‘Where indeed?’ mused Michael thoughtfully.
Once Constantine had struggled away with his reeling brother, Bartholomew and Michael fought their way through the Market Square towards Gonville Hall. But Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go, unaccountably afraid he might learn something that would disappoint or shock him about the scholar he had so liked and admired. It would not be the first time an investigation had revealed a seemingly good man to be something rather different, and he realised his work for Michael had turned him from someone naturally trusting to someone uneasy and suspicious. He walked slowly, aware that Michael was matching his reduced pace and was probably assailed with the same concerns.
‘You must be pleased to see your grandmother,’ he said, yawning. He wished he had spent less of the previous night reminiscing with the old lady, and more in his own bed. ‘Were you expecting her?’
Michael smiled fondly. ‘No, but I am not surprised she is here. She played an important role in convicting Edward Mortimer and Thorpe, and she is not a woman who likes loose ends. She came to see for herself what was happening.’
‘It is a pity she did not prevent the pardons from being issued in the first place. From what I hear, the King listens to her and never does anything she believes to be imprudent or wrong.’
‘Unfortunately, she was in Avignon when the matter went to the King’s Bench clerks. She only heard about it when it was too late to do anything. She was not pleased, I can tell you!’
Bartholomew could well imagine, and was wryly amused with himself for feeling safer now the old lady was there. Dame Pelagia was elderly and slight, but her deceptively frail figure concealed a core of steel, a raw and ruthless cunning, and a rather shocking talent for throwing knives. Bartholomew had come to understand Michael’s fondness for intrigue and deception far better once he had met his formidable forebear. He stopped to fiddle with a strap on his boot, knowing it was a deliberate ploy to delay what he was certain was going to be an unpleasant interview at Gonville.
‘What was she doing in Avignon?’ he asked. He had been under the impression that she had retired from her long and distinguished service as the King’s best agent. Then it occurred to him that Bishop Bateman had been poisoned in Avignon.
‘She has always liked France,’ replied Michael, airily vague. ‘And she has spent a good deal of time there in the past. She told me she had a desire to see it again.’
Bartholomew did not respond immediately. England had been at war with France for the past twenty years, and he suspected her sojourns there had been spent implementing plots and intrigues – all designed to harm France and benefit England. He wondered whether the conflict might have ended a good deal sooner, had the likes of Dame Pelagia not been on hand to stir it up.
‘So, who killed Bishop Bateman?’ He glanced up at Michael. ‘It was not her, was it?’
Michael regarded him with astonishment. ‘Of course not! If she had killed anyone, it would have been the French ambassador, who was refusing to listen to Bateman’s terms for peace.’
‘But Bateman was not a successful diplomatist,’ said Bartholomew. He stood up and started walking again. ‘Perhaps the King wanted rid of him, without the inconvenience of saying why.’
‘Well, if he did, my grandmother did not oblige him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She does not murder well-regarded prelates.’
The tone of his voice suggested she might well dispatch a couple of unpopular ones, though, and Bartholomew supposed the haughty and irascible Bishop of Ely had better watch himself if Dame Pelagia was back in the country.
‘Here is Gonville,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to end the discussion before it ranged too far into uncharted waters. ‘We should not discuss the murder of their founder when they might overhear us.’
‘Especially if you accuse my grandmother of doing it,’ said Michael huffily.
‘Are you not concerned for her?’ asked Bartholomew, knocking at Gonville’s gate. He did so tentatively, and his soft tap was unlikely to be heard by any but the most sharp-eared of gatekeepers. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer seem to blame her for their exile, and I am worried about the fact that she has chosen to stay with Matilde. If they attack Dame Pelagia, then Matilde may be hurt.’
‘She only intends to impose herself on Matilde for one night,’ said Michael. ‘She has other arrangements for the rest of her stay here.’
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew. He regarded the monk uneasily. ‘Not at Michaelhouse?’
Michael snorted his laughter. ‘Of course not! How could she stay in a College that only admits men? I know her disguises are legendary, and she could pass herself off as a travelling academic, if she was so inclined. But she is almost eighty years old, and she yearns for a little comfort in her old age. She will stay with Mayor Morice.’
Bartholomew was unable to prevent himself from gaping. ‘With Morice? But why?’
‘Because he has the best house in Cambridge, why else? His corruption has made him a rich man, and he can offer a high level of accommodation that is unavailable elsewhere. Deschalers would have been her first choice – he was wealthier still – but she can hardly claim his hospitality now he is dead.’
‘Does Morice know who she is?’
‘He knows she has the ear of the King, and that is enough for him to welcome her. Morice has many enemies – folk he has cheated and deceived over the years – so his house is sturdily built and protected like a fortress. It is a very safe place for her to be.’
Bartholomew did not know what to think. Perhaps news of Morice’s brazen dishonesty had reached royal ears, and Dame Pelagia had another, more sinister, reason for demanding the Mayor’s hospitality. It also occurred to him that it had been Morice’s letter to the King’s Bench that had tipped the appeal in Mortimer and Thorpe’s favour, and had gone a long way towards getting them their royal pardons. He wondered whether Morice would survive the visit, or whether he would die in some mysterious accident before his enigmatic guest finally took her leave of the town.
Michael hammered on the sturdy oaken gate, seeing no one was going to reply to the physician’s polite raps. They exchanged an unhappy glance while they waited, neither looking forward to the task of prising personal secrets from Bottisham’s friends.
Gonville Hall comprised two stone mansions linked by a central gatehouse. The upper floor of the smaller house held the College library, which Bartholomew coveted – Michaelhouse’s ‘library’ comprised a couple of shelves in the conclave and hall. Gonville’s books were housed in a handsome room that boasted polished wooden floors and a hearth where there was nearly always a fire. The chamber was usually peaceful, since teaching was conducted in the hall below, and Bartholomew imagined it would be an excellent place to study, away from distractions.
Adjacent to the library were the foundations for the new chapel. Bartholomew could see them through gaps in the wood of the gate. It was to be a substantial structure, and he wondered how it would be funded now that Bishop Bateman was dead.
Michael pounded on the gate yet again, claiming no College had the right to keep the Senior Proctor waiting. There was a grille set in the door, and Bartholomew saw it open very slowly, as if the person peering out did not want the visitors to know they were being examined. It did not escape Michael’s attention, however.
‘Let me in,’ he ordered, thrusting his large face close to the opening. ‘I have come to talk to you about Bottisham.’
‘Brother Michael,’ said the watcher with relief, and there were loud clicks as a key was turned in a lock. ‘I am sorry. But one cannot be too careful these days – what with pardoned exiles strutting around freely.’
‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Michael, easing himself through the gate. Bartholomew followed, and watched while the scholar secured it again. ‘I heard what happened to you.’