He greeted Paxtone amiably before Michael could reply, and told him about the mass arranged for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse later that afternoon. Paxtone said he was saddened to hear about the deaths, and offered to attend the requiem with some of his colleagues.
‘Why?’ asked Michael, unnecessarily abrupt. ‘Did you know them?’
‘No,’ replied Paxtone, startled by the monk’s hostility. ‘But they were fellow scholars, and it is the least we can do. Weasenham told me today that the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and that someone intends to do the same here. We academics need to stick together, to show the town that we stand solidly with our Oxford colleagues.’
‘Where did Weasenham hear this?’ demanded Michael furiously.
Paxtone took a step back, unnerved by his temper. ‘He did not say. Why? Do you think he made it up? It would not be the first time he invented tales when he found himself short of real stories.’
‘Come with me to see him now,’ ordered Michael. ‘I want to know if there is a factual basis to his rumour-mongering, or whether he is speaking out of spite. In either case, he will desist immediately. I will not have him giving people ideas, and starting trouble when Islip is about to arrive.’
‘You are right,’ said Paxtone, starting to walk in the direction of the stationer’s domain. Bartholomew followed, and could not help but notice that Michael was not the only large man who waddled. ‘These tales that Oxford was ripped to pieces by townsfolk angered me, and I am a mild-tempered fellow. I cannot imagine what will happen if lads like Lee of Gonville or – I am sorry Matt, but it is true – Deynman and Falmeresham come to hear them.’
Michael stormed into Weasenham’s shop. It was busy, with at least twenty students and Fellows inspecting the merchandise. Alyce was demonstrating a new kind of ink that dried more quickly than traditional ones, while Weasenham was deep in conversation with several scholars, all of whom were listening avidly to every whispered word. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he caught the word ‘Scholastica’ among the muted diatribe, and it plunged even deeper when he saw that the eager ears belonged to Gonville’s feisty students, including Lee. Michael surged up to them.
‘Brother Michael,’ said Weasenham, beaming falsely when he saw the monk’s furious expression. ‘Have you used all that parchment already? Do you want me to send you more?’
‘What has he been telling you?’ demanded Michael of Lee.
‘Nothing about a certain physician’s visits to a Frail Sister,’ squeaked Weasenham in alarm, when he misunderstood what Michael was asking. ‘I swear I have said nothing to anyone about that.’
‘What physician?’ snapped Lee. ‘You had better not be gossiping about Doctor Rougham’s meetings with Yolande de Blaston on the first Monday of the month, or you will have me to contend with.’
‘Does he?’ asked Weasenham encouragingly, eager for more details.
Bartholomew felt sorry for Rougham. It was the second time he had heard people refer to the dalliance, and, although he had been unaware of the man’s penchant for Yolande, it was clearly no secret. Rougham could have gone to his College after the attack, and not imposed himself on Matilde, after all. He reconsidered: but then he would have told people about Clippesby, and the tale that a Michaelhouse Fellow had bitten a Gonville man would have resulted in trouble for certain.
‘No,’ Lee replied unconvincingly. ‘It is a lie put about by his enemies. He goes to …to treat her bunions.’
‘Bartholomew is her physician,’ said Weasenham, not so easily misled. ‘And Rougham would never physic her, because she would not be able to pay him. Bartholomew does not care about that kind of thing, but Rougham certainly does.’
‘She has two physicians,’ said Lee in a voice that was loaded with menace. ‘One for her bunions, and one for everything else. So, we shall say no more about the matter. If I hear the faintest whisper against Doctor Rougham or Yolande, I will come to your shop and ram your parchments-’
‘What was he saying to you just now?’ interrupted Michael. He hoped the stationer would take Lee’s threat seriously, because he was sure Rougham would assume Bartholomew was the source of any rumours that associated his name with that of Yolande de Blaston.
‘He was telling us what happened in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day,’ said Lee, still scowling at Weasenham. ‘The men who started the riot were called Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse, both of whom have been murdered in Cambridge since.’
‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And how do you come to be party to this information, Weasenham?’
Weasenham swallowed uneasily, and would not meet Michael’s eyes. ‘Spryngheuse told me himself. He and Chesterfelde are to be buried today, and everyone knows they are young men dead before their time. He said a Benedictine had followed him here, determined to exact revenge, and he was thinking of moving to another town. He planned to go today.’
‘He left it a bit late, then,’ muttered Lee.
‘Tell him the rest,’ said Paxtone to the nervous stationer. ‘About the plot to spread unrest and bring down the universities.’
‘I am only repeating what I have been told,’ bleated Weasenham, unnerved by Michael’s stern expression. ‘The Oxford disorder was deliberately started, and it is believed that the same thing will happen here.’
‘Who said this?’ demanded Michael.
‘Polmorva. He said he will abandon Cambridge soon, because it is on the verge of a serious crisis. He is thinking of setting up a new university in a different place – not Stamford or Northampton, because scholars have tried those places before, and their schools were suppressed – but somewhere really nice, like Haverhill in Suffolk, or perhaps Winchester.’
‘Did he mention the names of the men who want to see us in flames?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘He did not know them, but obviously something is going on, because Chesterfelde was murdered, and now Spryngheuse is dead.’
Michael was sceptical. ‘If Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse really did start the riots in Oxford, and someone wants to do the same here, then why waste two experienced rabble-rousers by killing them? Why not recruit them?’
‘Perhaps there is more than one faction at work, Brother. There may be those who want riots, and who may have brought Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde here. And there may be those who want peace, and who intend to punish that pair for what they have already done.’
‘And it looks as if one group has been successful,’ added Lee, in case Michael had not worked it out for himself. ‘The two rabble-rousers are dead, so someone else will have to do their dirty work.’
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ said Weasenham with a sickly smile, as Michael regarded him with distaste. ‘You cannot punish me for repeating facts.’
‘They are not facts,’ said Michael sharply. ‘They are speculation, and if you spread any more tales that the town is about to be put to the torch, I shall arrest you. Do you want to see us under interdict, like Oxford? Do you want the Archbishop shocked by what he finds here?’
‘No,’ stammered Weasenham. ‘But I-’
‘If the University flounders, then Cambridge will have no need for a stationer. You will have to go to Haverhill or Winchester, and hope Polmorva manages to attract enough students to keep you in business. There are far too many secular clerks in Winchester for a university to be a success, while Haverhill is full of pigs. Rather like Oxford, I imagine.’
He turned on his heel and stalked out. Paxtone and Bartholomew followed, and the physician noticed that a number of Weasenham’s customers had listened to the reprimand. As he closed the door behind him, a babble of excited conversation broke out, and he wondered if Michael had done more harm than good. In a few moments the door opened again, and Lee sidled out.
‘Weasenham is not the only one who has been predicting unrest,’ he volunteered helpfully. ‘There was talk among the townsfolk in the Market Square this morning, because of Eudo.’