The Lost Prophecies (32 page)

Bartholomew was sure that could not be true. ‘He knows there is trouble afoot today, and will be alert to any kind of disturbance. He would have heard even the slightest tap.’

‘No one has knocked since you left earlier,’ called Shirford, overhearing the discussion. ‘And I never sleep during the day. What do you want? I am not opening the door, regardless.’

‘I do not blame you,’ replied John. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘The pressure of the situation has addled Michael’s wits, because only a madman would take the book from its sanctuary when a riot is brewing. You must see—’

‘Oh, God!’ gulped Bartholomew suddenly, as all became clear. ‘It is you! You are the killer.’

John gaped at him. ‘What?’

‘The prophecy! After the murder in Peterhouse’s sacred place and King’s Hall’s shattered bones comes the traitor with his
saintly
face. You are John de
St
Philibert!’

John’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I thought you did not believe in fortune-telling. Besides, accusing me of treachery on the basis of a single word is—’

‘It is not the book’s garbled verses that tell me you are guilty; it is logic and hard evidence. Although the use of the word “saintly” is a curious coincidence . . .’

John made a moue of impatience. ‘How can I be the killer? I was almost one of his victims.’

‘We have only your word that the attack even happened. There are no witnesses and—’

Bartholomew only just managed to duck away from the dagger that came slicing towards him. John followed his swipe with a kick that caught the physician on the knee. Pain blazed down Bartholomew’s leg, and he knew the injury would slow him down, doubtless exactly as the Junior Proctor had intended. He had no weapon, and all he could do to defend himself was to back away, acutely aware that while he dallied, Michael was in ever-increasing danger.

‘You will not survive this encounter,’ said John softly, so Shirford would not hear. ‘I may not be a warrior, but I can best an unarmed man. Give up, and you will have an easy death.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaotic jumble, solutions and answers coming to him so fast that he barely knew where to begin. ‘You engineered today’s trouble,’ he said, scrambling behind a tombstone. ‘And yesterday’s too. I thought it was March, who is goading William to violence even as we speak, but it was you.’

John sneered at him. ‘But you would never have guessed it, had I not shown my hand by deciding to kill you.’

Bartholomew felt sick. ‘The discussion you insisted on having just now was not to stop Michael from accusing the wrong culprit, but to give Peterhouse time to mass outside King’s Hall. You started the rumour about my college siding with Peterhouse for the same reason, and it was you, disguised by a hood, who whispered poisonous thoughts at Hugh until he drew his sword.’

John’s expression was dangerous, and he hurled himself across the tombstone in a determined effort to reach his quarry. Bartholomew jerked away and managed to score a punch before limping to safety. John gasped when the physician’s fist connected with his ribs.

‘The dispute between King’s Hall and Peterhouse could never have reached this pitch on its own,’ the physician went on. While John climbed to his feet, hand to his side, Bartholomew seized a piece of fallen timber. It was slimy with rot, but better than nothing. ‘Someone has coaxed it and nurtured it every step of the way.’

‘I killed Hugh to stop him from slaughtering you,’ John snarled. ‘I should not have bothered.’

‘You killed Hugh because you wanted his death to fuel the quarrel,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It did not work, because King’s Hall were content to lose two scholars to Peterhouse’s five, so you saw you would have to try again. You poisoned Neuton, knowing from your duties as proctor that he filled his wineskins in a kitchen that was often left unlocked.’

John’s face creased into a smug grin. Like many killers, he could not resist the urge to brag about his cleverness – or his protagonists’ stupidity. ‘It never occurred to you that I had the run of the town last night and could do what I liked – visit Peterhouse or All Saints’. You probably have not realized that I am from St Philibert either, and that my French father sends me a certain cordial . . .’

Bartholomew blocked a blow with his piece of wood. It flew into pieces, showering them both with rotten splinters. He ignored the jibe about the cordial, because John was right: the Junior Proctor’s Gallic connections had not crossed his mind.

‘And then, to make sure there would be trouble today, you killed Roger,’ he said, continuing to back away. He was running out of space, and furious yells from the High Street told him that Michael’s situation was not much better. ‘You may even have told March where the body lay, knowing he would respond by charging to King’s Hall and urging them to retaliate. And it was you who “found” the bloody mallet in Wittleseye’s room.’

John shook his head incredulously. ‘I could not believe it when you and the monk refused to accept that Wittleseye had bludgeoned Roger. The mallet and the P carved into Roger’s face were as brazen a set of clues as I could concoct, and yet you still declined to arrest him.’

Bartholomew staggered when John came close to spearing him by feinting one way and striking hard the other. John was tiring of the game, and the physician knew it would not be long before he made a concerted effort to finish him so he could be back in the affray, coaxing the trouble until it erupted. He tried to distract him with more conclusions.

‘You did not kill Drayton, though, because you were not in Cambridge at the time. Of course, that was why you were willing to accept Michael’s contention that there was only one killer – you are innocent of Drayton’s death, so logic dictates that you cannot have killed Roger and Neuton either. The only question I cannot answer is
why
did you do it? To impress your future family? I know that is why you became a proctor.’

‘Joan will adore me when she hears it was I who saved the town from certain destruction.’

Bartholomew hurled the remnants of the branch at him in a futile attempt to stall the relentless advance. ‘And how do you plan to do that?’

John ducked. ‘It is all explained in the book. The verse about the Hammer of the Unruly refers to me.
I
am the glorious sun with the golden head, using my might to quell unrest.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Are you sure it does not refer to King Edward, nicknamed Hammer of the Scots?’

John did not think the issue worth debating. He resumed his advance, waving the dagger in front of him. ‘You can think what you will, but everything predicted in the book has come to pass.’

‘Only because you made it so,’ objected Bartholomew. Something else became clear too. ‘You live in the house that Drayton once rented. He must have hidden the book before he went to do business with Peterhouse. You found it.’

‘Plastered inside a hole in the wall,’ acknowledged John. ‘I discovered it when I was replacing some rotten floorboards. I knew Peterhouse would try to claim it, so I devised a plan to prevent that: I left it in All Saints’, intending to be the person who discovered it lying on the altar.’

‘But you bargained without the Bardolfs attending church, and they got it first.’

John gave a beatific smile. ‘I was appalled to start with, but then I realized it did not matter. What is important is the prophecy – and that is going to come true regardless.’

Without warning, he came at Bartholomew with a series of vicious swipes that drove the physician backwards so fast that his bruised knee could not support him. He fell, crashing against a buttress. John moved in for the kill. The dagger began to descend. Then the church door was hauled open, there was a loud thud and John collapsed to the ground in a heap.

For a few confused moments Bartholomew did not understand what had happened. Then he saw Shirford standing over the insensible Junior Proctor with the Black Book of Brân in his shaking hands. Hoping the priest would not hit him too, Bartholomew crawled forward to examine John. He was still breathing, but a darkening mark on the back of his head said he would not feel well when he regained his wits.

‘I heard everything,’ whispered Shirford, white with shock. ‘John spoke softly to start with, but then he forgot himself and began to gloat. It is only right that this self-proclaimed Hammer of the Unruly should be hammered by the book he was trying to abuse. I am not sorry.’

There was a sudden roar of voices from the direction of King’s Hall. ‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, snatching the tome from Shirford and beginning to hobble towards the High Street. He would see to John later.

The scene outside King’s Hall had degenerated badly. The Peterhouse students were hurling themselves at Michael and his beadles, furiously trying to get past them and attack King’s Hall with their makeshift battering rams. Arrows rained down on them all, hitting the peacekeepers as well as the enemy, and the cries of the wounded added to the cacophony. March was screaming at the Bardolfs to aim true, and Wittleseye was encouraging his lads with fiery prayers. The ex-beadle’s tirade stopped abruptly when a well-aimed stone struck him in the throat. He staggered back, hands to his neck, and did not appear again.

‘At last!’ snapped Michael, ripping the book from Bartholomew’s hands. ‘Where in God’s name have you been? And where is John?’

‘Later,’ gasped Bartholomew. He ducked as a fire-arrow sailed over his head. ‘If you have a plan, Brother, now is the time to implement it.’

‘Behold the Black Book of Brân!’ yelled Michael at the top of his voice. He climbed on to a horse trough to wave it aloft, ensuring it could be seen by everyone present. Bartholomew itched to drag him down, aware that he made a tempting target for both sides. There was, however, an immediate hush as the combatants saw what he held.

‘It has been damaged,’ cried Wittleseye in horror. ‘There are holes in its back cover.’

‘It is not the cover that is important,’ declared Michael. ‘It is the poetry. And I want you to hear some of it before you go any further with this feud. Can everyone hear me?’

‘We can,’ called William from a window in King’s Hall. ‘But this had better be important, Brother. If you are wasting our time, the next arrow will be for you.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘Right,’ said the monk, riffling through the pages. ‘Then take heed of this:

There was absolute silence amongst the assembled horde, followed by some urgent whispering. William ducked back inside his window to confer with his brothers, while Wittleseye gestured that his own scholars were to gather around him.

‘That was terrible!’ hissed Bartholomew in alarm, certain that no one was going to be deceived by such a transparent ploy. ‘Your poem has a different rhythm from the rest of the verses, and it does not rhyme properly. Was that your grand idea? You are insane!’

‘No,’ whispered Michael furiously. ‘My grand idea was to invite the ringleaders to my office – with the book – to discuss the dispute like civilized men. But you took so long to bring it that the time for such gestures had passed. I was obliged to improvise.’

‘Let me see that,’ demanded Shirford loudly, snatching the book back before the monk could stop him. ‘I have been studying the text for the last two weeks, and I do not recall this quatrain.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Bartholomew, sure Michael was about to pay dearly for his bravado.

‘Ah. Here it is,’ announced Shirford loudly. ‘Near the end. You are lucky the good Brother remembered this particular verse, because it would be a pity to lose you all to divine fury.’

‘We had better go home, then,’ said Wittleseye in alarm. There was a rumble of assent from his students, and the bowmen in King’s Hall began to lower their weapons. ‘Nephews of the Archbishop of Canterbury do not defy God. Other prophecies in that book have come true, so there is no reason why this one should not, and I am a priest – it would be embarrassing to be struck by a thunderbolt.’

‘Thank you!’ breathed Michael to Shirford. ‘I was not sure they were going to fall for it.’

‘I would have been astonished if they had,’ replied Shirford dryly. ‘You should have asked me to compose something; I would have made a more convincing job of it. But I could not stand by and see you shot, not when you took the trouble to ensure I was safe last night. You were bone-weary, but you came anyway, and I appreciated your concern. No one else bothered.’

‘The dispute is not over, though,’ called Wittleseye to King’s Hall as he left, students in tow. ‘The book belongs to Peterhouse, and—’

‘Actually, it does not,’ interrupted Michael, moving away from Shirford to brandish a piece of parchment. ‘I had a message from the king this morning, and
he
wants it. If anyone feels we should not do as His Majesty desires and make him a gift of it, he can leave his name at the proctors’ office and I will be sure to mention him in the missive I write.’

‘You are a clever man, Brother,’ said Shirford admiringly, watching the scholars disperse. Wittleseye was white-faced with anger, and William bitterly disappointed, but neither were about to argue with a ‘request’ from the king. ‘You left them with no choice but to let you send the book to Westminster. But how timely that you should happen to receive His Majesty’s letter today.’

‘How timely indeed,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Although Michael had prevented the trouble from going too far, there were still casualties, and Bartholomew was overwhelmed by demands for his services. Meanwhile, the monk was busy ensuring that the embers of the quarrel were well and truly dead, so it was more than a week before they were able to discuss what had happened. They went to sit in Michaelhouse’s orchard, where a fallen apple tree provided a comfortable bench.

‘Any word about John?’ asked Bartholomew. The Junior Proctor had vanished by the time the beadles had been free to go to All Saints’ and arrest him, and he had not been seen since. Michael believed he had fled to the Earl of Suffolk, hoping to convince his future kinsman that there had been a misunderstanding.