it down with the cup of ale that she had placed at his elbow. Next to the cup was a small dish of roasted nuts and a wizened pomegranate.
‘Where did these come from?’ he asked, shovelling a handful of the nuts into his mouth.
‘I bought them from the market,’ replied Agatha evasively. She picked up the pomegranate and studied it curiously. ‘Just look at this peculiar thing! Have you ever seen its like?’
‘What is it?’ asked Michael, taking it from her and inspecting its rough pinkish-yellow skin with deep suspicion. ‘You do not expect me to eat it do you?’
‘It is a pomegranate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have never seen one in England before.’
‘What do you propose we do with it?’ asked Michael, tossing it to him and taking another handful of nuts.
‘You can eat the fruit, or make it into a drink. The seeds can be used as a preservative,’ Bartholomew answered. He threw it back to Michael. ‘But we have more important things to be discussing than pomegranates. Like what happened to you.’
‘That was outrageous!’ muttered Agatha indignantly. ‘What is the town coming to?’
Bartholomew sat on a stool near the fire and began to poke at the flames with a stick. ‘Tell me again,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Michael gave a great sigh. ‘Not again, Matt! I am too tired.’
‘He has told you once already,’ said Agatha, prodding Bartholomew in the back with a spoon handle. ‘The poor lad needs to rest.’
‘We will never get to the bottom of this if we rest!’ shouted Bartholomew, standing so abruptly that the stool went skittering across the kitchen floor.
Michael and Agatha gazed at him, startled. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, retrieved the stool and sat again.
‘Sorry, Agatha,’ he mumbled. ‘But we must reason this out before anyone else comes to harm.’
Agatha continued to stare. She had known the mild-mannered physician since he had come to take up his post as Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse nine years before and, during all that time, he had never once raised his voice to her. She had heard him shouting at his students from time to time, but he did so far less than the other Fellows, and it was usually frustration with their speed of learning rather than genuine anger. But it had been anger that had prompted him to yell at her now.
He twisted round when she did not reply, and saw the hurt expression on her rounded features. He was surprised. Agatha won, and maintained, her position of power over the other College servants on her claim that she was more of a man than any of them or any of the scholars. It was an assertion none was brave enough to dispute, and she ruled the domestic side of the College with a ruthless efficiency no one dared question. Even the forceful fanatic Father William had never won an argument with Agatha, yet Bartholomew had silenced her with a few words.
He rubbed at his hair again and stood with a sigh. ‘Sorry, Agatha,’ he said again. ‘I should not have shouted at you.’ He took her arm and brought her over to the fire. While she descended ponderously onto the stool, he sat on the edge of the hearth, oblivious to the occasional sparks that spat from the damp wood and burned small holes in his tabard.
‘You are worried about Matilde!’ said Agatha with sudden insight.
‘No!’ he protested, embarrassed that she had so adeptly read his thoughts. ‘It is this entire business. Philius brutally murdered, and now this attack on Michael …’
Michael leaned forward and tapped Bartholomew gently on the head with a fat, white forefinger. ‘But it failed,’ he said soothingly. ‘And I am fine.’
‘He needs another oatcake,’ said Agatha, struggling up from the stool to fetch him one.
‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, looking at Michael’s ample girth and hauling her back down. ‘He needs to lose some weight. If you feed him much more, one day you will find him unable to get out of that chair of yours.’
Agatha screeched with laughter, a familiar sound that echoed around Michaelhouse’s yard several times each day. Michael smiled, too, and settled himself back comfortably.
‘Once again, then,’ he said, folding his hands across his stomach. ‘I was approaching All Saints’ Church on my way to see Matilde, when an ill-dressed villain came racing towards me from the direction of the Great Bridge. I took no notice, thinking it to be some apprentice late for his chores, but, as he drew nearer, I saw his eyes were fixed on me with more than a passing interest. He had a knife in his hand, and as he collided with me, he attempted to stab me with it. As you know, I am not a small man, and not easily tumbled to the ground. And more drunken students have taken swings at me with weapons than I care to remember. This little chap did not stand a chance. I wrested the knife from him, but then he was away, and was too quick for me to follow.’
Agatha pursed her lips and she shook her head disapprovingly. ‘That was why the Death came!’
Bartholomew stared at her, somewhat taken aback. ‘Because Michael is too fat to chase the man who tried to kill him?’
Agatha shot him a long-suffering look. ‘Of course not! Because of sinful acts – murders and ambushes and people riding horses too fast along the High Street. That was why the pestilence came in the first place, and that is why it is only a matter of time before it returns. You mark my words! Those of you who are not God’s chosen should beware.’
‘And why do you think you are God’s chosen and not us?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He had heard a good many explanations for why the plague had swept across the country, but reckless riding had not usually been among them.
Agatha drew herself up to her full height. ‘Because I walked daily among the victims of the pestilence and I was not struck down,’ she said grandly. ‘I did not die!’
‘But we did not die either,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And neither did the maniac who tried to stab me.’
There was silence as Agatha digested this, and Michael took the opportunity to continue with his tale.
‘I went to All Saints’ Hostel to recover with a drop of mulled wine, while Cynric tried to pursue this lout. But Cynric had been too far behind to start with – he had met that woman of his from Stanmore’s house, and had dallied talking with her – and he lost my would-be killer in the Market Square. We slipped out of the back door of All Saints’ to continue to Matilde’s house. Cynric is certain we were not followed and so am I. When we left Matilde’s, we went back through All Saints’ Hostel and emerged through the front door, so that anyone watching will have assumed we were there the entire time.’
‘These smugglers are clever and resourceful,’ said Bartholomew, biting his lower lip. ‘It was a stupid idea to leave Dame Pelagia with Matilde. Now neither of them is safe.’
‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘They will be perfectly all right. Now Tulyet has the list of names from Dame Pelagia, we will not need to visit them again until this is over.’
‘That is what he is cross about!’ said Agatha with another ear-shattering howl of laughter. ‘Where will he spend his nights now that Matilde’s house is out of bounds?’
‘Agatha!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘What are you saying?’
‘All these night visits to people with winter fever,’ leered Agatha. ‘Likely story!’
‘But it is true!’ protested Bartholomew, horrified to feel himself blushing. ‘Matilde and I have never …’
He faltered and Agatha guffawed again. Michael came to his rescue.
‘Now, what about Philius? Agatha, more oatcakes, please. And do you have a little bacon fat to spread on them?’
While Agatha went to fetch the bacon fat from the pantry, Bartholomew told Michael about his findings regarding Philius’s death, and how John the porter had been killed.
‘We are left with a good many unanswered questions regarding Philius,’ he concluded. ‘We still cannot be sure where the wine that killed him came from – Oswald vehemently denies one of his apprentices is missing, and now both Philius and Isaac are dead there is no one we can ask to verify who is telling the truth.’
‘This crossbow business bothers me,’ said Michael. ‘It seems very convenient that an archer just happened to be in place at the precise moment when John ran from the College.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Michael rubbed at the whiskers on his chin. ‘I think this archer was waiting for you, not John. He was going to kill you, just as the knifeman attempted to dispatch me. When John came racing out, obviously in some distress
