Then Potmoor emerged with a sword, and the diabolical shriek he gave as he plunged among the attackers was enough to scatter them in alarm. He laid about him wildly until someone lobbed a knife that took him in the back. Bartholomew hurried towards him, but was knocked to the ground with a cudgel. Dazed, all he could think was that he had to reach Potmoor and help him. More of the building fell, and no one took any notice as he crawled towards the fallen felon through a sea of milling legs.
‘You will have to resurrect me again,’ whispered Potmoor. ‘Where are your smelling salts?’
Bartholomew had lost his medical bag in the hall, but Potmoor’s eyes closed in death, so it did not matter. He sensed, rather than saw, someone come up behind him, and whipped around just in time to avoid a jab from a makeshift spear. He recognised his assailant as one of the soldiers from Fulbut’s party, and supposed the fellow had joined the riot to avenge his friend. The soldier raised the weapon to strike again, but Bartholomew managed to grab a piece of scaffolding from the ground and sent the fellow flying with a wild swing that hit its target more from luck than skill.
There was a low rumble as more of the hall fell, sending a blast of debris into the desperate mêlée. Several attackers dropped as if poleaxed. Then someone came at Bartholomew with a sword. He raised the strut, but it flew to pieces in his hands, leaving him defenceless. The swordsman prepared to strike the killing blow, but the swipe was blocked by another weapon. Bartholomew could not see his rescuer in the billowing dust, but there was a waft of familiar perfume.
‘Richard?’
His nephew was howling at the top of his voice, but Bartholomew could not make out the words at first. Then he caught ‘Michaelhouse Choir’, and was suddenly aware that a number of those around him were singers. Verius was fighting like a lion, valiantly repelling a group of townsmen determined to make an end of an enticingly prostrate Senior Proctor.
The fracas ended when the hall finally gave up the ghost, and combatants on both sides were forced to run for cover or risk being buried alive. Bartholomew, Verius and Richard dragged Michael to his feet, and took refuge behind a stable as the wind swept a treacherous barrage of splinters and plaster fragments over them, forcing them to hunker down with their arms over their heads. It seemed an age before they were finally able to stand up.
‘Well,’ breathed Michael, staring at the heap of rubble that was unrecognisable as Cambridge’s newest College. ‘I wonder what John Winwick will say about that when he arrives.’
‘He is not coming, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘At least, not today – Tynkell just told me. He sends his apologies, and hopes you will enjoy the start of term without him.’
Michael sagged. ‘I do not know whether to laugh or cry.’
He emerged unsteadily from behind the shed, then flinched when someone lobbed a rock at him. The culprit was Sir Joshua Hardwell, the soldierly matriculand who had been left in charge when Winwick’s Fellows had gone to practise for the debate with Michaelhouse.
‘The next person who does that is a dead man,’ came the angry and distinctive voice of Isnard the bargeman. ‘Brother Michael is under my protection.’
Hardwell gave a jeering bray of laughter. ‘You imagine you are a match for me?’
He stepped forward threateningly, but stopped when Isnard bellowed a summons and choir members appeared from all directions to stand at his side.
‘Fight him, and you fight us all,’ growled Verius. ‘Right, lads?’
There was a chorus of rumbled agreement, deep from the basses and higher from the tenors.
‘Oh, Christ!’ blurted Hardwell, looking along the serried ranks in alarm. ‘I think they are going to sing.’
He hurtled towards the back gate, and his sudden, agitated flight caused others to follow.
‘Sing,’ mused Isnard. ‘Now there is an idea.’
‘Especially as the University’s opening ceremony has been cancelled,’ added Verius. ‘It would be a shame not to warble something today, after all our rehearsals.’
There was a lot of preparatory throat-clearing, and they launched into something that might or might not have been Michael’s newly composed Conductus. The trickle of men hurrying to the gate became a flood, particularly when it became clear that Winwick would not be providing much in the way of pillage. Meanwhile, the singing grew steadily louder, until it drowned out both the wind and the settling remains of the ruined hall.
‘I thought you were leaving,’ shouted Bartholomew to his nephew.
Richard smiled. ‘I was, but it occurred to me that you might need help, so I fetched these fellows, along with a lot of your patients. You have some very ruffianly clients, you know. It is hardly respectable.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I would not change them for the world.’
Epilogue
It was a subdued, sombre congregation that trooped into St Mary the Great for a belated beginning of term ceremony two days later. Most matriculands had slipped away the day before, evidently of the opinion that life would be dull if they were obliged to spend their time studying.
The occasion began with a mighty explosion of sound as the choir sang the opening anthem. Michael waved his arms frantically to remind them that it was meant to be pianissimo, but to no avail. Through the open door, Bartholomew saw a horse rear and a dog run away with its tail between its legs. Pleased with their performance, the singers went for an unsolicited encore.
Before they could do it again, Chancellor Tynkell embarked on a short speech that made no mention of Winwick Hall, and instructed each foundation to bring forward any student who wanted to matriculate. This they did in strict order of foundation, with Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Michaelhouse first, followed by the other Colleges. The hostels were next, with some jostling among those that had only come into being in the last month. There were more than there had ever been before, and the principals of some looked little older than their charges.
As the matriculands gave their names to Tynkell’s clerks, Verius sang – saving the Senior Proctor’s life had earned him a pardon for his role in the troubles. The sweet beauty of his voice did much to ease the lingering antagonism caused by the disagreements over precedence, and Michael’s expression grew smug when he saw the startled pleasure on his colleagues’ faces.
A number of townsfolk were in the congregation, including Sheriff Tulyet, who had returned home the previous evening. Cambridge already felt safer with him in residence. The two surviving Fellows of Winwick Hall stood together – Lawrence with a bandaged head, and Nerli with his arm in a sling. The few Winwick students with a genuine desire to study had been offered places in other foundations, but most had left the town without a backward glance.
‘Did you hear that the Guild of Saints will be dissolved today, Matt?’ whispered Michael. ‘Its name is tainted now, and it has no money anyway. Eyer left it all his worldly goods, but these only just covered its outstanding debts. Its whole fortune was either gobbled up by Winwick Hall or was stolen by Holm and Julitta when they made their escape.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What?’
‘The moment we left, Julitta told Edith that she was no longer needed, released Holm from the cellar, grabbed everything she could carry – including the Guild’s remaining funds – and fled. You did not believe Holm’s taunting claims in their house, but he was actually telling the truth.’
‘I know.’ Bartholomew was unable to keep the hurt from his voice. He had doggedly maintained Julitta’s innocence for as long as he could, but as the evidence against her had mounted, even he had been forced to admit that she had played him for a fool, probably from the first time he had set eyes on her.