‘Christ!’ he muttered in dismay. ‘There will be a riot here, never mind the town.’
‘There is no call for blasphemy,’ said Michael sharply. ‘You are not on the battlefield now. Look, there is Carton. Perhaps he will supervise the proceedings.’
‘I am afraid I have a prior commitment,’ said Carton, overhearing. ‘I heard you come home very late last night, Doctor Bartholomew. Were you with a patient or looking for Falmeresham?’
‘Both,’ said Michael quickly. He did not want anyone to know what the physician had really been doing, lest it led to trouble with Clare.
‘But you learned nothing,’ surmised Carton, seeing the defeated expression on the physician’s face. ‘And I do not know where else to look – I have visited every College and hostel in Cambridge, but no one has seen anything. Perhaps it is time to give up.’
Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘Falmeresham knows how to look after himself. If his wound was not too serious, then he might have been able to–’
‘But it was serious,’ said Carton tearfully. ‘We all saw the blade slide into his innards.’
‘We are doing all we can to find him,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘My beadles hunted for him all last night, and they will not stop the search until I say so – which will not be as long as there is even a remote chance that he might still be alive.’
‘They are more experienced in such matters than me,’ said the Franciscan, with a dejected sigh. ‘So, I shall go to the church, and pray to St Michael instead. Perhaps he will spare one of his angels to watch over Falmeresham.’
‘Carton is an odd fellow,’ said Michael, watching the commoner walk away. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether he has a reason for constantly letting us know the depth of his concern – lest evidence ever comes to light that says Falmeresham was actually killed by a friend, not an enemy.’
Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’
Michael grimaced ruefully. ‘Yes, it is, so ignore me. I am overly tired, and cannot think straight. However, I have a feeling we may never find out what happened to Falmeresham – we may spend the rest of our lives pondering his fate.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. He knew the chances of finding the student alive were decreasing as time went by, but he refused to give up hope. ‘He will come home.’
‘Is that what led you to invade Clare last night – a dogged belief that he might still be awaiting rescue? Did you know Spaldynge claims to have recognised you?’
‘Does he?’ Bartholomew supposed it was not surprising; the man had been close enough to grab his leg, and the moon had been very bright.
‘Fortunately for you, Kardington maintains that such a notion is ludicrous – that the University’s senior physician would never stoop to such behaviour. Meanwhile, the Clare students think Spaldynge is picking on you because you are a medicus. They have dismissed his testimony, and are so certain of your innocence that Spaldynge’s own convictions have begun to waver.’
‘Thank God!’ breathed Bartholomew in relief.
‘Of course, it will be difficult to explain why your hands are grazed,’ Michael went on. ‘We shall have to say you fell over in our yard. It is certainly slick enough today, with all this rain.’
‘Kardington did not sound as angry with Spaldynge as he should have been,’ said Bartholomew, attempting to change the subject and discuss what he had overheard instead. In the cold light of day, the previous night’s adventure had been hopelessly misguided, and he did not blame Michael for being angry with him. ‘Over selling Borden Hostel, I mean. I wonder why.’
‘Because Kardington is a good and forgiving man,’ replied Michael. ‘He has advised his students to forget about the “burglary” last night – he believes the culprit was just someone who wanted to glimpse the miraculous Motelete.’
Bartholomew began to feel vaguely ashamed of himself. ‘I see.’
Michael glared at him. ‘How could you think Falmeresham might be in Clare’s grounds? Kardington has already assured you that they have been thoroughly searched.’
‘But he must be somewhere, Brother, whether he is dead or alive – and Cynric had a point when he said the Clare students might have been distracted when they performed the original hunt.’
‘I am upset about Falmeresham, too, but it does not give me the right to invade rival foundations whenever I feel the urge.’ Michael gave a sudden grin, suggesting his irritation was not as great as he would have his friend believe. ‘Tell me about Honynge.’
‘He was just a hooded shadow to me. It was Cynric who identified him.’
‘Cynric says he is quite sure of what he saw, so I visited Honynge this morning, while you were with your patients. His knuckles are even more mangled than yours. Unfortunately, I could not think of a way to broach the subject without revealing your role in the debacle.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Why would a senior scholar be lurking in the grounds of Clare in the depths of the night?’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘And you ask this question?’
‘Honynge was not looking for a missing student.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Did he see you during all the confusion last night?’
‘Cynric says not.’
‘Then you are probably safe – Cynric is usually right about such things. Do you think Honynge was trying to follow in your footsteps, and eavesdrop on the Master?’
‘I was not eavesdropping,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. He reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose I was, actually. I heard him talking and I admire his scholarship, so I went to see if I could hear what sort of topic kept him up so late.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You have been enrolled in universities for more than two decades, and you have some of the sharpest wits of anyone I know. You have fought deadly battles at the side of the Black Prince, and you have travelled to all manner of remote and exotic places. Yet sometimes you are so blithely naïve that you take my breath away. You went to eavesdrop on Kardington for academic reasons?’
Bartholomew felt defensive. ‘He is a famous disputant, and William’s mention of Blood Relics last night put me in the mood for a theological discussion.’
‘Well, next time you experience such a compulsion, come to me and I will debate with you. It would be a good deal safer for everyone concerned. But let us return to Honynge.’
‘Perhaps he was visiting a lover,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk scales walls when his latest fancy lives in another foundation. However, Honynge did not look as though he was trysting.’
‘I think he prefers women, anyway. I saw him smile at Agatha yesterday.’
‘I smiled at her, too, but it does not mean I entertain a fancy for her.’
‘You might,’ warned Michael, ‘if she doses you with this love-potion from Arderne. We shall have to watch what we eat and drink from now on. I have asked Cynric to stay in the kitchen when meals are being prepared, just in case she tries to slip this mixture into something I might consume.’
‘Such draughts are fictions, invented by the cunning and accepted by the gullible. Agatha can slip it into whatever she likes, and it still will not see her surrounded by suitors.’
‘I hope you are right, because I believe she has me in her sights.’
Bartholomew laughed, appreciating his friend’s attempt to cheer him up. Michael was not smiling, however, and the physician saw he was serious. ‘She does not! She would never seduce a monk in holy orders. Besides, I suspect you are too large, even for her tastes.’