‘None of this would have happened if you had not buried a felon in your grounds,’ said Michael, rather accusingly.
‘In that case,’ said Henry with a seraphic smile, ‘we had better make sure we do not do it again.’
Epilogue
Cambridge, three days later
The journey south was uneventful, and with no robbers to repel, Bartholomew did not fall off his horse once. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the familiar jumble of towers and spires on the horizon, and was delighted to ride back through Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates, despite the immediate accusatory clamour from patients and students who thought he had been gone too long.
When he had seen to the more urgent cases, and the sun was setting in a blaze of orange, he went to the conclave, the room adjoining the hall that was the exclusive domain of the Fellows. They were all there: those who had stayed were keen to hear about their colleagues’ adventures, while the travellers were eager to oblige them. Cynric was there, too, serving cakes. Bartholomew took one. It was overcooked, needed salt and tasted vaguely of cabbage, but it was fare he was used to, and there was something comfortingly reassuring about it after the fine tables of Peterborough.
Michael came to slump next to him. ‘I should never have gone,’ he said bitterly. ‘My Junior Proctor not only wrote and published Winwick Hall’s charter, he gave its founder permission to start building. The place is half finished already, and will open next term.’
‘Next term?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘That is fast.’
‘Yes, considering these things usually take years – decades, even. It has caused a lot of ill feeling: the other Colleges object to this cuckoo in their midst, the hostels resent its brazen affluence, and the town is angry that they were not consulted.’
‘What will you do? Order it demolished?’
‘I wish I could, but the founder is a favourite of the King, so Winwick Hall is here to stay. There have already been riots over it, including one last night in which a student was killed. I shall need you to inspect his body tomorrow, then help me find the culprit.’
‘It is good to be home,’ declared William, just as Bartholomew was wondering whether he might have been wiser to stay away. ‘Heresy and wickedness have flourished in my absence, and I shall have to work hard to suppress them again.’
‘Do not forget the reason you were sent away in the first place,’ warned Michael. ‘So watch what you say – unless you want to be dispatched on another journey.’
William closed his mouth abruptly.
‘Cambridge may have its drawbacks,’ said Clippesby quietly. ‘But I would rather live here than anywhere else. At least no one labours under the misapprehension that I am a saint.’
‘No,’ agreed William sullenly.
‘The College cat could scarcely credit such foolery when I told her about it,’ Clippesby went on. The animal in question was purring in his lap. ‘You see? She is still stunned now.’
‘You are not the only one who was perceived as something he was not,’ said Langelee. ‘So was Spalling. He had fiery ideas, but he did not really believe in them.’
‘He was a villain,’ spat Cynric. He did not usually voice his opinions in the hallowed confines of the conclave, where only Fellows ever spoke, but Spalling’s perfidy still rankled, and he could not help himself. ‘Yet there will be a great rebellion one day, when everything he promised will come to pass.’
‘I sincerely hope you are wrong,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘But before we leave the subject of Spalling, I should tell you that I did not know him after all. We got together with dates and places one night, and it turned out that it was another Spalling I met in York. Not him. No wonder he did not look familiar.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘You mean you imposed yourself on a total stranger?’
Langelee shrugged. ‘I knew him by the time we realised the mistake.’
William laughed. ‘I must remember that one, Master, because it saw you housed and fed most sumptuously.’
‘But not as sumptuously as us,’ said Michael. ‘Those monks knew how to cater to their personal comforts. Of course, those days are over now that most of the obedientiaries are in one kind of trouble or another.’
‘Or dead,’ added William, rather gleefully. He began to list them. ‘Welbyrn the treasurer, drowned in St Leonard’s well; Appletre the precentor, smothered in Oxforde’s tomb; and Nonton the cellarer, knifed during an unseemly spat over gold. And their helpmeets Spalling and Lullington killed into the bargain.’
‘And poor Pyk sacrificed on the altar of their greed,’ said Michael. ‘Not to mention Lady Lullington and Reginald.’
‘But none of them poisoned Matt,’ said Clippesby with a guileless smile. ‘That was William’s doing.’
‘It was not deliberate,’ insisted the Franciscan, flushing red with mortification. ‘I was trying to help.’
‘There is a certain irony in the fact that Oxforde’s treasure was in their own abbey,’ said Langelee, more interested in the hoard than the friar’s protestations of innocence – he had listened to them all the way back from Peterborough, because although Bartholomew was prepared to overlook the matter, Michael was not, and had harped on it constantly. ‘Robert wasted an entire month digging up Aurifabro’s land.’
‘Why did Oxforde hide his hoard in St Thomas’s cemetery in the first place?’ asked William, glad to be discussing something else. ‘If he had been pardoned, it would have been very difficult to retrieve.’
‘The graveyard only became busy after his death,’ explained Michael. ‘Before the so-called miracles at his tomb, it was a quiet, secluded place with few visitors. Indeed, it was unfortunate for him that the Sheriff decided to pay his respects to the dead silversmith on the day he was burying his hoard – an encounter that saw him arrested.’
‘The stuff he was hiding comprised jewellery that was distinctive,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘And thus difficult to sell. His plan was to store it for a few years until memories had faded. At least, that is what Kirwell said when I described some of the pieces to him.’
‘He thought Oxforde’s deception was hilarious,’ said William uncompromisingly. ‘And he laughed so hard that he died.’
‘I think he was laughing at himself,’ said Bartholomew, who had been with the old man when he had cackled himself into his grave. ‘For believing a lie all those years.’
‘Oxforde was evil,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘He murdered men, women and children in his quest for riches, and I am glad that Henry has promised to bury his bones in a location that only he knows. There will be no more pilgrims praying at his tomb from now on.’
‘He was punished for his crimes, though,’ added Michael soberly. ‘I cannot imagine what it must have been like to be buried alive.’
They sat quietly for a while, contemplating the wages of sin.
‘I had a letter from Gynewell this morning,’ said Michael eventually. ‘He thinks it would be a pity to taint Peterborough by exposing the actions of a few rotten apples.’
‘You mean he wants the matter covered up?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.
Michael nodded. ‘And he is right. Peterborough is a good place, and its monks are decent men. Why should they suffer for what Robert and a few of his obedientiaries did?’
‘But the Bishop bundled Robert off to Avignon, to answer for his crimes to the Pope,’ said Langelee. ‘How can the matter be kept quiet now?’
‘That will not be a problem. Robert was found hanged in his cell on the first night of his journey. It was probably suicide, but a tale is circulating that he was killed by outlaws.’