Bartholomew laughed. ‘The King will not let Dickon intimidate him.’
‘The redoubtable Lady Joan de Hereford thought she could control the little hellion,’ said Chaumbre, ‘and the whole town heaved a sigh of relief when she took him away. But he was too much, even for her. Sometimes, I believe the tales that the Devil sired him, because he is not a normal child.’
‘Mistress Tulyet would not have countenanced Satan in her bed,’ said Bartholomew stoutly, although there had been times when he had wondered the same.
‘The Devil is cunning,’ averred Chaumbre. ‘She would not have noticed.’
Bartholomew changed the subject to something less controversial. ‘I am sure it is hotter today than it was yesterday.’
‘It is,’ agreed Chaumbre. ‘And as soon as I have retrieved my hoard, I shall go to the Cardinal’s Cap for a jug of cool ale.’
‘Aynton liked the Cardinal’s Cap.’
‘He did,’ agreed Chaumbre. ‘Especially when Huntyngdon and Martyn were there.’
‘They visited the place together?’ asked Bartholomew, although it was galling to hear this from a non-scholar. Why had no one else mentioned it? Or was it untrue, and Chaumbre aimed to mislead the investigation for reasons of his own?
‘Not always, but often. He once told me that he hoped they would follow him into University politics. If they had, they would have been better at it than Donwich, who lacks the necessary tact.’
Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘I thought Donwich was your friend. He likes you well enough to invite you to his College for celebratory feasts.’
Chaumbre chuckled. ‘He does, and I am very fond of him, too. However, that does not mean I am blind to his flaws, and he was more likeable when he spent less time with Gille and Elsham.’
As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Donwich had never been likeable.
It was not a pleasant journey across the Cam, as the ferry – the larger of the two – was overloaded and very low in the water. Bartholomew was crammed between two tanners and a goat, the latter of which breathed hot, moist air down the back of his neck for the duration of the journey. Fortunately, it was not a very long one, and they were soon clambering out the other side.
‘Thank you, Isnard,’ said Chaumbre graciously, pressing an extra coin into the bargeman’s eager palm. ‘Buy yourself an ale when you finish work.’
‘But no more than one,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Boiled barley water is much better after a day of labouring in the sun.’
‘So you say,’ muttered Isnard, telling Bartholomew that the advice would go unheeded.
Although Chaumbre offered to keep company with Bartholomew as far as the castle, he kept stopping to exchange cheery greetings with friends and acquaintances, and Bartholomew did not want his mission to take all day. He excused himself and hurried on alone.
The castle had started life as a simple motte and bailey, some three hundred years before, but was now a formidable fortress. It rarely saw military activity, and was mostly administrative. It comprised a circular keep on a mound, and curtain walls studded with towers. Inside the walls was a bailey that boasted barracks, stables, storerooms, a chapel and a large open space for the men to practise their fighting skills.
Tulyet’s office was in the keep, and Bartholomew was conducted to it by Sergeant Robin, one of Agatha’s many relations. The Sheriff grimaced in annoyance when he learned that Dickon had given his tutor the slip.
‘He will be exercising with the men,’ predicted Robin. ‘It is sword-work today, and you know how much he loves that.’
Sure enough, Dickon was with the soldiers. Although younger than all of them, and smaller than most, he was putting up an impressive show of sparring, his thick features a mask of concentration as he went through his paces with a bulky bald-headed knight.
‘That is John Morys, the Mayor’s cousin,’ said Tulyet, although Bartholomew remembered him from the guildhall. ‘He is the only man Dickon has ever admired.’
‘No surprise there,’ muttered Bartholomew, thinking if the brat was going to hero-worship anyone, it would be a rough, battle-honed bruiser with scars. ‘Are you sure you should encourage their association? John seems rather … pugilistic.’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘He has already taught Dickon far more about combat than he learned from Lady Hereford’s people. It is a pity he is illiterate, or I would ask him to teach Dickon how to read as well. Dickon would listen to him.’
‘Will it be John who takes him to France?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping it would be soon, because Dickon, fully trained as a warrior, loitering idly around Cambridge, was not an attractive proposition.
‘I wish he would – Dickon would be safe with him – but John says he has had enough of war, and would rather stay home.’
Dickon was furious to be dragged away from something he was enjoying, and his face was as black as thunder. Only John’s cautionary hand on his shoulder prevented him from snarling something that would see him in trouble.
‘I want the pouch you took from Huntyngdon’s body,’ said Bartholomew, not bothering to mince his words.
‘Why?’ demanded Dickon, although he moderated his tone when Tulyet eyed him warningly. He forced a smile. ‘I mean, why is it important? There was nothing in it. Some thief must have found the body first, and stripped it of valuables.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Indeed, I am surprised it was not relieved of its fine clothes as well.’
‘The maggots,’ explained Dickon ghoulishly. ‘It probably put the thief off. It did not bother me, though. I did not mind reclaiming the purse for Brother Michael.’
‘And now Huntyngdon’s father wants it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So where is it?’
With obvious reluctance, Dickon rummaged inside his own scrip and handed the thing over. Some effort had been made to clean it, although it was still not something Bartholomew would have chosen to keep on his person.
‘I tried to give it to Brother Michael yesterday,’ said Dickon defensively, ‘but he refused to take it. As it was going begging, I decided to sell it to Margery Starre. She always buys things belonging to corpses, because they have special powers.’
‘You had no right,’ scolded Tulyet. ‘You should have replaced it on the body.’
‘But the body was dead,’ objected Dickon, bemused. ‘And thus past caring.’
‘His kin will care,’ explained Tulyet, although Bartholomew felt the boy was old enough to have worked this out for himself. ‘And you cannot do business with Mistress Starre anyway. She is a witch. You must distance yourself from such people.’
‘Your father is right, lad,’ murmured John. ‘Listen to him.’
While they talked, Bartholomew examined the purse, daring to hope that Aynton’s letter would be in it – that Dickon had overlooked it because he was uninterested in documents himself. But the purse was empty, and he could only assume that the boy was right: an opportunistic thief – or the killer – had taken whatever had been inside.
‘It was like this when you found it, Dickon?’ he asked, to be sure. ‘There was nothing you threw away because it was wet or dirty?’
Dickon shook his head. ‘I was very careful, and if anything had been in it, I would have passed it to Brother Michael at once. Why? Are you looking into Huntyngdon’s death as well as the Chancellor’s? Can I help? Awkward witnesses always cooperate when I draw my sword.’
Bartholomew was sure they did. ‘It is a kind offer, but I can manage, thank you.’
The discussion over, Dickon scampered away before he could be ordered back to his books. Grinning indulgently, John followed.