Bartholomew said, still trying to recover his breath, 'and these men attacked me.'
'You should know better than to go to the river after dark,' said Stanmore. 'The Sheriff caught three of the robbers that have been menacing the town there only last week. Doubtless these are more of the same.' He glanced around. 'Who sent you the note? Surely you can tie note and attackers together?'
Bartholomew showed him the now-crumpled message.
'The tinker did not write this,' he said.
Stanmore took it from him and peered at it. 'The tinker most certainly did not,' he said, 'for he died last month. I heard that only two of his children live, and his wife is expecting her ninth, poor woman.'
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.