‘It serves them right,’ said Spaldynge bitterly. ‘They train physicians, so I hope they starve.’
‘Speaking of physicians, Arderne’s miraculous healing of Motelete means we have attracted attention – and attention is something we do not want at the moment, given … well, you know.’
In the bushes below the window, Bartholomew grimaced, wishing Kardington would be more explicit. Then he happened to glance across the yard and saw a figure slinking stealthily towards him. He could tell, from the shape of the hood on the cloak, that it was the same person who had been lurking about earlier. So, he thought, it had not been an errant student after all. He watched the man edge closer, and began to feel uncomfortable. Kardington’s lamp and the full moon were throwing a fair amount of light into the garden, and he was not as invisible as he would have liked. Could the hooded intruder see him, and was coming to flush him out?
But the figure was moving furtively, and would surely have shouted for help if he intended to expose an invader. With a sudden flash of understanding, Bartholomew realised that the fellow’s intention was to hide among the shrubs and eavesdrop on Kardington, too. There was certainly not enough room for both of them, and the physician saw he was going to be caught. For a moment, he could do nothing but watch in alarm as the man advanced across the yard. Then a plan snapped into his mind. He cupped his hands and blew into the hollow between them, making a noise that roughly approximated the hoot of an owl. The shadow stopped dead in its tracks.
‘That was very close,’ said Kardington, puzzled. Bartholomew heard footsteps tap across wooden floorboards as the Master came to look out of the window.
‘It was not like any owl I have ever heard.’ Spaldynge’s voice suddenly became shrill as his finger stabbed the air above Bartholomew’s head. ‘Someone is there! We are being burgled again!’
‘Ring the bell!’ shouted Kardington. ‘Hey, you! Stop where you are!’
The hooded figure turned abruptly, and broke into a run. He headed straight for the crumbling wall, moving even faster when Spaldynge’s hollers began to wake others. Two night-porters appeared at the far end of the College and started to give chase. Bartholomew grimaced. He had intended to drive the other man off, not initiate a hunt. What should he do? Try to lay hands on the intruder, on the grounds that the fellow’s business in Clare was clearly far from innocent? But then how would he explain his own presence? And what if he was captured and the hooded man escaped? Kardington would assume, not unreasonably, that it had been the physician he had seen tiptoeing towards his quarters.
Clamours and alarums in the middle of the night were not uncommon in Cambridge, and students had learned to respond quickly. They began to pour from their chambers, and some had had the presence of mind to bring pitch torches. Staying hidden was no longer an option, so Bartholomew abandoned the bushes and tore across the yard, also aiming for the crumbling section of wall. He almost lost his footing when Cynric suddenly appeared from behind a tree, and indicated they were to run in the opposite direction.
‘I told you to keep watch,’ hissed the book-bearer. ‘Why did you let Kardington see you?’
‘He did not see me,’ objected Bartholomew, racing after him. ‘He saw that hooded man.’
Cynric glanced around. ‘But unfortunately, he has escaped, and everyone is in hot pursuit of us. You should have stayed where you were, then walked away when the coast was clear.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, risking a quick look behind and seeing at least a dozen yelling scholars on their heels. ‘Now we are in trouble! Shall we try to explain?’
‘I do not think so! They are not in the mood for listening.’
Bartholomew was unfamiliar with Clare’s grounds, and his progress through them was slower than that of the more fleet-footed students. They began to gain. He tried to run harder, heart pounding, chest heaving and leg muscles burning from the effort. Cynric was right: they were angry, and were going to vent their rage with fists and boots. He concentrated on running, aware that the ground was sloping downwards. They were at the back of the College, where a wall separated it from the river and the towpath.
Unerringly, Cynric aimed for a specific point, and was over in a trice. He straddled the top of the rampart, and leaned down to take Bartholomew’s hand, hauling him upwards with surprising strength for so small a man. But Spaldynge had arrived, and he laid hold of the physician’s leg. Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide back down again. He kicked out, and heard Spaldynge curse as he lost his grip. He clambered inelegantly over the wall, landing awkwardly on the other side. Cynric darted towards the nearest boat, and cut through the mooring rope with his dagger.
Bartholomew did not like the notion of adding theft to the charge of trespass. ‘Isnard,’ he gasped. ‘We will take refuge–’
‘Isnard has taken against you for severing his leg – Arderne said it was unnecessary, and Isnard believes him. He will give you up. Hurry!’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew jumped into the skiff and Cynric began to row. The Clare scholars milled about helplessly, shrieking their frustration and rage as they arrived to see the little craft bobbing away from them. Fortunately, it did not occur to them to steal a boat and follow, and no one was stupid enough to risk swimming, not when the river was swollen with recent rains. Cynric powered towards the opposite bank and jumped out. Before disappearing into the marshy meadows that lay to the west of the town, he turned and gave the enraged scholars an impertinent wave.
‘That jaunty little salute was unkind,’ Bartholomew remarked critically, when they were safely hidden among the bulrushes and reeds. ‘Was gloating really necessary?’
Cynric was laughing softly; he had thoroughly enjoyed the escapade. ‘Yes, because it was not something either of us would have done.’ He saw his master’s look of total incomprehension. ‘Now, if anyone accuses us of being the culprits, we can point out that we are not the gloating types.’
‘Did you see that hooded figure?’ Bartholomew asked, not entirely sure the book-bearer’s tactic would work. How could they claim they were not the ‘gloating types’ without admitting guilty knowledge of the gesture in the first place? ‘Did you recognise him at all?’
Cynric nodded. ‘Oh, yes. It was Honynge – our new Fellow.’
The following day was wet, and the dreary weather matched Bartholomew’s bleak mood. He had experienced an acute sense of loss that morning when he had glanced at the spot in the chancel where Kenyngham normally stood, and the sombre faces of his colleagues suggested he was not alone in grieving for the old man. Further, he was still in an agony of worry over Falmeresham, and the incident with Motelete had knocked his confidence more than he liked to admit. It was not that he objected to being proven wrong, but he was appalled that he should have been quite so badly mistaken. Two patients summoned him for consultations that morning, and he was so wary of making another misdiagnosis that even Deynman had commented on his excessive caution.
‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Michael sternly, when the physician eventually returned to Michaelhouse. ‘What were you thinking of, marauding through Clare’s cabbages last night?’
Bartholomew had more pressing matters on his mind. ‘William has offered to preside over the disputations today, because he knows I want to look for Falmeresham. But Langelee and Wynewyk are out, and I am loath to leave him in sole charge.’
His concern intensified when the friar announced the topic of the day would be Blood Relics, specifically that Bajulus of Barcelona’s arguments were so good that no evil Dominican would ever be able to refute them. His agitation increased further still when Deynman offered to help.