the fire.'
'Fire? In this weather?' asked Bartholomew before he could stop himself.
Heppel looked pained. 'For my chest,' he explained.
'You understand. And I find a fire so much better for reading after dark. Much better than a candle, don't you think?'
Since candles were expensive and firewood more so, Bartholomew had seldom had the opportunity to find out.
'I heard your brother-in-law's premises were attacked last night,' Heppel added as he rolled up his sheaf of parchments. 'I hope no damage was done.'
Bartholomew had not given his family a single thought that day, assuming that if any of Oswald Stanmore's household had been harmed they would have summoned him. He decided he should pay them a visit, reluctantly banishing from his mind the attractive alternative of a wash in clean water and a quiet supper in the orchard.
He rubbed his hand through his hair wearily, nodding to Heppel as he took his leave.
'Thank you for getting me out of that, Sam,' he said when the Junior Proctor had gone. 'The last thing I feel like doing now is thinking about astrology. Did you make it all up?'
'Of course I did,' said Gray, surprised by the question.
'I certainly did not learn it from you, did I, bearing in mind your antipathy to the subject?'
'I have taught you some astrology,' said Bartholomew indignantly, 'including how to do consultations of the kind Heppel has in mind. In fact, you can do his next week and I shall listen to see how much you have remembered.'
Gray sighed theatrically. 'Never do a master a favour, Rob,' he instructed Deynman. 'It is seldom appreciated and often dangerous.'
'I will do Master Heppel's consultation,' offered Deynman enthusiastically. 'I recall everything you said about Venus and Mars.'
Bartholomew seriously doubted it, and had reservations about letting Deynman loose on anyone, even for something as non-invasive as a consultation about astrology. He might well inform Heppel that he only had a few days to live, or that a strong dose of arsenic would increase his chances of living to be a hundred years old. While Deynman's outrageous interpretations of planetary movements provided Bartholomew with an endless supply of amusing anecdotes with which to horrify Michael, it would scarcely be appropriate to inflict him on real patients.
Tiredly, Bartholomew sent his students back to Michael-house with orders not to go out again and went to find his brother-in-law. Soldiers were very much in evidence on the streets, sweating under their chain-mail, and armed to the teeth. Heppel and his group of beadles were marching around the town proclaiming that all scholars must be in their hostels or colleges by seven o'clock, and that any who
were not would be summarily arrested. The Sheriffs men were issuing similar warnings to the townspeople.
It seemed to be working: the streets were emptier than usual. People had laboured all day in the sweltering sun to restore order to the town and, with luck, would be too exhausted for rioting that night. Burned wreckage had been moved into a large pile and other rubbish swept away. Bartholomew saw some of it being carted off in the direction of the King's Ditch, and wondered if, after all the dredging efforts by both town and University, the Ditch was to be blocked again so soon. He also wondered at the wisdom of collecting all the partly burned wood into a large pile in the Market Square: even to the most naпve of eyes, it looked like a bonfire waiting to be lit.
Stanmore's business premises were protected by a high wall and sturdy gates. No harm had come to them that Bartholomew could detect, although the house next door had been attacked and looted. Stanmore employed a small number of mercenaries to protect his ever-increasing trade and it would be a foolish man who would risk targeting his property. Bartholomew, with an ease born of familiarity, walked across the yard and ran lightly up the wooden stairs to the fine solar on the upper floor.
Bartholomew had always liked the room Stanmore used as an office. A colourful assortment of rugs were scattered across the floor and it always smelled of parchment, ink and dyed cloth.
Stanmore sat at a table near the window, dictating a letter to his secretary. The merchant dismissed the clerk as Bartholomew poked his head round the door, then greeted his brother-in-law warmly. He sent for wine, and gestured that Bartholomew should sit on one of the cushioned window seats where he would be fanned by the breeze.
'Guy Heppel told me your premises had been attacked,' said Bartholomew, sipping at some fine red wine. He glanced down at it, noting how clear it was and the richness of its colour. He decided Michael was wrong after all — if Bartholomew acquired a taste for good wine, clear ale and edible food, he would starve to death at Michaelhouse.
'Guy Heppel was mistaken,' said Stanmore, sitting opposite him and offering him an apple from a large dish. 'I had my men posted on the walls with arrows at the ready; the rioters prudently went elsewhere — next door among other places.'
'Do you have any ideas about why the town is in such turmoil?' asked Bartholomew. Stanmore's wide network of informants meant that he was often party to information inaccessible to University men and it was always worth asking what he had heard.
Stanmore shook his head slowly. 'Ostensibly, the riots were about the death of that student and the skeleton in the Ditch,' he said, 'but I cannot believe they were the only reasons. The whole town has been growing increasingly uneasy during the past two weeks or so. A student was killed by an apprentice last month in a street fight and his death did not provoke such a violent reaction.'
'Michael was thinking along the same lines this morning,' said Bartholomew. 'However, neither of us can imagine why anyone should want to instigate such chaos.'
He rubbed a hand through his hair, staring down at the wine in his cup. 'Damage was done to both town and University property and there were arrests on both sides. It is difficult to see what anyone might have gained — scholar or townsperson. Do you have any ideas yourself?'
Stanmore blew out his cheeks. 'None that I can prove,' he replied. 'But Master Deschalers's house next door was systematically sacked last night-not looted on the spur of the moment, but carefully burgled and only items of the greatest value taken. Oh, things were broken and thrown around to make it look as if it had been sacked, of course.
But the reality was that nothing was stolen except that which was most valuable and easily spirited away.'
'You think someone caused a riot to burgle Deschalers's house?' asked Bartholomew, startled.
Stanmore made an impatient sound. 'Of course not, Matt! But it would not surprise me if you discovered Deschalers's was not the only house looted last night. If several such burglaries took place, then someone might have benefited considerably.'
Bartholomew regarded him soberly, and finished his wine. 'If the word is spread that the riots were started to allow burglars to operate, then sensible people will hide their valuables. It might deter thieves from sparking off another night of chaos to do it again.' He set the cup down on the window-sill and stood.
'True,' said Stanmore, following Bartholomew down the stairs to see him out. 'And the threat of burglary might be enough to keep people off the streets. Who would be foolish enough to leave their homes, knowing that they were being enticed out deliberately?'
'I doubt it was the wealthy merchants, with houses worth looting, who were out rioting last night,' said Bartholomew, looking backwards at him. 'It was the apprentices and the poor people with little to lose. I do not think burglars would start a riot to steal a few cracked plates and a handful of tallow candles.'
'Times are hard, Matt,' said Stanmore primly. 'Since the Death, there is a shortage of everything — including plates and candles. Such items are valuable these days.'
'If you were poor, would you burgle Deschalers's mansion or Dunstan the Riverman's hovel?' asked Bartholomew.
'If caught, you would be hanged in either case.'
True enough,' admitted Stanmore. 'Suffice to say I am glad I am not in the Sheriffs shoes today. I would not know where to start investigating all this.'
Bartholomew glanced up at the dusky sky, and swore softly. 'The Sheriff! Damn! I promised him I would go to
