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.