that their mood was surly, resentful of the wealth that bespoke itself in the gowns of many of the scholars, and of their assumed superiority. As Wilson's procession filed out of the church, Bartholomew could hear whispered comments about idle scholars draining the town of its affluence, comments that became more than whispers as the crowd grew in confidence.
Aware that such an ostentatious display of Michaelhouse wealth might serve to alienate the townspeople, Wilson had ordered tiiat coins be distributed among the poor to celebrate his new post. Cynric and the other book- bearers, who had been told to give out the small leather bags containing pennies, were almost mobbed as the crowd surged towards them. Immediately, any semblance of order was lost, as handfuls of money were grabbed by those strong enough to push their way to the front. Fists began to fly, and the book-bearers beat a hasty retreat, leaving the crowd to fight over the coins.
Bartholomew saw students begin to group together, some of them holding sticks and small knives. Hastily he ordered them back to their Colleges or hostels. It would take very little to spark off a town brawl. Even the sight of a group of students, armed and spoiling for a fight, could be enough to start a full scale riot.
Most of the studentsleft, many looking disappointed, but Bartholomew saw two of Michaelhouse's students, the Oliver brothers, darting here and there. Within a few minutes they had assembled a group of at least thirty black-gowned scholars, some from Michaelhouse, but most from other Colleges and hostels.
He groaned to himself. He strongly suspected that the Oliver brothers had been involved in starting the last town brawl. And what better time for another than now? The townsfolk were already massed, many angry that they had not managed to grab any of Wilson's money, and resentment still festered regarding the hanging of the two apprentices. It would take only a shouted insult from a student to a townsperson, and all hell would break loose. Some would just use fists, but others, especially the Oliver brothers, would use knives and sharpened sticks, and the injuries, like last time, would be horrific. Why anyone would want to start such a scene was beyond Bartholomew's imagination, but there were the students, already furtively sharing out the illicit weapons they had concealed in their robes.
Cynric stood behind him. 'Cynric! Fetch the Proctor and warn him that there may be trouble,'
Bartholomew said urgently.
'As quick as I can,' Cynric whispered, grabbing Bartholomew's sleeve, 'but watch out for yourself. This looks ugly.' When Bartholomew turned to look at him, he had already gone, moving quickly in and out of the lengthening shadows with all the stealth of a cat.
The light was failing quickly now, and it was difficult to distinguish faces. The Oliver brothers, however, could be identified in virtually any light. Well over six feet tall, they both sported long fair hair that fell to their shoulders and were renowned for their flamboyant clothes. Even in the gloom, Bartholomew could see gold thread glittering on the gown of Elias, the elder of the two.
'All Michaelhouse scholars have been invited to attend Master Wilson's feast,' said Bartholomew pleasantly to Elias. 'It should be a night to remember. I am sure you will enjoy it.'
Nephews of the influential Abbess of St Radegund's Convent, Michaelhouse had been enticed to accept the Olivers as students in exchange for a small house on Foul Lane. They were not noted for their dedication to learning: Elias could barely read and write, although his younger brother showed a natural quickness of mind that could have been trained in scholarly matters had he shown the slightest willingness to learn.
'We have promised to visit our aunt tonight.' Henry Oliver had approached unnoticed. The slow-witted Elias gave him a grateful look, and Bartholomew, not for the first time, had to admire young Oliver's cunning. How could a teacher of Michaelhouse forbid a devoted nephew from visiting the venerable Abbess of St Radegund's? 'This is a very special day for our new Master,' said Bartholomew. 'I know he would appreciate both of you being present to share it with him.'
Henry Oliver narrowed his eyes. 'But we have promised our aunt,' he said in a mock-pleading manner. 'I could not bear to have the noble lady disappointed.'
'I am sure she will not be,' insisted Bartholomew, 'when you explain why.' Hiding his irritation at Oliver's ploy — after all, the Abbess of St Radegund's was no frail old crone living solely for visits from her kin, but a healthy, strong-minded woman in early middle age he took Oliver firmly by the arm and began walking towards St Michael's Lane. Behind them, the students muttered, but, deprived of their leader, reluctantly began to disperse, those from Michaelhouse falling in behind Bartholomew and Henry.
Bartholomew felt, rather than saw, the shower of small stones that followed them. Henry slowed, and tried to turn back, but Bartholomew dragged him round the corner into St Michael's Lane, and increased his speed as much as he could without actually breaking into a run.
He stole a glance behind him, and saw that a good part of the crowd from outside the church had followed them, and Bartholomew and his students were outnumbered at least five to one.
'We should all have stayed together,' Henry Oliver hissed, squirming in Bartholomew's grasp. 'Now, what chance do we have!'
'Every chance if we do not retaliate,' Bartholomew returned, nevertheless unnerved by the continuing hail of small stones that rained down upon them.
They neared the College gates, and Bartholomew wondered whether the last of the students would be able to escape the crowd. He let go of Henry, and pushed him towards the College. 'Go quickly!' he said urgently, 'And make sure the gates are ready to be fastened once all the students are inside.'
Henry needed no second bidding; he was no fool and knew when courage in a fight became stupidity. He set off down the lane with his fellow students streaming behind him. Bartholomew saw that a group of four scholars, Elias Oliver included, had been slow to follow him, and were now being jostled and shoved by those at the front of the advancing crowd. A sturdy man in a blacksmith's apron gave Elias a hard push, almost sending him sprawling.
Elias bunched his fists, his face a mask of anger. One of the other students pulled him forward as Bartholomew silently urged them not to fight back.
The first of the four broke into a run. He reached the College gates, and was hauled through them by those already safe inside. Bartholomew noticed that Henry had the sturdy oak gates all but closed already, just a crack remaining to allow the stragglers in before they would be slammed shut on the mob outside.
As Elias drew level with Bartholomew, the blacksmith drew a wicked-looking blade from his apron, and jabbed wildly with it. Bartholomewwrenched Elias outof the path of the slicing blade and, abandoning all further pretence of calm, yelled for the last three students to run for their lives. White-faced, they obeyed, only just staying ahead of the mob, which surged after them. Gasping for breath, the three, with Bartholomew at the rear, shot through the gates, which were slammed shut; heavy bars were shot across as the mob crashed into them.
Bartholomew heard screams and yells, and knew that the people in the front were being crushed against the gates and walls by those behind. A student slumped to the ground as a further barrage of stones flew over the high walls. Master Wilson came scurrying out of the hall, flanked by his Fellows and guests, to see what all the commotion was about, and stopped short as he saw the lethal volley of missiles raining over the walls.
'A fitting end to a miserable day.' Bartholomew turned, and saw Giles Abigny helping to hold the gate against the battering from outside. He winced as a particularly heavy thump jarred it. Leaving his post to be filled by the students that came pouring from the dormitories at the sound of the affray, most already in their cleanest gowns in anticipation of the feast to come, he motioned Bartholomew into a doorway where they could not be overheard, his fresh face unusually serious.
'We should pick our scholars more carefully, Matt. Young Henry Oliver was all set to slam the door before you were inside, and would have done had I not been there.'
Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief. 'You must be mistaken, he…'
'No mistake, Matt. I heard him say to that spotty student of yours, the one from Fen Ditton who always has a cold…'
'Francis Eltham?'
'Indeed. I heard him tell Eltham to make sure that the gate was closed before you reached it. I ensured it remained open, but Oliver was furious. Look at him now.'
Bartholomew easily spotted the Oliver brothers among the milling students — they stood a head taller than the rest. Now that the immediate danger was over, the scholars had regained their confidence, and were shouting taunts to the people outside. Henry Oliver did not join in. He stood glowering, his face distorted with anger. Bartholomew saw him raise a bunched fist, and Eltham shrank back. As if he felt their eyes on him, Oliver turned his
