William drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at the grocer. ‘I am a friar, bound by the seal of confession,’ he said indignantly. ‘You can pray for whatever you like, safe in the knowledge that your words with God and His angels will never be repeated by me. Besides, I cannot leave pilgrims alone with the Hand of Valence Marie. They may become over-excited and try to make off with it – and then what would I tell the Chancellor?’
‘Very well,’ said Deschalers tiredly. He lowered himself to his knees, each movement painful and laboured. He hoped his plan would work – that his petition would be heard and his request granted – because everything else he had tried had failed. This was his last chance, and he knew that if the Hand of Valence Marie did not intercede on his behalf, then all was lost. He put his hands together, closed his eyes and began to pray.
Cambridge, late February 1355
When he first saw the well-dressed young man sitting on the lively grey horse, Matthew Bartholomew thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked hard and looked a second time. But there was no mistake. The rider, whose elegant clothes were styled in the very latest courtly fashion, was indeed Rob Thorpe, who had been convicted of murder two years before. Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks and gazed in disbelief.
A cart hauled by heavy horses thundered towards him, loaded with wool for the fulling mill, and his colleague, John Wynewyk, seized his arm to tug him out of its way. It was never wise to allow attention to wander while navigating the treacherous surfaces of the town’s main thoroughfares, but it was even more foolish when ice lay in a slick sheet across them, and a chill wind encouraged carters to make their deliveries as hastily as possible so they could go home.
‘This cannot be right,’ said Bartholomew in an appalled whisper, oblivious to the fact that Wynewyk had just saved his life. ‘Thorpe was banished from England for murder. He would not dare risk summary execution by showing his face here again – not ever. I must be seeing things.’
‘You will not see anything if you dither in the middle of this road,’ lectured Wynewyk, watching the cart lurch away. ‘Thomas Mortimer was driving that thing. Did you not hear what he did to Bernarde the miller last week? Knocked him clean off his feet – and right up on top of that massive snowdrift outside Bene’t College.’
Bartholomew grudgingly turned his mind to Wynewyk’s story. Mortimer’s driving had become increasingly dangerous over the past few weeks, and he wondered whether it was accident or design that it had been Bernarde who had almost come to grief under his wheels – both men were millers, and they were rivals of the most bitter kind. Bartholomew supposed he should speak to the town’s burgesses about the problem, because it was only a matter of time before Mortimer killed someone.
‘Here comes Langelee,’ said Wynewyk, pointing to where the Master of their College strode towards them. ‘What is the matter with him? He looks furious.’
‘Have you heard the news?’ demanded Langelee as he drew level with his Fellows. ‘The King’s Bench has granted pardons to Rob Thorpe and Edward Mortimer.’
Bartholomew regarded him in horror, although Wynewyk shrugged to indicate he did not know what the fuss was about. ‘Who are these men? Should I have heard of them?’
Langelee explained. ‘They earned their notoriety before you came to study here. Rob Thorpe killed several innocent people, and Edward Mortimer was involved in a smuggling enterprise that ended in death and violence.’
‘Edward Mortimer?’ queried Wynewyk. ‘Is he any relation to him?’ He nodded to where Thomas Mortimer’s cart had collided with a hay wagon, causing damage to both vehicles. The hay-wainer was not amused, and his angry curses could be heard all up the High Street.
‘His nephew,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘But the return of that pair bodes ill, for scholars and townsfolk alike.’
‘So, it was Thorpe I saw just now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But how did this come about? I thought they had been banished from England for the rest of their lives.’
‘I thought they had been hanged for their crimes,’ replied Langelee grimly. ‘Not merely ordered to abjure the realm. But, from France, they managed to convince the King’s Bench clerks that their sentence was overly harsh.’
‘Perhaps they are reformed,’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘It is not unknown for folk to repent of their misdeeds after they are sent away in disgrace. You may be worrying over nothing.’
‘We are not,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘They were dangerous two years ago, and they are dangerous now. I am on my way to discuss the matter with the Chancellor and the Sheriff, to see what – if anything – might be done to prevent them from settling here.’ He strode away purposefully.
‘He is exaggerating the seriousness of these fellows’ return,’ said Wynewyk, watching Langelee shoulder his way through the boisterous, cheering crowd that had gathered to watch the fist-fight between the miller and the hay-wainer. He glanced sidelong at Bartholomew. ‘Is he not?’
‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew soberly. ‘I cannot imagine what Thorpe and Mortimer did to secure their pardons, but the fact that they are back means only one thing: trouble.’
That February saw the end of the worst winter anyone in Cambridge could remember. Screaming northerly winds had turned the river into an iron highway, and had deposited hundreds of tons of snow on to the little Fen-edge town, threatening to bury it completely. When milder weather eventually came, the drifts that choked streets and yards were so deep that it took many weeks for the largest ones to melt. The biggest of them all was the mammoth pile outside Bene’t College on the High Street. This had turned to ice as hard as stone, and attacking it with spades proved to be futile work, so the citizens of Cambridge were obliged to let it disappear in its own time. It did so gradually, and people commented on its slowly diminishing size as they passed. Children played on it, using its slick sides for games, while some artistic soul caused a good deal of merriment by carving faces into it.
Weeks passed, until the drift dwindled to the point where people barely noticed it was there. Then, one morning, only the very base remained. It was old Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse who discovered its grisly secret. He was walking to his friary for morning prayers, when he saw a dead, white arm protruding from it. He knelt, to whisper prayers for the soul of a man who had lain unmissed and undiscovered for so long. There was a piece of parchment clutched in the corpse’s hand, so Kenyngham removed it from the decaying fingers, and read the message.
It was a note from a London merchant to his Cambridge kinsman, informing him of an imminent visit and detailing a plan to relieve a mutual enemy of some money. Kenyngham folded the parchment and put it in his scrip, intending to hand it to the Senior Proctor later. But first, there was a man’s soul to pray for, and Kenyngham soon lost himself as he appealed to Heaven on behalf of a man he had never met.
Two weeks later, Kenyngham met Bosel the beggar, who made his customary plea for spare coins. The elderly friar emptied his scrip in search of farthings, and did not notice the forgotten parchment flutter to the ground. Bosel saw it, however, and snatched it up as soon as Kenyngham had gone. He peered at it this way and that, but since he could not read, the obscure squiggles and lines meant nothing to him. He sold it to the town’s surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, for a penny.
Robin suffered from poor eyesight, and in dim light could not make out the words, either. He did not care what it said anyway, because parchment was parchment, and too valuable not to be reused. He scraped it clean with his knife, then rubbed it with chalk, and sold it for three pennies to Godric, the young Franciscan Principal of Ovyng Hostel. Robin went to spend his windfall on spiced ale at the King’s Head; Godric walked home and spent the afternoon composing a moving and eloquent prayer, which he wrote carefully on the parchment.