A Plague on Both Your Houses (49 page)

Colet began to reload, and Bartholomew dodged

Swynford’s sword, picked up one of Agatha’s iron loaves of bread and hurled it as hard as he could at Colet. It hit him on the side of the head, stunning him sufficiently to make him drop the crossbow. Swynford stabbed at him

again, entangling his sword in Bartholomew’s legs.

Bartholomew, balance gone, toppled from the table,

and landed heavily on the other side. Swynford leapt

over the table and threw himself at Bartholomew,

flailing wildly with the sword. The flames in the rushes licked nearer, but Swynford seemed to see nothing but

Bartholomew. Bartholomew jerked his head away as the

sword plunged down and heard the metal blade screech

against the stone floor. He struggled violently, tipping Swynford off balance, and scrambled away under the

table. He felt his leg gripped as Swynford seized him, and his fingernails scrabbled on the floor as he felt

himself being dragged backwards.

Bartholomew twisted again and kicked backwards.

Swynford’s grip lessened for an instant, and Bartholomew scrambled under the table, clambering to his feet on the other side before Alcote crashed into him, knocking

him down.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he gasped, and then

stopped as he saw Swynford totter forward holding his

stomach.

‘Damn!’ Colet was already reloading the crossbow,

ignoring Swynford’s increasing bellows of pain as he

concentrated on his task.

At the same moment, Stephen, seeing Swynford shot

by Colet, bolted across the burning rushes towards the door. Right into the arms of Brother Michael.

‘Watch Colet,’ Bartholomew yelled. Colet had seen

the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and had heard Stephen’s dismayed yell. He whipped round

and pointed the crossbow at Michael. Bartholomew

scrambled over Alcote and threw himself at Colet’s legs.

Colet toppled, and the crossbow fell to the ground. Colet desperately tried to reach it as Bartholomew fought to get a better grip on him.

Suddenly, Colet had a knife in his hand, and

Bartholomew let him go as it swung down in a savage

arc that would have pierced his eye had he not wrenched his head backwards. Colet shot away from Bartholomew

and ran towards the servery door. Bartholomew raced

after him, dimly aware that there were others entering the hall through the main entrance. Colet spun round, his face a mask of fury, and flung the knife at Bartholomew.

It was a move born of desperation, and was nowhere near its mark. Bartholomew sprang at Colet, forcing him to

the ground.

Almost immediately, he felt himself hauled up, and,

thinking it was Swynford, lashed out with his fists as hard as he could.

‘Easy! Easy!’ Bartholomew became aware of his

surroundings, and his intense anger faded as quickly

as it had come. Colet, already in the custody of two

burly beadles, looked fearfully at Bartholomew, his face battered and bleeding. Bartholomew was held in a similar grip by Michael and one of the Benedictines.

A loud snap dragged their attention away from Colet

and Bartholomew.

‘The fire!’ yelled Michael, releasing Bartholomew’s

arm. ‘Stop the fire!’

The flames had secured a good hold on the rushes

on the floor and were licking up the wall-hangings.

Bartholomew raced to drag them down before the

flames reached the wooden ceiling. Outside, someone

had started to ring the bell, and the hall filled with scholars using their black gowns to beat out the flames.

One of the students gave a shout, and, with a groan,

the carved wooden screen behind the servery gave way,

crashing onto the floor in an explosion of flames and

sparks. More scholars poured into the hall, some from

Michaelhouse, butmany from other Colleges and hostels. Bartholomew and Michael quickly organised them into a human chain passing all manner of receptacles brimming with water from the well.

Bartholomew yelled to Alcote, flapping uselessly at

some burning rushes with his gown, to evacuate the

sick from the commoners’ room. Bartholomew knew

that once the fire reached the wooden ceiling of the

hall it would quickly spread to the wings. Thick smoke billowed everywhere, and Bartholomew saw one student

drop to the floor clutching at his throat. He hauled him down the stairs and out into the yard where he coughed and spluttered. Bartholomew glanced up. Flames leapt

out of the windows and thick, black smoke drifted across the yard.

The plague victims were brought to lie near the

stable where they were tended by Michael’s Benedictine room-mates, one still reeling from the effects of the

drugged wine. Alcote hauled on the College bell, and

scholars and passers-by ran in to help.

Bartholomew darted back up the stairs to the hall.

William and Michael had affixed ropes to the wooden

gallery and rows of people were hauling on them to

pull it over. Bartholomew understood their plan. If the gallery were down, the fire would be less likely to reach the wooden ceiling and might yet be brought under

control. He took an empty place on one of the ropes

and heaved with the others.

The gallery, wrenched from the walls, tipped forward

with a screech of tearing wood and smashed onto the

stone floor of the hall. Men and women dashed forwards and began to beat out the flames. The hot wood hissed

under a deluge of water, and gradually the crackle of

flames began to relent. Eventually, all was silent, and the men and women who had answered the bell surveyed

the mess.

‘It was about time the rushes on the floor were

changed anyway,’ said Bartholomew. He had intended

his remark for Michael’s ears only, but in the silence of the hall it carried. The tense atmosphere evaporated,

and people laughed. Disaster had been averted.

Agatha, who had worked as hard as anyone, sent

people here and there with brushes, and ordered that

burned rushes, tables, benches, and tapestries be thrown out of the windows. At Bartholomew’s suggestion, Cynric fetched all that remained of Wilson’s fine collection

of wine, and scholars and townspeople alike fortified

themselves for their work with wines that cost more

money than most of them would earn in a year.

In the panic to control the fire, Bartholomew had

almost forgotten Colet, Stephen, and Swynford. He made his way over to a small group of people who stood around a figure lying on the floor. William was kneeling next to Swynford anointing him with oil, and muttering the

words of the absolution. Swynford’s eyes were closed,

and blood bubbled through his blue lips.

He opened his eyes when William’s mutteiings

finished. ‘The third Master to die in less than a year,’

he said in a whisper. He looked around the group of

people until he found Bartholomew.

‘You are still alive,’ he said. “I was not sure whether Colet would get you. You have really confounded my

plans this time. Another few months, and I would have

been Bishop, and I would never have needed to step in

this accursed town again.’

He closed his eyes then, and did not open them

again.

Colet and Stephen had already been hustled away

to the Castle when Oswald Stanmore, his face white with strain, sought out Bartholomew.

‘Oh, God, Matt,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, and

made him sit on one of the benches that was not too

singed and drink a cup of wine. Richard sat next to him, his face tear-streaked.

Stanmore sipped at the wine and then cradled the

cup in shaking hands. ‘He played me like a fool, Matt,’ he said. ‘He took my money, made me believe all Swynford’s lies, and then tried to kill you. My own brother!’

Bartholomew rested his hand on his shoulder. ‘What

will happen to his wife and children?’

‘Stephen and his wife had not been close for some

time,’ Stanmore said. ‘She had been complaining about

his absences during the night. I should have listened

to her. Richard has offered to stay with her for a

while at the house on Milne Street. There is plenty

of room, so there is no reason she and the children

should not stay. Also, Edith will help them as much as she can.’

“I will help, too,’ said Bartholomew.

Stanmore nodded. “I know you will. What will

happen to him, Matt?’

Bartholomew did not know. He imagined there

would be a trial, and there was enough evidence to

hang them all. Michael told him that Stephen had

started to confess everything before he was even out of the College gates, despite dire threats from Colet. On his evidence, the Sheriff and the Proctor would round

up the others who had been involved.

“I am sorry, Matt,’ sighed Stanmore. ‘What a

vile mess.’

‘It is over now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We both need

to put it behind us and look to the future.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Stanmore replied. Accompanied

by Richard, he left to tend to his affairs. He was still not out of the woods, and there would be many questions to be answered and accounts to be examined before this

business was over.

Brother Michael had been engaged in deep conversation

with the Bishop in the solar. As Stanmore left,

Michael poked his head round the door and beckoned

Bartholomew over. The Bishop was wearing a plain

brown robe, a far cry from his finery of the previous

visit. He looked at Bartholomew’s bruised hands. “I hear you tried to give Master Colet his just deserts,’ he said.

Bartholomew looked at Michael. “I was stopped

before I had really started.’

‘Just as well,’ said the Bishop. ‘There has been

enough murder in this College to last a century.’

‘What happened?’ Bartholomew asked Michael.

‘How did you manage to arrive in the nick of time?

How did you escape Yaxley?’

“I was sent a message, supposedly from the Bishop,’

said Michael, ‘asking me to meet him at the Carmelite

Friary at Newnham. I saw nothing odd in this and assumed my lord the Bishop merely wanted me to provide him

with the details of what I had learned before he arrived at Michaelhouse. As I walked, I heard St Mary’s bell in the distance calling scholars to the Debate in the church and I suddenly realised I had made a dreadful mistake. We had already discussed Swynford’s love of false messages, but I never thought he would dare to send me another.

‘It became horribly clear. Me out of the way, perhaps

heading into a trap, and all the scholars at the Debate.

You are a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and I knew the bell would not wake you. Colet, who knows you well enough, would also guess you would sleep through the

bell. I knew he was going to come for you, Matt, as you slept alone in the College. I ran back as fast as I could, stopping at St Mary’s to raise the alarm on the way.’

‘The Chancellor was none too pleased at being

interrupted mid-argument by my yelling, but your Gray

got the students mustered. When we came near the

College, I saw smoke coming from one of the windows.

I thought perhaps we were too late, and rushed up the

stairs. I saw Colet kill Swynford by mistake, and then try to shoot me.’

He poked Bartholomew with his elbow. “I saw what

you did,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew wearily.

‘You saved me from Colet’s crossbow. He could

not have missed me from that range. I saw you knock

him over.’

Bartholomew gave a soft laugh. ‘Alcote did the same

for me. The bolt that killed Swynford was meant for me, and he pushed me out of the way.’

The Bishop spread his hands. ‘So, Michaelhouse

Fellows risk their lives to save each other,’ he said. ‘Not all that has come of this is bad, and now you know whom you can trust.’

At last, thought Bartholomew, looking out of the

window at the bright blue sky.

The Bishop stood to leave. ‘These men have committed

treason, and they will be taken to the Tower to

stand trial. Stephen’s willingness to confess in a vain attempt to save himself will ensure that they are all

caught, and then the University - both hostels and

Colleges - can begin again. I believe the Chancellor

will need to make a visit to Oxford to explain what has happened, and to offer his abject apologies for blaming her for crimes of which she was wholly innocent.’ He

put his hand on Bartholomew’s head. ‘No secrets this

time,’ he said softly. ‘Everything will be made known, from the murder of the Master of King’s Hall fifteen

months ago right up until the evil-doings of today.’

He went to the door, and then turned. ‘Sir John

Babington,’ he said. ‘He was no suicide, and can rightly be buried in the church. Shall I arrange that?’

Bartholomew thought about the revolting black

effigy he had promised to have made for Wilson and

shook his head. ‘Sir John would prefer to be where he

is, among the oak trees, and as far away from Wilson’s glorious tomb as possible.’

The Bishop smiled. “I believe you are right,’ he said, and left.

Bartholomew and Michael sat in companionable

silence for a while, each rethinking the events of the past few days.

Michael went to look out of the window. ‘The Death

is still out there,’ he said softly. ‘Despite all that has happened, it is still there.’

Bartholomew stood next to him. ‘And I still do not