‘Did you attend any of those meetings Walcote arranged at St Radegund’s Convent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And did you know that Timothy and Janius were going to kill Michael?’
‘Of course I attended Walcote’s meetings,’ snapped Lincolne impatiently. ‘I am the leader of the Carmelites, and an important man. It was I who recommended that he hold them at St Radegund’s.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is no place for decent men.’
‘Walcote did not invite decent men,’ said Lincolne reasonably. ‘He invited Pechem and Morden and Ralph. Holding the meetings there ensured they all came – they were all very sanctimonious about the venue, but I knew they would not attend if he held them anywhere less interesting. It was also the last place Michael would think to look for us.’
‘You are wrong about the others,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are the only one to cavort regularly with prostitutes.’
‘Lies!’ spat Lincolne. ‘I do no such thing.’
‘You have a long-standing arrangement with Yolande de Blaston,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Matilde had told him. ‘None of the others break their vows with such regularity. But I want to know more about St Radegund’s. Did Eve Wasteneys, Mabel Martyn or Tysilia help you?’
‘Tysilia?’ exclaimed Lincolne in genuine horror. ‘The woman is a half-wit in a pretty body. She killed my poor novice – Brother Andrew – by breaking his impressionable heart. She is vermin, who will not survive the Death when God sends it a second time to rid the world of evil.’
‘What about the other nuns, then?’ pressed Bartholomew, wincing as Michael tumbled against the platform, threatening to demolish it with him and Lincolne still underneath. ‘How much did they know about what was discussed?’
Lincolne pulled his thoughts away from Tysilia. ‘Eve Wasteneys was too busy to be interested, while it was Dame Martyn’s task to arrange for services to be provided for those who required them. And I do not mean services of a religious nature, so do not tell me the likes of Pechem, Morden and Ralph are saints where women are concerned.’
‘Did you know that Timothy and Janius retrieved Faricius’s essay because they intended to have it published under their own names?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that would shock the friar.
‘Liar!’ snapped Lincolne.
‘They stole it from Father Paul. Janius is in the proctors’ cells, and doubtless will confirm it when you join him there.’
‘Not me,’ said Lincolne, lunging at Bartholomew with the knife. ‘I am going to no such place.’
Bartholomew twisted to one side, and the gleaming blade made a long groove in one of St Mary’s beautiful decorated tiles. Lincolne stabbed again, and Bartholomew hurled himself against the Prior, aiming to crush the man against the side of the platform. Michael, however, intervened. Determined to haul the physician to his feet before he was trampled, he took a firm hold of Bartholomew’s arm and pulled with considerable force. Bartholomew found himself pinned against the platform himself, unable to move. With a grin of triumph as he saw his quarry rendered immobile, Lincolne began to move towards him.
Just when Bartholomew thought that Michael would unwittingly bring about his death, Lincolne’s determined advance was brought to a halt by a group of skirmishing Dominicans and Carmelites, who collided with the platform, causing it to topple. Bartholomew struggled free of Michael as it fell with an almighty crash that hurt his ears. Lincolne suddenly found himself deprived of the relative safety of his refuge, and Bartholomew took advantage of the Prior’s moment of confusion by diving at him. One of the brawling Dominicans blundered into the physician at exactly the wrong moment, so that he fell awkwardly, and managed to end up underneath Lincolne rather than on top, as he had intended.
There was a sudden shriek and a yell of ‘fire!’ The milling mass of bodies was still for an instant, and then there was a concerted dash for the door. Feet pounded and trampled as people rushed forward. Some tripped over the prostrate Lincolne, and Bartholomew’s attempts to struggle free and make his own way to the door were futile. He winced as someone kicked his leg in the frantic dash from the burning building, and then curled into a ball to protect his head to wait until the stampede was over. Fortunately, his position under Lincolne saved him from most of the bruising footsteps that pounded across the floor.
Finally, the church was empty. Bartholomew pushed Lincolne away from him and sat up to see the last of the scholars disappearing through the great west door. One or two were limping and others were being helped by their friends, but at least everyone was walking. Recalling the reason for the panic, the physician gazed around him wildly, but could see no flames. He could not even smell smoke.
‘Where is the fire?’ he demanded, scrambling to his feet.
‘There is no fire,’ said Michael. ‘That was someone’s idea of a practical joke. Still, at least it put an end to all that fighting.’
‘Everyone is going home peacefully,’ reported Beadle Meadowman, running breathlessly back into the church to Michael. ‘I thought they would continue to fight outside, but too many of them have bruises already, and they are dispersing quite quietly.’
‘Lincolne!’ exclaimed Michael, staring down at the Carmelite friar when he became aware that the man was lying unnaturally still amid a spreading stain of blood. Horneby was next to him, kneeling and muttering the words of the final absolution.
‘Prior Lincolne killed Faricius,’ said Horneby, gazing up at them with a face that was pale with shock. ‘I heard what he told you, Doctor. We thought the Dominicans killed Faricius, but all the time it was him. Our own Prior.’
‘What is this?’ asked Michael in confusion. ‘And what is wrong with Lincolne?’
‘He fell on his knife,’ said Horneby quietly. He fixed Bartholomew with a calm, steady gaze that was impossible to interpret. Had Horneby killed the Prior, to avenge the death of his friend? Or had the murderous Lincolne been pushed on to his own dagger when so many feet had thundered across him?
Bartholomew knelt next to Lincolne, and saw the knife protruding from his stomach. He stared at Horneby, noting his bloodstained hands, and wondered whether the fact that Lincolne had died in the same way as Faricius was significant. Horneby said nothing, but continued with his absolution. As he touched the body to anoint it, yet more blood darkened his fingers, and Bartholomew knew it would be impossible to tell whether Horneby had taken his own vengeance. Horneby knew it, too, and gave Bartholomew a small, bitter smile as he straightened the curious topknot that had provided Bartholomew with his final clue.
‘I told you I would clear the church within moments, if I spoke about life on other planets,’ said Heytesbury, coming to stand next to them. He was amused by the whole incident, and did not seem too concerned by the fact that a scholar lay dead at their feet. ‘I was right.’
‘It was you who shouted that there was a fire?’ asked Michael in sudden understanding.
Heytesbury grinned at him in a way that made it clear he had been the one responsible. ‘But, although I may have been correct about emptying the church, I was wrong about one thing, Brother.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.
‘I thought today would be a dull experience. It was not. You Cambridge men certainly know how to organise a memorable debate!’
Epilogue
BARTHOLOMEW LEANED BACK AMONG THE SCENTED cushions in the chair nearest to Matilde’s fire and watched her bring mulled wine for him and Michael from the small parlour at the back of the house. It smelled rich and sweet, and the aroma of cloves and cinnamon mingled pleasantly with the pine needles that crackled and popped in the hearth.
‘So,’ said Michael with great satisfaction, leaning forward to see which of the three goblets was the fullest and then taking it. ‘We emerge victorious once more. You would think criminals and murderers would have learned by now that Cambridge is not the place to be if they want their nasty plans to succeed. They would do better going to Oxford.’
