‘You cannot track them?’ Bartholomew had great respect for Cynric’s skill in such matters.
‘Not in a town, boy. Broken blades of grass, footprints and bruised leaves mean nothing in a place inhabited by so many people. And I listened as hard as I could, but they are too experienced to let the rattle of footsteps give them away.’
‘Experienced?’
‘They were fighters, men who have done battle before. It was rash to tackle them with nothing but forceps.’ Cynric’s tone was deeply disapproving.
‘They were going to steal something.’
‘Like what? The place is empty, because we removed all the furniture after Margery died. In fact, a burglary was why we emptied it, if you recall. Someone broke in the night after she passed away, and ransacked the house. So we took everything out while we still had it.’
The incident had slipped Bartholomew’s mind. ‘Did we catch the culprit? I cannot remember.’
The book-bearer shook his head. ‘But the news of her death was all over the town, and it is not unknown for the homes of the recently deceased to be targeted by unprincipled thieves.’ He frowned in puzzlement. ‘They do not usually bother once a place has been stripped, though. I wonder what that pair thought they were doing.’
Bartholomew struggled into a sitting position. The intruders’ lamp had been knocked over during the skirmish, but he recalled how bare Margery’s home had looked after the servants had taken benches, pots and shelves. They had even unpeeled the ancient rugs from the floor, revealing uneven tiles that would need to be replaced before the cottage could be sold. He supposed thieves could still take door hinges or wall brackets, but Beard and the giant were relatively well dressed, and he could not see such men being interested in second-hand ironmongery.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked the book-bearer, when answers continued to evade him, no matter how hard he thought. ‘You went home ages ago.’
‘I saw the light, and was watching from across the street,’ explained Cynric. ‘I was going to follow them when they came out, to see where they went. But you were in before I could stop you.’
His voice held a note of admonition, and Bartholomew realised his recklessness had spoiled a perfectly sensible plan. Cynric would have stalked the two men to their lodgings and reported the incident to Michael, who would then have gone to question them. The monk might even have locked them in his gaol until he was sure of their story. Bartholomew’s intervention meant he had risked his life for nothing – and created yet another mystery for the Senior Proctor to unravel.
‘I am sorry, Cynric,’ he mumbled. ‘I did not think.’
‘It is all right.’ Cynric held out his hand, and hauled the physician to his feet, shooting him a grin at the same time. ‘Your battle cry was impressive, though. Was it one you heard at Poitiers? Now there was a time to gladden the heart of a warrior!’
Bartholomew swallowed hard. It had not gladdened his heart, and the horror of the close fighting still haunted his dreams. Working among the injured afterwards had been worse still, even for a man familiar with such sights, and he failed to understand why Cynric seemed to gain so much delight from reminiscing about it. He forced the rush of bad memories away and smiled back at Cynric, supposing his Welsh had been unintelligible.
‘You arrived just in time. Thank you.’
Cynric began to prowl, looking for clues to what the two men could have wanted, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall. He was unsteady on his feet, and wondered whether it was the aftermath of the skirmish or the lingering effects of Valeria’s ale. He tottered to the door and inspected it. Indentations along one side showed where someone had taken an implement to the wood and carefully pried his way inside. It looked like a determined effort, and Bartholomew wondered – again – why Beard and the giant should think it worthwhile.
‘We should go and inform the Master,’ said Cynric, peering at the damage.
‘We can tell him someone broke in, but we cannot tell him why. Do you have any theories?’
‘Margery had no kin, so that pair cannot be disinherited nephews or distant cousins coming to see what they can salvage. They are not local men, because the size of one and the beard of the other make them distinctive, and I would know them. So they must be visitors.’
‘I have seen them around. Their clothes suggest they are men of some standing.’
Cynric nodded. ‘I thought the same. Do you think one might be the Sorcerer?’
It was the sort of leap in logic Bartholomew had come to expect from Cynric, so the question did not surprise him as much as it might another man. ‘You said they were not local, but the Sorcerer is local. Or, at least, he has been here a while, amassing his power. Ergo, neither of the two burglars can be him, because an observant man like you would have noticed either one of them weeks ago.’
‘True,’ said Cynric, preening slightly at the compliment. ‘Pity. They were imposing fellows, and I shall be disappointed if the Sorcerer transpires to be someone puny.’
Bartholomew left him to watch the house while he returned to Michaelhouse, promising to dispatch the porter with tools to mend the door. He crossed the Great Bridge, passed the grand houses that belonged to the Sheriff and other town worthies, and had just reached the shadowy churchyard of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when his attention was caught by a rustle.
‘Heathen!’ came a fierce whisper from the bushes. ‘Your days are numbered.’
It was still not fully light, and Bartholomew could not see very well. ‘Who is there?’ he demanded, wondering whether Beard or his gigantic companion were having some fun with him in retaliation for interrupting whatever it was they had been doing.
‘Your heart is steeped in wickedness,’ the voice went on. ‘And it will bring about your death.’
Bartholomew reached into his bag and withdrew the forceps again, wondering what Matilde would say if she knew the use to which he was putting them. ‘If you have something to say, then come out and say it. Do not hiss in the dark like a demented kettle.’
‘I know how you spend your nights,’ breathed the voice. ‘You consort with witches.’
Bartholomew was beginning to be annoyed. He dived into the vegetation, aiming to grab the fellow and demand an explanation. He heard a twig snap ahead of him, so fought his way towards it, swearing under his breath when brambles ripped his shirt. Suddenly, he was through the undergrowth and out into the road on the other side. He looked up and down the street rather wildly, but there was no one in sight. Except one man, who regarded him in startled concern.
‘Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘What in God’s name is the matter? Who were you shouting at? And what have these poor shrubs done to warrant such a vicious attack?’
‘And you saw nothing at all?’ asked Bartholomew, following the monk across Michaelhouse’s yard for breakfast. They had just buried Carton in the Franciscan cemetery – the hour after dawn was the coolest time of day, and all funerals were currently taking place then – and he desperately wanted to think about something else. William and Mildenale had complained that their colleague was being shoved in the ground with indecent haste, while not all the Grey Friars were pleased that their priory should be chosen as the final resting place for a dead fanatic. The occasion had been both dismal and uncomfortable, and Bartholomew was glad it was over.
‘Only you. I heard you leave in the middle of the night, and was worried when you did not come home. I was on my way to find you when I saw you fighting the trees. Thankfully, no one else did, because I would not like it said that Michaelhouse is full of lunatics – it would be hard to refute, as we are already the proud owners of Clippesby, Mildenale and William.’