window apex, each bearing the initials ‘HS’ in honour
of Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton, Edward
Its Chancellor of the Exchequer. Unlike the north wing, the staircases in the south wing were built of stone, with brightly painted vaulted ceilings.
Joining the two wings was what had once been the
house of a wealthy merchant, who had bequeathed it
to the newly founded College. It was dominated by its
handsome entrance, with the arms of Hervey de Stanton
picked out in blue and gold above. The lower floor
comprised a handsome reception room with a large
spiral staircase leading to the hall on the upper storey, and the service rooms and kitchens, shielded from guests by a carved oak screen. The upper floor displayed a long line of arched windows that allowed light into the hall, and the little conclave, or combination room, at the far end. The hall was built of a pale, honey-coloured stone that changed with the light; at sunset it glowed a deep rose pink, while at noon it often appeared almost white.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew caught a
flicker of light through the closed shutters on the upper floor of the south wing, and remembered Aelfrith and
his vigil. He retraced his steps, thinking he would offer to relieve the friar for a while. He opened the door at the base of the stairs quietly, for he did not wish to awaken anyone who might have only recently retired to
bed. Because the stairs were stone, Bartholomew found
it easy to walk soundlessly. The stairway was dark and he kept one hand on the wall to feel his way upwards.
Reaching Augustus’s little chamber, he opened the door, and stopped dead.
Aelfrith, his back to Bartholomew, was squatting
in the middle of the floor, vigorously scratching at the floorboards by the light of a single candle. Augustus’s body lay next to him in a tangle of bedclothes and strewn pieces of parchment. In the dim light, Bartholomew
could see that, here and there, parts of the plaster
covering the walls had been chipped away.
Bartholomew took a step backwards, but shock
made his movements clumsy, and he bumped into
the door. Aelfrith jumped to his feet, spinning round
to face him. Bartholomew was only aware of his dark
robes, and the light was too weak to allow him to make out any expression on the face, enveloped as it was in a deep hood.
‘Aelfrith!’ Bartholomew exclaimed in a horrified
whisper. ‘What are you doing?’
Aelfrith turned to point at something, and then,
before Bartholomew had time to react, dived forward,
slamming him backwards into the door. Bartholomew
felt all the breath rush out of him, and scrabbled at
the billowing robes ineffectually as Aelfrith grabbed a handful of his hair. Bartholomew, numb with disbelief, saw the silhouette of something sharp in Aelfrith’s free hand. The sight of it jolted him out of his shock, and he twisted out of Aelfrith’s grip so that the knife screeched harmlessly against the wall.
Bartholomew grasped the hand holding the knife,
and, for a few seconds, the struggle was at a stalemate.
Then Aelfrith, perhaps made strong by panic, gave
an almighty heave that sent Bartholomew sprawling
backwards down the stairs. For a few moments,
Bartholomew’s world spun in all directions, until a
sharp ache from a knee twisted in the fall brought
everything back into focus. He was dimly aware of
footsteps, although he had no idea from where they
came. He picked himself up slowly, wincing at the pain in his leg. His fall had wedged him against the door,
and so Aelfrith could not have left the building.
Cautiously, he hobbled up the stairs with as much
silence as he could manage. The door to Augustus’s room was still open, and the body still lay on the floor entangled in the blankets. Beyond, the door to the commoners’
room was also ajar. Bartholomew swallowed, and began
to inch forward. Aelfrith had to be in the commoners’
room: there was no way out of this part of the
of Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton, Edward
Its Chancellor of the Exchequer. Unlike the north wing, the staircases in the south wing were built of stone, with brightly painted vaulted ceilings.
Joining the two wings was what had once been the
house of a wealthy merchant, who had bequeathed it
to the newly founded College. It was dominated by its
handsome entrance, with the arms of Hervey de Stanton
picked out in blue and gold above. The lower floor
comprised a handsome reception room with a large
spiral staircase leading to the hall on the upper storey, and the service rooms and kitchens, shielded from guests by a carved oak screen. The upper floor displayed a long line of arched windows that allowed light into the hall, and the little conclave, or combination room, at the far end. The hall was built of a pale, honey-coloured stone that changed with the light; at sunset it glowed a deep rose pink, while at noon it often appeared almost white.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew caught a
flicker of light through the closed shutters on the upper floor of the south wing, and remembered Aelfrith and
his vigil. He retraced his steps, thinking he would offer to relieve the friar for a while. He opened the door at the base of the stairs quietly, for he did not wish to awaken anyone who might have only recently retired to
bed. Because the stairs were stone, Bartholomew found
it easy to walk soundlessly. The stairway was dark and he kept one hand on the wall to feel his way upwards.
Reaching Augustus’s little chamber, he opened the door, and stopped dead.
Aelfrith, his back to Bartholomew, was squatting
in the middle of the floor, vigorously scratching at the floorboards by the light of a single candle. Augustus’s body lay next to him in a tangle of bedclothes and strewn pieces of parchment. In the dim light, Bartholomew
could see that, here and there, parts of the plaster
covering the walls had been chipped away.
Bartholomew took a step backwards, but shock
made his movements clumsy, and he bumped into
the door. Aelfrith jumped to his feet, spinning round
to face him. Bartholomew was only aware of his dark
robes, and the light was too weak to allow him to make out any expression on the face, enveloped as it was in a deep hood.
‘Aelfrith!’ Bartholomew exclaimed in a horrified
whisper. ‘What are you doing?’
Aelfrith turned to point at something, and then,
before Bartholomew had time to react, dived forward,
slamming him backwards into the door. Bartholomew
felt all the breath rush out of him, and scrabbled at
the billowing robes ineffectually as Aelfrith grabbed a handful of his hair. Bartholomew, numb with disbelief, saw the silhouette of something sharp in Aelfrith’s free hand. The sight of it jolted him out of his shock, and he twisted out of Aelfrith’s grip so that the knife screeched harmlessly against the wall.
Bartholomew grasped the hand holding the knife,
and, for a few seconds, the struggle was at a stalemate.
Then Aelfrith, perhaps made strong by panic, gave
an almighty heave that sent Bartholomew sprawling
backwards down the stairs. For a few moments,
Bartholomew’s world spun in all directions, until a
sharp ache from a knee twisted in the fall brought
everything back into focus. He was dimly aware of
footsteps, although he had no idea from where they
came. He picked himself up slowly, wincing at the pain in his leg. His fall had wedged him against the door,
and so Aelfrith could not have left the building.
Cautiously, he hobbled up the stairs with as much
silence as he could manage. The door to Augustus’s room was still open, and the body still lay on the floor entangled in the blankets. Beyond, the door to the commoners’
room was also ajar. Bartholomew swallowed, and began
to inch forward. Aelfrith had to be in the commoners’
room: there was no way out of this part of the
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