shake.
'You are safe!'
Finally, Master Kenyngham's soothing voice penetrated Bartholomew's numb mind. The physician looked about him, feeling stupid and bewildered, like Lydgate had been in the church just a short time before. He was standing in Michaelhouse's courtyard, while behind him students and Fellows alike struggled to close the gate through which they had hauled him to safety.
'It was lucky you were leaning against the wicket gate,' said Gray, who was holding his arm. 'If you had been standing to one side of it, we would never have got you back.'
'It was me who heard your voice,' said Deynman, his eyes bright with pride. 'I opened the gate quickly before anyone could tell me not to and we pulled you inside.'
'No one would have told you not to open the gate, Robert,' said Master Kenyngham reproachfully. 'But your quick thinking doubtlessly saved Doctor Bartholomew's life.'
Deynman's face shone with pleasure, and Bartholomew, still fighting to calm his jangling nerves, gave him a wan smile. Despite Kenyngham's assertion, Bartholomew was far from certain the other scholars would have allowed the gates to be opened for him with a mob thundering down the lane from both directions at once, and even if they had, the merest delay would have cost him his life. Deynman's uncharacteristically decisive action had most certainly delivered Bartholomew from a most unpleasant fate. He made a mental note to try to be more patient with Deynman in the future — perhaps
even to spend some time coaching him away from the others.
Bartholomew noticed one or two students rubbing bruises, and eyeing him resentfully. It had not been the mob at which he had lashed out so wildly, but his colleagues and students. He grinned at them sheepishly and most smiled back.
The scholars trying to close the wicket gate against the throng on the other side were finding it difficult. The door inched this way and that, groaning on its hinges against the pressure of dozens of sweating bodies on either side.
'The door! ' shouted Master Kenyngham, and Deynman and Gray hurried to assist their friends. 'And ring the bell!
Other scholars may come to our aid.'
'No!' cried Bartholomew. Kenyngham looked at him in astonishment, while Bartholomew tried to steady his voice. 'Brother Michael is trying to keep the scholars off the streets in the hope that, with no one to fight, the rioters will disperse.'
He glanced around him. There were perhaps thirty students and commoners at Michaelhouse, and seven Fellows including the Master, as well as six servants and Agatha the laundress. Although there were at least twice that number in the horde outside, Bartholomew thought that with the aid of Michaelhouse's sturdy walls and gates, they could hold out against the rioters. Kenyngham, however, appeared bewildered by the situation and his appalled passivity was doing nothing to improve their chances.
'May I make some suggestions, Master Kenyngham?'
Bartholomew asked him urgently. The other Fellows clustered around anxiously.
Kenyngham fixed him with a troubled stare. 'No, Matthew. Michaelhouse has always had good relations with the town and I do not want to jeopardise that by meeting its inhabitants with violence. I will climb on to the gate and try to talk reason to these people. They will leave when I point out the folly of their ways.'
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, while the more pragmatic Father William let out a snort of derision and jabbed a meaty finger towards the gate behind which the crowd howled in fury.
'Listen to them, man! That is not a group of people prepared to listen to reason. That is a mob intent on blood and looting!'
'They will be more likely to shoot you down than to listen to you,' agreed Father Aidan, flinching as a stone hurled from the lane landed near him in a puff of dust.
'Perhaps we could toss some coins to them,' suggested Alcote hopefully. 'Then they would scramble for them and forget about looting us.'
William gave him a pained look. 'Foolish Cluniac,' he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Alcote to hear. 'What an absurd suggestion! Typical of one of your Order!'
'I suspect that would only serve to convince them that we have wealth to spare,' said Bartholomew quickly, seeing a row about to erupt between William and Alcote.
'You are quite right, Matt,' said Aidan. 'But we must decide what we can do to prevent the mob entering the College. What do you have in mind, Master?'
All eyes turned to Kenyngham, who had been listening to the exchange with growing despondency. 'Do none of you agree with me that we can avert such an incident by talking to these people?'
Alcote yelped as a pebble, thrown from the lane, struck him on the shoulder, and Bartholomew raised an arm to protect his head from a rain of small missiles that scattered around him.
'What do you think, man?' demanded William aggressively-'Talking would be next to useless — if you could even make yourself heard over the row. For once, Master Kenyngham, all your Fellows are in agreement. We need to defend ourselves — by force if need be — or that rabble will break down our gates and that will be the end of us.'
Kenyngham took a deep breath. 'Very well. Tell me what you have in mind, Matthew. I am a scholar, not a soldier, and I freely admit to feeling unequal to dealing with the situation. But please try to avoid violence, if at all possible.'
Bartholomew quickly glanced around him again. The students had finally managed to close and bar the gate and were standing panting, congratulating each other, ignoring the enraged howls of the mob outside. But they would not be secure for long. Bartholomew began to bark orders.
'Agatha, take all the servants, and find as many water containers as possible. Fill them from the well and be ready to act if they try to set us on fire. Alcote and Aidan, take a dozen students and make sure the College is secure at the rear. Post guards there. If the crowd breaks through into the orchard, do not try to stop them, but retreat into the servants' quarters. Father William, take the Franciscans to the servants' quarters and gather as many throwable items together as you can: stones, sticks, apples — anything will do. We might have to defend the back if the mob gets into the orchard. The rest of you, collect stones that can be thrown from the wall at the front. Pull down the stable if you need to.'
All, unquestioning, sped off to do his bidding, while Bartholomew considered the front of Michaelhouse. The gates were sturdy enough, but they would be unable to withstand attack for long if the mob thought to use a battering ram of some kind. He sent Bulbeck and Gray in search of anything that might be used to barricade the door, while he clambered up the side of the gate and on to the wall to look down at the surging mob below.
Michaelhouse had been founded thirty years before by a chancellor of Edward II, who was well aware that his academic institution might come under threat by a resentful local population at some point in the future.
Michaelhouse's walls were strong and tall, and there was something akin to a wall-walk around the front.
The mob was eerily quiet; Bartholomew saw Saul Potter in a small clearing in the middle of them giving orders.
Despite straining, Bartholomew could not hear what was said, but a great cheer from the crowd as Potter finished speaking made his blood run cold.
'I think we are in for a long night,' he said unsteadily to Kenyngham as he scrambled down. 'They are planning to attack us somehow. We must be ready.'
While Bartholomew and the students hurried to find usable missiles, the mob went ominously silent. Then an ear-splitting roar accompanied a tremendous crash against the gates, which shuddered and groaned under the impact.
Horrified, Bartholomew climbed back up the gate to the top of the wall, where a dozen or so scholars crouched there, each one armed with handfuls of small stones gathered from the yard. Deynman was enthusiastically applying himself to demolishing the derelict stable, and some very large rocks were being ferried to augment the waiting scholars' arsenals. Below, the rioters had acquired a long, heavy pole, and willing hands grabbed at it as it was hauled backwards in readiness for a second strike.
'Aim for the men holding the battering ram,' Bartholomew called to the students, looking down at the
