‘What could I say?’ asked Philippa tearfully. ‘If I said I had lent mine to John Fiscurtune, I would have been obliged to confess the whole miserable story to you.’
‘You had no idea about any of this?’ asked Michael of Abigny.
Abigny’s face hardened. ‘I did not. I came on this wretched pilgrimage because I sensed Philippa might need a friend. I had no idea Turke was being blackmailed by Fiscurtune’s son, nor that Fiscurtune had kin in Cambridge – except Frith, of course. Seeing him juggling in Michaelhouse gave me a nasty turn, I can tell you!’
‘So, you did know the Waits?’ asked Michael, looking from Philippa to Abigny.
Philippa nodded. ‘I recognised Frith immediately, and I was horrified that they might be in Cambridge to make trouble for Walter, to tell folk he was a murderer. That was why I told you the reason for the pilgrimage – in case Frith mentioned it first.’
‘I assumed the same,’ added Abigny. ‘But I did not imagine for a moment they intended to kill Walter. I thought they were just going to embarrass the man. In case you have not guessed, Walter’s violent past was the reason neither of us wanted you to look into his death. You knew he murdered Fiscurtune, but not that he had killed Isabella, too. What would Edith have thought if she had learned about that monstrous act?’
‘Walter recognised the Waits, too,’ said Philippa. ‘And he was aware that when he murdered Fiscurtune he had also destroyed their friend in high places. That was why he was so keen to accept Edith’s invitation – to escape from their company in the King’s Head.’
‘You lied about the scars on Turke’s legs,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa. ‘You knew how he came by them.’
Philippa nodded. ‘But it was not my secret to tell. It would not have been fair to mention it when Walter was not here to tell his own side of the story.’
‘His own side was that he wanted to save himself,’ muttered Abigny, ‘and that he did not care how. I admire you for your loyalty, Philippa, but even you must see it is grossly misplaced. I know you take your oath of wifely obedience seriously, but I do not think it should include helping a husband evade justice as a murderer or acting as messenger between him and his blackmailer.’
‘I swore a sacred oath when I married Walter,’ said Philippa tearfully. ‘In a church. How can I ask God to bless me with children when I break the vows I made in His house?’
‘You met Harysone in the King’s Head, Giles,’ said Michael in the silence that followed. ‘Did you not recognise him as Fiscurtune the younger?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Abigny bitterly. ‘Or I might have been able to help Philippa sooner. As I told you, I bought the book for her to present to the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. Offering tokens to commemorate dead husbands is a tradition for widows in Chepe. That is what you saw me doing with “Harysone” in the King’s Head – negotiating a price. I met him three times before a bargain was struck. He was so sure I did not know who he was that he even danced for me.’
Bartholomew recalled the Waits mentioning someone in a cloak and a hat, who had continued to watch Harysone’s dancing after the ‘other’ pardoners had left. His old roommate was right: Harysone had been so confident of his disguise that he had been quite happy to meet all manner of people he knew – even his own kin.
‘So, how did you know we were here, of all places?’ asked Michael, gesturing around the stables.
‘Cynric said Matt had stayed here, searching for clues to your whereabouts. Agatha offered to come with me, because she said I might need a mighty right arm. When we arrived, we heard you talking, and the rest you know.’
Agatha indicated the still figure on the ground with a jerk of her thumb. ‘I did not hit him that hard. Why does he not stir? Is it because he has damaged the balance of his humours with all that vulgar jigging and writhing?’ She shuddered in distaste at the memory of Harysone’s dancing.
‘Your right arm is mightier than you think,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But he will recover.’
‘Pity,’ muttered Michael.
‘I do not want to be here when he does,’ said Philippa, clutching Abigny’s arm. ‘Our bags are packed and I want to leave this town.’ She watched expressionlessly as Michael retrieved Dympna from the corner and prepared to take it to Kenyngham.
‘That was well timed,’ said Frith, entering the stable with a smile. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched in horror. ‘We have just purchased our freedom and have been given until nightfall to leave. Cambridge is an expensive town with Morice in charge, but at least justice can be bought.’
Jestyn, Makejoy and Yna were behind Frith, and all were armed with crossbows. As in the conclave, Frith’s accomplices were nervous and unhappy.
‘And how did you know we were here?’ Bartholomew asked them in a tired, hoarse voice.
‘We followed Agatha,’ said Frith, giving the laundress a nasty smile. ‘She was bellowing to Abigny, so half the town knows her plans.’ His fingers flexed, and Bartholomew saw he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the thump she had given him in the Market Square during the camp-ball. She glowered at him furiously, her eyes glittering with menace. Bartholomew thought Frith would be wise to dispatch her first if he did not want to risk another beating.
Rashly, the Wait turned his back on her. ‘I do not intend to leave empty-handed, so we will have the chest, please. And then the rest of you can climb into that cellar, where I may light a fire to keep you warm.’
‘Fire?’ asked Abigny in alarm. ‘But there are no windows. We would suffocate!’
‘Quite,’ agreed Frith coolly. ‘But do not be frightened. It is not as unpleasant as death by a crossbow quarrel, which is the alternative for anyone declining to obey me. Now, move!’ His voice was hard.
‘No,’ said Jestyn uneasily, dropping his weapon. ‘I want no part of this. We have only just escaped with our necks unstretched, and we will not be so lucky next time, especially now we have no friends to shield us. Morice will not help us again, and Dunstan and Athelbald, who took care of the various items we accumulated here, are dead.’
Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘It was the rivermen who helped you dispose of your stolen goods in Cambridge?’ He suddenly recalled the inkpot that the dead Athelbald had clutched in his frozen fingers, and realised he should have questioned at the time why an illiterate man possessed an item usually owned by scholars and clerks.
Jestyn nodded. ‘Father Ailred arranged it all. He said the money the old men earned from working for us would help them survive the winter. They were very good, too, because they knew so many people. It is a pity they both died so suddenly. Father Ailred was very upset.’
‘Enough chatter,’ said Frith sharply. ‘We need to take the chest, set the fire and be gone.’ He advanced on Agatha, but changed his mind when he saw her fists clench, and turned on Bartholomew instead. The physician felt a sharp jab as the tip of quarrel went through his clothes. ‘What will it be, Michaelhouse man? Stabbing or choking?’
‘Frith? Is that you?’ Harysone’s muffled voice came from the floor, and Bartholomew saw him ease himself up. Agatha’s blow had knocked the false teeth from his mouth, and he had already pulled off his beard. He looked very different without his disguise – older, fatter-faced and more sinister.
Frith gasped in surprise when he recognised his cousin, and Bartholomew considered making a grab for the Wait’s weapon while his attention was distracted, but Frith recovered himself quickly and moved out of reach.
‘John? What are you doing here?’
‘Turke,’ said Harysone, clinging to his cousin as he clambered to his feet, wincing and holding his head. ‘I was going to kill him myself, but you were there first.’
‘Liar!’ cried Philippa. ‘You were–’
‘Thrust these meddling souls into the cellar,’ interrupted Harysone before she could reveal that killing Turke had played no part in his plans. ‘Then set the fire and let us be gone. Hurry, Jestyn.’