I would wish you to be on your guard against them.'
'Where did they approach you?'
The blacksmith nodded over to the tavern. 'In there.
I was having a quiet drink, and I got a message telling me that if I went outside, I could be a rich man. I went, and there were two men. They told me to cause a bit of a fight on the day of old fatso's ceremony, and to get you alone and warn you off.'
'What exactly did they say?'
The blacksmith closed his eyes and screwed up his face as he sought to recall the exact words. 'They said that I should just say to you 'stay away'. Those were their very words!' he said triumphantly, pleased at his feat of memory.
'What were these people like?' 'I could not say. Only one spoke, but I do not recall his voice. He was quite big, about your size, I would say.
The other was smaller, but both of them wore thick cloaks with hoods, and I could not see their faces.'
Bartholomew and the blacksmith stood side by side in the darkness for several moments before the blacksmith spoke again. 'If I knew who they were, I would tell you. The only thing I can think of, and it is not much, is that the purse they gave me is nice. See?'
Bartholomew took a few steps to where he could see the purse in the faint light from the tavern windows.
The purse had been fine in its time, but weeks in the blacksmith's grubby hands had begrimed its soft leather and all but worn away the insignia sewn in gold on the side. Bartholomew examined it more closely, turning it this way and that to try to make the gold thread catch the light. As he did so, the insignia suddenly stood out clearly. 'BH' — the initials of Bene't Hostel! He had seen Hugh Stapleton with a purse almost identical when he had been out with Abigny once.
He tipped the money out of the purse into his hand. About five marks, an enormous sum of money for a blacksmith. He turned round again. 'You keep this,' he said, pushing the money towards the blacksmith and slipping the empty purse into his belt. 'What is done is done. Thank you for telling me all this. I had no idea that I had such powerful enemies.'
The blacksmith gave a short laugh devoid of humour.
'Oh, they are powerful right enough. I could tell that just by the way they spoke to me. They are people used to ordering others about.' He put a mud-stained hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. 'I wish I had told you this before, but you seemed to be doing well enough. I do not want the money, though. I might go to hell if I take it knowing what it was for — and these days, a man cannot be sure of getting the chance to confess before he is taken.' He looked in distaste at the silver coins in his rough hand.
Before Bartholomew could stop him, he flung them all in the direction of the pit. Bartholomew saw some of them glitter as they plunged into its steaming depths.
The blacksmith smiled. 'It is all right now,' he said quietly. 'The blood money is where it belongs.'
Bartholomew offered his thanks again, and made for home. He hoped that all the coins had disappeared into the quicklime. He did not want to think of people climbing into the pit to fetch them out.
He walked slowly, breathing in the cold night air in an attempt to clear his reeling mind. He was wholly confused. Someone had tried to warn him to stay away the same night that Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet were murdered. But stay away from what? Had it been Hugh Stapleton who had issued the warning? Were there others with Bene't Hostel purses? Was it Abigny who had hired the blacksmith, since he was so often at Bene't Hostel and was apparently involved in something that had led him to pretend to be Philippa? But Michael had witnessed that it had been Abigny who had kept Francis Eltham from closing the gates until Bartholomew was safely inside. Gray had been at Bene't's too. Was he involved? It did not make sense. He wished Sir John or Aelfrith were alive so that he could tell them the whole insane muddle and they could help him to sort it out.
He had already decided not to confide in his family, but who else could he trust? Michael? Bartholomew did not understand the monk's role in the death of Augustus, nor his position in the wretched Oxford plot. Abigny was clearly involved and, anyway, he had fled. The loathing he felt for Wilson was mutual, and how could he trust a man who skulked in his room and left the College to its own devices when it needed a strong Master? He considered the Chancellor and the Bishop, but what did he have to tell them? There was only his word that Aelfrith had been poisoned, and that Augustus had been dead when he disappeared. And the Chancellor and Bishop were unlikely to be impressed with him for producing the blacksmith as a witness, a self-confessed rabble-rouser and a man notorious for his drunkenness. With a heavy sigh, Bartholomew arrived at the same conclusion he had reached at Stanmore's house: that there was no one with whom he could speak, and he would have to reason through the muddle of facts alone.
Having reached St Michael's Church, he walked across the churchyard and stood looking down at the pile of earth that marked Aelfrith's grave.
'Why?' he whispered into the night. 'I do not understand.'
He rethought the blacksmith'swords as he crouched down in the long grass that grew over Aelfrith's mound.
He had no reason to believe the man was lying. Were the mysterious men at the tavern ordering Bartholomew to stay away from Augustus? The blacksmith suggested that one of the men was educated and used to giving orders.
Could it have been Wilson, suspecting that something might happen to Augustus and wishing to conceal the entire matter before it had occurred? He had certainly tried to hide the truth later.
Bartholomew stood, and stretched his aching limbs.
It had been a long day, and the more he thought about it, the more loose ends there were and the murkier the matter became. He was tired and wanted to concentrate on finding Philippa. She might be in danger, and his feeble attempts at trying to unravel University business would not help her. Wearily he walked down the lane to Michaelhouse, intending to ask Gray to help him search the taverns for news of Abigny.
When he reached his room, there was no sign of Gray, and Bartholomew was uncertain how to begin questioning people in taverns. He knew that the wrong questions would not bring him the information he needed, and might even be dangerous. He heard a creak of floorboards in the room above, and an idea began forming in his mind. Philippa's disappearance was no secret, and it was only natural that he would want to find her. Why should he not enlist Michael's help for that? He would not need to reveal that he knew anything of the alleged Oxford plot, only that he wished to find Philippa.
Grateful that he had something positive to do, he slipped out of his room and up the stairs to Michael's chamber. He pushed open the door and saw that Michael's bed was empty. The two Benedictines who shared his room were sleeping, one of them twitching as if disturbed by some nightmare. Disappointed, he turned to leave.
As he closed the door, a scrap of parchment fluttered to the floor from one of the high shelves, caught by a sudden draught from the door downstairs. Bartholomew picked it up, and strained to read the words in the darkness. They were in Michael's bold, round hand, the letters ill-formed and clumsy with haste. 'Seal must still be in College. Will look with Wilson.'
Bartholomew stared at it. Michael had obviously written this message and been unable to deliver it, or had been disturbed while he was writing. Whatever the reason, it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michael was embroiled in all this intrigue. Bartholomew felt his hands shaking. Michael may have been the very one who had paid the blacksmith to warn him away.
He gasped in shock as the note was snatched from his hand. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not heard Michael coming from the room opposite.
He saw the monk's face in the gloom of the hallway.
It was contorted with rage, and he was controlling himself with difficulty. Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He had not been prying in Michael's room, and had not searched for the scrap of parchment, but there was no reason for Michael to believe that.
Words would be meaningless now: what could be said? Bartholomew pushed his way past Michael into the hallway. In the room opposite, he could hear the muffled voices of the three students that lived there.
One of them must have become ill and called for help.
Bartholomew poked his head round the door and saw the student writhing on his pallet bed, his room-mates
