Susanna GREGORY - A Vein of Deceit

‘I have been watching them,’ he explained, nodding towards the crowd. ‘A stone through a window now will be enough to spark a huge riot inside.’

‘You said you would follow Gosse and Idoma when they arrived back in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘It was why we did not challenge them in the hills.’

‘We did not challenge them in the hills because they outmatched us,’ corrected Cynric. ‘And they managed to give me the slip once they reached town. I cannot imagine how – witchcraft, probably.’

He winced when there was another howl of fury from the debating scholars, then darted forward when two apprentices bent to prise rocks from the ground. Several beadles joined him in hustling the would-be offenders away, but the remaining townsfolk objected to their cronies being arrested before they had committed a crime. There was a rumble of anger and some serious jostling.

‘Your men have their hands full here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Which means they cannot be watching the back of the church. Gosse might–’

But Michael was already hurrying towards the graveyard. Bartholomew followed, and they had completed almost a full circuit of the building before the physician skidded to a standstill.

‘There!’ he shouted, pointing to where a fold of material and the tip of a shoe poked from behind a bush. Idoma was simply too large to conceal herself in undergrowth. Michael powered towards her and ripped away the branches.

‘Good afternoon, Brother,’ said Gosse mildly, not at all discomfited to be caught. ‘Why are you not at the debate? I thought you were an accomplished theologian. Or are you afraid to take part, lest you are found wanting?’

From somewhere on his ample person, Michael produced a cudgel. ‘You have plagued my town long enough. Will you come peacefully to my prison, or must I force you?’

Idoma regarded him in disbelief, then issued a low, deep laugh. It was an unpleasant sound, more demonic than human. Her eyes seemed especially cold and shark-like that day, and she exuded an aura of deadly malice. Was Michael making a terrible mistake in tackling her, when not even the bold Cynric would do it? Trying to prevent his hands from shaking, Bartholomew reached into his bag and withdrew his birthing forceps, although the implement was no match for the knives both Gosse and Idoma produced at the same time.

‘You are dead men,’ hissed Gosse. ‘Your University stole a fortune from us – made it disappear as though it never existed. But we shall have our revenge. You will not be alive to see it, though.’

‘We found your poisoned wine,’ said Michael, standing firm. ‘Elyan swallowed some, but no scholars fell victim–’

Idoma sneered. ‘Good! It serves him right for giving away our property. We would have killed him, anyway, for the inconvenience he caused. Now we do not need to bother.’

‘No more talking,’ said Gosse sharply. ‘There is no time.’

He lunged at Bartholomew with his knife, leaving Michael for his sister. The physician was unprepared for the viciousness of the attack, and was forced to retreat fast. The defensive blows he struck with the forceps went wide, and only succeeded in throwing him off balance. He went down on one knee. Gosse moved in for the kill, and, too late, Bartholomew knew Cynric had been right – they were more than a match for him.

Suddenly, there was a yell of fury, and the book-bearer appeared. He carried his long Welsh hunting knife, and when he saw Gosse’s blade begin to descend towards the physician, he lobbed it. Gosse screamed as it tore a gash in his arm. Before the felon could recover, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and knocked the weapon from his hand. Cynric darted forward, drew back his fist and punched Gosse on the point of the jaw. He went down as if pole-axed.

Bartholomew spun around to help Michael. Idoma had dropped her blade, but had both hands wrapped around the monk’s throat. Michael was a strong man, but it was clear he was losing the battle, because his face was scarlet. He rained blows on her head and shoulders, but she seemed oblivious to them, and Bartholomew wondered whether she really was imbued with some diabolical energy. He raced towards them, and tried to prise the powerful fingers loose, but they were like bands of steel. He saw the desperate terror in Michael’s eyes.

Knowing Michael was going to die before he could lever her fingers away, Bartholomew took several steps back, put his head down, and charged at the struggling pair with all his might. All three went flying. There was a sickening crack as Idoma’s head struck the buttress.

‘Well,’ said Cynric, looking at the two insensible villains with enormous satisfaction. ‘Perhaps I was wrong about their military prowess. We bested them with ease.’

But Bartholomew was not so ready to gloat. And there had been nothing ‘easy’ about their victory, anyway – he and Michael had come far too close to losing the fight.

‘Now we cannot ask what they have plotted,’ he said, alarmed. ‘Their plan may yet succeed.’

‘How?’ asked Michael hoarsely, rubbing his throat with one hand and holding out the other for Bartholomew to help him up. ‘They are hardly in a position to act now.’

‘They were not here to “act”,’ shouted Bartholomew, heart pounding. ‘They were here to watch what happened – to enjoy the spectacle. Oh, no!’

‘What?’ asked Michael fearfully, leaning against the buttress to catch his breath.

‘Wine,’ said Bartholomew, white-faced. ‘Will some be provided at the end of the debate? For every scholar in the University?’

Michael gaped at him in horror, then whipped around and began running towards the church door. Bartholomew followed, stopping only to order three beadles to help Cynric secure the Gosses.

Inside, the clamour of discordant voices was loud enough to hurt the ears. The refreshments sat on a table in the north aisle. Bartholomew aimed for them, but Michael found his way barred by a horrified Junior Proctor.

‘Thank God you are here, Brother,’ gasped Cleydon. ‘The two sides are on the verge of a huge fight and I am powerless to stop it.’

‘There he is!’ cried a familiar voice. It was Warden Powys, and he was pointing at Michael. ‘There is the man who prefers to let College business take precedence over his University duties. He has been in Michaelhouse, drinking claret with his Master, when he should have been here.’

‘Is this true, Brother?’ asked Chancellor Tynkell nervously. He was a timid nonentity, wholly incapable of calming the anger that was erupting all around him.

‘Of course it is not true,’ bellowed Deynman indignantly. ‘King’s Hall is just trying to make trouble for Michaelhouse.’

As he headed for the north aisle, Bartholomew saw the scholars had arranged themselves into two distinct factions – those who sided with Michaelhouse, and those who preferred King’s Hall. He knew from past experience that it was bad news when a debate moved from academic topics and began to air other grievances. It meant the audience was itching for a fight. Powys seemed to know it, too.

‘Michael should resign,’ he shouted provocatively. ‘He has accrued too much power, and I have no confidence in his rule. I demand he steps down as Senior Proctor.’

There was a cacophony of yells, some howling support for Michael and others bawling that Powys made a very good point. The clamour was deafening.

‘Powys is right,’ hollered Eltisle of Bene’t College, who had never liked the monk. He had a shrill voice, and it carried over the others. ‘We have all been burgled over the last few weeks, but Brother Michael has made no effort to catch the culprits.’

‘On the contrary,’ boomed Michael, scrambling on to the dais next to the Chancellor. He held an imperious hand aloft, and such was the force of his personality that it immediately quelled the din. ‘I have just arrested Gosse and his sister on charges of theft and murder.’