‘Rob Thorpe,’ said Michael heavily when he recognised the culprit. Wynewyk immediately raised his hood and bowed his head, and Bartholomew saw that Thorpe’s reputation had gone before him. Even men like Wynewyk, who had not been in Cambridge when the lad had embarked on his spree of violence, were unwilling to attract his attention. ‘So, it is true. You have indeed decided to return to the town you used so badly.’
Thorpe had changed during the two years that he had been in exile. He was no longer a bony, gangly youth with immature fluff framing a childish face. He was a man, with a man’s strength and a man’s confidence, even though he was not yet twenty. He was clean shaven, and wore a close-cut quilted tunic with buttoned sleeves – called a gipon – over which was thrown a shoulder-cape fastened with a gold pin. His hose were soled, rendering shoes unnecessary, and his hood turban was one of the most elaborately decorated Bartholomew had ever seen. It comprised a triangle of scarlet worsted with a hole for the head, and the two ends fell elegantly over his shoulders in the fashion currently popular at the King’s Court.
‘I have been meaning to pay you a visit, monk,’ said Thorpe insolently. The smile that played around his full, red lips did not reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to Bartholomew, and he bowed his head in a gesture that was more insulting than polite. ‘And you, too, Bartholomew, although I did not think you would still be here.’
‘Where else would I be?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised by the statement.
‘I thought you would have been burned at the stake for using unorthodox and dangerous remedies,’ Thorpe replied nastily. ‘But perhaps people are more forgiving these days. Times change, I suppose.’ The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael curtly. ‘You must know you are not welcome in Cambridge. You were found guilty of several vicious murders, and you are fortunate you were not hanged. You are not the kind of man we want in our town.’
‘I have come to visit old friends,’ replied Thorpe, unruffled by the monk’s hostility. His eyes were spiteful as he addressed the physician. ‘I intend to pay my respects to your family soon – your sister Edith and her husband Oswald Stanmore. I am sure they will be delighted to see me after all these years.’
‘“All these years”?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘It has only been twenty-six months.’
Bartholomew knew delight would be the last thing on his family’s mind if they were visited by Thorpe. Stanmore was a wealthy clothier, and Thorpe had been one of his apprentices. He and Edith had taken the lad into their house and treated him like a much-loved son. Their sense of betrayal when they discovered they had nurtured a killer was still not forgotten.
‘You will have to wait for that pleasure,’ said Bartholomew, relieved that they were away and did not plan to return to Cambridge for some weeks. With luck Thorpe would be gone by then. ‘They are not here.’
Thorpe shrugged, although Bartholomew sensed he was disappointed. ‘It does not matter. I have been waiting for a long time to reacquaint myself with my old master and his wife, so a few more days are nothing. When did you say they will return?’
‘I did not,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘But Hunting-don is a long way from here, so I doubt it will be very soon.’
‘Huntingdon is not far,’ flashed Thorpe with sudden anger. ‘France is a long way from here – and that is where I was condemned to go. No one would speak for me at my trial – not my father, not the Stanmores, and not you scholars. I will repay you all for that.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘No one spoke for you, because you were guilty – by your own admission. You cannot blame others because you were caught and punished. You are a man now, so act like one, and accept responsibility for what you did.’
Thorpe became smug. ‘But my case has now been reviewed by His Majesty’s best law-clerks. I have been granted a King’s Pardon – which means no one can hold those crimes against me ever again.’
Michael was unimpressed. ‘I shall hold crimes against whomever I like. However, I do not want to talk to you when I have important matters to attend. Move that miserable nag out of my way and let me past.’
They all looked around as a second horseman arrived, also riding too fast for the small lane. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised him, too, and Wynewyk huddled even deeper into his cloak.
‘Edward Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew, taking in the sober clothing and soft features of the exiled baker’s son – the second of the two felons to be pardoned and permitted to return to the scene of his crimes. Like Thorpe, Mortimer had grown sturdier and stronger during the time he had been away. Bartholomew remembered him as a dreamy lad, bullied by his domineering father, but there was no weakness in his face now. It was cold, hard and determined, and Bartholomew saw the malleable youth had long gone.
Michael was puzzled as he looked from one felon to the other. ‘You two did not know each other before the King’s Bench ordered you to abjure the realm – on the same day, but in separate trials – so why are you together now? Is it because no one else will entertain your company?’
Thorpe’s eyes glittered at the insult, and Bartholomew suspected Michael had touched a raw nerve. Mortimer simply smiled.
‘I belong to a large and powerful family, Brother; they are always pleased when another Mortimer swells their ranks. My father, uncles and cousins are thrilled to have me back.’
The jealous glance Thorpe shot his way confirmed to Bartholomew that the younger man’s kin had indeed been less than pleased about his return. The physician understood why. Thorpe’s father was Master of a large and wealthy College, and would not want a murderous son hovering in the background, spoiling his chances of promotion. For Mortimer it was different: his family was rich, influential and not afraid to consort with those on the fringes of legality. Edward was doubtless telling the truth about his reception: the Mortimers would be only too happy to swell their ranks with a seasoned criminal.
‘I have no wish to linger here,’ said Thorpe, affecting indifference to the discussion. He forced a grin at Mortimer. ‘I will buy you an ale at the Lilypot.’
With a mock salute, he kicked hard at his horse’s sides. It reared, then cantered up St Michael’s Lane and turned towards the Great Bridge, scattering pedestrians as it went. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Mortimer followed, and realised his heart was pounding, not because he was afraid, but because the pair brought back memories of an adventure he would sooner forget. He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Neither seemed reformed by exile; on the contrary, they appeared to be nastier than ever.
‘The infamous Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Wynewyk, rubbing his hands together as though the encounter had chilled him. He pushed his hood away from his face. ‘The town has been full of talk about their misdeeds ever since they arrived back. I looked up their trial in the Castle’s records, and, as an expert on civil law, I can tell you there is no doubt at all that their conviction was sound. The evidence against them was irrefutable.’
Michael nodded. ‘I cannot imagine how they managed to persuade the King’s clerks to review their sentences, or why a Pardon was granted.’
‘I suppose money changed hands,’ said Wynewyk. ‘That is what usually happens in cases like this. But it is odd that they should arrive in Cambridge just before Bosel the beggar – chief witness against Mortimer’s uncle – should be murdered. I doubt it is coincidence.’
‘Dick Tulyet said they were both at a meeting of the town’s burgesses when Bosel died,’ said Michael, although his eyes were troubled. ‘And I do not see why they would pick on Bosel anyway.’