Susanna Gregory: A Plague On Both Your Houses

'Right,' he said, rubbing his hands together. 'Let me think.'

'Your plan is fatally flawed,' said Bartholomew.

The hand-rubbing stopped. 'Nonsense,' Swynford said, but there was hesitation in his voice.

'Alcote would never consider taking me on in a fight! Look at him! No one would believe that he would fight me.'

'True,' Swynford said. 'Itwould be an uneven match.

He probably wounded you with a crossbow first,' he said, nodding to Colet, who raised the instrument and pointed it at Bartholomew.

'Even worse,' said Bartholomew. 'Everyone knows that Alcote cannot tell one end of such a weapon from another, and certainly would not be able to wind it and loose a quarrel at me before I could overpower him.'

'Well, perhaps he dashedyour brains outwith a heavy instrument,' said Swynford, growing exasperated.

'Like what?' said Bartholomew, gesturing round. 'A pewter cup? A piece of fish?'

'It really does not matter, Rob,' said Colet. 'So what if this all looks like the elaborate plot it is? Anyone working out what really happened will believe what we tell them — that the Oxford men are becoming bold again. What a formidable force they must be to sneak into the heart of a College and murder two of its Fellows in broad daylight.'

Swynford's face slowly broke into a smile, and he nodded.

'Come on, let us get it done so we can leave,' said Colet. He took a lamp from a table, lit it, and dashed it onto the floor. The rushes immediately caught fire, and Alcote screamed as the flames danced towards him.

Bartholomew twisted suddenly and drove his elbow into Stephen's stomach with all his strength. Stephen gasped and dropped to his knees. Bartholomew kicked the sword away from him and leapt onto a table to escape a lunge from Swynford. Colet swung round and aimed the crossbow. Running along the table, Bartholomew felt the missile pluck at his shirt as it sped harmlessly by.

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.