‘The University will provide one tenth of the total,’ said Michael tightly. ‘Which is a considerable increase on the amount we originally agreed for repairs in wood. It is a fair offer, especially as we are under no obligation to pay anything at all.’
‘Done!’ said Morys before anyone could argue. ‘When can we have it?’
Michael blinked. ‘It will take some time to–’
‘You have until next Wednesday,’ determined Morys. ‘Shardelowe will begin work at once, and I suggest we all walk to the bridge now, so he can outline his plans in more detail.’
The Mayor’s declaration signalled the end of the meeting, and Bartholomew noted that the motion to rebuild in stone had been bulled through without the council’s vote. The burgesses looked relieved, presumably so they could deny culpability later, should things go wrong.
As people began to file out of the guildhall, Donwich came to inform Michael that he had no right to squander the University’s money, and that he would not allow himself to be manipulated by the Mayor when he was confirmed as Chancellor.
‘You will refuse to give what I promised, if the vicars-general find in your favour?’ asked Michael, his voice loud enough to carry. ‘You will leave the town to pay it all?’
Donwich’s smirk slipped at the immediate growl of anger from the people who heard. ‘We shall see,’ he hedged. ‘However, I shall ensure that our scholars know it was your idea.’
‘What a loathsome worm!’ exclaimed Gayton, watching him strut away. ‘It is obvious that he had all this worked out with Morys in advance. I hope the vicars-general reject his claim soon, Brother, because he could do a lot of damage in the interim.’
Once outside, most folk disappeared to their homes or places of business. Bartholomew and Michael were among the few who followed Shardelowe to the bridge, along with Zoone, who, as an engineer, had valid opinions about the builder’s plans. Donwich decided he should be there, too, and was flanked by a tight knot of supporters that included Gille and Elsham. Morys and half a dozen burgesses came next, with Tulyet and Dickon bringing up the rear.
When they reached the bridge, Shardelowe made the point that it would have to close while work was under way.
‘But we cannot manage without it for months on end!’ cried FitzAbsolon. ‘It will cost us a fortune in lost revenue and tolls, not to mention the harm it will do to trade. I knew we should have opted for a wooden one. Morys was wrong to persuade us otherwise.’
‘If you buy the supplies as they arrive, and agree to pay me and my men the moment the work is completed,’ said Shardelowe, ‘you will have a new stone bridge in eight days.’
‘Eight days?’ echoed Tulyet, while gasps of disbelief came from everyone else. ‘That is impossible! Besides, rushed men make mistakes, and we do not want a shoddy result.’
‘Or deaths and injuries among your workforce,’ put in Bartholomew.
‘We are professionals,’ stated Shardelowe loftily. ‘We do not have accidents, and our work is exemplary. If you leave us alone to get on with it, I promise to finish by Saturday week – in time for the University’s graduation ceremony.’
‘It cannot be done,’ argued Tulyet impatiently. ‘Tell him, Zoone.’
Zoone rubbed his chin. ‘Actually, it is theoretically possible, if they work night and day, and there are no unforeseen difficulties. Of course, that assumes all the materials arrive promptly – the deadline will be missed if even one delivery goes astray.’
‘Leave all that to me,’ said Shardelowe briskly. ‘I shall offer my men a bonus if we finish on time, and there is nothing like a fat purse to motivate a fellow. Of course, it will cost a little extra, but nothing that cannot be recouped tenfold by an early resumption of tolls. What do you say?’
‘Yes,’ said Morys, so quickly that Bartholomew was not alone in surmising that he and the builder had already discussed the bonus and agreed on it. ‘Shall we put it in writing?’
Gille offered his services as a scribe, and when he produced the materials he needed to prepare the contract, Bartholomew recognised the jewelled inkpot as the one he had filched from Michael’s office in St Mary the Great the previous day.
‘I know,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew pointed it out to him. ‘But now is not the time to accuse him of theft. It will make me look petty – which is exactly why he is flaunting the thing, of course.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, astounded by the depths to which Donwich’s cronies were prepared to sink to score points.
For the rest of the afternoon and early evening, Bartholomew listened to Zoone and Shardelowe discuss the minutiae of the project. He was fascinated by the complex calculations involved, although they left everyone else with glazed eyes. Then he felt a tug on his sleeve, and turned to see Cynric. The book-bearer nodded to where Stasy and Hawick stood nearby, waylaying anyone who would stop to listen to them.
‘They are touting for business,’ the book-bearer explained. ‘They started at dawn and have not stopped since – I have watched them the whole time. There will be trouble soon, because they bought a load of Margery Starre’s remedies and are passing them off as their own. She will not be pleased.’
Bartholomew imagined she would not, and thought they were reckless to antagonise a self-confessed witch, whose hexes were generally believed to be effective.
‘What will she do about it?’ he asked uneasily.
‘Oh, just something to ensure they never do it again,’ replied Cynric airily. ‘But they have been maligning you, boy. They tell folk that you cannot cure the flux or a common cold, but they can, which makes them better physicians.’
Bartholomew was unconcerned. ‘When their “remedies” fail, they will discover that they have done themselves great harm by making reckless claims.’
When Cynric had gone, Bartholomew went to the side of the bridge and looked down. In the narrow gap between it and the ponticulus, he could see the river. Its stench made his eyes water, and he wondered how Isnard could bear to operate a ferry on it – the bargeman had a steady stream of customers, who would rather use his boat than risk the bridge.
His gaze wandered to the nearby houses. To his left was Tulyet’s, a handsome mansion that provided him and his family with a comfortable alternative to the spartan accommodations at the castle. To his right was Brampton’s, smaller than the Sheriff’s, but newer and more ornate, with glass in every window and a fine tile roof, all of which showed the Senior Proctor to be a man of considerable wealth. Bartholomew wondered if that was why Donwich was courting Lucy – with no children, the Senior Proctor was likely to leave all his worldly goods to his sister, and Donwich had always been interested in money.
At that moment, a loud shout caught his attention, and he looked up to see two carts attempting to pass each other. Unwilling to be mashed into the parapet while they manoeuvred, he left the bridge and walked down to the riverbank. A ragged band of children, led by Ulf Godenave, scampered along its shores, playing chase. Some took refuge behind the wreck of a small boat, which jutted into the river, impeding its flow and snagging anything that floated too close. It was then that Bartholomew saw the hand.
‘You are mistaken,’ called Morys, when Bartholomew shouted the news to the people on the bridge. ‘It is a dead fish or a bit or rubbish.’