The physician clawed wildly, using every scrap of his strength. His fingers encountered the hood that covered the man’s face, and he snatched it away, expecting to see the soft, feminine features of Giles Abigny.
‘You!’ he exclaimed in astonishment.
Harysone used Bartholomew’s momentary confusion to scramble to his feet and haul the pitchfork from the floor. Then he came at the physician in a series of smooth, fluid movements that suggested he had done this sort of thing before. Bartholomew backed away, flinging handfuls of muck and straw from the floor at Harysone’s eyes. The pardoner’s relentless advance did not falter. He stabbed again, and this time his tines became tangled in some rotting wood.
Taking advantage, Bartholomew darted towards the door, but a burly figure framed in the rectangle of light blocked his path. He knew he could not wrestle the fellow out of the way and escape before Harysone freed his fork and came after him again, so he snatched up a weapon of his own – a rusty hoe that was leaning against one wall, wondering how he would fare when Harysone’s accomplice joined the affray, too.
Seeing that Bartholomew intended to do battle, Harysone gave a cold smile, so his large teeth gleamed in the dim light of the stable. Bartholomew was bigger and stronger, but Harysone possessed the better weapon. It was longer than the physician’s, and less likely to break. It also boasted a pair of wicked spikes, each one polished and honed to a glittering sharpness.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, edging away and aiming to keep as much distance between him and the pardoner as possible. He glanced at the figure in the doorway, but it made no attempt to move closer, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He focused his attention on Harysone, knowing the pardoner would take advantage of any lapses in concentration. ‘Where is Michael?’
‘Where you thought he was,’ said Harysone, gesturing towards the trapdoor with his spare hand. ‘I had decided to let you go free – it seemed you would not find my hiding place, and I would not have the bother of dispatching you. You should have left with your servants, and then you would have lived to see another day.’
‘Is Michael dead?’ asked Bartholomew. He was surprised to discover that neither the gloating pardoner nor his pitchfork frightened him, but the prospect of losing the monk’s friendship did. His mind filled with a hot, red rage that threatened to overwhelm him. It was the kind of fury that induced rashness, and a cooler part of his consciousness warned him that throwing away his life in a futile attempt to harm the pardoner would be stupid.
‘Not yet,’ said Harysone evasively. ‘But be assured you will see him in Paradise. Or Purgatory. Or even the other place, if that is where you are bound.’
‘Why have you come back?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘What do you want?’
‘So many questions,’ said Harysone, raising his eyebrows and parting his lips in a moist, toothy smile. ‘I returned because I want my share of a certain treasure that Cambridge is known to possess. I shall have what is my due.’
‘Your due?’ asked Bartholomew, twisting away as one of the tines came slicing towards him. ‘I do not understand.’
‘No,’ agreed Harysone. ‘You do not, but I have no time to answer questions you should have been able to solve yourself.’ His next lunge was in earnest, and Bartholomew felt one of the wicked spikes slice through the hem of his tabard. He grabbed the handle and tried to wrench the implement from Harysone’s grasp, but the pardoner was ready for such a move and he twisted it viciously. Bartholomew was forced to let go or run the risk of being pulled from his feet.
‘Was it you walking through the snow this morning?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You took Philippa’s shoes and enticed Michael here because he wanted to know the identity of her lover.’
‘At last,’ said Harysone with mock encouragement. ‘I do not take kindly to men who order me out of their towns for no good reason. I had done nothing wrong, and he had no right to evict me. I decided not to leave until I had exacted revenge. Now I have done that, I shall be on my way – as soon as I have collected my money and dealt with you.’
‘In that case, I shall delay you for as long as possible,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘Then you will leave late, and the roads from Cambridge are dangerous after dark. You will attract the attention of robbers, and that will be the end of you.’
‘I am an experienced traveller,’ said Harysone, unmoved. ‘It will take more than Cambridge roads to make an end of me.’
‘We shall see about that,’ said Bartholomew, making a series of hacking sweeps with his hoe that had Harysone backing away hurriedly. Then the pardoner darted forward, and a prong stabbed into Bartholomew’s medical bag, so hard it came through the other side. Harysone wrenched hard to free it, almost pulling the physician from his feet. ‘But you are not Philippa’s lover. She has better taste than to choose you.’
‘You do not know me,’ said Harysone, angered by the insult. ‘And anyway, I have better taste than to choose her!’
‘You should know that, Matthew,’ came a soft voice from behind him. Bartholomew whirled around to see Philippa. It had been her bulky form framed in the doorway while he fought. He backed away quickly, not wanting to be caught between the pair of them. ‘Put up your weapons,’ she added. ‘Both of you. There has been enough killing, and I want an end to it.’
‘Go away,’ snapped Harysone. ‘You should not have come. This is none of your business.’
‘It is my business,’ said Philippa sharply. ‘You demanded to borrow my shoes and cloak, and Cynric has just told me Michael is missing. I guessed immediately what you plan to do. Do you think I will stand by and allow you to murder University officials?’
‘What is going on?’ demanded Bartholomew, beginning to lose patience, although he suspected that displays of irritation were not appropriate just now. But he was angry – with Harysone for doing something to Michael, and with Philippa for being involved in something so clearly untoward. He appealed to her. ‘How do you know this man?’
‘We met in Chepe,’ she replied, ignoring Harysone’s furious sigh. She turned to the pardoner. ‘Enough, John! I will do what you say, but you must put down your weapon.’
Harysone moved to one side and lowered the pitchfork, but made no effort to set it down. Bartholomew edged further away, keeping a firm grip on his hoe.
‘You are not a pardoner at all, are you?’ he said to Harysone, seeing a clue in something Philippa had said: they had met in Chepe. ‘You are a fishmonger – or you have some connection to the Fraternity of Fishmongers. Your knowledge of fish is too great for you to be anything else.’
‘I was a fishmonger,’ said Harysone resentfully. ‘But Turke destroyed my business – and then he almost destroyed me. Sorrow led me to throw myself into the Thames.’
‘You are Fiscurtune’s son?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.
‘He is John Fiscurtune,’ said Philippa tiredly. ‘The son, obviously, not the father.’
‘Uncle Ailred and Cousin Frith always underestimated me,’ said Harysone – whom Bartholomew could not think of as Fiscurtune the younger. ‘Just because I did not scream for vengeance like a baying lunatic did not mean I was going to allow Turke to evade justice for my father’s murder. I had a plan. I outlined it in a letter I sent with a professional messenger called Josse, but either Josse did not deliver it or they ignored it.’
‘What plan?’ demanded Bartholomew.
‘A simple one,’ said Harysone. ‘It was I who forced Turke to undertake this pilgrimage. I informed him that I would tell everyone the truth about Isabella’s death if he did not. My father had given me all the details, you see, and during her life Isabella was much loved in Chepe. She was good and gentle, and folk would never have elected him Lord Mayor if they knew he had murdered that lovely soul, as well as my father.’