Stanmore was waiting for them, and escorted them from the frenetic activity in the yard to the pleasant solar on the upper floor. Bartholomew had always liked this room. Its walls were hung with thick tapestries, and the floor was strewn with an assortment of rugs of varying quality, age, and colours. Several comfortable chairs were ranged around the stone fireplace, and bales of cloth were stacked along one wall. Although the house on Milne Street was luxurious, especially compared to Michaelhouse, Stanmore preferred to live with his wife, Bartholomew's sister, at his manor in Trumpington, a village two miles distant.
Stanmore had arranged for breakfast to be brought to them, and several pans were being kept warm by the fire. Before Bartholomew could stop him, Michael had grabbed a loaf of freshly baked bread and a pan of sizzling bacon, and had settled himself comfortably in Stanmore's favourite chair to enjoy his booty. Stanmore looked askance at the greedy monk and sat opposite him, while Bartholomew sipped at a cup of watered ale.
"I went to work on those questions you asked about witchcraft,' said Stanmore.
Bartholomew understood that his brother-in-law had contacts in the most unusual places, but knew better than to ask questions.
'Your old monk was right,' continued the merchant, reaching across to take a slice of bacon before Michael could eat it all. '"The churches of All Saints' and St John Zachary are used for purposes not altogether religious.
"There are two active, but separate, covens in Cambridge, each illicitly based at one of the churches. I am told that although both covens worship fallen angels, there is rivalry between them and they do not like each other.
I am also told that at least one of the groups is known to be connected to a guild, although I do not know which one. It is not mine,' he added hastily.
"There were many guilds in Cambridge. Some, like Stanmore's Guild of Drapers, were formed to ensure a solidarity between traders and to establish good standards and training for apprentices. Other guilds were formed for charitable or religious purposes.
Bartholomew remembered the complaints when Sir Richard Tulyet, the Sheriffs father, was elected Mayor of Cambridge. He had been a member of the Guild of the Annunciation and he had seen that members of his Guild were elected as bailiffs, burgesses, and to other prestigious positions. "The current Mayor, Robert Brigham, was a clerk, and members of his Guild of St Peter and St Paul seemed to be doing well, although not as flagrantly as had Tulyet's friends.
"The three men talked for a while, discussing which guilds might be a front for a coven, but were unable to come up with any convincing proof. Michael thought a group of pardoners might be responsible, but Bartholomew knew that Michael loathed pardoners and their trade, which took advantage of the gullible and the desperate. Stanmore thought the Guild of Dyers might be a coven in disguise, but Stanmore had always hated the dyers, at whose mercy he was if he wanted to sell coloured cloths. Bartholomew considered suggesting the Franciscans, for he thought there was something diabolical in their refusal to accept some of his teaching for reasons that were founded in ignorance.
Seeing they had merely reached a stage where they were fuelling each other's personal bigotries, Bartholomew stood, stretched, and suggested they should be about their business.
As Stanmore stood with them at the gate, a breathless messenger staggered towards him, mud-splattered, his eyes red-rimmed from weariness.
'It has all gone!' he wailed.
'What has gone?' said Stanmore, nonplussed. 'Pull yourself together, man!' "The messenger took a gulping breath. '"The yellow silk from London. We were ambushed 'What?' snapped Stanmore. 'That cannot be. that cart was part of a huge convoy.'
'"The silk has gone!' insisted the messenger. 'It happened as we were making a camp for the night. We chose a spot near the middle of the convoy, as you said we should, and we were cooking our supper. Men armed with great long bows sprung from nowhere. Will Potter was shot as he reached for his sword, and so were two men who were guarding Master Morice's wines. The wolvesheads smashed the wine bottles, set fire to the silk, stole cheeses and dried meats, and escaped. Some of us gave chase, but the forests are dense, and what could we have done if we had caught them?'
'Damn!' said Stanmore, his lips pursed tightly together.
He reached out and took the man by the shoulder. 'What of Will? Is he badly hurt?'
'He is dead,' said the messenger, shuffling his feet in the dust.
Stanmore paled. 'And the others? Where are they now? Are they injured?' "The messenger jerked his head back along Milne Street to where a dishevelled group of men shuffled towards them.
'Had you seen these outlaws before? Would you recognise them again?' Stanmore asked, taking a more secure hold on the man's arm as he reeled.
"The messenger shook his head wearily, and Stanmore relented. 'Tell the others to get something to eat from the kitchens, and then come to my office,' he said. When the messenger had gone, Stanmore ordered an apprentice to take a message to the Castle, and sent for his steward to see to Will's body. He leaned against the door, and Bartholomew saw his hands were shaking. Bartholomew knew it was not only the loss of the valuable silk that distressed his brother-in-law; Stanmore was fond of the people who worked for him, and Will had been in his service for many years.
Michael looked grave. '"The roads are unsafe for decent people,' he said. 'We were even afraid to walk along Barnwell Causeway from the Fair the night before last, and you can virtually see the town from there.'
'But why bother to attack if not to steal?' asked Bartholomew.
'They stole,' said Stanmore tightly. 'They took cheese and meat, and food is a valuable commodity when there is so little of it about'
'But attacking is dangerous,' persisted Bartholomew.
'Why take the time to burn your cart and to smash the wine bottles, when it would be better to seize the food, and flee as quickly as possible?'
Stanmore sighed impatiently. 'Only a scholar would reason like that,' he said dismissively. 'These are louts, Matt, who gain pleasure from the crimes they commit.
They probably enjoyed the damage they caused.
You credit them with more thought than they are capable of.'
'Well, I am sorry for your loss,' said Bartholomew.
'For Will, too.'
'Oh, damn all this!' Stanmore exclaimed. "I had already promised that silk to a merchant in Norwich. De Belem's prices for dyeing silk have become ridiculous, and I would pay more to him for dyeing than I would be able to charge for it. His wife's death during the plague must have damaged his mind. His prices will have to come down, or he will ruin us all. And if we fall, so will he.'
He turned as his men came through the gates, limping and travel-stained. Stanmore ran towards them, counting them like a mother hen. Bartholomew went to help, and spent the next hour bandaging and dispensing salves for grazes and bruises. He and Michael took their leave as Stanmore's steward arrived bearing the body of Will Potter.
'"The friar is to be buried today,' said Bartholomew as they walked away. 'We do not even know his name. De Wetherset will want to know what we have done, and we have done nothing. Tomorrow we had better exhume the body of his clerk. We should invite him to be present to make sure we have the right corpse.'