‘You two caused a lot of trouble in the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘You should be careful. You are not popular, and taverns have a reputation for unsolved murders.’
‘No one would dare harm us,’ said Mortimer smugly. ‘We enjoy the protection of the King. If anything happened to us he would descend on Cambridge, and every man, woman and child would learn they had crossed the wrong man.’
‘That may be true,’ said Michael. ‘But the patrons of taverns are not noted for their forward thinking while in their cups. They strike first, and think about the consequences later. Having the King impose heavy fines will not help you if you are dead, will it?’
‘We heard about Bottisham and Deschalers,’ said Thorpe, when his friend declined to answer. A malicious grin curled the corners of his mouth and he winked at Mortimer, coaxing a smile from him. ‘What were they doing together in the mill in the middle of the night?’
‘You tell me,’ said Michael, resisting the temptation to react with anger. He shot Bartholomew a glare: he could see the physician was less sanguine about the matter, and looked ready to respond with curt remarks. ‘Have you heard rumours?’
‘Oh, plenty,’ said Thorpe. ‘But I would not repeat them to you. I hear you are easily shocked.’
‘Where were you last night?’ demanded Michael. ‘Before you arrived at the King’s Head?’
The two men exchanged expressions of feigned horror, and Mortimer placed one hand on his chest, to indicate that the implied accusation had wounded him. ‘You think we killed them?’
‘Well, someone did,’ replied Michael.
Thorpe sneered. ‘You should watch where you aim your accusations, Brother. They are offensive, and I may sue you in a court of law for an apology.’
Michael was about to reply when there was a sharp snap, followed by a rattle. Someone had thrown a stone. His eyes narrowed, and he studied the mass of humanity that moved up and down the High Street. Who had thrown the missile? Was it the troublesome Franciscans from Ovyng Hostel, a clutch of whom had just emerged from St Michael’s Church? Was it Robin of Grantchester, aiming his pebble at Bartholomew for operating on Isnard’s leg? Or was it one of the many folk who glanced uneasily at Thorpe and Mortimer as they passed, most too afraid to make an open protest about their unwelcome presence?
‘That was Cheney,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’
‘At me?’ asked Michael, wondering whether the Millers’ Society did not trust him to investigate the murder of one of their own and had intended to prevent him from doing so.
‘At Mortimer, I suspect – for being one of the clan stealing the King’s Mill water.’
‘Why do you insist on remaining here?’ asked Michael, addressing the two felons, who seemed to care little that they were on the receiving end of hostile looks from the passing populace. ‘You must know that folk are not pleased to see you, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a place where everyone is longing for you to leave.’
‘It is just like France,’ said Mortimer expressionlessly. ‘We were not welcome there, either, because we are English. It is not so different here.’
‘We have scores to settle,’ said Thorpe, fixing his glittering eyes on Bartholomew. ‘We were accused of and punished for heinous crimes.’
‘That is because you were guilty,’ said Michael.
‘Maybe so, but that is irrelevant,’ said Thorpe. ‘The King’s Pardon says we are forgiven now. And I want compensation.’
‘Money?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how many corpses he would have to examine before he had earned enough to send them on their way. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘In part,’ said Thorpe. ‘But we deserve to be compensated in other ways, too, for the unjust suffering we endured.’
‘It was not unjust,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘You confessed.’
‘I said that is irrelevant!’ snarled Thorpe, taking a step towards the physician that could only be described as menacing. Quenhyth shrank back in alarm, but Redmeadow held his ground. His hand dropped to the knife he carried in his belt. Bartholomew saw the lad’s jaw tighten with anger, and hoped he would not lose his temper.
‘It is not irrelevant,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You cannot start demanding vengeance from people just because you committed felonies and were caught.’
‘Now we have the King’s Pardon, we can do what we like,’ countered Mortimer. ‘This town is going to pay handsomely for our two years’ banishment. And so is that vile old woman. It was her testimony that sealed our fate. The justices listened to her as though she was one of God’s angels.’
‘What vile old woman?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He had not attended the young men’s trials himself, because there were so many other witnesses with first-hand knowledge of their crimes that he had not been needed.
‘The nun,’ elaborated Thorpe. ‘The one with the long nose and the brown face, whom everyone thought was so wonderful. She was nothing but a wizened hag, and she had no right to tell people we did all those things – even if we did them.’
Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose mouth was set in a hard, thin line. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to my grandmother,’ said the monk coldly. ‘Dame Pelagia is a noble lady, so I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you mention her.’
‘Dame Pelagia,’ said Mortimer, pronouncing the name with satisfaction, pleased to see that he had discovered a weak spot in Michael’s armour. ‘That was the harridan’s name. Everyone said she was one of the King’s agents, although I do not think it was true. The King is not so desperate for spies that he is obliged to scour nunneries, looking for withered old crones to serve him.’
Michael lunged suddenly and had Mortimer by the throat before the man knew what was happening. The monk’s bulk was deceptive, and he could move like lightning when required. ‘If I hear you mention her name with disrespect again, I will have you arrested – King’s Pardon or no.’ He shoved Mortimer away with considerable vigour, then wiped his hands on the sides of his habit, as though they were stained with something nasty.
Mortimer shrugged, quickly recovering his composure and his balance. ‘Is she here?’
‘No,’ said Michael shortly.
‘There are a number of folk we shall visit now we are free,’ said Thorpe silkily. ‘She is one of them. I will see Bartholomew’s sister and her husband, too. They were far too quick to throw me to the wolves.’
‘They stood by you longer than you deserved,’ said Bartholomew, grateful they were away.
‘And my father,’ added Thorpe. ‘He wants nothing to do with me – he will not even accept me into his own College. I was obliged to apply to Gonville instead.’
‘We will have words with you two at some point, too,’ said Mortimer with icy menace, gazing first at Michael and then Bartholomew. ‘In some quiet, secret place, where we will not be overheard.’
‘Are you threatening us?’ demanded Michael, speaking loudly enough to gather an audience. ‘Are you saying you mean to lure us into a remote place and dispatch us? If so, then no one will need to look far for the culprits. Look at how many people heard you.’ He gestured to at least a dozen folk – scholars and townsmen – who were listening with rapt interest.
Mortimer saw he had been outmanoeuvred, and declined to take the conversation further. He nodded a farewell to the monk, and the cold light in his eyes made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. Thorpe was less willing to admit defeat, and opened his mouth to say something else, but Mortimer took his arm and pulled him away. Unlike his younger friend, he was intelligent enough to see that nothing more could be gained from prolonging the encounter – but that a good deal might be lost.