‘You!’ sneered Edward, turning on him with an eagerness that was frightening. Master Thorpe did not flinch. ‘I will happily kill you as well, you traitorous pig!’
‘But then you will have to kill me,’ said Thomas Bingham, stepping out of the shadows and standing shoulder to shoulder with the Master of his College.
‘And me,’ said Pulham of Gonville Hall, swallowing hard. He lacked the calm courage of the Valence Marie men, and his eyes showed that he was terrified, but he stood firm nonetheless.
‘And then you can try to kill me, but I run fast and will reach Michaelhouse and tell the Senior Proctor what you have done long before you complete your slaughter,’ added Ufford, joining them. He still limped from his last encounter with Edward, so Bartholomew doubted he was telling the truth about his speed.
Other scholars began to move forward, too, none armed and all senior members of the University. There was Tynkell – standing apart, because even in a tense situation, no one wanted to be too close to him – and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Michaelhouse was also represented, and Wynewyk, Kenyngham and Clippesby hurried to wait at Bartholomew’s side. Bartholomew felt a sudden guilt for his suspicious thoughts about Wynewyk and Paxtone, who were prepared to risk their lives to save him.
There was a slight flicker in the shadows nearby. Bartholomew spotted Dame Pelagia, watching the scene with her bright, thoughtful eyes. He saw something glint in her hand, and supposed she held one of her famous throwing knives, ready to hurl it with deadly precision should the incident not end as she wanted. He sincerely hoped she was not a secret supporter of the Mortimer clan.
‘Put up your weapons and go home before anyone is hurt,’ said Kenyngham, ever the peace-maker. ‘All of you.’
The Mortimers knew they were beaten. Rubbing his wrist and looking more dangerous than Bartholomew had ever seen him, Edward stalked away. Nervously, as though anticipating a sly attack from behind, his cousins followed. Thomas hurried after them, flinging Redmeadow away from him as he went. The student scrambled to his feet, and Clippesby was obliged to grab his arm to prevent him from running after the miller to fight him again. Kenyngham murmured softly in his ear until the lad’s rage began to subside. When Bartholomew glanced into the shadows again, Dame Pelagia was nowhere to be seen.
‘You are lucky we happened to pass when we did,’ said Wynewyk, looking Bartholomew up and down to ensure he was unhurt. ‘Master Thorpe heard the commotion, and suggested we investigate.’
Master Thorpe was white-faced, his bravado turning to shock now the danger had passed. ‘You must not fight the Mortimers or my son, Bartholomew. You will not win against them.’
‘But I did win,’ objected Bartholomew, thinking he had comported himself rather well against a man whom everyone seemed to hold in such fear. ‘But then his cousins joined in.’
‘The Mortimers always fight as a pack,’ said Bingham. ‘Our students often complain about it.’
Tynkell fixed the physician with a stern stare. ‘Cambridge teeters on the brink of serious civil unrest, and I had hoped my senior masters would know better than to add to the turmoil by brawling in a public place like the High Street.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, knowing it would be churlish to point out that the quarrel was none of his making.
‘Good,’ said Tynkell with a faint smile. ‘That is what dark alleys are for.’
‘It is not what I use them for,’ said Wynewyk, leaving the other scholars very curious as to what the lawyer did do in the shady lanes to which the Chancellor referred. Bartholomew longed to ask, especially since Paxtone was there, but it did not seem appropriate after what they had just done for him.
‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ said Paxtone, raising both hands in the air, as if in surrender. Bartholomew felt an immediate uneasiness. ‘I should have asked you first, but he seemed so keen to learn about Galen that I felt it unprofessional not to help. On reflection, I think I was unwise.’
‘Rob Thorpe?’ asked Bartholomew, a little disappointed that that was all. ‘And your letter recommending him? It did not matter. He sat at the back and I forgot he was there.’
‘Perhaps my first impressions were right, then,’ said Paxtone, relieved. ‘He really did want to learn about Galen. After I had written it, I began to wonder whether I had done the right thing. Still, I shall not do it again. I do not think it is a good idea for us to let killers visit any College they fancy.’
Bartholomew wholly agreed with him. ‘Do you often come to Michaelhouse?’
Paxtone seemed surprised by the question, then laughed, although Bartholomew was sure he caught a glitter of alarm in the man’s eyes. ‘That is a nice association of sentiments, Matt! I talk of killers in our Colleges and you ask me whether I frequent your own! But you know I do not. You are the only one I know from Michaelhouse, and you say you will not invite me to dine until the food improves.’
Bartholomew did not know what to make of his answer, but did not like the fact that Paxtone was lying to him. He grabbed Redmeadow by the scruff of his neck and hauled him away, leaving his colleagues proudly discussing their outwitting of the Mortimers.
‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Redmeadow sheepishly. ‘I was upset about Mistress Lenne. I did not mean to drag you into a fight.’
‘Well, do not do it again,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘We might not be so lucky next time.’
‘I gave that murdering bastard a good punch in the eye, though,’ added Redmeadow, with the shadow of a smile. ‘And I saw blood. Perhaps I have done him more harm than he knows. Especially if he goes to Rougham for a cure.’
‘I would not take Rougham’s accusations too seriously, Matt,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat in the conclave the following morning after breakfast. ‘Dick Tulyet saw them for what they are: feeble and transparent attempts to shift the blame for Warde’s death on to someone else.’
‘It is not Dick I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew, stretching muscles that were stiff after the fracas of the previous evening. ‘I am concerned about folk who do not know me so well, and who might believe Rougham is telling the truth. He has not stopped talking about me since Warde died on Saturday night – and it is now Tuesday. There is hardly a soul in Cambridge who has not heard that I killed Warde with angelica in order to inherit a book.’
‘People are not stupid, Matt. They can see Rougham is a pompous, blustering fool. You are right not to respond in kind, because each new outbreak of accusations merely serves to underline the fact that he is a graceless, undignified oaf.’
‘I do not understand why he has taken against me so rabidly. We have never been friends, but we have tolerated each other politely enough until just recently. What has changed?’
‘He does not like your students, particularly Redmeadow and Quenhyth,’ said Michael. ‘But it is hard to condemn him for that – I do not like Quenhyth myself, while Redmeadow is a hot-headed brawler. He was also furious when you were made Corpse Examiner, because he wanted the post for himself. He says he needs the fees to help pay for Gonville’s chapel.’
‘But these are hardly good reasons to declare war on me.’
‘Envy is a powerful emotion,’ preached Michael. ‘I told you before: he is jealous of your success.’
‘And his claim that I caused Warde’s death is unfair,’ Bartholomew went on, barely hearing him. ‘If he had not forced Warde to speak, then perhaps he might not have died.’
Michael’s eyes were round. ‘Are you accusing him of murder now? I thought you had Paxtone in mind for that particular crime.’