Norbert has no reason to kill Kenzie.'
'What about the ring?' asked Michael. 'The lover's ring that Kenzie had lost to Edred that day?'
'Why?' said Bartholomew. 'Why should Norbert want the ring? And if you recall, Kenzie wore no ring when he died. Edred had stolen it earlier — or at least, had stolen the fake.'
Lydgate nodded. 'Edred tried to claim a reward by offering a cheap imitation of Dominica's ring. I grew angry with him and since then he has been sulky with me. That is why he accused me of those murders — as I said, it is the only thing I truly understand in all this muddle.'
'Ah!' said Michael. 'So, the slippery friar changed his allegiance. This begins to make sense. Repulsed by you in his attempts at winning favour, he was recruited by, or turned to, Norbert. It was Norbert who told him to make sure you were blamed for all those deaths by coming to us, and it was for Norbert that Edred searched Matt's room looking for the Galen. I think Edred believed what he told us was true and I think he was afraid of you. But he was working for Norbert all the time!'
It was dark in the church now and the only light came from the candles. There seemed to be little more to be said and Michael and Lydgate stood. As Lydgate stepped forward, he stumbled against Michael's bench.
Bartholomew caught him by the arm and prevented him from falling. Lydgate peered down at the bench and grimaced.
'How long have your eyes been failing?' asked Bartholomew gently.
Lydgate glared at him and pulled his arm away sharply.
That is none of your business,' he snapped, but then relented. 'My eyesight has never been good, but these last three years have seen a marked degeneration. Father Philius says there is nothing I can do. I have told no one except Dominica. It is worse at night, though. Everything fades into shadow.'
As they opened the door of the church, they saw an orange glow in the sky and, very distantly, they could hear shouting and screams carried on the slightest of breezes.
'Oh, Lord, no!' whispered Michael, gazing at the eerie lights. 'The riot has started!'
'My hostel!' exclaimed Lydgate and hurried away into the night without so much as a backward glance. Michael watched him go.
'How did you guess about his sight?' he asked.
Bartholomew shrugged. 'The signs are clear enough.
He rubs his eyes constantly and he squints and peers around. When I paced, he spoke to me in the wrong direction. And he failed to see the bench he fell over.
He lost Kenzie when he followed him and he, unlike Edred, did not see his bright yellow hose. But even more importantly, he probably did not see Dominica. It was Joanna he saw dead.'
'So, your theory was wrong after all,' said Michael.
'Dominica and Joanna are different.'
'It would seem so,' said Bartholomew. 'The woman's face was bloody, and the street where he found her and the Castle mortuary were dark, where Lydgate admits he cannot see well. The dead woman was probably Joanna after all. But I am not the only one who was mistaken.
Lydgate, Cecily and Edred all think Dominica died on the night of the riot. Edred and Cecily only saw a fair- haired corpse from a distance; Lydgate saw her close but has poor vision.'
'So Lydgate went to look at her body at the Castle,' said Michael, 'because he had not trusted his failing eyesight on the night of the riot.'
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and then scrubbed hard at his face. Although things were clearer Joanna and Dominica were not one and the same; he now understood the reason behind Lydgate's hostility towards him; and they finally knew more about the treacherous Edred's actions — there were still many questions that remained unanswered. Where was Dominica? Where was Norbert? Why had Bigod and his cronies elected to organise a riot that night? And why had someone been to such trouble to ensure that Joanna's body had been mistaken for Dominica's? He and Michael sank into the shadows of the church as shouting and running feet began to echo along the High Street. It grew closer, many feet pounding the dust of the road.
'It sounds like an army,' whispered Michael, edging further back.
Torches threw bouncing shadows in all directions as the mob surged past, yelling and calling to each other.
Bartholomew recognised some of them as tradesmen from the Market Square. They all carried weapons of one kind or another — staves, knives, scythes, sticks, even cooking pots. Where the torch-light caught the occasional face, Bartholomew saw that they appeared mesmerised. They chanted together, nonsense words, but ones that created a rhythm of unity. Bartholomew had heard that clever commanders were able to create such a feeling of oneness before battles and that the soldiers, whipped up into a frenzy, fought like wild animals until they either died or dropped from sheer weariness. The crowd that surged past Bartholomew and Michael ran as one, chanting and crashing their weapons together. Bartholomew knew that if he and Michael were spotted now in their scholars' garb, they would be killed for certain. No amount of reasoning could possibly work against this enraged mob.
As the last torch jiggled past and the footsteps and chanting faded, Michael crossed himself vigorously, and Bartholomew crept cautiously to the fringe of trees in the graveyard to check that the rioters did not double back.
'That was an evil-intentioned crowd,' he whispered, as Michael joined him. 'There will be murder and mayhem again tonight, Brother. Just as Bigod promised there would be.'
Michael regarded him sombrely. 'That was no random group of trouble-makers,' he muttered. 'That was a rabble, carefully brought to fever-pitch, and held there until it is time to release it.'
'We had better return to Michaelhouse,' said Bartholomew, his voice loud in the sudden silence. The fat monk tried to muffle Bartholomew's voice with a hand over his mouth.
'Hush! Or they will release it on you and me!' he hissed fiercely.
Bartholomew had never seen Michael so afraid before and it did little to ease his troubled mind.
Michael's beadles seemed pathetic compared to the confident mob that Bartholomew had seen thunder past. They looked terrified, too. Each time an especially loud yell occurred, they glanced nervously over their shoulders, and at least two of them were so white that Bartholomew thought they might faint. One took several steps backwards and then turned and fled. Bartholomew did not blame him: the group that had been hurriedly assembled in St Mary's churchyard was pitifully small, and would be more likely to attract the violent attentions of the crowd than to prevent trouble. To one side, Guy Heppel stood in the shadows and trembled with fear. His hands rubbed constantly at the sides of his tabard in agitation.
The Chancellor stalked up and down in front of his frightened army, twisting a ring around on his finger with such force that he risked breaking it.
A sudden shout made several of the beadles shy away in alarm, and all of them jumped. It was Tulyet, his face streaked with dirt, and his horse skittering and prancing in terror. Only Tulyet's superior horsemanship prevented him from being hurled from the saddle.
'At last! ' breathed de Wetherset, and smiles of relief broke out on the faces of one or two of the beadles. 'What is the news? Is the mob dispersing?'
Tulyet leaned towards him so that the fearful beadles would not overhear.
'One hostel has been fired, but it seems that most, if not all, of the scholars escaped. St Paul's Hostel is under siege but is holding out. Townsfolk are gathering near St Michael's Church and it looks as though there will be an attack on Michaelhouse soon. And at least three other hostels have been sacked.'
'Are the scholars retaliating?' asked Bartholomew, trying to stay clear of the horse's flailing hooves.
'Not yet,' said Tulyet. He flashed Michael a grin of thanks as the fat monk took a firm hold of his mount's reins, preventing it from cavorting by sheer strength of arm. 'But I have had reports that they are massing.
Valence Marie are out and so are King's Hall.'
'What of Godwinsson?' asked Michael, stroking the horse's velvet nose, oblivious to the white froth that oozed from its mouth as it chewed wildly on the bit.
'That is the one that has been fired,' said Tulyet. 'The students are out somewhere.'
'What do you plan to do?' asked the Chancellor. There was a loud crash from the direction of the Market Square, and he winced. It was only a short distance from the Market Square to St Mary's Church, the centre of all University business, and the place where all its records were stored. It would take very little for the townspeople to
