De Wetherset was among those who had hurried after Bartholomew. He scrambled up the mound, breathing hard, his face a mask of horror. Then Tulyet arrived.
‘Christ God!’ the Sheriff swore when he saw the bodies. ‘Who gave the order to shoot?’
‘A townsman,’ replied de Wetherset shakily. ‘But I cannot believe he intended anyone to die, as his own side was down here, too. Clearly, it is a prank gone badly wrong.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. Nor was Koln, now on his feet and shaking with fury.
‘Of course the culprit meant there to be bloodshed!’ he yelled. ‘It was brazen murder! Someone will pay for this!’
‘Just stop and think,’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘The town would never hurt one of–’
‘I want revenge,’ howled Koln. ‘Well, lads? What are you waiting for? Will you allow town scum to dispatch our friends?’
There was a short silence, then all hell broke loose.
* * *
There were moments during the ensuing mêlée when Bartholomew wondered if he was dreaming about Poitiers. He still had nightmares about the battle, and the screams and clash of arms that resounded across the butts were much the same. He yelled himself hoarse calling for a ceasefire, but few heard, and those who did were disinclined to listen.
‘Stay with me, boy,’ gasped Cynric, whose face was spattered with someone else’s blood. ‘Back to back, defending each other. You were wise to take the high ground – it will be easier to fight them off from here.’
Bartholomew knew there was no point in explaining he had not chosen the mound for strategic reasons but because it was where the first victims lay.
‘No killing, Cynric,’ he begged. ‘Try to disarm them instead.’
‘Right,’ grunted Cynric, as he swung his cutlass at a stave-wielding townsman with all his might. ‘After all, they mean us no harm.’
‘Norbert!’ gulped Bartholomew, watching in shock as a lucky thrust by a baying Bene’t student passed clean through the knight’s lower body. ‘I must help–’
Cynric grabbed his arm before he could start towards the stricken man. ‘You will stick with me if you value your life. And the lives of others – your skills will be needed later.’
‘Goodness!’ cried Aynton, stumbling up to them. He carried a bow in his uninjured hand, which he was waving wildly enough to deter anyone from coming too close. His face was white with terror. ‘What do we do? How can we stop it?’
‘You cannot,’ gasped Cynric. ‘Now stay behind us. You will be safe there.’
Bartholomew watched in despair as a phalanx of flailing swords from King’s Hall, led by the enraged Koln, cut a bloody swathe through a contingent of apprentices. Then his attention was caught by a seething mass of townsfolk, all of whom were howling for French blood, and seemed to think it could be found on the mound. None of them believed Aynton’s frightened bleat that he had none to offer, and they surged upwards with murder in their eyes.
Just when Bartholomew thought his life was over, there came a thunder of hoofs. It was Tulyet on a massive warhorse, next to Michael on Dusty and several mounted knights from the castle. None slowed when they reached the skirmishers, so that anyone who did not want to be trampled was forced to scramble away fast. The riders wheeled their destriers around and drove them through the teeming mass a second time, after which most combatants broke off the fight to concentrate on which way they would have to leap to avoid the deadly hoofs. Tulyet reined in and stood in his stirrups, towering over those around him.
‘How dare you break the peace!’ he thundered, his voice surprisingly loud for so slight a man. ‘Is this how you serve your country? By fighting each other? Disarm at once!’
‘But we were fighting French scholars,’ shouted a potter, too full of bloodlust to know he should hold his tongue. ‘They are the enemy. We were–’
‘Arrest that man,’ bellowed Tulyet, pointing furiously at him.
Two of his soldiers hurried forward to oblige, much to the potter’s dismay.
‘We did not start this,’ shouted Koln, whose face was white with rage in the flickering torchlight. ‘They did – the town scum.’
‘You are under arrest, too,’ snarled Michael. ‘See to it, Meadowman.’
The beadle bundled the startled King’s Hall man away before he could draw breath to object. Then de Wetherset spoke, begging his scholars to disperse. Most did, although the livid faces of Michael and Tulyet did more to shift them than any of the Chancellor’s nervous entreaties. Soon, all that were left were the dead and wounded.
‘Casualties?’ demanded Tulyet in a tight, clipped voice.
‘Eight dead,’ replied Bartholomew, not looking up from the miller he was struggling to save. ‘Three scholars and five townsmen. There will be others before morning.’
‘Eight,’ breathed Michael, shaking his head in disgust. ‘All lost for nothing.’
‘Take the wounded to the Franciscan Friary,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘And spread word that if anyone, other than soldiers or beadles, is out on the streets tonight, he will hang at dawn.’
‘Not scholars,’ said de Wetherset hoarsely. ‘You do not have the authority to impose that sort of sanction on us. Tell him, Brother.’
‘Then I will impose it,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Because he is right – anyone out tonight will be presumed guilty of affray and punished accordingly.’
Tulyet nodded curt thanks, then hurried away to organise stretchers and bearers, while Michael went to give what comfort he could to the dying – he was not a priest, but had been granted dispensation to give last rites during the plague and had continued the practice since. Bartholomew turned to Cynric, knowing he needed the help of other medici.
‘Fetch Rougham and Meryfeld. Then go to Michaelhouse and tell my students to bring bandages, salves, needles and thread.’
Fleetingly, it occurred to him that when de Wetherset recommended that he stockpile medical supplies, he had not imagined that he would be needing them that very night.
Cynric nodded briskly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes – go to the Spital and ask Amphelisa for a supply of the strong herbs that she uses for pain. I do not have nearly enough to do what will be necessary this evening.’
‘Then thank God Margery found out that the Devil does not live there,’ muttered the book-bearer, crossing himself before kissing a grubby amulet. ‘I would not have been able to go otherwise, as I have no wish to encounter Satan.’
‘You already have,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I am sure he was here tonight.’
Chapter 10
The bells were chiming for the night office by the time Bartholomew and his helpers had carried all the wounded to the Franciscan Priory. Despite their best efforts, another three men died, bringing the death toll to eleven – four scholars and seven townsfolk. Their bodies were taken to the chapel, where the friars recited prayers for their souls.
Rougham and Meryfeld, physicians who only ever tended paying customers, quickly bagged the wealthy victims, leaving Bartholomew with the rest. This did not bother him, as he had always been more interested in saving lives than making money. However, he was pleasantly surprised to learn that Amphelisa felt the same way – she not only donated her pain-dulling herbs for free, but stayed to help him saw and stitch. She was a constant presence at his side, always ready with what was required and enveloping him in the sweet scent of the distilled oils that had soaked into her burgundy work-robe.
‘It is a good thing I sent Eudo and Goda to replenish my stocks today,’ she murmured, helping Foxlee to sip a poppy juice cordial. ‘Or we would have run out by now.’