winwick that all is well,’ interrupted Michael. ‘It is over, Bon! You have lost.’
‘The barrage from upstairs has stopped.’ De Stannell’s voice was suddenly shrill with alarm. It grew more so when he glanced out of the window to assess what was happening in the yard. ‘And the mob is now swollen with matriculands who seem to have forgotten which side they are on. Perhaps the Michaelhouse men are right – we are in danger!’
‘There is only one way to survive,’ declared Michael. ‘By putting aside our differences and joining forces. The invaders want blood, and if we fight among ourselves, they will have it.’
‘Shoot him, Eyer,’ snapped Bon. ‘Then kill the physicians. De Stannell, shout to your troops again. The rabble will disperse when they see armed soldiers coming.’
There was another almighty crash from downstairs, followed by a deep, penetrating groan that suggested some vital support was in the process of disintegrating. Then the floor tipped violently to one side. Bon staggered and Eyer grabbed a windowsill for support. De Stannell dropped his crossbow.
It was the chance Bartholomew had been waiting for. He hurled himself at Eyer, and was aware of Nerli leaping up to tackle de Stannell, leaving Bon for Michael. Physician and apothecary crashed to the floor, where they began a frantic tussle for the weapon. Upstairs, the students screamed in terror, and part of the ceiling fell, narrowly missing Lawrence. The building torqued enough to pop out all its remaining panes, and there was a wild cheer from the yard below.
‘The stairs!’ shouted Lawrence. ‘Quickly! It is–’
But his words were lost in another deafening groan and the building began to topple.
For a moment, Bartholomew heard nothing but the tortured squeals of flexing timbers. He staggered upright, which was not easy when the floor was tilting at such a crazy angle. Eyer snatched at his legs, then disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Coughing hard, Bartholomew scrambled towards the door, stopping only to haul Nerli to his feet. He saw Michael’s bulky form ahead, but there was no sign of the others. They had been closer to the exit, so he could only assume they had already left.
‘Follow me!’ cried Lawrence, arriving from the dormitory with the surviving defenders at his heels. Bartholomew was relieved to see Cynric among them. ‘The back door – hurry!’
It was a terrifying journey down the stairs. Lumps of masonry plummeted all around them, and the student in front of Bartholomew was killed instantly when a piece landed on his head. Lawrence stopped to tend him, but Bartholomew shoved him on, not wanting those behind them to be delayed for a lost cause. Grit and dust swirled so thickly that they could not see their own feet. Then Lawrence fell, tumbling down several steps in a flurry of flailing limbs.
‘I cannot see,’ he rasped. ‘I am disorientated…’
Bartholomew staggered as someone tried to shove past him. It was Bon, for whom blinding dust was less of a problem. Bartholomew grabbed his tabard, and although the Winwick Fellow tried to punch him away, he refused to let go. Bon screeched when a stone struck his shoulder, and broke into a stumbling trot, unwillingly towing Bartholomew after him. The physician kept hold of Nerli with his other arm, yelling for the others to follow his voice. They struggled down more stairs and along a hallway.
He felt wind on his face, and although he still could not see, he was aware of daylight ahead. Lawrence surged past, and began to wrestle with the clasp on a window. It flew open with a metallic screech, ripped from his hand by the gale. De Stannell batted him out of the way, desperate to escape first, but the mob was at the back of the hall as well as the front, and the deputy disappeared in a sea of clawing, punching hands.
‘A cruel choice,’ gasped Michael. ‘Being crushed or torn to pieces.’
Another beam fell, and dust belched thickly out of the window. It drove the invaders back, so Bartholomew used it as a shield to conceal him as he scrambled out – it was more instinct than a rational decision about the way he wanted to die. Michael followed, murmuring prayers of contrition under his breath.