He strutted away, leaving Cynric staring after him in open admiration, and Bartholomew had to shake the book-bearer’s arm to gain his attention.
‘It is one thing to share these views with trusted cronies in Cambridge,’ he said warningly. ‘But another altogether to confide them to strangers. It is dangerous to preach sedition.’
‘It is not sedition, it is justice, and it is good to meet a man who sees everything so clearly.’ Cynric sighed longingly. ‘I wish there was someone who could make speeches like him at home. My friends at the King’s Head would love to hear what he has to say.’
‘I am sure they would, but his is reckless talk, Cynric.’
‘Perhaps so, but that does not mean he is wrong.’
They both turned when someone approached. It was Langelee, who was no more happy with Cynric’s burgeoning appreciation of Spalling than was Bartholomew.
‘I am all for a man being free to say what he likes,’ grumbled the Master. ‘But Spalling intends to ignite a rebellion.’
‘Would that be so terrible?’ asked Cynric. ‘Is it not time we had a fairer world?’
‘Spalling does not care about fairness,’ argued Langelee. ‘He just wants the poor to rise up against anyone with money. I feel sorry for Aurifabro, who is the target of most of his vitriol. Spalling even accuses him of hiring the outlaws who attacked us.’
‘Perhaps he is right,’ said Cynric defensively. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries are French, and we all heard that language spoken when they ambushed us.’
‘I am acutely uneasy,’ Langelee went on, ignoring him. ‘Men gather in Spalling’s house every night to talk about the day when the poor will rule. They are all wind and no substance, but they have the capacity to do a great deal of damage, even so.’
Bartholomew escaped from the truculent debate that followed, and returned to his duties in the abbey. Mid-afternoon, William and Clippesby came to report the results of their enquiries to Michael. Other than witnesses who claimed that Welbyrn often visited St Leonard’s Hospital at night, neither had unearthed much of significance. Bartholomew turned back to his queue of patients, where his attention was soon snagged by an unusual palsy.
‘That was a wasted day,’ said Michael in disgust, as the last customer hobbled away. It was dark and they had been working by lamplight for some time. ‘And we only have four more full ones left before we must leave. We learned nothing new at all.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Bartholomew, ‘I discovered that quinsy responds well to–’
‘I meant nothing to help our enquiry. We already knew that Robert was unpopular. Confirmation from the common monks is interesting, but hardly helpful.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
‘Still, at least I now have a good sense of the man,’ Michael went on. ‘He was corrupt, greedy and selfish, and there was nothing he would not do for money.’
‘You refer to him in the past tense. Do you now believe he is dead, too?’
Michael nodded. ‘On that point everyone agrees: he would never have left his domain for so long without an explanation. Moreover, he was going to see Aurifabro – a dangerous enemy with mercenaries at his command.’
‘It is odd that he chose Pyk to go with him. Or rather, it is odd that Pyk consented to go. Pyk had lots of friends, and did not have to spend time with the likes of Robert.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is not often that one hears nothing bad about a man, but Pyk seems to have been a paragon of virtue – kind, generous and decent.’
‘You sound sceptical.’
Michael smiled. ‘Even my jaded view of the world acknowledges that such men do exist. However, your friend Henry is not one of them.’
Bartholomew blinked his surprise at the remark out of the blue. ‘Henry is–’
‘I know you were childhood playmates, but I sense something untoward in that man, and I urge you to be cautious in your dealings with him. Yet he is friends with Appletre…’
‘Yes?’ said Bartholomew a little sharply. ‘Why should that make a difference?’
‘Because Appletre is a decent fellow. He is not overly endowed with wits, but he cannot help that. Of course, it means he cannot see the evil in Henry, either.’
‘Henry is not evil,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He has always been gentle, even as a child. Welbyrn and Ramseye bullied him relentlessly, but he never complained.’
‘Not to you, perhaps, but no one likes being maltreated. And if you do not believe that men bear grudges, then look at Welbyrn and Ramseye. Even I can see that they have not forgiven you for your disruptive behaviour in their classes.’
‘That might be true of them, but not Henry. He–’
‘But if the obedientiaries leave much to be desired,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen, ‘the monks are as fine a body of men as I have ever met – with the obvious exception of Henry, of course. I would not mind ruling them, although I would have to appoint new officers.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ Bartholomew spoke stiffly, angry with Michael for vilifying someone he liked.
‘I would certainly keep Appletre as precentor. He is an excellent musician.’
‘He is the only obedientiary the monks seem to like.’
Michael nodded. ‘Robert made some bad choices, with Welbyrn and Ramseye being the worst. Incidentally, I had a letter from Gynewell today. Most of it was a rant about these counterfeit coins that hail from his Mint. Do you remember me telling you that they are the reason why he could not come to look into what happened to Robert himself?’
‘You said forged pennies are a serious matter, more serious than missing churchmen.’
‘The King is furious – no monarch wants his realm flooded with debased coins. I would not like the King angry with me over money, and poor Gynewell is frantic with worry.’
‘Why did he write, other than to rail about his fiscal crisis?’
‘To say that if we find out that Robert has been murdered, he wants a culprit. Moreover, the aide who brought the letter heard about Joan’s death, and ordered me to investigate that, too. I shall do my best, but we are leaving on Wednesday regardless. I cannot put my University at risk just to solve Peterborough’s troubles.’
Bartholomew and Michael were almost at the guest house when they became aware of a rumpus near St Thomas’s Hospital. Someone was attempting to force his way inside, and Prioress Hagar was trying to stop him. The troublemaker was Reginald.
‘I demand access to Oxforde’s tomb!’ the scruffy cutler was bellowing. ‘I want to pray.’
‘Well, you cannot,’ said Hagar, giving him a vigorous shove. ‘So go away.’
‘You cannot exclude me,’ yelled Reginald. ‘I have every right to be here.’
‘No, you do not,’ snapped Hagar. ‘The chapel needs to be made holy again after Joan’s murder, and we are not letting anyone in at the moment.’
‘What is happening?’ It was Appletre, his rosy face anxious. Henry was at his heels with a number of singers. Apparently, the fuss had interrupted choir practice.
‘This woman is keeping me from my devotions,’ snarled Reginald. ‘Tell her to desist, so that decent folk can go about their prayers.’
‘Decent?’ spat Hagar. ‘You are not decent! You are the most hated man in Peterborough, and you are a pagan into the bargain!’
‘And you are the most hated woman,’ Reginald flashed back. ‘Even Spalling will not give you the time of day, and he talks to any low villain.’
‘Stop!’ cried Appletre, as Hagar drew breath to respond. ‘Remember where you are.’
‘The Brother Precentor is right,’ said Henry quietly. ‘And you cannot pray here tonight, Reginald, because the chapel needs to be reconsecrated. Come back tomorrow afternoon when it is holy again, and I shall accompany you.’ He turned to Hagar. ‘You will not object to his presence if I stand surety to his good behaviour, Sister?’