Few heeded his words, and he was eventually silenced by a well-aimed stone.

Finally, having pursued a somewhat tortuous route to avoid confrontations, Mistress Tyler stopped outside the apothecary's house.

'Is Jonas the Poisoner your cousin?' asked Bartholomew, using without thinking the usual appellation for the apothecary, following an incident involving confusion between two potions many years before.

'His wife is,' answered Mistress Tyler. She took Bartholomew's arm and, when the door was opened a crack in response to her insistent hammering, she bundled him inside with her daughters.

While she told her fearful relatives of their near escape, Bartholomew allowed himself to be settled comfortably in a wicker chair, and brought a cup of cool wine. As he took it, his hands shook from delayed fright, so that a good part of it slopped on to his leggings. Mistress Tyler's middle daughter - a young woman almost as pretty as her elder sister - handed him a wholly inadequate square of lace with which to mop it up. She was unceremoniously elbowed out of the way by Eleanor, and dispatched to fetch something larger, overriding Bartholomew's embarra.s.sed protestations that it was not necessary.

'I did not thank you,' said Eleanor, smiling at him as she refilled his cup. 'You were more than kind to come to our rescue - especially given that you are clearly no fighting man.'

Such a candid a.s.sessment of his meagre combat skills was scarcely an auspicious start to the conversation, but he decided her comment was not intentionally discourteous.

'We were more evenly matched than the Frenchmen imagined,' he said, acknowledging the Tylers' own considerable role in the skirmish. 'And I should thank you for not running when I told you to.'

'Yes, or you would have been dead by now for certain,' she said bluntly. Bartholomew took a sip of wine to hide his smile, certain she was oblivious to the fact that many men would have taken grave exception to such a casual dismissal of their martial abilities.

She looked thoughtful. 'You are a scholar: tell me why the students are so intent on mischief this term. They are always restless and keen to fight, but I have never known such an uneasy atmosphere before.'

'We have discussed this at Michaelhouse several times, but we have no idea as to the cause,' he answered, setting his cup down on the hearth before he could spill it again.

'Should you discover it, please let us know. We must put a stop to it before any more harm is done.'

The middle daughter returned with water and a cloth with which to wipe up the slopped wine, and a slight, somewhat undignified tussle for possession of them ensued between the two sisters, a struggle that ended abruptly when the bowl tipped and a good portion of its contents emptied over Bartholomew's feet. Quickly, he grabbed the rest of it before they drenched him further.

Across the room, Mistress Tyler tried to see what was happening.

'Hedwise, give the doctor more wine,' she called, before turning her attention back to the persistent questioning of her anxious relatives.

'No, thank you,' said Bartholomew hastily, as Hedwise tried to pour more wine into a cup that was already br.i.m.m.i.n.g. He did not want to return to Michaelhouse drunk.

Hedwise looked crestfallen, and Eleanor smiled enigmatically.

'Fetch some cakes, Hedwise. I am sure Doctor Bartholomew is hungry after his ordeal.'

The last thing Bartholomew's unsteady stomach needed was something to eat. He declined, much to Hedwise's satisfaction, and she settled herself on a small stool near his feet, still clutching the wine bottle so that his cup could be refilled the instant he took so much as a sip. Eleanor knelt to one side, leaning her elbows on the arm of his chair.

'When the weather is good, I sit outside to work - you know our family makes lace for a living - and students often talk to me. I will ask around to see if I can discover the cause of this unease for you.'

The too,' said Hedwise eagerly.

'It might be better if you were to stay inside,' said Bartholomew, concerned. 'Supposing those French students return?'

'Oh, they will,' said Eleanor confidently. 'They have been pestering me for weeks.'

'And me,' said Hedwise.

Eleanor ignored her. 'Our mother was forced to speak to their Princ.i.p.al about them.'

'Which hostel?' asked Bartholomew, feeling a strange sense that he already knew the answer.

'G.o.dwinsson,' the women chorused.

'Do you know Dominica?' Bartholomew asked, looking from one to the other. The daughter of Master Lydgate, the Princ.i.p.al?'

Eleanor smiled, her teeth white, but slightly crooked.

'Dominica is the only decent member of that whole establishment. She was seeing a student, but her parents got wind of it. They sent her away to Chesterton village out of harm's way.'

Hedwise giggled suddenly. 'They think she has chosen a student from their own poxy hostel, but the reality is that she has far too much taste to accept one of that weaselly brood. It is another she loves.'

'Her parents do not know the ident.i.ty of her lover?' asked Bartholomew, surprised.

'Oh, no!' said Eleanor. 'But they would do anything to find out. They even offered money to their students to betray their fellows. A number of them did, I understand, but when stories and alibis were checked, the betrayals were found to be false, and stemmed from spite and malice, not truth.'

'What an unpleasant place,' said Bartholomew in distaste, recalling his own brief visit there - only a few hours ago, although it felt like much longer. 'Do you know who Dominica's lover is?'

'Dominica tells no one about her lovers, for fear their names would reach her father,' said Eleanor. 'She is clever though, never meeting in the same place twice, and ensuring there are no predictable patterns to her meetings.'

Had Dominica chosen the King's Ditch to meet Kenzie then, Bartholomew wondered, and the Scot had been killed as he waited for her to appear? If Dominica chose a different location each time she and Kenzie met, then she might well have been reduced to using a place like the shadowy oak trees near Valence Marie if the relationship had lasted for any length of time.

Feeling water squelch unpleasantly in his shoes, Bartholomew stood to take his leave of the Tylers and Jonas, declining their offer to stay the night. He wanted to return to Michaelhouse and sleep in his own bed.

Eleanor reached out to take his hand. 'We will worry about you until we see you again, Doctor Bartholomew.

Visit us, even if it is only to say you arrived home safely.'

'Oh, yes,' said Hedwise, forcing her way between Bartholomew and her sister. 'Come to see us soon.'

Mistress Tyler looked from her daughters to Bartholomew as she ushered him out of the door, first checking to see that it was safe. She touched his arm as he stepped into the street. 'Eleanor and Hedwise are right,' she said. 'You must visit us soon. And thank you for your help tonight. Who knows what might have happened to us had you not come to our aid.'

Bartholomew suspected that they would have thought of something. The Tyler women were a formidable force - resourceful and determined. Eleanor caught his hand as he left, and it was only reluctantly that she released him into the night.

The streets were alive with howling, yelling gangs. Some were scholars and some were townspeople, but all were armed with whatever they had been able to lay their hands on: a few carried swords and daggers, a handful had poorly strung bows, while others still wielded staves, tools, and even gardening equipment. Bartholomew, his own small knife to hand, slipped down the noisy streets hoping that his scholar's tabard would not target him for an attack by townspeople. There was little point in removing the tabard, for that would only expose him to an a.s.sault from scholars.

Here and there fires crackled, although none were as fierce or uncontrolled as the one that had destroyed Master Burney's workshop. In places, window shutters were smashed, and from one or two houses, shouts of terror or outrage drifted, suggesting that looting had begun in earnest. Bartholomew ignored it all as he sped towards Michaelhouse. He could do very little to help, and would only get himself into trouble if he interfered.

He felt someone grab his arm as he ran, pulling him off balance so that he fell on one knee. He brought his knife up sharply, antic.i.p.ating another fight, but then dropped it as he recognised Cynric ap Huwydd, his Welsh bookbearer. Cynric was fleet of foot and possessed of an uncanny ability to move almost unseen in the night shadows; Bartholomew supposed he should not have been surprised that the Welshman had tracked him down in the chaos.

Cynric tugged Bartholomew off the road, and into the shadows of the trees in All Saints' churchyard.

'Where have you been, boy?' Cynric whispered. 'I have been looking for you since all this fighting started. I was worried.'

'With Mistress Tyler's family at Jonas the Poisoner's house. Is Michaelhouse secure? Are all our students in?' asked Bartholomew, peering through the darkness at the man who, although officially his servant, would always be a friend.

Cynric nodded, looking through the trees to where a large group of students was systematically destroying a brewer's cart with stout cudgels. The brewer was nowhere to be seen, and his barrels of ale had long since been spirited away. 'All Michaelhouse students are being kept in by the Fellows - some by brute force, since they are desperate to get out and join in the looting. Only two are missing as far as I can see: Sam Gray and Rob Deynman.'

'Both my students,' groaned Bartholomew. 'I hope they have had the sense to lie low.' He coughed as the wind blew thick, choking smoke towards them from where a pile of wreckage smouldered. 'As should we. We must get home.'

Cynric began to glide through the shadows, with Bartholomew following more noisily. They had to pa.s.s the Market Square to reach Michaelhouse, and the sight that greeted them reminded Bartholomew of the wall paintings at St Michael's depicting scenes from h.e.l.l.

For a few moments he stood motionless, ignoring the rioters who jostled him this way and that. Cynric, ever alert to danger, pulled him to one side, and together they surveyed the familiar place, now distorted by violence.

Fires, large and small, lit the Market Square. Some were under control, surrounded by cavorting rioters who fed the flames with the proceeds of looting forays; others raged wildly, eating up the small wooden stalls from which traders sold theirwares in the daytime. The brightly coloured canva.s.ses that covered the wooden frames of the stalls, flapped in the flames, shedding sparks everywhere, and causing the fires to spread. Bartholomew saw one man, his body enveloped in fire, run soundlessly from behind one stall, before falling and lying still in his veil of flames. Bells of alarm were ringing in several churches, occasionally drowned by the wrenching sound of steel against steel as the Sheriffs men skirmished with armed rioters.

Here and there, people lay on the ground, calling for help, water or priests. Others wandered bewildered, oblivious to the danger they were in from indiscriminate attack. A group of a dozen students sauntered past, singing the Latin chorus that Bartholomew had heard sung outside St Mary's Church the previous day. One or two of them paused when they saw Bartholomew and Cynric but moved on when they glimpsed the glitter of weapons in their hands.

Bartholomew saw the voluminous folds of Michael's habit swirling black against the firelight. Two of his beadles were close, all three laying about them with staves, as they fought to break up a battle between two groups of scholars - although, in their tabards and in the unreliable light of the fires, Bartholomew wondered how they could tell who was on whose side. He took a secure hold on his knife, and went to help Michael, Cynric following closely behind him.

He was forced to stop as one of the stalls in front of him suddenly collapsed in a shower of sparks and cinders, spraying the ground with dancing orange lights. By the time he was able to negotiate the burning rubble, he had lost sight of Michael. Then something thrown by a pa.s.sing apprentice hit him on the head, and he sprawled forward on to his hands and knees, dazed. He heard Cynric give a blood-curdling yell, which was followed by the sound of clashing steel. With a groan another stall began to collapse, and Cynric's attackers were forced to back off or risk it falling on them. Once away, they obviously thought better of dealing with Cynric, a man more experienced with arms than any of them, and went in search of easier prey. Bartholomew crawled away from the teetering stall, reaching safety moments before the whole thing crashed to the ground in a billow of smoke that stung his eyes and hurt the back of his throat. Cynric joined him, his short sword still drawn, alert for another attack.

'The whole town has gone mad!' said Cynric, looking about him in disgust. 'Come away, boy. This is no place for us.'

Bartholomew struggled to his feet, and prepared to follow Cynric. Nearby, another wooden building, this used to store spare posts and canvas, began to fall screech of wrenching wood almost drowned in the of flames. With a shock that felt as though the blood draining from his veins, Bartholomew glimpsed Mic standing directly in its path as it began to tilt. He fc his shouted warning would not pa.s.s his frozen lips, was too late anyway. He saw Michael throw his arms his head in a hopeless attempt to protect himself, anc entire structure crashed down on top of him.

Bartholomew's knife had slipped from his nervi fingers before Cynric's gasp of horror brought hii his senses. Ripping off his tabard to wrap arounc hands, he raced towards the burning building. Obliv to the heat, he began to pull and heave at the timber covered Michael's body. Three scholars, on their way f one skirmish to another, tried to pick a fight with him when he whirled round to face them wielding a bun plank they melted away into the night.

Bartholomew's breath came in ragged gasps, anc was painfully aware that his tabard provided inadeq protection for his hands against the hot timbers. Ne? him, Cynric wordlessly helped to haul the burned w away. Bartholomew stopped when part of a charred h appeared under one of the beams, and then redoul his efforts to expose the monk's legs and body.

Michael's head was crushed under the main roof port; even with Cynric helping Bartholomew could move it.

Bartholomew sank down on to the ground, put his in his hands and closed his eyes tightly. He listened to sounds of the riot around him, feeling oddly dtache he tried to come to terms with the fact that Michael dead. Bells still clanged out their unnecessary warning, people yelled and shouted, while next to him the pop and crackle of burning wood sent a heavy, singed smell into the night air.

'This is not a wise place to sit,' called a voice from behind him.

Bartholomew spun round, jaw dropping in disbelief, as Michael picked his way carefully through the ashes.

Cynric laughed in genuine pleasure, then took the liberty of slapping the fat monk on the shoulders.

'Oh, lad!' he said. 'We have just been digging out your corpse from under the burning wood.'

Michael looked from the body that they had exposed to Bartholomew's shocked face. Bartholomew found he could only gaze at the Benedictine, who loomed larger than life above him. Michael poked at the body under the blackened timbers with his foot.

'Oh, Matt!' he said in affectionate reproval. 'This is a friar, not a monk! Can you not tell the difference? And look at his ankles! I do not know whether to be flattered or offended that you imagine such gracile joints could bear my weight! '

Bartholomew saw that Michael was right. In the unsteady light from the flames, it had been difficult to see clearly, and the loose habits worn by monks and friars tended to make them look alike. Bartholomew had a.s.sumed that, because he had seen Michael in the same spot a few seconds before, it had been Michael who had been crushed by the collapsing building.

He continued to stare at the body, his thoughts a confused jumble of horror at the friar's death and disbelief that Michael had somehow escaped. He felt Michael and Cynric hauling him to his feet, and grabbed a handful of Michael's habit to steady himself.

'We thought you were gone,' he said.

'So I gather,' said Michael patiently. 'But this is neither the place nor the time to discuss it.'

When Bartholomew awoke in his room the next day, he was surprised to find he was wearing filthy clothes. As he raised himself on one elbow, an unfamiliar stiffness and a stabbing pain in his head brought memories flooding back of the previous night.

'Michael?' he whispered, not trusting which of the memories might be real and the others merely wishful thinking.

'Here,' came the familiar rich baritone of the fat monk from the table by the window.

Bartholomew sank back on to his bed in relief. 'Thank G.o.d!' he said feelingly. He opened his eyes suddenly.

'What are you doing here? What happened last night?'

'Rest easy,' said Michael, leaning back on the chair, and closing the book he had been reading. When Bartholomew saw the chair legs bow dangerously under the monk's immense weight, he knew he could not be dreaming. He eased himself up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was a b.u.mp on the back of his head, and his hands were sore, but he was basically intact.

He pulled distastefully at his shirt, stained and singed in places, and smelling powerfully of smoke.

'I thought it best to let you sleep,' said Michael. 'We virtually carried you home, Cynric and I. You should lose some weight, Doctor. You are heavy.'

The rioting?'

Michael rubbed his face, and for the first time Bartholomew noticed how tired he looked.

'There was little we could do to stop it,' said Michael.

'As soon as we broke up one skirmish, the brawlers would move on to another. We have some of the worst offenders in the Proctors' cells, and the Sheriff informs me that his own prison is overflowing, too. We even have three scholars locked up in the storerooms at Michaelhouse.

But even with at least twenty students - and masters too, I am sorry to say - under arrest and at least twice as many townspeople, I feel that we still do not have the real culprits. There is something more to all this than mere student unrest. I am certain it was started deliberately.'

'Deliberately?' asked Bartholomew in surprise. 'But why?'

Michael shrugged wearily. 'Who knows, Matt?'

Bartholomew stood carefully, took off his dirty shirt, and began to wash in the water Cynric left each night.

'Were many killed or injured?'

Michael shrugged. 'I do not know yet. Once I realised how little we were doing to bring a halt to the madness, I decided to seek sanctuary in Michaelhouse until it was over. I suspect my beadles did the same, and there was scarcely a soldier to be seen on the way home. When you are ready, I will go out with you to see.' He nodded towards the gates, firmly barred against possible attack. 'It has been quiet since first light, and I expect all the fighting is over for now. Your skills will doubtless be needed.'

Bartholomew finished washing in silence, thinking over the events of the night before, blurred and confused in his mind. From beginning to end, for him at least, it had probably not taken more than two hours - three at the most. He hoped he would never see the town in such turmoil again. He found clean clothes, and shared a seedcake - given to him by a patient in lieu of payment - with Michael, washed down with some sour wine he found in the small chamber he used to store his medicines.

Michael grimaced as he tasted the wine and added more water. 'How long have you had this?' he grumbled.

'You might do a little better for those of us you consider to be your friends. Did you buy this, or did you find it when you moved here eight years ago?'

Bartholomew, noting the bottle's dusty sides, wondered if Michael's question was not as unreasonable as it sounded. He glanced out of the window. The sun was not yet up, although it was light. The College was silent, which was unusual because the scholars usually went to church at dawn. Michael explained that most of them had only just gone to bed - the students had milled around in the yard, fearful that the College would come under attack, and the Fellows had been obliged to stay up with them to ensure none tried to get out. The Master, prudently, had ordered that no one should leave the College until he decided it was safe to do so.

'You might not believe this,' Michael began, breaking off a generous piece of the dry, grainy seedcake for himself, 'but I heard some scholars accusing townspeople of murdering James Kenzie.'

'What?' said Bartholomew in disbelief. 'How can they think that? Our main suspects at the moment are the scholars of G.o.dwinsson!'

'Quite so,' said Michael, chewing on the seedcake.

'But a rumour was put about that he had been killed by townsfolk. As far as I can tell, that seems to have been why the riot started in the first place. Meanwhile, the townspeople are claiming that the death of Kenzie was revenge for the murder - by scholars - of the child we found in the Ditch.'

'But that child has been dead for years!' cried Bartholomew. 'And there is nothing to say it was killed by a scholar.'

'Indeed,' said Michael. 'But someone has used the child's death, and Kenzie's, for his own purposes. There is something sinister afoot, Matt - something far more dangerous than restless students.'