to listen to the lies of that wicked man.’
‘Leave,’ suggested Michael breathlessly. ‘Then you will not have to.’
‘Our Prior will not be forced from his University church by a nominalist,’ declared Horneby hotly, trying to push his way past Bartholomew. ‘It is unthinkable!’
‘I will kill him where he stands,’ vowed Lincolne, white-faced with anger.
With a shock, Bartholomew saw that Lincolne had a knife in his hand, and the expression on his face indicated that he fully intended to use it. Even loyal Horneby’s jaw dropped in shock at the sight of his Prior armed and murderous in a church.
‘Wait!’ Horneby yelled, catching Lincolne’s sleeve and trying to pull him back. ‘This is no place for a fight, Father.’
‘It is the perfect place,’ snarled Lincolne, trying to free his arm from Horneby and the rest of him from Michael. It was easier said than done, and he started to lose his balance, threatening to drag his restrainers down with him.
Lincolne was not the only one who had decided it was a good time for a debate with fists rather than wits. Here and there, small skirmishes had broken out in the nave, and Bartholomew found himself hemmed in tightly by a throng of struggling, shoving scholars. Lincolne began to topple and snatched at Bartholomew to try to retain his balance. But Bartholomew was being pushed, too, and he grabbed at Lincolne at about the same time. They both fell, surrounded by churning boots and shoes that threatened to trample them.
A heavy foot planted on his hand convinced Bartholomew that the floor was no place to linger, but the press of bodies around him was such that he could not stand. Through the milling legs and swirling habits that surrounded him, he glimpsed the wooden platform that had been erected for Heytesbury to stand on. He made his way towards it on all fours.
When he arrived, bruised and rather breathless, he eased himself into its sanctuary only to discover that he was not the only one determined to use it as a refuge. Lincolne was already there, filling most of it with his bulk.
Michael saw that Bartholomew was still on the ground, and surged forward to try to pull him upright before he was injured. He snatched at a handful of the physician’s gown, and pulled as hard as he could. The rip was audible even over the frenzied yelling that filled the church, and the sudden removal of Bartholomew’s sleeve caused Michael to lose his balance. He staggered, crashing into Bartholomew, who was knocked forward into Lincolne. The physician reached out with both hands, instinctively grabbing at anything he could reach to save himself.
Unfortunately, his flailing hands encountered Lincolne’s topknot. He was horrified, embarrassed and slightly revolted when it came off. He glanced up. Without it, Lincolne was just an ordinary-looking man with a bald, yellowish forehead.
‘Give that back,’ snapped Lincolne, snatching it from the physician and replacing it. He glowered furiously at Bartholomew, who felt he had committed a most frightful indiscretion.
Mortified, the physician looked away, gazing at the hand that had deprived Lincolne of his hairpiece. He was confused to see that it was marked with a yellowish, sticky residue. He had seen a stain just like it on Walcote, and on Faricius before that. Bewildered, he stared at Lincolne.
‘I use gum mastic to keep my hair in place,’ explained Lincolne. ‘It is a better glue than anything else I have discovered, but it still has a habit of coming off in situations like this.’
‘“Situations like this”?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘You mean situations in which you are trying to kill someone?’ He flinched as a Dominican, punched hard by a Carmelite, reeled into the platform, and scrambled further inside.
‘It has come off in public twice before today,’ confided Lincolne. ‘Is it on straight? I do not like to be seen without it. It is nice, do you not agree?’
‘Is it real?’ asked Bartholomew, ghoulishly curious, despite the fact that he knew he should be asking Lincolne about his role in the deaths of Faricius and Walcote, not discussing fashions.
Lincolne nodded. ‘I had it made from my own hair, when I still had some.’
‘I have seen this glue before,’ said Bartholomew, glancing down at the vivid stain on his hand. ‘It was on the bodies of Faricius and Walcote.’
‘Yes,’ said Lincolne. ‘As I just said, it has a habit of coming off when I am trying to rid the world of people who should not be in it.’
‘
Lincolne pursed his lips. ‘The boy was writing the most scurrilous nonsense I have ever read. When he went out during the riot to retrieve it, I saw too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘
‘I thought I had killed him, and I was going to bury that vile essay with him. But the Dominican Precentor must have stolen it from his body. You understand, do you not? I could not have the Carmelites’ reputation sullied by the filth of nominalism.’
‘It is only a philosophical theory,’ said Bartholomew, his shocked voice only just audible over the deafening racket of the fight that surged above him. ‘An idea. It is nothing to kill for. But you urged Michael to investigate the Dominicans, while all the time the killer was you?’
‘Of course I encouraged him to look at the Black Friars,’ said Lincolne testily. ‘I did not want him discovering it was I who killed Faricius, or even worse, him learning about the existence of the essay.’
‘But why did you not just confiscate Faricius’s work?’ asked Bartholomew, ducking as someone in a grey habit tried to kick him.
‘I tried, but Faricius would not be silenced,’ replied Lincolne, striking out at the grey habit with his knife. There was an agonised howl and blood dribbled on to the creamy yellow tiles of the floor. ‘When I confronted him on Milne Street, he told me he intended to go to Oxford with Heytesbury, so that he could become a better nominalist than ever.’
‘And you killed Walcote, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought Timothy and Janius did that, but the gum mastic stain on Walcote’s hand indicates otherwise.’
‘He declined to hand over the essay. We offered him a chance to live, but he refused to take it. We hanged him, and Michael generously furthered our plan by appointing Timothy in his place.’
‘But why should that matter to you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were only interested in retrieving the essay.’
‘Then you are wrong,’ said Lincolne. ‘I am concerned with wider issues, too, such as Michael’s cavorting with Oxford men and threatening the welfare of the entire University. I had to stop him, and Timothy and Janius were helping me.’
‘So Timothy was telling the truth after all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said someone else was in control, but we did not believe him, especially when Janius denied it. But I did not imagine it was you. To be honest, I suspected Heytesbury, given that he is always chewing gum mastic.’
Lincolne snarled his disgust. ‘I am a decent man, who is prepared to act to see our University saved from men like Michael and Walcote. But that evil nominalist chews gum mastic to hide the fact that he is a heavy drinker.’
‘But what were
‘I was watching Kyrkeby,’ said Lincolne, stabbing at another pair of legs that came too close. He grimaced in annoyance when they moved before he could pierce them. ‘He was hovering outside our friary, as if he meant us harm. The other three frightened him to death and Walcote suggested we should hide him in the tunnel. It was time it was sealed anyway.’
‘But you said you did not know about it,’ said Bartholomew. Then he recalled what Lincolne had said the first time they had met, when the Carmelite had been ranting about the death of Faricius: that he had been at the friary since he was a child. And if that were the case, then he would certainly have known about the tunnel. Masters were never told, but Lincolne had been a student.
Lincolne saw the understanding in his face and sneered. ‘Did you imagine I was the only student ever to pass through the friary who was not party to the secret of the tunnel?’
