Men were rising to their feet all over the tavern. The mason’s friends began to advance menacingly, while a group of hitherto silent, unobtrusive Franciscans from Exeter College set their sights on an apprentice who had recently jibed them about their celibacy.
‘He tried to deceive us!’ shouted the Benedictine, jabbing an accusing finger at the bleeding landlord. ‘And in so doing he insults Balliol – and Exeter and Merton, too! Will you allow this to happen? Or are you soldiers of God, ready to fight for what is right?’
‘Balliol!’ yelled Chesterfelde, bloated with fury as he struck the hapless landlord a second time.
The mason leapt at him, and they rolled to the floor in an undignified mêlée of arms and legs. The craftsman’s companions surged forward to join in, while the apprentice threw a punch at one of the Franciscans, whose head jerked back and struck the wall with a soggy crunch. Skirmishes broke out all across the room.
‘Come outside!’ the monk urged Spryngheuse, grabbing his arm. ‘I have bows and arrows. You must protect yourself against these murderous townsmen, or they will kill you.’
He dragged the reluctant Spryngheuse through the door and out into the street. Their friends followed, leaving Chesterfelde and the mason embroiled in a scuffle that was becoming deadly: the mason had drawn his dagger, and there was blood on Chesterfelde’s arm.
‘Murder!’ Chesterfelde screeched, his outraged wail audible in the street as he tried to wriggle away from his furious opponent. ‘He has stabbed me!’
‘The town has slain a scholar!’ bawled the Benedictine to several passers-by, as he thrust bows and arrows into his bemused companions’ hands. They were too startled by the sudden escalation in violence to ask why he had thought to store such objects so conveniently close to hand. The situation was spiralling out of control, and there was no time to stop and think logically.
Chesterfelde staggered out of the inn, shrieking from the agony in his wounded arm. The mason followed, and the expression on his face as he wielded his dagger made it plain that he was intending to finish what he had started. Spryngheuse shot him dead.
Then the bells in St Mary’s Church started to ring in an urgent, discordant clamour, warning scholars that their University was under attack. Within moments, the streets were full of students. Word spread that several of their own had been brutally slain in the Swindlestock Tavern, and it was not long before they had armed themselves with staves, clubs and swords, inflamed by the jangle of bells and the calls for vengeance. They flocked to the inn like wasps to honey, and within moments several neighbouring houses were ablaze.
Children and women screamed, horses whinnied in terror, and scholars and townsmen alike howled in savage delight at the prospect of a serious brawl. The University’s Chancellor hurried from his sumptuous lodgings and tried to appeal for calm, but a gang of apprentices recognised his gorgeous robes and began to pelt him with mud. Some struck his face. The mob surged towards him, and would have torn him apart, had his clerks not dragged him back inside and barred the door.
Meanwhile, the Mayor, seeing what happened to the Chancellor, decided the only way to resolve the situation was to make sure the town won the fracas, so he exhorted his people to rise up against the scholars. A group of unarmed friars from University Hall went down amid a flailing fury of sticks and spades; all six were killed within moments. News of the slaughter spread like wildfire, and more scholars ran on to the streets with weapons. Croidon watched the unfolding massacre with open-mouthed horror, while the monk who had started it all hid in a doorway, a smile of satisfaction stamped across his dour features. Then he slipped away to complete his own business while chaos reigned.
Cambridge, May 1355
Only the merest sliver of moon was visible on the eve of the festival to celebrate Ascension Day. John Clippesby, the Dominican Master of Music and Astronomy at the College of Michaelhouse, liked this soft, velvety darkness, because it meant he was less likely to be seen, and he could sit quietly and listen to the sounds of the night without being disturbed.
He was glad to be away from the College, to escape from fat Brother Michael and his tediously fussy preparations for the following day. Clippesby would not have minded if some of the arrangements had focused on the religious ceremonies, but the gluttonous monk made no bones about the fact that his chief interest lay in the feast that was to follow the mass. Clippesby was tired of hearing about the vast quantities of meat and wine that were to be consumed, and the number of Lombard slices that had already been baked.
The Dominican often left his College at night. He disliked being obliged to spend too much time with his quarrelsome, earthly minded colleagues, and preferred the more peaceful, honest company of animals. Like Clippesby himself, they were soft-footed and silent, and together they witnessed all manner of happenings when people did not know the shadows held observant eyes. Clippesby had already watched Father William sneak into the cellars to raid Michael’s wine, and he had seen a pair of Doctor Bartholomew’s medical students climb over the College walls to enjoy an illicit assignation with some of the town’s prostitutes.
He walked along the High Street, stopping briefly to greet the University stationer’s mule, and then spent some time near King’s Hall, admiring the bats. When his neck became stiff from craning to see their intricate aerial ballet, he made his way towards All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. A cat regularly prowled in the church’s graveyard, and Clippesby enjoyed talking to her. Sometimes, she talked back, and told him what she had seen as she hunted mice and rats. Clippesby knew his colleagues thought he was insane because he conversed with animals, but he did not care – his furred and feathered friends invariably made a lot more sense to him than the diatribes of his human companions.
He passed a row of houses that had been rebuilt after their collapse the previous winter. The largest was occupied by a yellow dog called Edwardus Rex, named for the King; he graciously shared his home with Yolande de Blaston, her husband Robert and their ten children. The Blastons were so desperate for money to feed their ever-growing brood that Robert was only too pleased his wife was able to provide extra by selling her body to other men, and saw nothing odd in her using the family home for such purposes. Clippesby did not hire her: he was a friar, and he took his vows of chastity seriously. He edged behind the trees opposite the house, thinking it had been some time since he had seen Edwardus and that he should enquire after his health. Edwardus barked, and Clippesby smiled.
But it was not Clippesby that Edwardus was acknowledging: it was someone else. Intrigued as always by the steady procession of men who made their way to Yolande’s door during the secret hours of darkness, Clippesby waited to see who had an appointment with her that night. He grimaced when he recognised a scholar he did not like, who regularly visited Yolande and who was a hypocrite, because he condemned others for sins he committed himself. However, he knew there was no point in exposing the man: Clippesby’s penchant for animals meant that most people considered him a lunatic, and few believed anything he said.
The scholar carried a package under his arm, which Clippesby knew from past observations contained marchpanes for Yolande’s children; he supposed the gift eased the man’s conscience about cavorting with their mother while they and their father slept upstairs. When Yolande opened the door to her suitor’s soft taps, Edwardus eased past her and began sniffing the parcel. The scholar tried to kick him, but Edwardus had been hurt by the man before, and was ready to dodge out of the way. Then the dog stiffened and started to growl.