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Michael. ‘But the town will accept us eventually.’
    ‘Will it?’ asked Joliet bleakly. ‘We have been here for a century and a half, and it shows no sign of welcoming us yet. I am beginning to think it never will.’
    ‘Look!’ cried Dickon with sudden glee, pointing a plump and grubby finger at the sky. ‘Sparks and flames! All coming from St Michael’s Church. It is on fire!’

CHAPTER 2
    St Michael’s Church was a pretty place, and Michaelhouse revelled in the fact that it alone of the eight Cambridge Colleges actually owned the place where it performed its daily devotions. But it was more than a status symbol to Bartholomew: it was a haven from the hectic round that comprised his life, and the final resting place of many much-loved colleagues. Heart in his mouth, he raced towards it, hating the notion that it might be lost.
    ‘Thank God,’ gasped Michael, when they arrived to find the bonfire blazing merrily but the church unscathed. ‘I was sure disaster had struck.’
    Bartholomew nodded as he leaned against a buttress to catch his breath, thinking sourly that there had been no need for the townsfolk to have built their pyre quite so high. Perhaps they did hope it would damage University property, which was galling, as Michaelhouse had tried hard to win their affection. Not only did he physick many of them without charge, but Michael ran a choir that was essentially an excuse to provide the needy with free food, while the other Fellows gave money they could ill afford to charitable causes or said free Masses for anyone who asked.
    ‘People have short and selective memories,’ said Michael soberly, reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘But our church still stands – for now, at least – so we had better visit the brewery to break the news of Frenge’s death before they hear it from someone else.’
    They began to walk along the High Street. It was busy with people who were either ‘souling’ – earning cakes in return for prayers for the dead – or making last-minute adjustments to their bonfires. Those who were to take part in the torchlit procession were beginning to assemble, but the atmosphere was more menacing than celebratory, and both scholars were glad to turn down a road that was devoid of revellers.
    Water Lane, where Frenge’s brewery was located, was one of several alleys that ran between Milne Street and the river. It was fairly well maintained because it was in constant use by the wagons that carried goods to and from the wharf, and boasted a number of fine houses. Some belonged to the merchants whose warehouses stood nearby, but most had been bought by scholars after the plague had emptied the area, and were now hostels. The largest and grandest was Zachary, which had recently been fitted with new window shutters – a gift from one of its many wealthy members.
    Unlike most of the river thoroughfares, Water Lane did not end in a muddy slope and a rickety pier. It finished in a spacious cobbled yard dominated by two very different but equally handsome buildings, and a spanking new jetty. Of the buildings, one was the brewery, while the other was owned by Bartholomew’s sister, Edith Stanmore.
    A few weeks before, Edith had startled her brother and everyone else who knew her by announcing a decision to expand her late husband’s highly profitable cloth business. She had achieved this by entering the dyeing trade, and had acquired premises, equipment and a workforce before anyone had really understood what she was doing – which was unfortunate, as the venture had aroused a lot of ill feeling. There were two main reasons for this: first, dyeing was a noxious process, and generated a lot of bad smells and unwholesome effluent; and second, she had chosen to hire staff from a controversial source.
    ‘Prostitutes,’ said Michael, as two women emerged. ‘I understand Edith wanting to do something good for the town’s downtrodden, but did she have to open her doors to