What was Stephen doing there?
And who was the third man whose voice was so familiar?
It was not Stanmore or Richard. Was it a Fellow from Michaelhouse? He racked his brain, trying to identify the smooth intonation, but it eluded him.
'What about Oswald?' Stephen was saying.
'Now there is a real problem,' came the familiar voice. 'Neville Stayne was foolish to have mentioned Bartholomew in front of Oswald. Now if anything happens to him, it will immediately arouse his suspicions, and all we have worked for will have been for nothing.'
'We cannot allow that, not after all we have done!'
Stephen said emphatically. 'Five Michaelhouse men have died for this, and we have carefully nurtured so many rumours. We have invested months in this!'
'Easy,' came the reassuring tones of Burwell. 'We will not allow your brother and his tenacious in-law to interfere in our business. Too much is at stake.'
Stephen appeared to have accepted Burwell's assurance, for he made no further comment. The third man continued to speak, outlining a plot that would have Bartholomew and Stanmore ambushed together.
Bartholomew clenched his fists, his instincts screaming at him to throw open the door and choke the life from Stephen's miserable, lying throat. But that would serve no purpose other than to allow Burwell and the third man to kill Bartholomew. And then they would be able to slay Stanmore.
Bartholomew was so preoccupied with his feelings of loathing for Stephen that he almost missed the sound of footsteps coming towards the door. Startled, he bolted back into the other room, wincing as his haste made him careless and he knocked a candle from its holder.
The three men did not hear, however, and stood in the doorway conversing in low tones.
'Tonight it is, then,' came the familiar voice.
Bartholomew risked opening the door a crack to see his face, but he had already started off down the stairs, and all Bartholomew saw was the hem of a cloak.
Bartholomew itched to be away to warn Stanmore of the impending threat on their lives, but Stephen and Burwell lingered at the top of the stairs, discussing the possibility of increasing hostel rents. Bartholomew silently urged them to conclude their tedious conversation so that he could leave. A dreadful thought occurred to him. Supposing Abigny arrived and found him? Then his death would be immediate, for how could they let him go after what he had heard? And, Bartholomew thought, Abigny must be involved, for how could he spend so much time at Bene't's and be unaware of what was happening? 'Here.' Bartholomew heard the tinkle of coins as money was passed from Burwell to Stephen, followed by the rustle of cloth as Stephen secreted them in his cloak.
'This is important to you,' said Burwell suddenly.
'More than just wealth.'
Bartholomew risked looking at them through the crack in the door. He saw Stephen shrug, but noted that he was unable to meet Burwell's eyes. 'I have worked for my brother all my life,' he said, 'but it will not be me who will inherit the business when he dies. It will be Richard.
And what then? What of my children? The Death has made it necessary for me to consider alternative sources of income.'
Burwell looked surprised. 'But I understand that young Richard is anxious to follow in his uncle's footsteps and become a leech.'
Stephen faltered for a moment. 'People change,' he said. 'And I do not, cannot, rely on my nephew's charity for the rest of my life. What if I were to be taken by the pestilence? I must leave some funds to safeguard my children. It is no longer viable to rely on relationships and friendships to secure a future. Only this works.' He held a gold coin between his thumb and forefinger and raised it for Burwell to see.
'And you would sacrifice your brother for this?' mused Burwell. In the shadows of his chamber, Bartholomew closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.
'Yes,' said Stephen softly, 'because by this time tomorrow I might be in the death pits. What if Oswald and I were to die, and Richard? How could the womenfolk maintain the business? Even if they were allowed to try, and that in itself is unlikely because the Guilds would not permit it, they would be easy prey for all manner of rogues. They would be gutter fodder within the month.'
He turned to face Burwell. 'I do not relish what I am about to do, but my future and the future of my children is more important than Oswald.'
Bartholomew listened as their voices faded down the stairs. He was almost beside himself with anxiety. Where had the third man gone while Stephen and Burwell chattered? Was Oswald already in danger? The two men stopped to talk again by the front door before finally taking their leave of each other. Bartholomew forced himself to wait several moments before hurrying down the stairs. Looking down the High Street, he saw Abigny walking towards him. Bartholomew ignored him, and fled in the opposite direction towards Stanmore's shop.
He raced through the gates into Stanmore's yard, his feet skidding as he fought to keep his balance on the slippery mud. He was about to go into the house to seek Stanmore out when he saw him entering the stable with a tall figure that looked very familiar. It was Robert Swynford.
Bartholomew was relieved beyond measure. Good.
Now Swynford was back, he could take over the College, and Alcote would be spared being discredited, or worse, at the hands of the hostels. Breathlessly, Bartholomew ran over to the stable, pushed the door open and staggered inside. Stanmore stood just inside the door with his back to Bartholomew, but turned when he crashed in. Bartholomew's stomach flipped over when he saw it was not Stanmore at all, but Stephen. Bartholomew cursed himself for a fool as he realised Stephen was still wearing Oswald's cloak. Stephen and Swynford seemed as disconcerted to see him as Bartholomew Was to see Stephen, but Swynford recovered almost immediately and shook Bartholomew by the hand, saying how pleased he was to be back in the town and asking how the College was faring.
Bartholomew, smiling politely, began to back out of the stable, but Stephen was quicker. He made a sudden movement with his hand, and Bartholomew found a long-bladed dagger pointing at him. Bartholomew gazed in panic before trying to bluff it out: Stephen did not know Bartholomew had heard him speaking with Burwell and the other man at Bene't's. 'What are you doing? Where is Oswald?'
'At Trumpington seeing to Edith. Which is where you were supposed to be,' Stephen said coldly. 'Why did you not go?' 'I had to stay with Father Jerome. I sent Gray,'
Bartholomew replied, bewildered.
Stephen laughed without humour. 'You have been a problem to us almost every step of the way. I tried hard to keep you out of all this, but you have been remarkably uncooperative!'
Bartholomew tried to move away as the knife waved menacingly close, but he was hemmed in by walls on one side, and Stephen and Swynford on the other.
'I thought we had agreed to be honest with each other this morning,' Bartholomew said, looking from Swynford to Stephen.
The knife waved again, and Bartholomew felt it catch on his robe. He gazed at Stephen in horror.
'Was it you?' he whispered. 'Was it you who killed Sir John and the others?'
Stephen grinned nastily and looked at Swynford, who eyed Bartholomew impassively.
'We cannot allow him to interfere any more than he has already,' Swynford said. 'There is too much to lose.'
Stephen nodded, and Bartholomew wondered whether they meant to kill him there and then in the stable.
Stephen obviously thought so, for he took a step towards Bartholomew, tightening his grip on the knife.
'Not here!' snapped Swynford. 'What will your brother say if he finds blood in his stable and the physician missing? Put him downstairs.'
'Downstairs?'said Stephen, lunging at Bartholomew, who had made a slight move to one side. 'Are you serious?'
'There are rooms with stout doors,' said Swynford.
'We must plan his death carefully or the Bishop might discover some streak of courage in his yellow belly and order some kind of enquiry.'
