‘There!’ hissed the book-bearer urgently, peering through the gate and stabbing his finger into the darkened yard. ‘I see three shadows lurking.’
‘They are heading for the shrine,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Thieves,’ said Cynric grimly. ‘After St Simon Stock’s scapular again, I imagine. What shall we do? Catch them ourselves, or sound the alarm?’
‘Sound the alarm. Ring the bell by the chapel, while I make sure they do not escape.’
He crept forward. There was a lamp in the shrine, kept burning as a symbolic presence of the saint. He pushed the door open further, but it issued a tearing creak. By the altar, there was a brief exclamation of alarm, and the light was promptly doused. Without it, the building was pitch black.
Then the bell began to clang. Whoever was in the shrine bolted and, either by design or accident, Bartholomew was bowled from his feet. Then he was struck a second time as two more people hurtled past. He grabbed the hem of a flying cloak, but it was moving too fast and he did not have it for long. Then there were running footsteps and the yard was full of flickering lanterns as friars, lay-brothers, visitors and servants poured out of the buildings to see what was going on.
‘What happened?’ cried Prior Etone, leaping over the prostrate physician to dash into the hut.
‘Thieves,’ explained Cynric tersely.
‘No!’ wailed Etone as he reached the altar. ‘The scapular! It has gone!’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Fen. The pardoner’s face was white, and he was breathless. The two nuns stood behind him, their clothing awry.
‘Of course I am sure!’ shrieked Etone. ‘Look for yourself. The reliquary is empty.’
There was immediate consternation, and the convent’s residents began to hunt wildly and randomly around the yard. Etone dropped to his knees, and began to sob.
‘Even without the scapular, this is a holy place,’ said Fen comfortingly. ‘Pilgrims will still come.’
‘But not so many,’ wept Etone. ‘And probably not such wealthy ones, either.’
‘Brother Michael wanted me to burgle Chestre tonight,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘But I think we had better see what can be done to find this relic instead. I do not like the notion of such a holy thing in the hands of felons – the saint may be angry with us for failing to protect it.’
He and Bartholomew organised a systematic search of the convent’s buildings and grounds that lasted well into the night, but it was to no avail. Thieves and scapular had gone.
The following morning was so dark with rain clouds that Walter misread the hour candle, and was late sounding the bell. But even with the extra hour in bed, Bartholomew was still tired. As he struggled to prise himself away from his straw mattress, he wondered when it was that he had last enjoyed a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep.
The previous evening, Langelee had decided that the physician and his students should sleep in the hall while their own quarters were uninhabitable. It had sounded like a good idea, and Bartholomew was grateful to have somewhere dry to lie down when he had finished hunting for St Simon’s Stock’s relic. But rain thundered on the roof like a drum roll, and he discovered that Thelnetham and Clippesby were in the habit of using the library at night. Their reading lamps kept him awake, and so did the College cat, which insisted on trampling over him.
Michael also slept poorly – Tulyet’s fears about renewed hostilities with the town had unsettled him. Feeling there was not a moment to lose, he rose long before dawn, and discussed the brewing troubles with his beadles. Then he visited the Carmelite Priory. The friars were still distraught, particularly Etone. They clamoured at him, urging and pleading with him to get their treasure back before the villain chopped it into pieces and sold them off.
‘It must be the killer-thief,’ he said unhappily to Bartholomew, as Langelee led the scholars back to Michaelhouse after morning mass. ‘At least, I hope so – I do not have the resources to hunt another audacious felon.’
‘If so, then it is the first time he has worked with accomplices,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was Kendale and a couple of his pupils.’
‘Unfortunately, it might be anyone,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘No one can give me a decent description. Not even you, who had actual physical contact.’
‘I am sorry, Brother. It was very dark, and they were no more than shadows.’
‘Incidentally, Fen said they might not have succeeded, had you tried harder to catch them.’
‘He said as much last night, although he went quiet when I said the same applied to him. He arrived very quickly after the alarm was raised, and so did the nuns. None of them looked as though they had been sleeping.’
‘They spun me a tale about praying together in the chapel.’ Michael regarded his friend strangely for a moment, and then looked away. ‘I have something terrible to confess.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Why? What have you done?’
‘Lost the signaculum you gave me. I was vain enough to wear it in my hat this morning, but the pin must have been faulty. By the time I returned, it had gone.’
Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Is that all? I was afraid it was something dreadful.’
‘It is something dreadful!’ cried Michael, agitated. ‘Not only was it a gift from a man who rarely gives his friends anything other than medicine and impractical advice about diets, it was something I really wanted. It was a beautiful thing, and I feel bereft.’
‘Are you sure it is lost? A lot of people have had theirs stolen.’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Fen! He must have taken it when I was at the Carmelite Friary! Or do you see the likes of Etone and Horneby as signaculum thieves?’
‘I would hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally.
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Of course, I bumped into Meryfeld and Gyseburne on my way home, too. Gyseburne reached out to brush a cobweb from my head, but I am sure I would have noticed him removing my badge. No – it was Fen.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think, so said nothing.
‘He will never be able to sell it here,’ said Michael, still worrying at the matter, ‘because my beadles are circulating its description. Of course, it serves me right for wearing it in the first place – I have not been on a pilgrimage, and it was sheer vanity.’
‘That does not seem to stop anyone else from doing it.’
Michael sighed, then became practical. ‘Come with me to see the Carmelites. The theft of the scapular is serious and urgent, and we must do all we can to retrieve it.’
‘Before breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. Michael hated missing meals.
The monk nodded, and his expression was sombre. ‘As I said, it is serious and urgent. The camp-ball game is tomorrow, and time is running out far too fast.’
Michael set a brisk pace to the convent, where friars stood in huddled groups and there was an atmosphere of shocked grief, as though someone had died. Etone was so distraught that Bartholomew was obliged to prepare him a tonic, to soothe him.
‘Find it, Brother,’ the Prior whispered brokenly. ‘Please find it.’
Michael muttered some reassurances, patted his hand, and left him to Bartholomew’s care. The physician did not leave until Etone slept, at which point one of his novices came to sit with him. When Bartholomew walked into the yard, he found Michael talking to Horneby, Fen and the two nuns. The women were rosy cheeked and seemed well rested, although Fen was wan.
‘I shall assume the role of Prior until Etone has recovered,’ Horneby was saying. ‘God knows, I am no administrator, but no one else is willing to step into the breach, and we cannot be leaderless at such a time.’