To give emphasis to the threat, one of his cronies released a crossbow bolt, which snapped into the ground by the horse’s hoofs. The beast released a frightened whinny, and Bartholomew found himself on the move again. Fortunately, it turned left on leaving the yard, thus retracing its steps; he was vaguely aware of the astonished villagers watching him hurtle past a second time. The stallion slowed when it reached Michael and the defensores, its sides heaving and saliva foaming from its mouth.
‘Where did you take it?’ asked Michael disapprovingly. ‘Scotland? You have exhausted the poor creature.’
‘The “poor creature” almost got me killed,’ said Bartholomew crossly, dismounting while he could. He shoved the reins at Michael. ‘Aurifabro is out, his mercenaries are in, and I am walking back to Peterborough.’
The monk had no more luck in persuading the soldiers to let him into Aurifabro’s house than had Bartholomew, and he was disgruntled when he finally caught up with the physician.
‘That was a waste of a morning,’ he grumbled. ‘I shall mention Aurifabro’s lack of cooperation in my report to Gynewell. And you should not have stormed off alone. Two men disappeared on this road, you know.’
‘I thought I might find some clues if I travelled on foot,’ explained Bartholomew, moving so that the monk was between him and the stallion. The beast was guilelessly docile now it was being led by a man who knew what he was doing.
‘You found something?’ asked Michael eagerly.
‘No. However, if I had to pick somewhere to commit murder, the Torpe road would be high on my list of choices. No one lives on the part Aurifabro owns, large sections are obscured by trees, and there are ditches galore to hide in.’
They continued in silence, past a cluster of buildings that Bartholomew had barely noticed when he had been struggling to stay mounted. It was St Leonard’s Hospital, and a familiar figure stood outside its gate.
‘It is Botilbrig,’ said Michael. ‘Does he loiter at every entrance to the town?’
‘You are needed,’ the bedesman informed Bartholomew. ‘Lots of people are desperate for medical attention now that Pyk is gone. Some are waiting for you inside.’
‘I told them you would pass this way,’ said William apologetically, emerging to stand next to him. Clippesby was there, too. ‘Their plight moved me, and I thought you would not mind. Besides, they offered to show me their holy well if I helped to secure them a few moments of your time, and I like sacred things.’
‘They will need more than a few moments,’ murmured Clippesby, who had a piglet under one arm and a duck under the other. ‘There are dozens of them.’
‘Are you ready?’ asked Botilbrig, indicating the hospital with a gnarled hand.
‘I cannot refuse, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Michael’s brows draw together in an irritable frown. ‘It would be unethical.’
Michael gave a gusty sigh, then lowered his voice so their colleagues would not hear. ‘I suppose I can replace you with William for the rest of the day, just this once. Do you mind keeping Clippesby? He should not be left alone.’
‘He should not,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He is still upset about Joan’s murder and–’
‘I am more concerned that he does not do something to show he is no saint,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Our continued comfort depends on it, so please be careful.’
‘You should not have lied about that,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘The truth is bound to emerge, and when it does, you will have some awkward questions to answer.’
‘Then we shall have to ensure it does not,’ said Michael, unrepentant.
The Hospital of St Leonard was larger than St Thomas’s, although it was Norman rather than Gothic. It boasted a range of picturesque cottages, sheds and stables, but its core comprised a chapel and an adjoining two-storeyed building with a hall on its ground floor and three smaller chambers above.
The hall had once held beds for lepers, but as its days of dealing with incurable diseases were over, it had been converted into a pleasant common room. There was a hearth at one end, in which a fire glowed despite the warmth of the day, and its furniture was simple but elegant. Several bedesmen were clearing a long trestle table of what looked to have been an ample meal, suggesting that Peterborough’s monks were not the only ones who knew how to cater to their personal comfort.
A long line of people stood patiently outside the hall, and Bartholomew assumed they were queuing for alms until he noticed that most were too well dressed to be beggars. With a start, he realised they were waiting to see him, and wondered if half of Peterborough had turned out. He jumped in alarm at a sudden shriek.
‘I am a bat,’ cried an elderly man, flapping his arms. ‘Get out of my way, or I shall entangle myself in your hair.’
‘Simon the cowherd,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘He has been without his wits for years now, and is one of us bedesmen. We did our best to make him sleep today, given that he is inclined to be disruptive, but he refused to drink the flagon of wine we tried to feed him.’
‘Bats never entangle themselves in hair, Simon,’ said Clippesby, addressing the cowherd softly and kindly. ‘It is a tale often put about, but it is wholly untrue.’
Simon lowered his arms and regarded the Dominican warily. ‘How do you know?’
‘They told me so themselves,’ replied Clippesby matter-of-factly.
Bartholomew was disconcerted when the remark was repeated in awed murmurs down the line of patients, but no one laughed, and there were further whispers that this was evidence of the Dominican’s saintliness. Entirely unwittingly, Clippesby reinforced the belief by favouring Simon with one of his sweetest smiles, an expression that revealed his innate goodness.
‘They talk to me, too,’ hollered the cowherd, beginning to dance again. ‘And so do the pigs and the bumblebees.’
‘Then you must tell me what they say.’ Clippesby caught his hand and led him to sit by the window; Simon went quietly, like a child.
‘That is the calmest he has been in years,’ said a tall, silver-haired man wonderingly. ‘Clippesby truly is holy. We are blessed today, with visits from a saint and a physician.’
‘I am having a consultation with both,’ announced Botilbrig. ‘They are only here because they took a liking to me yesterday, so I am within my rights to demand it.’
‘They had better tend Kirwell first,’ said the silver-haired man. He bowed to Bartholomew. ‘My name is Prior Inges, head of this fine hospital.’
‘I should have been Prior, rightly speaking,’ interposed Botilbrig. ‘As I am the eldest resident – other than Kirwell, of course. But Abbot Robert told me I was not clever enough, and appointed Inges instead. It was not very nice, actually.’
Inges ignored him. ‘Once you have seen Kirwell, I shall show you the healing well. You can begin seeing patients after that.’
‘Can I now?’ muttered Bartholomew, resenting the presumption.
‘Kirwell is our own saint,’ Inges went on, ‘whom God has blessed with an especially long life. He is a hundred and forty-three years old.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Because we have irrefutable evidence – namely that he was born in the year of Magna Carta. He remembers his mother telling him so, you see.’
It was not Bartholomew’s idea of ‘irrefutable evidence’, but he followed Inges up the stairs to where Kirwell had been provided with a bedchamber all to himself. Someone was singing a ballad in a lilting tenor, so beautifully that Bartholomew stopped to listen. Inges had no such compunction, however, and barged in without ceremony.