were muffled. 'But tell me about the rings. What have you reasoned there?'
'I have deduced nothing new,' admitted Bartholomew.
'But we should reconsider what we do know. There are three rings. Dominica took two of them — the lovers' rings — from Cecily, kept one for herself and gave the other to Kenzie. One of his friends is certain that the ring Kenzie had originally was of great value. But the ring that was stolen from him by Edred was the third ring and a cheap imitation of the others. At some point someone, perhaps Kenzie himself, exchanged them. Kenzie's original ring then appeared three days after his death on the relic at Valence Marie. Cecily took the other half of the pair back from Dominica when she was sent to Chesterton, and gave it to me.' He removed the ring from his sleeve and looked at it, glinting blue-green in the morning light.
Michael took it from him and twisted it around in his fingers. 'So, what you conclude from all this,' he said, 'is that the Principal of Godwinsson's ring has ended up on Valence Marie's relic via a student from David's.
And that Father Andrew is at the heart of it all, on the basis of William's records and the fact that Andrew is at the same hostel that owns the Galen. Am I correct?'
Bartholomew leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. Now he had repeated his arguments to Michael, they sounded weak and unconvincing, whereas during the night they had seemed infallible.
'Dominica,' said Bartholomew suddenly, snapping upright. 'Where is she? If she is not dead, then where is she?'
'She was ruled by a rod of iron by two extremely unpleasant people,' said Michael. 'She saw her opportunity to escape and took it.'
'I do not think so,' said Bartholomew. 'She is still here.
In fact, I am willing to wager you anything you please that we will find her at David's.'
'In a hostel?' cried Michael in disbelief. 'You are insane, my friend! Adam Radbeche would never stand for such a flouting of the University rules! '
'Well, in that case, you will have no objection to coming with me to see,' said Bartholomew, rising abruptly and striding off through the orchard. Michael followed, grumbling.
'But where is your evidence?' he panted, struggling to| keep up with Bartholomew's healthy pace. 'Where is your proof?'
Bartholomew grinned mischievously. 'I suppose I have none at all, just a feeling, a hunch if you will.'
Michael made as if to demur, but could see the determination in his friend's face and knew there was little he could do to dissuade Bartholomew from visiting David's.
All he could hope to do was to minimise any damage Bartholomew might cause by wild accusations.
The signs of the previous night's rioting were obvious as they hurried along the High Street to Shoemaker Lane, but the damage was mostly superficial and already much J had been cleared away. None of the townspeople's houses* or shops had been attacked. The rioters had concentrated* on University property. Bartholomew was puzzled. If j he were to attack the University he would not choose — , Michaelhouse, one of the largest and strongest of the University's properties or some small and impoverished ^ institution like St Paul's Hostel. He would pick those] places that were known to be wealthy and not particularly; well fortified — like Maud's. He would also attack St Mary's Church, since it was perhaps the most prominent of the University's buildings, and look for the University chest: j where all the valuables were kept. But Michael said that;
St Mary's had not been touched.
He frowned. The only explanation he could find was that the leaders of the riot did not want to inflict serious damage on the University. In which case, what was their motive? Now the curfew on the townspeople would be imposed more harshly than ever, entry into о the town would become more rigidly controlled, and legal trading times would be curtailed. Also, the Sheriff; would have to hang some of the rioters he caught as a deterrent to others, and there would be taxes to nay for the damage. After the previous night's riot, the townspeople would suffer more than the University.
He tried to clear his thoughts as they approached David's. Its strong door had been torn from its hinges and there were scratches along the wall where something had been forced along it. There was no reply to Michael's knock, so they entered uninvited. Bartholomew called Radbeche's name, but his voice bounced back at him through the empty corridor.
He hammered on the door at the end of the passageway that led to the large chamber where lessons took place, and shouted again. There was no reply, so he opened it, stepped inside and looked around.
The cosy room at David's, with its ancient, patterned window-shutters and warm smell of cooking food, was deserted. Bartholomew walked slowly to look over the other side of the table. Master Radbeche lay there, his throat cut so deeply that Bartholomew thought he could see bone beneath the glistening blood.
'Is Dominica there?' came Michael's voice from behind him.
'No,' said Bartholomew shortly. Michael elbowed him out of the way impatiently, but let out a gasp of shock when he saw Radbeche's body.
'Oh, Lord!' he exclaimed in a whisper. 'What happened to him?'
'It seems as though someone cut his throat,' replied Bartholomew dryly. 'With considerable vigour, by the look of it.'
'My question was rhetorical, Matt,' said the monk testily. 'As well you know.' He gazed down at the redheaded philosopher. 'Poor Radbeche! What could he ever have done to warrant such violence? The University! will be a poorer place without his sharp intelligence.'
He shuddered as Bartholomew began to examine!
Radbeche's body. The Principal of David's had beerq dead for several hours — perhaps even before the riot had! started, when Bartholomew had been talking with Lydgatei and Michael in the church. Bartholomew sat back on hi$l heels and looked around the room. He saw that the smalll door that led to the kitchen and storerooms was ajar, and! picked his way across the floor towards it. The doorknobjf was sticky and Bartholomew's hand came away stained redf with blood. He gritted his teeth against his rising revulsionj took a hold of it again, turning it slowly and pushing oper the door. In the kitchen, pans had been knocked froro^ their hooks on the wall and someone had kicked charred«; logs from the fire across the room. Bartholomew walked | to the small storeroom beyond, shoving aside a strip of | hanging leather that served as a door.
Alistair Ruthven sat on the floor cradling John of| Stirling in his arms. At first, Bartholomew thought they| were both dead, since their faces were so white and theirl clothes so bloodstained. But, slowly, Ruthven turned a| stricken face towards Bartholomew and tried to stand.
Bartholomew lifted John off Ruthven and set him gently| on the floor.
'Are you injured?' asked Bartholomew, looking to I where Ruthven hovered nervously.
Ruthven shook his head. 'I was not here when this^ happened. John is dead,' he added, looking at his friendl on the floor. He suddenly looked about him wildly. 'Whc could have done this?' he wailed. 'Master Radbeche and John are dead and I only escaped because I pretended tof be dead, too.' His eyes glazed, he stumbled into the halls.
'Stop him!' said Bartholomew urgently to Michael.
With a blood-curdling howl, Ruthven dropped to his knees and brought clenched fists up to his head. 'He will become hysterical,' said Bartholomew warningly. 'Take him outside, quickly. And send word for the Austin Canons to come for John.'
With Michael's large arms wrapped around him, Ruthven staggered along the corridor to the street. Bartholomew bent back to John who, despite Ruthven's claim, was certainly not dead. He suspected that a good deal of the blood had probably come from Radbeche, for when he pulled away the lad's shirt to inspect the wound, it was superficial.
John's eyes flickered open as Bartholomew slid a rug under his head, rummaged in his bag for clean linen and set about binding the gash.
'Am I going to die?' he whispered. 'Or am I dead already?'
'Neither,' said Bartholomew, smiling reassuringly. 'This is little more than a scratch. You will be perfectly all right in a day or two.'
'But all that blood!' He swallowed hard and looked at the physician with a desperate expression.
'Lie still,' said Bartholomew gently. 'I think you must have fainted.'
John smiled wanly, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew's face. 'The sight of blood makes me dizzy. It was bad
