Bartholomew bent to look at the man on the ground.
He was dead, the crossbow bolt embedded deeply in his chest. Bartholomew rifled hurriedly through his clothes, hoping for something that would identify him. There was a plain purse, filled with silver coins, but nothing else.
Bartholomew shook the purse at Stanmore. 'He was paid this money to attack me,' he said. He thought about the tinker's baby: it would make a fine gift for her baptism.
Stanmore began to lead the way cautiously up the lane towards Michaelhouse. Bartholomew caught his sleeve as they walked. 'What were you doing here?' he asked, keeping a wary eye on the trees at the sides of the lane.
Stanmore raised the lamp to look into some deep shadows near the back of Michaelhouse. 'A barge came in today,' he said, 'and I have been sitting with the captain negotiating the price of the next shipment.' He nodded at his steward. 'When I am at the wharf after dark, I always tell Hugh to bring his crossbow. You never know who you might meet around here.'
Bartholomew clapped Stanmore on the shoulder. 'I did not say thank you,' he said. 'Had you been a second later, you would have been rescuing a corpse!'
They reached Michaelhouse, and Stanmore joined Bartholomew for a cup of spiced wine in the hall, while Hugh was despatched to take the news to the Sheriff.
Father William was there too, trying to read by the light from the candles, and several students talked in low voices in another corner.
Stanmore stretched out his legs in front of the small fire. 'These robbers are getting bold,' he said. 'They have only picked on the dead and dying up until now.
This is the first time I have heard them attacking the healthy.'
Bartholomew put the purse on the table. He quickly told Stanmore about the blacksmith, and how he had been paid to do Bartholomew harm during the riot.
Stanmore listened, his mouth agape in horror.
'For the love of God, Matt! What have you got yourself mixed up in? First this blacksmith business, then Philippa, and now this!'
Bartholomew could only look as mystified as his brother-in-law.
When Hugh returned, Stanmore rose to leave, declining Bartholomew's offer of a bed for the night.
'No thank you, Matt!' he said, looking round at the College. 'Why should I spend a night in this cold and wretched place when I can have roaring fires and bright, candle-lit rooms with Stephen?'
Bartholomewr went back to his own room, and undressed ready for bed. He had to wash and hang up his clothes in the dark, because scholars were not usually given candles for their rooms. It was considered wasteful, when they could use the communal ones in the hall, or, more usually, the conclave. He tidied the room as best he could, and lay on the creaking bed, rubbing his feet together hard in a vain attempt to warm them up. Stanmore was right: Michaelhouse was cold and gloomy. He tried to get comfortable, wincing as the wooden board dug into a place where one of his attackers had kicked him.
So, who had tried to kill him? Both the blacksmith and the dead man had been paid about five marks in silver in leather purses. Were they connected? They had to be: surely there was not more than one group of people who would pay to have him killed! Bartholomew shifted uncomfortably. He could hear Michael's Benedictine room-mates chanting a psalm in the room above. Then, somewhere in the lane outside, a dog barked twice. A gust of wind rattled the shutters, and rain pattered against them. He curled up in a ball, and attempted to wrap the bedclothes round his frozen feet. He tried to concentrate, but his thoughts kept running together.
Next he knew, it was morning.
It was overcast and wet. Bartholomew went to the church for mass, where he was the only one present other than Father William. The Franciscan babbled the Latin at such high speed that Bartholomew barely heard most of it. He wondered whether William could really be sincere at such a pace, or whether he believed God liked His masses fast so He could get on with other things. Bartholomew would have asked him had he not been reluctant to be drawn into a protracted debate.
Remembering his obligation to Wilson, Bartholomew went to look at the spot the lawyer had chosen for his glorious tomb. Bartholomew had already asked one of the Castle stonemasons to order a slab of black marble, although he wondered when he would be able to hire someone to carve it. The Master Mason had died of the plague, and the surviving masons were overwhelmed by the repair work necessary to maintain the Castle. As he gazed at Wilson's niche, he thought it unfair that good men like Augustus and Nicholas should lie in a mass grave, while Wilson should have a grand tomb to commemorate him.
Bartholomew left the church and stepped into the street, closing the door behind him. He pulled his hood up against the rain, and set off to check the plague pits.
On his way, he met Burwell, who greeted him with a smile and told him that there had been no new cases of plague in Bene't Hostel for two days.
As they talked, a beggar with dreadful sores on his face approached, pleading for alms. Bartholomew knew the beggar prepared his 'sores' every morning with a mixture of chalk, mud, and pig's blood. The beggar suddenly recognised Bartholomew under his hood, and backed off in dismay, as Bartholomew grasped Burwell's hand to prevent him from giving his money away.
As Bartholomew turned to explain to Burwell, he saw the purse in the hand he held. It was made of fine leather, and had 'BH' embellished on it in gold thread.
Bartholomew had one just like it in his pocket. He felt his stomach turn over, although there was no reason why the Sub-Principal of Bene't Hostel should not have one of its purses. Burwell looked at him curiously. 'Doctor?' he said.
'Sores painted on fresh every day,' mumbled Bartholomew, hoping Burwell had not noticed his reaction, and if he had, did not guess why.
Burwell looked up at the sky as the church bell rang out the hour, and drew his hood over his head. 'Well, I must be about my business, and I know you must be busy.' He started to walk away, and then stopped.
'When you next see that rascal, Samuel Gray, could you tell him that he still owes us money for his fees last term?'
Bartholomew was a little angry at Gray. He should have cleared his debts with the hostel before changing to a new teacher. It was just another example of the double life the student seemed to lead. Bartholomew wondered what else he kept hidden. Since he was passing, Bartholomew went into St Botolph's Church to look for Colet. The Physician sat in his usual place, staring at the candles and twisting the golden lion round his fingers again and again.
When Bartholomew tried to talk to him, Colet fixed him with a vacant stare, and Bartholomew was in no doubt that Colet no longer knew who he was. His beard was encrusted with dried saliva, and his clothes were filthy. Bartholomew wondered if he should try to do something for him, but Colet did not seem to be in any discomfort. He decided to wait for a day or so and reconsider it then.
He left the church and continued along the High Street. As he passed the King's Head, Henry Oliver emerged and gave him such a look of undisguised enmity that Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks.
Oliver began to walk towards him. Bartholomew waited, taking the small knife out of his bag and keeping it hidden under his cloak so that Oliver would not see it.
'Found your lady yet, Doctor?' he said, his voice little more than a hiss.
Bartholomew wanted to push him into the stone trough that was full of water for horses, just behind him.
'Why do you ask?' he said, his voice betraying none of the anger that welled up inside him.
Oliver shrugged nonchalantly and gave a cold little smile. 'Just curious to know whether she continues to hide from you.'
Bartholomew smiled back. 'She still hides from me,' he said, wondering what Oliver thought he was going to gain from this cat-and-mouse game. 'Now, if you will excuse me, pleasant though it is to talk with you, the plague pit calls.'
He walked away, wondering what on earth could be the matter with the young man, and decided to speak to Swynford about it when he returned to College. The unpleasantness had
gone on quite long enough.
As he approached the plague pit, an urchin darted up to him and mumbled something before turning to race away. Bartholomew, quick as lightning, grabbed him and held him as he struggled frantically, kicking at Bartholomew with his small bare feet. Bartholomew waited until the child's frenzy was spent and spoke gently.
"I did not hear what you said. Say it again.'
'A well-wisher has sommat to tell you if you come here at ten tonight,' he stammered, looking up at Bartholomew with big frightened eyes. 'But you got to come alone.'
Bartholomew stared at him. Was this another ploy to get him into a place where he could be dispatched as he almost had been the night before? 'Who told you to tell me this?'
The brat struggled again. "I don't know. It was a man all wrapped up. He asked if I knew you — you came to my ma when she was sick — so I said yes, and he told me to tell you that message and to run away after. He gave me a penny.' He thrust out his hand to show it. Bartholomew let the child go and watched him scamper down the muddy street.
Now what? he thought. As if the plague, the College and Philippa were not enough to worry about!
The rain had eased off during the day, and, as night fell, patches of blue began to appear in the sky. But by the time Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse after attending his patients, it was so late that most of the scholars were already in bed.
He went to the kitchen where Cynric dozed in front of the dying fire, and rummaged in the pantry until he found the remains of a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. While he ate, Cynric stoked up the fire, and set some wine to mull for them both.
Bartholomew considered whether he should go to meet his 'well-wisher' at the plague pit. It seemed an odd choice for a rendezvous, but it would certainly be private, for no one in his right mind would frequent that place of desolation and despair in the dead of night. He glanced at the hour candle. He would need to make up his mind fairly quickly, for the meeting was in less than an hour.
Perhaps the mysterious sender really did wish him well, and would have information about Philippa. He tried to consider it logically. The people who attacked him would hardly expect that he would accept a second invitation to meet an unknown person in the dark in some god-forsaken spot after what had happened to him the previous night. Therefore, his 'well-wisher' must be someone who did not know about the attack. Of course, his attackers might use the same line of reasoning as he had just done. He stared into the fire and tapped his fingers on the table as his mind wrestled with the problem.
Abruptly, he stood. He was going. He would arm himself this time, and would be alert to the possibility of danger, unlike the previous night. He had spent hours in taverns and hostels trying to learn something about the disappearance of Giles and Philippa: it was possible that his well-wisher might have the information he wanted, and he did not wish to miss out on such an opportunity by being overly cautious.
Cynric looked at him sleepily. 'You going out again?' he asked. His eyes snapped open as Bartholomew took a large double-edged butchery knife from its hook on the wall and slipped it under his cloak.
'Now what are you going to do with that?' he said.
He sat up straight in Agatha's fireside chair, his interest quickened. 'Not roistering about the town?' "I have a meeting,' said Bartholomew. He saw no reason why he should not tell Cynric where he was going.
At least then, if he were attacked, Cynric could tell the Sheriff it had been planned, and was not some random skirmish by the robbers as Stanmore plainly believed had happened the previous evening.
Cynric grabbed his cloak from where it lay in a bundle on the floor. 'At this time of night? After what happened to you yesterday? I had better come too, to keep you from mischief.'
'No,' said Bartholomew, thinkingabout the message.
It told him to come alone, and he did not want to run the risk of frightening off a potential informant.
Cynric threw his cloak around his shoulders, and stood next to Bartholomew. 'We have known each other for a long time,' he said quietly, 'and I have seen that there has been something amiss with you since Sir John died. Perhaps I can help. I know you are anxious about the Lady Philippa. Is that what this meeting is about?'
Bartholomew gave a reluctant smile. He had forgotten how astute the small Welshman could be. He nodded and said, 'But I have been told to come alone.'
Cynric dismissed this with a wave of his hand. 'The day someone sees Cynric ap Huwydd when he does not want to be seen will be the day he dies. Do not worry, boy, I will be there, but none will know it other than you. Now, where are we going?'
Bartholomew relented. He was nervous about the meeting, and it would be reassuring to have Cynric nearby. If nothing else, at least he could run for help if things took a nasty turn. 'But you must be cautious,' he said. "I have no idea who we are meeting, or what they want. If there is trouble, run for help. Do not come yourself or you may get hurt.'
Cynric shot him a disbelieving look. 'What do you take me for, boy? You should know me better than that.
I learned something of ambush tactics in the Welsh mountains, you know.' "I am sorry. It is just that so many people have met untimely deaths in the College and I do not want to lose anyone else.'
'Like Augustus, Paul and Montfitchet, you mean?' asked Cynric. Bartholomew looked at him askance.
'Just because I have no degree, like you scholars, does not mean I have no sense,' said Cynric. "I know they were murdered, despite the lies that fat Wilson put about. I will keep my mouth shut,' he added quickly, seeing Bartholomew's expression of concern. "I have done until now. But you should know that you are not alone in this.'
It was a long speech for Cynric, who indicated that the subject was closed by pinching out the candles and selecting a knife of his own.
Bartholomew slipped out of the kitchen door and across the courtyard. He walked briskly up St Michael's Lane and turned into the High Street. It was not easy to walk in the dark. The night had turned foggy, blocking out any light the moon might have given, and it was almost impossible to see the pot-holes and rubbish until he had stepped into them. At one point, he stumbled into a hole full of stinking water that reached his knees.
Grimacing with distaste at the smell of urine and offal that came from it, he picked himself up and continued.
From Cynric there was not a sound, but Bartholomew knew he was there.
At last he reached the field where the plague pits had been dug. A crude wooden fence had been erected around the field to prevent dogs from entering and digging up the victims. Bartholomew climbed over it and looked around. The mounds from the two full pits rose from the trampled grass like ancient pagan barrows. The other pit gaped like a great black mouth, and Bartholomew could make out the paler layer at the bottom where the lime had been spread over the last bodies to be laid there.
He tried to detect whether there was anyone hiding in the hedges at the sides of the field, but he could see nothing moving. A sound behind him made him spin round and almost lose his balance.
His heart beat wildly and he felt his knees turn to jelly. He grabbed at the fence with one hand, while the other groped for the long knife that he had tucked into his belt.
A figure stood outside the fence, heavily cloaked and hooded. It made no attempt to climb over, and when Bartholomew took a step forward, it held up its hand.
'Stay!'
It was a woman's voice. Bartholomew's heart leapt.
'Philippa!' he exclaimed.
The figure was still for a moment, and then shook her head. 'Not Philippa. I am sorry.'
Bartholomew's hopes sank. It was not Philippa's voice: it was deeper, older, and with an accent that suggested the speaker came from the Fens rather than the town.
The woman looked around her quickly. "I am glad you came, but it is not safe for us to meet like this.'
She glanced around again, and leaned over the fence so she would not have to speak so loudly. 'There is a meeting tomorrow at
Bene't Hostel. I cannot say what it is about, but you should try to find out because I think it will affect you. The best way would be for you to go to the back of the house and climb to the window in the room they use for the hall. There is a deep sill there, and you will be able to hear what is being said through the shutters. You must take utmost care, for these are dangerous men. But I think you will be safer knowing than not knowing what they say.'
Bartholomew was totally confused. 'Is this about Philippa?' he asked.
The figure took a step away. "I cannot say. You will have to listen and work it out for yourself.'
'But who are you?' Bartholomew asked.
The woman took another step away. 'Please! I will lose everything if anyone finds out I met with you tonight.
Now I must go. Please do not follow me. I ask you this because I took a risk for you tonight.'
Bartholomew assented. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'
The woman stopped and he could feel her looking at him from the depths of her hood. 'You have done enough,' she said softly, and slipped away into the mist.
Bartholomew looked after her, totally mystified.
What kind of meeting held at Benet Hostel could possibly have any relevance to him? And how was he supposed to climb up the back of the building and eavesdrop like some spy? Was this a ploy to discredit him, to get him into some dreadfully compromising position so that he could be dismissed from the University? Were there Oxford scholars plotting against him? Wilson and Aelfrith would probably think so, but there was something about the Oxford plot that Bartholomew could not accept. He understood why Wilson and Aelfrith had believed in it, but he still felt that the entire business was far more important to Cambridge than Oxford, and that Oxford would not waste time on it.
Cynric materialised in front of him, making him jump almost as much as he had when the woman had appeared. Cynric put his hand on his shoulder.
'Easy, boy! Not so jumpy. Shall I follow her?'
Bartholomew dug his nails into the fence, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. The woman had taken a risk to give him information she considered to be important to him, and had asked him not to put her in further danger by following her home.
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