Quenhyth’s eyes shone with sudden pride. ‘You trust me to see him? Alone?’
‘You have watched me for a week now, and you know what to do. Hurry. He will be waiting.’
‘Thank you,’ said Quenhyth, scrubbing his wet face with his sleeve. He gave a venomous glower in Rougham’s direction. ‘I look forward to the day when I qualify. Then we shall see who knows more about Galen and blackcurrants!’
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, where he spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon discussing Euclid’s Elementa with a class that was not nearly as enthusiastic about geometry as its teacher. Redmeadow made a nuisance of himself by insisting that God could make exceptions to any universal laws of physics, and then demanded to know whether the Holy Trinity added up to 180 degrees, like one of Euclid’s triangles. Bartholomew became exasperated by the interruptions, and longed to order him to leave God out of the debate. But Father William was listening, and he knew what would happen if the fanatical Franciscan heard him make such a remark.
Bartholomew left the hall feeling drained, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, thinking that a few moments with Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum might restore his equilibrium. However, when he arrived, the gate was open, and he saw through the trees that Wynewyk was already there, also seeking some peace after three hours of teaching in a hall crammed with noisy, querulous undergraduates. Since he did not want to intrude on another’s solitude, Bartholomew walked farther into the orchard and found a sheltered spot among some bare-twigged plum trees.
He had not been reading for long when he heard the gate rattle. Assuming Wynewyk was leaving, and not comfortable under the plum tree anyway, Bartholomew decided to reclaim the apple trunk. He closed his book and strolled through the orchard, relishing the scent of early blossoms and the hum of a bee as it sailed haphazardly towards the hives at the bottom of the garden.
However, Wynewyk was not leaving; he was answering a knock at the small gate that opened on to St Michael’s Lane. Bartholomew watched him remove the stout bar that secured it, then take a key from his scrip to deal with the lock. He had been on the verge of calling to him, but, without knowing why, he hesitated. Instead of striding forward, he slipped behind a flourishing gooseberry bush and peered through its bright new leaves. Wynewyk opened the door and ushered someone inside, looking surreptitiously up and down the lane before closing it again. For some reason, he did not want anyone to know that Paxtone of King’s Hall was visiting him.
‘Well?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Do you have it?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Paxtone. ‘It is proving more difficult than I imagined, because they keep changing their minds. We may have to abandon it altogether.’
‘No!’ groaned Wynewyk. ‘Not after all our planning!’
‘Matt saw us today, you know,’ said Paxtone worriedly. ‘He looked right at us – and he will be even more suspicious if he catches us together again. We must be more careful.’
‘And whose fault was that?’ objected Wynewyk. ‘We could have brazened it out if you had not panicked and fled like a guilty criminal.’
Paxtone sighed. ‘I wish we had never started this. I am not good at subterfuge and secrecy.’ An expression of alarm suddenly crossed his homely features. ‘I hope he does not mention any of this to Brother Michael! I do not want him after me!’
Wynewyk glared at him. ‘Michael is too busy to bother with us. Besides, I did not put myself through all this inconvenience to give up now. We will persist.’
‘Very well,’ said Paxtone unhappily. ‘But it will not be easy. Rougham foils me at every turn, and is making a damned nuisance of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’
‘Well, be careful,’ said Wynewyk. ‘If the merest whisper of this gets out, all our labours will have been for nothing. I do not want Rougham to spoil our fun.’
‘Do not worry about him,’ said Paxtone meaningfully. ‘But I cannot stay here – I am expected at Valence Marie. Be sure to close this gate properly after I leave. We do not want a small thing like an improperly secured door to give away our secret.’
Wynewyk ushered the physician into the lane, then closed the gate and barred it, before walking back to the apple tree. He collected the tome he had been reading, and tucked it under his arm. As he walked away, Bartholomew saw a severed chain dangling behind him, indicating it was a library book – and one that had been forcibly removed from its moorings, too. When he had gone, Bartholomew stared at the apple tree unhappily, wondering what wrongdoings the ancient bark had just witnessed.
Bartholomew was bothered by what he had seen in the orchard, but Michael was dismissive when he was told what had happened, and pointed out that there might be any number of innocent explanations. Bartholomew tried not to think about it, although a disagreeable nag at the back of his mind kept reminding him that there was unexplained business of a potentially sinister nature involving two people he liked. It was not a pleasant sensation.
‘It is time you and I visited the fabled Hand of Valence Marie, Matt,’ said Michael. There was still an hour before the evening meal. ‘I saw a large number of people lining up to be admitted to its presence earlier today, and I want to see it for myself.’
‘Perhaps we can steal it while William’s back is turned, and throw it in the river,’ suggested Bartholomew petulantly. ‘That would put an end to this nonsense.’
‘It might put an end to us, too,’ said Michael, beginning to walk up St Michael’s Lane. ‘I do not want to be summarily hanged by a mob for depriving the town of its sacred relic. You must try to control your thieving impulses for now – although I may make use of them later, when we will not be the obvious culprits.’
‘Your grandmother would be better than me,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the old lady would think nothing of outwitting the likes of Father William and making off with the University’s treasure with no one any the wiser.
‘True, but I do not want to ask her,’ said Michael. ‘She will think me a fool, unable to steal relics in his own town. I do not want her telling the King that her grandson is lacking in the requisite skills.’
‘Requisite for what?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine which career opportunities in the King’s service might list thievery as an essential qualification.
‘This and that,’ replied Michael vaguely. ‘But you see my point, Matt. No man wants his grandmother to see him as an inadequate burglar.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew. He saw a familiar figure walking slowly along the High Street, reaching out a dirty hand to stop all who passed and asking everyone the same question. Most simply shook their heads and went about their business; others were less happy about being waylaid by such a filthy creature. Bess grabbed Bartholomew’s arm with fingers that were long, bony and surprisingly strong.
‘Have you seen my man?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Have you eaten today? Do you still have money to buy food and a bed for the night?’
She ignored him, and moved on to Michael. ‘Have you seen my man?’
‘What does he look like?’ asked Michael. ‘Tall, short, fat, thin?’
‘He is gone,’ she whispered. ‘And I am looking for him.’
‘Do you know the Mortimer family?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Constantine had told the truth when he had said Bess was no relation of the dead Katherine.
‘Do they know where he is?’ she asked.