The Lost Prophecies (25 page)

All around him were the sounds of affray: clashing weapons, war cries, clanging bells, the crackle of fire. It was not the first fracas that had raged in the little Fen-edge town, but it was certainly one of the most serious. He could hear the moans of the dying, and the sandy soil of the Market Square was stained dark with blood.

‘Say your prayers,’ snarled Hugh Bardolf, preparing for his final assault. ‘I will show you what happens to those who declare an allegiance with Peterhouse.’

‘I have not declared an allegiance to Peterhouse,’ objected Bartholomew, ducking behind a cart of onions. Hugh kicked it out of the way as if it were no more solid than straw.

‘Liar! The Master of your college made a speech today, swearing to fight against King’s Hall.’

‘He cannot have done,’ protested Bartholomew, knowing there was no point in trying to reason with Hugh when the man was so inflamed but persisting anyway. ‘He is away.’

Hugh ignored him, concentrating instead on driving him back with a series of determined hacks. Bartholomew’s arms burned from the effort of defending himself, but then Hugh performed a fancy manoeuvre that saw the sword fly from his opponent’s hands. Weaponless and exhausted, Bartholomew braced himself for the blow that would kill him, but even as he raised his head to look Hugh in the eye he saw the man’s fury fade to shock. Then Hugh dropped to his knees, before pitching forwards to land face down on the ground.

‘Lord!’ murmured John de St Philibert, clutching his bloody dagger with unsteady hands. ‘Brother Michael told me you could hold your own in a skirmish, but I thought Hugh was going to kill you.’

Bartholomew retrieved his sword, knowing the danger was not yet over. Hugh had brothers in King’s Hall, and it would be only a matter of time before one raced to avenge his fallen sibling. He pushed John behind him; the Junior Proctor was an even less accomplished warrior than he, and a vengeful Bardolf would hack him to pieces in moments.

But no one came, and a quick glance around told Bartholomew that the violence was ending as abruptly as it had started. The bells grew silent, the clash of steel petered out and calls to arms were replaced by the moans of the wounded. Eventually, Market Square residents felt it was safe to open their doors; they emerged cautiously, making disparaging remarks about the University’s insatiable penchant for fighting. A month ago the friars had been at each other’s throats over some edict from the Pope; now it was the turn of King’s Hall and Peterhouse. The two colleges had suddenly taken against each other after years of peaceful coexistence, although the feud had been confined to sharp-tongued exchanges in the High Street until now.

John was still gazing at Hugh’s body. The Junior Proctor was a handsome man, betrothed to the Earl of Suffolk’s eldest daughter and so destined for a life of power and influence. Until the earl chose a date for the wedding, John was studying law at Cambridge. Afraid that academia would not prepare him for the rough politics of a baron’s household, he had volunteered to serve as the University’s Junior Proctor, which meant he was one of the men responsible for maintaining law and order amongst students. He worked hard at both, although neither peacekeeping nor scholarship came easily to him.

‘I stabbed him in the back,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I should have told him to face me first.’

‘Then he would have killed you,’ said Bartholomew practically, knowing that Hugh would have thought nothing of pitting his great broadsword against John’s slender dagger.

‘What will Joan say when she hears about this?’ John’s voice was full of anguished remorse. ‘She will not want to marry a man without honour.’

Bartholomew thought Joan was the least of John’s problems. ‘Do not tell anyone else what you did,’ he advised. ‘Hugh has brothers, and you do not want them coming after you for revenge.’

John was horrified, the courage he had mustered to save the physician dissipating now the danger was over. ‘I did not think of that. Lord! What have I done?’

‘Cut short a killing spree,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Hugh was an accomplished warrior, and he had no right sparring with Peterhouse’s boys. I saw him kill three myself, and if you had not stopped him there would have been more. You did the right thing. Just do not discuss it with anyone.’

‘Is that why you fought him?’ asked John. ‘You saw him cut that bloody swath through those hapless students, and you wanted to stop him?’

‘They were unarmed,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Witnessing such brutal carnage had been harrowing, and he knew it would haunt him for a long time to come. ‘I had to do something.’

‘You should have been unarmed too,’ said John, eyeing the blade that the physician still held. ‘And so should Hugh. Weapons are forbidden to scholars.’

Bartholomew nodded towards the corpse of a King’s Hall student: Hugh’s blind blood-lust had led him to kill a lad from his own side as well as ‘enemies’.

‘I borrowed his. Do you know how the fighting

started? As far as I understand, it is because my college has announced an alliance with Peterhouse – or so Hugh claims. However, our Master is away, so perhaps one of the other Fellows . . .’

‘I did hear a rumour to that effect,’ said John, nodding. ‘However, I suspect what happened today had nothing to do with anything your colleagues may or may not have said. It was
meant
to happen – it was predicted in the Black Book of Brân.’

Bartholomew stared at him in confusion. ‘In the what?’

John regarded him askance, as if astonished that he should have to explain. ‘It is the text everyone is squabbling over. Surely you have heard about it?’

The physician had not heard about a book that was being squabbled over, but was not inclined to ask questions about it when there were wounded men who needed his attention. He pushed all thoughts from his mind except medicine and began the grisly business of stitching cuts, setting bones and pasting poultices over bruises. Most physicians declined to perform such lowly tasks, but Cambridge’s only surgeon was an unsavoury character with a notoriously poor success rate, and Bartholomew disliked entrusting him with anyone’s well-being.

As he worked he became aware that the ringleaders of the feud had declined to leave the field of battle. They were bickering with each other, their voices growing increasingly acrimonious. John tried to order them home, but they were disinclined to listen to him, and the Senior Proctor – Brother Michael – was chasing after some of Peterhouse’s more feisty students, hoping to prevent them from embarking on another brawl.

‘They started it,’ a Peterhouse scholar named Wittleseye was declaring. He was an overweight cleric who liked to brag about the fact that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s nephew. ‘We came to buy bread, and they began baiting us.’

‘They did,’ asserted his colleague, another plump priest who claimed kinship with the archbishop. Neuton had hidden behind a cart the moment fists had started to fly, and he took a sip from the wineskin that was never far from his reach, to steady his nerves. ‘Then Hugh drew his sword for no reason and started hacking at people.’

‘He drew because Peterhouse called him a bastard,’ explained Beadle March, one of the army of men hired by the proctors to keep the peace. He had a pink face, small eyes and an upturned nose, features that were redolent of a pig. Although he had more brains than the average beadle, he was vindictive and petty, and there was a general belief amongst the students, albeit without evidence, that he had enjoyed a criminal past.

‘Well, Hugh
is
a bastard,’ said Neuton, taking another swig of wine. ‘The Bardolf clan share a father, but they all have different mothers. And we only mentioned his illegitimacy because
he
insulted
us
.’

‘He called them thieves,’ supplied March.

Bartholomew looked up sharply; the trouble was likely to reignite if the beadle insisted on repeating the barbs that had started it in the first place.

William Bardolf, the one member of the Bardolf tribe who was not illegitimate, shrugged indolently. He was vice-warden of King’s Hall, a large, black-haired man with a beard. ‘That is not an insult; it is the truth. You make no secret of the fact that you want to steal our lawful property.’

‘The Black Book of Brân is
not
yours,’ shouted Wittleseye. ‘It is mine. I paid for it seven years ago, and it promptly went missing.
You
are the thieves.’

William’s expression darkened. ‘We have stolen nothing. The book came to us by the hand of God. Besides, you did not pay for it – Drayton was murdered before you could give him anything.’

Neuton glowered. ‘And who was responsible for that? King’s Hall! You killed Drayton and stole the text. Now you claim to have come by it miraculously. Well, your story is ludicrous!’

‘Not as ludicrous as yours,’ snapped William. ‘Wittleseye went behind your back seven years ago, trying to buy the book for himself. Now you pretend you were all united? It is laughable!’

‘Who told you what I did seven years ago?’ demanded Wittleseye, looking decidedly shifty.

March began to whistle airily, looking anywhere except at the Peterhouse men. Fortunately for him, the scholars were more interested in each other than in gossiping beadles.

One of William’s siblings, who looked just like him except for being twice his size, stepped forward. ‘
Peterhouse
murdered Drayton, not us,’ snarled Roger Bardolf. ‘Wittleseye did not want to part with his money, and murder ensured he got to keep his silver
and
the book.’

‘Then why is it not in my possession now?’ demanded Wittleseye, eyeing him disdainfully. ‘If I acquired it by sinister means seven years ago, then how does King’s Hall come to have it?’

‘Divine intervention,’ replied William when Roger hesitated uncertainly. ‘God took it from the hands of thieves and gave it to men who will treat it with respect.’

‘I do not care who stole what,’ said John, speaking quietly to calm them all. ‘Just go home. Brother Michael will hear your grievances as soon as he has seen to the dead. He—’

‘There would not be any dead were it not for these . . . these
devil’s spawn
,’ yelled Wittleseye, incensed. ‘But what can you expect from men whose mothers are French witches?’

Roger stepped forward menacingly, but his brother stopped him with a warning glance. Roger clenched his fists, clearly itching to use them, while Wittleseye hastily ducked behind his colleagues.

‘The proctors will fine anyone who swings a punch,’ said March, nevertheless grinning his delight at the prospect of more violence.

Bartholomew stood quickly, acutely aware that threats were more likely to aggravate than ease the situation. He gestured to John that he should send the beadle away before his interjections made matters worse, but the Junior Proctor did not see him.

‘You speak without knowing the facts, Wittleseye,’ said William. His voice was mild, but there was menace in it. ‘Our
grandmother
is a French witch, but our mothers are all barons’ daughters.’

‘And we would rather be bastards than kin to an archbishop,’ added Roger, wrinkling his nose in exaggerated disgust.

‘I am not keen on archbishops either,’ said March conversationally. ‘They are invariably devious. Well, they have to be, if they are going to rise very high in the Church. Everyone knows that.’

‘No wonder the Bardolf clan steals books,’ said Neuton to Wittleseye, loud enough to be heard by half of Cambridge. ‘Their French blood means they cannot help themselves. They are all villains.’

‘You took leave of absence from your studies last year,’ said William, smiling malevolently at the two priests. ‘Remind me where you went.’

‘They went to France,’ supplied March helpfully. ‘To see the Pope in Avignon, and they came back telling everyone how lovely it was, and how charming were the people. Of course, we are at war with the French, so these sentiments are hardly patriotic . . .’

‘Stop it!’ cried John, trying hard to be forceful. ‘Everyone will go home immediately, or I will—’

‘Our brother Hugh is dead,’ said Roger in a dangerous growl. ‘I am not going anywhere until his murder is avenged.’

‘It
has
been avenged,’ said John. He swallowed hard, and his eyes flicked towards Bartholomew. He was an uncomfortable prevaricator and felt guilty about what he had done, no matter how justified. ‘Hugh is dead, but so are five Peterhouse men.’

‘But unlike them, Hugh
deserved
to die,’ said Wittleseye spitefully. ‘He was an abomination with his over-ready sword, and the world is a better place without him.’

‘I will tear your heads off,’ shouted Roger, shaking off his brothers’ warning hands and striding towards the Peterhouse priests. ‘And then I will play camp-ball with them.’

‘You need only one head to play camp-ball,’ said March, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Any more would be confusing.’

‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew, intervening when he saw Roger’s dagger emerge from its sheath. John was apparently unequal to preventing a second brawl, and the physician did not want more wounds to stitch. He interposed himself between the two factions. ‘Take your injured friends and go home before anyone else dies.’

For a moment he thought they were going to ignore him too, but the Peterhouse clerics were unnerved by the appearance of Roger’s dagger. Wittleseye flashed an obscene gesture at his enemies – a vulgar sign that Bartholomew had never seen a priest make before – and stalked away, pulling Neuton with him. After a moment, lingering just long enough to look as though they were dispersing of their own volition, the Bardolf clan sauntered off in the opposite direction.

‘Thank you,’ said John, relieved. ‘I thought they were going to fight again, and the Bardolfs would have slaughtered the priests. It was the Peterhouse students who did the fighting before – Wittleseye and Neuton did not risk their own skins.’

‘They urged them on, though,’ said March. ‘I do not like those cowardly clerics.’

‘You should confine him to desk-duties,’ advised Bartholomew, watching March strut away to join his fellow beadles. ‘He is too poisonous to be allowed out.’