The other apprentices, who had clustered round to watch the excitement, nodded, although Bartholomew noted not all did so with conviction.
‘You were not,’ he said firmly. ‘You were at the installation, wearing a light blue tabard and serving wine at the high table.’
Thorpe brandished a handful of his dark green tunic at Bartholomew with a sneer. ‘Does this look light blue to you? And before you ask, I have another and that is green, too. You can go and look if you want.’
‘Matt!’ said Stanmore, trying to pull Bartholomew away. ‘The lad is telling the truth. You know that all my apprentices’ tunics are this colour. It helps me to keep an eye on them in a crowd.’
Bartholomew grabbed Thorpe by the scruff of the neck. ‘We are going to see Harling.’
‘Whatever for?’ said Stanmore, indignant for his apprentice. ‘You have heard what Rob has to say. He has done nothing wrong.’
‘If he has done nothing wrong, why did he try to run away from me?’ demanded Bartholomew.
‘I would have run if I had seen you bearing down on me like something from hell!’ retorted Stanmore, becoming irate. He tried to prise Bartholomew’s fingers from his apprentice’s collar. Bartholomew pushed him away, and took a few steps towards the gate, the wriggling Thorpe firmly in his grasp.
Edith blocked his way. ‘Matthew, let him go!’ she ordered, incensed. Startled by the fury in her voice, Bartholomew obeyed. ‘Rob has told you he was here on Saturday night and the other apprentices have supported his claim. They have no reason to lie. Do you think I would not have noticed one of our lads serving at the installation? Or Oswald?’
She had a point. Bartholomew backed away, and Stanmore ushered the apprentices out of the yard and back to work.
The merchant turned to Bartholomew, his temper only just under control. ‘I suppose you are still thinking about that accusation of Father Philius’s – that he came here to see one of my apprentices die? Well, I hear Philius is dead himself – murdered in fact – and so it is quite clear that he is involved in all this foul business, and was lying to you. Look to him and to his acquaintances for your poisoner, but leave my lads alone! Rob is a good boy. If you cannot bring yourself to believe your own family, then you can ask the priests at St Botolph’s Church; he does odd jobs for them in his spare time and they think very highly of him.’
Bartholomew had rarely seen Stanmore so enraged and certainly never with him. He looked at Edith, standing with her hands on her hips and regarding him furiously. Edith had always taken a close interest in the apprentices, and she watched over them like a mother hen. Her instinct to protect one of them now was apparently stronger than her trust in her brother’s accusations. Bartholomew glanced over her head to where Thorpe walked with his friends towards the kitchens. The apprentice twisted round and favoured Bartholomew with a triumphant sneer that was anything but innocent.
‘He is the deposed Master Thorpe’s son, and he was at the installation,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into making rash accusations by Thorpe’s gloating. ‘He is the killer of poor James Grene!’
Edith and Stanmore gaped at him.
‘That seems to represent something of a leap in logic,’ remarked Michael, his eyebrows almost disappearing under his hair in his astonishment. He leaned over and whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Have a care, Matt. You are distressing your sister.’
‘Rob is seventeen years old!’ said Edith hotly. ‘How can you accuse a young lad of so vile a crime? First, he was here all night and nowhere near Valence Marie. Second, he has alibis to prove it. Third, how would he come by poisoned wine with which to kill anyway? Fourth, Oswald and I would have seen him had he been at the installation – which he was not. And, fifth, since you seem to believe that wicked Father Philius rather than Oswald, you imply that our household is involved in something sinister.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘I only–’
Edith cut across his words. ‘I think it would be best if you left us now, Matthew. Go and catch your poisoner. But you will not be welcome in our house again if you come only to make horrible accusations. And if I see you anywhere near Rob Thorpe, I will tell Tulyet to arrest you for assaulting a child!’
She turned on her heel and stalked across the yard to the kitchen. After a moment, Stanmore followed. The door slammed, and Bartholomew and Michael were left standing alone in the yard.
‘You handled that well,’ remarked Michael, beginning to walk away.
Bartholomew was rooted to the spot. ‘She believes I am trying to implicate Oswald in all this,’ he whispered, appalled.
Michael took his sleeve and steered him out of the yard. ‘She spoke in anger,’ he said soothingly. ‘She will come to her senses in a day or two. And anyway, you did imply you did not believe her or Oswald when they told you Rob Thorpe was not at the installation.’
‘I have never seen her so fierce,’ said Bartholomew, still shocked.
‘I have,’ said Michael, with a wry smile. ‘And so have you if you allow yourself to admit it – only last week, in fact, when she caught that water-seller using the well near the river after you had told people not to drink from it. She had the man terrified out of his meagre wits. What you have not seen, Matt, is her ire directed towards you. Now you know how the rest of us feel when your beloved sister goes on the rampage.’
‘You make her sound like a tyrant,’ said Bartholomew resentfully. ‘She is not.’
‘She has a quick temper,’ said Michael. ‘And you rashly attacked one of her charges. But her wrath is always short-lived, and all will be well again tomorrow. Now, we both have duties to perform that we have been neglecting while we have been here – you should ascertain what caused Gray to put on such a disgraceful performance at his disputation, and give Bulbeck his medicine. Then, at noon you should come to dine with me in the Brazen George. It is time we treated ourselves to a little decent refreshment, and we need to talk undisturbed. Cynric?’
The small Welshman appeared behind him.
‘Watch Master Stanmore’s gates and tell us when Rob Thorpe emerges. If we are not teaching in College, we will be in the chapel. You know which one I mean.’ He winked meaningfully.
Cynric gave him a knowing grin and trotted away, leaving Bartholomew bewildered. He tried to make Michael tell him what was happening, but the fat monk would say nothing.
Several hours later, they were comfortably settled in a pleasant chamber at the rear of the Brazen George, with a plateful of lamb and boiled onions. The room was one of Michael’s favourite haunts when inclement weather rendered the garden impractical. The taverner kept it free for the exclusive use of ranking scholars who should not have been there, and there was a small door that led directly out into an alley that ran perpendicular to the High Street, thus allowing discreet exits to be made should an occasion arise when it became necessary. It was a comfortable place – small and cosy, with a fire burning cheerfully in a brazier and colourful tapestries hanging on the walls. The beaten-earth floor was liberally scattered with reeds collected daily from the river bank, while bowls of herbs on the window sill made the chamber smell clean and fragrant.
‘I call this the chapel,’ said Michael, gesturing around him with a grin. ‘It is an excellent place for uninterrupted contemplation, where the troubled spirit can be restored with a good meal and a goblet or two of fine wine.’
Bartholomew was about to speak, when the landlord entered, bringing a dish of dried figs, which he presented with a flourish.
‘Try these, Brother,’ he said ingratiatingly to Michael. ‘They are quite delicious.’