‘Perhaps later,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But surely the monks should be welcoming Robert home, not drinking wine in the hospital?’
‘Or even saying prayers for his safe deliverance?’ added Michael pointedly.
Henry’s wry expression answered Michael’s question, and he addressed the rest of his reply to Bartholomew. ‘The Abbot will only summon us when he has ensured that his worldly affairs are in order. We will not be needed for a while yet.’
‘Have you seen Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing they had better ensure the knight did not slip away before he could be charged with his wife’s murder.
‘He is with Robert,’ replied Henry. ‘But please have a cup of wine with us. We have been all doom and gloom since you arrived, and I should like you to see us at our best.’
‘We are busy,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Good day to you.’
Bartholomew shot Henry an apologetic glance as he hurried after Michael. He started to remonstrate with the monk for his bad manners, but Michael waved his protests aside with the curt reminder that they had no time for idle chatter.
They reached the guest house to find William and Clippesby waiting, their faces troubled. William held out a letter, which had arrived at dawn. Michael paled when he saw it bore the University’s seal. He snatched it and began to read, while Bartholomew told William and Clippesby all that had happened. He was interrupted by a strangled wail from Michael.
‘It is from the Chancellor. He says my Junior Proctor has written Winwick Hall’s charter, and plans to present it as a fait accompli on Saturday. There will be a riot for certain, because he does not have the skill or the experience to draw up such a complex document!’
‘It has already caused trouble,’ said William, thus revealing that he had read the missive, even though it had been addressed to Michael and marked as private. ‘There have been three brawls over the matter, which have resulted in several injuries and damage to property.’
‘Damn Gynewell!’ cried Michael. ‘He should not have forced me to come here.’
‘We must leave at once.’ William hefted his saddlebag over his shoulder – he and Clippesby had put their time to good use, and had packed for Bartholomew and Michael, too.
Michael retrieved the seals, gold and jewels he had hidden. ‘We shall – the moment I have returned these to their rightful owner.’
‘What about Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘And the killer of Joan and Welbyrn?’ added Clippesby.
‘Henry says Lullington is with Robert, so I shall confront him when I give the Abbot his treasure. And there is nothing we can do about Joan and Welbyrn, because we are out of time.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ offered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot tackle Lullington alone.’
‘I am not a dying woman,’ said Michael acidly. ‘So I doubt Lullington will challenge me, and the Abbot will be there anyway. Be ready to leave the moment I return. And stay away from Henry – I sense danger in that man. Do you hear?’
He left before the others could say whether they had heard or not. Bartholomew slumped on the bed, exhausted. He closed his eyes, but Appletre was leading the revellers in a popular tavern song that involved a repetitive chorus of the kind tipsy people seemed to love, and sleep was impossible. There was laughter, too – the town might be smarting from its humiliation on the Torpe road, but the abbey’s residents were in excellent spirits.
‘They are very rowdy,’ remarked Clippesby. ‘It must be the wine. Henry selected a very powerful brew, and no one has had any breakfast.’
Cynric stared out of the window. ‘Yet the defensores are not drinking powerful wine in the hospital, even though they are the kind of men who will like it most.’
‘Yes, they are,’ countered William. ‘I saw a few enter the place myself.’
‘No, I mean the real soldiers,’ said Cynric. ‘The proper ones, not the cowardly brutes who were with Nonton on the Torpe road.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I have a bad feeling about today, boy. I sense something nasty in the air.’
Bartholomew forced himself to stand up. ‘Stay here,’ he instructed Clippesby and William. ‘Cynric and I will scout around, to see if we can spot anything amiss.’
‘Such as what?’ demanded William. ‘Any plot that might have been brewing has been thwarted by Robert’s escape. Moreover, I do not see why we should sit here while Michael hobnobs with the Abbot. We deserve a drink after all our hard work. Come on, Clippesby.’
‘No,’ said Clippesby. ‘Cynric is right: something is wrong.’
‘Says who?’ asked William scathingly. ‘That snail I saw you talking to – the one that Henry stepped on shortly afterwards?’
Clippesby winced. ‘Listen! There is not a bird anywhere in the entire precinct. Something horrible is about to happen.’
‘Bah!’ spat William. ‘A cup of wine will put paid to these silly fancies. However, if you are too stupid to take my advice, then stay here. I, however, am going to join the fun.’
Cynric stopped and raised a triumphant finger when he and Bartholomew stepped out of the guest-house door, a gesture that said he had been right after all. Bartholomew could see or hear nothing to warrant such a response, and started to ask what he meant, but Cynric waved him to silence. Bartholomew felt ridiculous as they crept along in stealth mode, and hoped no one would see them. No one did, because every building was deserted.
Glancing behind him, he saw William enter the hospital, after which three cheers were raised for the Bishop’s Commissioners. Bartholomew was about to remark that they had done nothing to deserve them when Cynric whipped around and bundled him roughly into a doorway. Moments later, two defensores walked past, holding Clippesby between them.
‘But I do not want to go to the hospital chapel,’ the Dominican was objecting. ‘It is noisy there. I would rather pray in the church.’
‘Perhaps we should let him,’ said one to the other nervously. ‘He is a saint, after all.’
‘We were told that everyone had to be in St Thomas’s,’ countered the second. ‘And I am not disobeying orders. I do not want to end up like Welbyrn. Or Joan, for that matter.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Clippesby, bewildered.
‘Ignore him, Father,’ said the first, scowling at his companion over the Dominican’s head. ‘He is just blathering. You will enjoy yourself in the hospital – there is wine and nuts.’
When they had gone, Bartholomew regarded Cynric in alarm.
‘We had better find out what is happening fast,’ whispered the book-bearer. ‘Because I have a strong sense that the business with Aurifabro was just the start.’
‘The start of what?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to make sense of what he had heard.
‘I do not know. That is what we must–’
‘Stand still and put your hands in the air,’ came a voice suddenly. ‘Or these gentlemen will shoot you.’
It was Nonton and several defensores, all of whom were armed with bows and swords. Spalling was with them, his face cold and hard as he addressed the book-bearer.
‘It was your fault that we failed on the Torpe road, Cynric. Aurifabro’s wealth would have been mine by now if you had led the charge as I ordered.’
‘Would have been yours?’ echoed Cynric sharply. ‘You mean the people’s.’
Spalling sneered. ‘Large sums of money are bad for the common folk – they spend it all on drink and whores. I never intended to let them keep it.’
‘But you said–’ began Cynric in a stunned gasp.