Bartholomew sighed tiredly. ‘True. Perhaps this is not such a good idea.’
Cynric grinned conspiratorially. ‘Almost certainly, but why should we let that stop us?’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew weakly, wishing Cynric was not always so eager to do things that were either shady or downright illegal.
They spent an hour rooting through the moonlit undergrowth around the Church of St John Zachary, Cynric shoving the physician into the shadows when the night-watch passed, or when the last of the revellers emerged from the nearby taverns. Apart from them, the streets were deserted. When no sign of Falmeresham was forthcoming, Cynric suggested looking in Clare itself. The College had substantial grounds, and although Kardington claimed every inch had been scoured for the missing student, Cynric pointed out that the scholars would have been distracted by the news of Motelete’s death, and might not have searched very carefully.
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Why would Falmeresham be inside Clare?’
‘Why would he be here?’ countered Cynric, gesturing at the cemetery. ‘You think he may have crawled into these bushes to escape the brawl, so perhaps he limped to Clare for the same reason. The gate was open, because all the scholars had rushed out to gawp at the accident – I saw it ajar myself. Anyone, including Falmeresham, could have gone through it.’
‘He would not have gone inside Clare,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He has no friends there.’
‘It was the nearest point of refuge – I would have gone there, had I been injured and there was a riot erupting around me. It may be a rival house, but you are all scholars, and he knew he would have been safe. He may have staggered into a thicket and lost consciousness.’
‘We could wake Kardington, and ask him to look again.’
‘At this hour?’ asked Cynric incredulously. ‘He would think you had gone stark raving mad! Besides, he will accuse you of questioning his honesty, because he told you he had searched every nook and cranny. No, boy. It is better that we take matters into our own hands.’
Bartholomew gazed at the high walls with some trepidation. ‘You expect me to scale those?’
‘They were built to repel invaders,’ acknowledged Cynric approvingly. ‘However, I know a place where the mortar has fallen away, affording plenty of good hand- and footholds.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ muttered Bartholomew ungraciously. ‘Can we not find a way through St John Zachary instead? It backs on to Clare, and if we–’
‘Impossible,’ said Cynric with such conviction that Bartholomew was left in no doubt that he had already tried. He did not want to know why. ‘It is easy to get inside the church from Milne Street, but even a mouse could not go from it to Clare. Those scholars knew what they were doing when they blocked all the windows with such heavy shutters.’
He led Bartholomew to the back of the College, where the wall was lower and older, and cupped his hands to make a stirrup. With grave reservations, Bartholomew placed his foot in the cradle, then yelped in surprise when he was propelled upwards faster than he had anticipated.
‘Lower your voice,’ hissed Cynric sharply. ‘We do not want to be caught doing this – it would be difficult to explain. And watch yourself on the top of the wall. It has sharp metal spikes embedded in it, designed to make thieves think twice about scrambling over.’
Bartholomew smothered a curse when the warning came too late. ‘Have you done this before?’
There was no reply, and suddenly Cynric’s dark form was beside him. The Welshman clambered over the lethal spikes like a monkey, then swarmed down the other side. Bartholomew was slower and less agile, and by the time he reached the ground he had ripped a hole in his hose and skinned his knuckles. It was a small price to pay, he thought, if they found Falmeresham.
Clare’s benefactress had been generous. Not only had she provided her scholars with a fine hall and several houses, but she had also given them a large plot of land. Herbs were being cultivated in neat squares, and beds were dug over for onions, leeks, carrots and cabbages. Bartholomew was looking around uneasily, when Cynric gripped his arm and pointed. They were not the only ones to be invading Clare – someone else was creeping slowly towards the College buildings.
Bartholomew and Cynric watched the hooded figure skirt the vegetable gardens and aim for the main hall. The man was trying to move stealthily, but all the care in the world did not stop him from being perfectly visible in the bright light of the full moon.
‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Cynric, his breath hot against the physician’s ear.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He knows where he is going, though, because he has not stopped once to orientate himself. It must be a student, sneaking home after an illicit evening in a tavern.’
‘He has gone straight into the hall,’ whispered Cynric. ‘So you are probably right. But this is not helping Falmeresham, so you keep watch while I explore these fruit trees.’
While Cynric jabbed about with a stick, Bartholomew stared at the darkened College, waiting to see if the figure would reappear. It was late enough that even the most studious of scholars had given up his books for the night and had gone to sleep, although there was a lamp burning in the Master’s house. Kardington was evidently entertaining, because Bartholomew could hear two distinct voices. He went to investigate, wondering what topic could keep men from their beds until such an unsociable hour. Kardington was a skilled and entertaining disputant of theology, and the physician was sure that whatever he was saying would be well worth hearing. It occurred to him that they might be discussing Blood Relics, and that he might learn something to improve his understanding of the subject if he moved close enough to listen. Or perhaps they were talking about Falmeresham, and eavesdropping would yield some clue as to his whereabouts; he knew it was unlikely in the extreme, but he was tired and desperate, and could not stop himself from hoping.
He padded across the garden until he was directly under the window, and insinuated himself into the shrubs at the base of the wall. Kardington and his guest were in the solar on the upper floor. They were speaking softly, but the shutters were open, and their words carried on the still night air.
‘… had no right,’ came a voice that Bartholomew recognised as that of the Master. He was speaking Latin, of course. ‘It was not yours to sell, and the whole town knows it.’
‘It is unfortunate,’ said his companion apologetically. ‘And your ready forgiveness of me is giving rise to speculation and suspicion. I would not have harmed the College for the world, and I wish there was something I could do to remedy the situation.’
‘I know that, Spaldynge. But it is a pity you traded with Candelby, of all men. He is determined to destroy the University, and you have provided him with ammunition.’
‘Do you think Michael will win the fight?’ asked Spaldynge. His tone was uneasy.
‘I hope so, because if he loses, the University will cease to exist in a few years – or will be reduced to a few struggling Colleges. If that happens, Clare may be blamed, because you tipped the balance by selling Borden Hostel to the enemy. But what is done is done, and dwelling on the matter will help no one. How are your students settling in? Going from a small hostel to a large College must be difficult for them.’
‘They will be all right. I am sorry to say it, but it is easier without Wenden. He had a cruel tongue, and would have made them feel unwelcome.’
‘I would have ousted him years ago, had I known he was going to renege on our agreement and omit Clare from his will. The money you raised by selling Borden arrived just in time, or we would have been reduced to eating the kind of low-quality fare endured by Michaelhouse.’