Susanna GREGORY - Death of a Scholar

‘There is only one way to survive,’ declared Michael. ‘By putting aside our differences and joining forces. The invaders want blood, and if we fight among ourselves, they will have it.’

‘Shoot him, Eyer,’ snapped Bon. ‘Then kill the physicians. De Stannell, shout to your troops again. The rabble will disperse when they see armed soldiers coming.’

There was another almighty crash from downstairs, followed by a deep, penetrating groan that suggested some vital support was in the process of disintegrating. Then the floor tipped violently to one side. Bon staggered and Eyer grabbed a windowsill for support. De Stannell dropped his crossbow.

It was the chance Bartholomew had been waiting for. He hurled himself at Eyer, and was aware of Nerli leaping up to tackle de Stannell, leaving Bon for Michael. Physician and apothecary crashed to the floor, where they began a frantic tussle for the weapon. Upstairs, the students screamed in terror, and part of the ceiling fell, narrowly missing Lawrence. The building torqued enough to pop out all its remaining panes, and there was a wild cheer from the yard below.

‘The stairs!’ shouted Lawrence. ‘Quickly! It is–’

But his words were lost in another deafening groan and the building began to topple.

For a moment, Bartholomew heard nothing but the tortured squeals of flexing timbers. He staggered upright, which was not easy when the floor was tilting at such a crazy angle. Eyer snatched at his legs, then disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Coughing hard, Bartholomew scrambled towards the door, stopping only to haul Nerli to his feet. He saw Michael’s bulky form ahead, but there was no sign of the others. They had been closer to the exit, so he could only assume they had already left.

‘Follow me!’ cried Lawrence, arriving from the dormitory with the surviving defenders at his heels. Bartholomew was relieved to see Cynric among them. ‘The back door – hurry!’

It was a terrifying journey down the stairs. Lumps of masonry plummeted all around them, and the student in front of Bartholomew was killed instantly when a piece landed on his head. Lawrence stopped to tend him, but Bartholomew shoved him on, not wanting those behind them to be delayed for a lost cause. Grit and dust swirled so thickly that they could not see their own feet. Then Lawrence fell, tumbling down several steps in a flurry of flailing limbs.

‘I cannot see,’ he rasped. ‘I am disorientated…’

Bartholomew staggered as someone tried to shove past him. It was Bon, for whom blinding dust was less of a problem. Bartholomew grabbed his tabard, and although the Winwick Fellow tried to punch him away, he refused to let go. Bon screeched when a stone struck his shoulder, and broke into a stumbling trot, unwillingly towing Bartholomew after him. The physician kept hold of Nerli with his other arm, yelling for the others to follow his voice. They struggled down more stairs and along a hallway.

He felt wind on his face, and although he still could not see, he was aware of daylight ahead. Lawrence surged past, and began to wrestle with the clasp on a window. It flew open with a metallic screech, ripped from his hand by the gale. De Stannell batted him out of the way, desperate to escape first, but the mob was at the back of the hall as well as the front, and the deputy disappeared in a sea of clawing, punching hands.

‘A cruel choice,’ gasped Michael. ‘Being crushed or torn to pieces.’

Another beam fell, and dust belched thickly out of the window. It drove the invaders back, so Bartholomew used it as a shield to conceal him as he scrambled out – it was more instinct than a rational decision about the way he wanted to die. Michael followed, murmuring prayers of contrition under his breath.

Then Potmoor emerged with a sword, and the diabolical shriek he gave as he plunged among the attackers was enough to scatter them in alarm. He laid about him wildly until someone lobbed a knife that took him in the back. Bartholomew hurried towards him, but was knocked to the ground with a cudgel. Dazed, all he could think was that he had to reach Potmoor and help him. More of the building fell, and no one took any notice as he crawled towards the fallen felon through a sea of milling legs.

‘You will have to resurrect me again,’ whispered Potmoor. ‘Where are your smelling salts?’

Bartholomew had lost his medical bag in the hall, but Potmoor’s eyes closed in death, so it did not matter. He sensed, rather than saw, someone come up behind him, and whipped around just in time to avoid a jab from a makeshift spear. He recognised his assailant as one of the soldiers from Fulbut’s party, and supposed the fellow had joined the riot to avenge his friend. The soldier raised the weapon to strike again, but Bartholomew managed to grab a piece of scaffolding from the ground and sent the fellow flying with a wild swing that hit its target more from luck than skill.

There was a low rumble as more of the hall fell, sending a blast of debris into the desperate mêlée. Several attackers dropped as if poleaxed. Then someone came at Bartholomew with a sword. He raised the strut, but it flew to pieces in his hands, leaving him defenceless. The swordsman prepared to strike the killing blow, but the swipe was blocked by another weapon. Bartholomew could not see his rescuer in the billowing dust, but there was a waft of familiar perfume.

‘Richard?’

His nephew was howling at the top of his voice, but Bartholomew could not make out the words at first. Then he caught ‘Michaelhouse Choir’, and was suddenly aware that a number of those around him were singers. Verius was fighting like a lion, valiantly repelling a group of townsmen determined to make an end of an enticingly prostrate Senior Proctor.

The fracas ended when the hall finally gave up the ghost, and combatants on both sides were forced to run for cover or risk being buried alive. Bartholomew, Verius and Richard dragged Michael to his feet, and took refuge behind a stable as the wind swept a treacherous barrage of splinters and plaster fragments over them, forcing them to hunker down with their arms over their heads. It seemed an age before they were finally able to stand up.

‘Well,’ breathed Michael, staring at the heap of rubble that was unrecognisable as Cambridge’s newest College. ‘I wonder what John Winwick will say about that when he arrives.’

‘He is not coming, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘At least, not today – Tynkell just told me. He sends his apologies, and hopes you will enjoy the start of term without him.’

Michael sagged. ‘I do not know whether to laugh or cry.’

He emerged unsteadily from behind the shed, then flinched when someone lobbed a rock at him. The culprit was Sir Joshua Hardwell, the soldierly matriculand who had been left in charge when Winwick’s Fellows had gone to practise for the debate with Michaelhouse.

‘The next person who does that is a dead man,’ came the angry and distinctive voice of Isnard the bargeman. ‘Brother Michael is under my protection.’

Hardwell gave a jeering bray of laughter. ‘You imagine you are a match for me?’

He stepped forward threateningly, but stopped when Isnard bellowed a summons and choir members appeared from all directions to stand at his side.

‘Fight him, and you fight us all,’ growled Verius. ‘Right, lads?’

There was a chorus of rumbled agreement, deep from the basses and higher from the tenors.

‘Oh, Christ!’ blurted Hardwell, looking along the serried ranks in alarm. ‘I think they are going to sing .’

He hurtled towards the back gate, and his sudden, agitated flight caused others to follow.

‘Sing,’ mused Isnard. ‘Now there is an idea.’

‘Especially as the University’s opening ceremony has been cancelled,’ added Verius. ‘It would be a shame not to warble something today, after all our rehearsals.’