‘Leave him alone,’ he yelled, holding his knife in a way that told the giant he was ready to use it. It would not be much use against a sword, but he could hardly go home to fetch a bigger weapon before tackling the bully. He recalled how well the man had fought the last time they had met, and hoped he was not about to be skewered for the likes of Refham.
The giant jumped at the sound of a voice coming towards him, but when Bartholomew edged closer he sensed another figure lurking in the deep shadows beyond. It was Beard. It was too late for second thoughts, so Bartholomew continued his advance, clutching the dagger and hoping he looked more menacing than he felt. Fortunately, the sun was behind him, which meant that all his opponents could see was a silhouette. They would not know he was the man they had fought in Margery Sewale’s cottage – at least, Bartholomew hoped not, or they would know for certain that they could best him.
The giant ducked suddenly, and Beard lobbed something over his friend’s head. It was a rock, which Bartholomew prevented from braining him by raising his hand. He staggered when it bounced off his forearm, and by the time he had regained his balance, the pair were running away. Instinctively, he started to give chase, but skidded to a halt after a few steps. What would he do if he caught them? Once they were out of the shadowy alley, they would see he was armed only with a dagger and would make short work of him with their swords.
He returned to Refham and knelt next to him. The blacksmith was gasping and retching, clutching his throat as if serious harm had been done. Bartholomew prised his hands away and inspected the damage. There were red marks where the giant’s fingers had been, and there would be bruising the following day, but he knew Refham would survive without long-term problems. He helped the smith to his feet and escorted him out of the lane and into the High Street, away from the stench of the dead pig. People glanced in their direction as they emerged, and Bartholomew saw several smirk when they saw Refham stained, dishevelled and unsteady on his feet. Evidently, he was not a popular man.
‘Satan tried to grab you, did he, Refham?’ asked Isnard conversationally, as he hobbled past on his crutches. ‘And then realised you are too wicked, even for him?’
‘Bugger off!’ hissed Refham, taking a step towards him. The threat was hollow, though, because he could barely stand. ‘Do not pretend you are better than me. Even the Michaelhouse singers do not want you in their ranks, and they have a reputation for accepting anyone, regardless of musical talent.’
An insult to the choir was far too grave a matter for Isnard to ignore. His face turned black with fury. ‘I will kill you for that,’ he said, looking as though he meant it.
‘Go home, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, interposing himself between the two men. ‘Michael will not reinstate you if you brawl in the street.’
‘He will not reinstate me anyway,’ said Isnard. A dangerous light gleamed in his eyes. ‘Cynric tells me he does not even want me to have the College latrines. I have nothing to lose now.’
‘I will talk to him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But only if you go home.’
Isnard wavered, but a chance at rejoining the choir was far more important than trouncing Refham. He treated the blacksmith to an unpleasant sneer and went on his way.
‘And you can mind your own business, too,’ snapped Refham, pushing Bartholomew away from him, albeit weakly. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, thinking he should not have bothered to save the man. ‘Can you walk, or do you want me to send for your wife?’
‘I do not need help – yours or anyone else’s. And do not expect me to thank you for pushing your nose into my affairs. I would have bested that pair, had you not come along.’
Bartholomew was tempted to grab him by the throat himself. ‘Who were they?’
‘Business associates. And I am not telling you any more, because it is nothing to do with you.’
Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I could spend the rest of the day following you around, seeing whom you meet and asking them questions. That would give me the answers I want, although I imagine it would be tiresome for you.’
Refham flexed his fingers, and for a moment the physician thought he might swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Refham was not a total fool, and knew he was in no condition for a spat. ‘If you must know, they have been renting my forge while I am in Cambridge selling my mother’s property. They have not told me their names – it is not that sort of agreement.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘They do not look like smiths to me. Why would they want a forge?’
‘They needed a place to lay their heads of an evening, and I wanted their money, although our contract is no longer in force. I have no idea what else they did there, and, frankly, I do not care.’
‘But they might mean the town harm,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was a curious arrangement, and one that reeked of illegality. He wondered whether Cynric was right, and one of the pair was the Sorcerer – and that the man had succeeded in concealing his identity for so long because he was not in Cambridge for much of the time.
Refham shrugged. ‘So what? I cannot wait to leave this place and buy myself a pretty house in Luton. It does not matter to me whether this town thrives or burns to the ground.’
Bartholomew thought about what he had seen. ‘Your “business associates” do not like dealing with you. Most respectable men do not negotiate by grabbing each other by the throat.’
‘That was because I told them the rent is going up, and they did not like it – they just ended our little pact. But you get what you pay for in this world, as Michaelhouse is about to find out. If you want my mother’s shops, they are going to cost you.’
His expression softened slightly when he saw his wife coming towards him. She took in his dishevelled clothes and the marks on his neck, and turned to Bartholomew with a furious expression.
‘It was not him,’ said Refham, seeing what she was thinking. ‘He is no warrior. Indeed, I heard Dickon Tulyet gave him a pasting only last night. It was the men from the forge.’
‘They did not agree to our new terms?’ asked Joan. ‘Well, it was worth a try. Anything for money.’
Bartholomew returned to the Brazen George in a thoughtful frame of mind. He considered going to Refham’s forge on the Huntingdon Way, to see if he could learn more about the two men who had burgled Michaelhouse’s property, but decided there was no point if Refham’s demand for a higher rent had already driven them away. He told Michael what had happened – about the prankster and Refham’s near-throttling – as he battled to mount the pony the monk had hired for him. It was a docile, steady beast, but Bartholomew was no horseman. He rode with all the elegance of a sack of grain, and Michael, who was one of the best riders in the county, was invariably ashamed to be seen with him.
‘The prankster is an annoying irrelevancy,’ said the monk dismissively. ‘It is some student’s idea of fun – although he will find himself in the proctors’ gaol if he plays his nasty tricks on me. But Beard and the giant are rather more intriguing. Do you really think one of them could be the Sorcerer? It makes sense that the culprit is a stranger – it seems unlikely that a long-term resident would suddenly decide to make his mark in the world of witchery.’