‘You must really hate scholars,’ said Michael wonderingly.
Candelby shook his head. ‘I am quite happy to lease my buildings to your comrades – if they pay me a competitive market price.’
‘The University will not wield power for much longer,’ gloated Blankpayn. ‘When we win the right to charge what rent we like, it will flounder.’
‘I do not care about that,’ said Candelby, walking away. ‘I just want to make some money.’
That evening, as lamps were beginning to gleam through the twilight, and the Michaelhouse men were preparing to retire to bed or repair to the communal rooms for company, conversation or warmed ale, Cynric slipped up to Bartholomew.
‘Grab your cloak, boy,’ he whispered. ‘I want to show you something.’
‘I am not going out now,’ said Bartholomew, amazed that the book-bearer should think he might. ‘It is madness to wander the streets after dark these days.’
‘Come on,’ wheedled Cynric. ‘Please? It will be fun, and I will not enjoy it nearly as much alone. Normally, I would invite Carton, but he is out somewhere, and I cannot find him.’
‘Out?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘This late? Does Michael know?’
Cynric grinned, teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘I doubt it! Hurry up, or you will miss it.’
‘Miss what?’ demanded Bartholomew, not liking Cynric’s mysterious manner.
But the book-bearer could not be persuaded to tell, so Bartholomew followed him down the darkening lane and on to the High Street. A religious office was under way in St Michael’s Church; Michael and William were singing vespers, and their chanting voices carried on the still evening air. Stars twinkled in a dark blue sky, and Bartholomew shivered – the clear weather had brought with it a snapping cold, and there would be a frost that night.
A blackbird sang its evening song, and the air was rich with the scents of the day – manure from horses and donkeys, the sulphurous reek of the river and the nearby marshes, the smell of spring flowers, and a delicious aroma from a meat stew that was someone’s supper. The town was quiet, the clatter of hoofs and footsteps stilled for the night, as folk prepared for sleep.
When they reached St Mary the Great, Cynric slid into the shadows of the churchyard. Bartholomew was slow in following, because a cemetery was not somewhere he wanted to be at that time of night, and there was always the danger that a group of townsmen might be there. Since the plague, some folk had abandoned traditional religion, and haunted graveyards after dark. They performed sinister rites in the hope that the denizens of Hell would protect them against future outbreaks. After all, God and His saints had done nothing to help them, had they?
‘Come on,’ hissed Cynric from the bushes. ‘You should see what goes on in your own town.’
Bartholomew was acutely uneasy. ‘Someone will catch us, and demand to know what we are doing. And as I have absolutely no idea, how am I supposed to reply?’
Cynric beckoned him towards the back of the church. Bartholomew strained his eyes, and saw a figure lying motionless on the ground, hands folded across his chest. After a moment, a second person emerged from the trees that separated the churchyard from the Market Square, and started to move around him. It was too dark to identify faces or distinguishing features, and all the physician could see was that the second man – or woman – was swathed in a cloak. As virtually everyone in the town owned such a garment, it was impossible to say who it might be. The figure knelt, and there was a brief flicker as a candle was lit. It guttered in the evening breeze, but was too feeble to illuminate the face of either person. Bartholomew grew even more uncomfortable.
‘I do not like this,’ he whispered. ‘Why did you drag me all the way here, when witches probably do this sort of thing every night?’
‘Not in St Mary the Great,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘St John Zachary and All Saints-next-the-Castle are favourites with warlocks, but they leave St Mary the Great alone. Too holy, see.’
Bartholomew tried to read his expression in the darkness. ‘Do you witness these rites often?’
Cynric nodded. ‘They happen more frequently than you might think, and I like to keep an eye on these Satan-lovers. You never know when they might decide to stage a rebellion, and drive out honest, God-fearing citizens like me.’ He crossed himself.
‘You watch with Carton?’
Cynric nodded a second time. ‘He is the only one interested.’
Bartholomew supposed his colleagues had been right after all, when they had declined to elect Carton to take Kenyngham’s place. He gestured to the two figures. ‘What are they doing? The one lying down will catch his death. It is freezing, and the ground is wet.’
‘They are casting spells,’ explained Cynric darkly. ‘And I brought you here because Honynge has sawn through the chains on the books in the hall, and has taken them all to his room – to protect them from Tyrington’s drool, he says. The other Fellows are furious, and things are being said that will be regretted tomorrow. I thought you would be better off here.’
Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘Surely the kitchen would have sufficed? Or my room? Or even the porters’ lodge. You did not have to lure me out to this …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what he was witnessing.
Cynric shook his head firmly. ‘You are best well out of the place. Besides, I have a feeling this is more sinister than witchcraft.’
Bartholomew did not bother to make the point that witchcraft was more than sinister enough for him. He was about to abandon his hiding place and go home, when he became aware that the cloaked figure had stood, and was looming over the one on the ground. It was not easy to see what he was doing, but the faint light from the candle certainly illuminated the fact that the person held something long and sharp. It was a dagger, and it was descending towards the man on the ground.
Bartholomew reacted instinctively, launching himself from behind the buttress and towards the would-be killer as fast as he could. He did not stop to rationalise what he was doing – all he knew was that he was not about to stand by and do nothing while murder was committed. The cloaked figure leapt in alarm at the sound of sudden footsteps, and whipped around to face him. Then everything happened very quickly.
The cloaked figure lunged at Bartholomew, but his deadly swipe missed. Unusually slow on the uptake, Cynric took a moment to join the affray, but when he did, it was with one of his bloodcurdling battle cries. He tore towards the knifeman, but another shadow emerged from the bushes, and a well-placed foot sent the Welshman sprawling on to his face. While Cynric shook his head to clear it, the newcomer shoved Bartholomew hard enough to make him crash back against the buttress, and dragged his cloaked comrade into the undergrowth.
‘After them, Cynric,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to climb to his feet, but he could see it was too late. The mysterious pair had melted away, using bushes and darkness to mask where they had gone. Cynric took a few steps after them, but knew a lost cause when he saw one, and soon abandoned the chase.
‘That was rash,’ he said, unimpressed. ‘You flew at them without bothering to draw a weapon – or telling me what you were going to do. I thought your experiences in France had cured you of antics like that.’
‘He had a knife,’ said Bartholomew. He looked around uneasily, afraid the pair might return with reinforcements. Wanting to be done with the business, so he could go home to Michaelhouse, he knelt next to the prostrate figure, using the abandoned candle to see what he was doing.
‘It is Motelete from Clare!’ exclaimed Cynric, when light flickered across the face.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And this time, he really is dead.’
Cynric regarded him in shock. ‘No! He is just part of whatever game the others were playing.’