Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know?’
‘One of the chaffinches saw them at drill. I doubt these “warriors” will be much use.’
‘I told you the same,’ William reminded him. ‘Only I had it from the abbey’s servants, who are more reliable than birds. But Clippesby is right about one thing, Brother – you will be safer with him and me at your side.’
‘I need you to continue your enquiries here.’ Michael was loath to point out that neither was very useful in a fight. ‘But to deter thieves, I shall borrow an old habit from the abbey, while anyone looking at Matt will know that he is not worth robbing.’
‘You may have mine,’ said William generously, beginning to untie the oily cingulum that cinched it around his waist. ‘No villain would dare attack a Franciscan.’
‘No, thank you.’ Michael was unable to suppress a shudder at the thought of that particular garment next to his skin. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Saddle the horses while I beg a robe from Yvo. It will be far too big, of course, but a belt should help.’
‘Horses?’ gulped Bartholomew, sufficiently alarmed that he did not even smirk at the notion of the bulky Michael fitting into anything owned by the little Prior. ‘If we are pretending to be poor, it would be better to walk.’
‘We shall ride,’ declared Michael. ‘For three reasons. First, it will be faster, and we cannot afford to waste time. Second, it will allow us to escape if outlaws do appear. And third, it is too far to travel on foot.’ He softened. ‘You will not fall off if you grip with your knees and hold the reins as I have taught you.’
Bartholomew was not so sure, but he went to the stable and began the perplexing business of working out which strap went where. Michael appeared long before he had finished, clad in an old brown robe, and promptly began making adjustments to the physician’s handiwork. Then he led his horse outside, sprang into the saddle and started a series of fancy manoeuvres that showed him to be an equestrian par excellence.
Bartholomew muttered resentfully as he tried to keep Clippesby’s gentle mare from shifting about while he fastened the last buckle. He had rejected the black stallion the moment the two of them had made eye contact and he had read what was there.
‘Let me do it,’ said Cynric, making Bartholomew jump by appearing silently at his side. ‘And wait while I saddle mine, too.’
‘You are coming with us?’ asked Bartholomew, standing back in relief.
‘I had intended to ride with you on Sunday, but you were ill then, so I shall do it now instead. Spalling is vexed, but it cannot be helped – you will only get into trouble without me to look after you. Besides, there is a witch in Torpe who sells charms against danger and demons.’
‘Do you think you are in need of them, then?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned for him.
‘They are for you. Danger, because someone poisoned you; and demons, because I do not like what is happening with Oxforde.’
‘Oxforde?’
Cynric pursed his lips. ‘He was an evil rogue, who was buried in the chapel cemetery to prevent him rising from the dead and resuming his reign of terror. But Trentham is digging a hole right next to him, so it is only a matter of time before he escapes.’
Bartholomew knew better than to argue with Cynric on matters of superstition, but he could not help himself. ‘Men who have been dead for forty-five years cannot–’
‘Yes, they can,’ interrupted Cynric with absolute conviction. ‘It is Kirwell’s fault – he encouraged people to pray at this so-called shrine, and Oxforde’s wicked soul is awake and waiting. No wonder Kirwell has been cursed with such a long life! God is furious with him.’
‘I do not think–’
‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ said Cynric darkly. ‘But I will protect you, so do not worry.’
He soon had the horses ready, and once Bartholomew was mounted – no mean feat when even Clippesby’s docile nag knew who was in charge and let the physician know it – they set off towards Torpe. They were accompanied by the same four defensores who had gone with them the last time, although Cynric’s solid presence was far more reassuring to the scholars.
They soon reached the desolate land that Aurifabro had bought after the plague. Its silence was oppressive, the air was heavy with the threat of rain, and there was not so much as a tweet from a bird or a hiss of wind in the trees. Michael was uncommunicative, using the time to ponder the few clues he had gathered, and Cynric was also disinclined to chat. Reluctant to be alone with his thoughts, all of which revolved around Matilde and Julitta, Bartholomew dismounted, better to inspect the side of the road as he went.
‘I have already done that,’ said Cynric immediately.
‘So have I,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But there is no harm in doing it again.’
‘Just be ready to leap back on if I yell,’ warned Cynric. ‘It means robbers are coming and we need to escape. And do not take as long as you did earlier, or we will all die.’
Michael and Bartholomew arrived at Aurifabro’s house to find mercenaries still on guard, but this time the soldiers stepped aside and indicated that the visitors were to ride into the yard. The captain then informed them, in thickly accented English, that the goldsmith was out.
‘We shall wait for him to come back,’ determined Michael, dismounting. ‘And while we do, you can tell me what you know about the Abbot’s disappearance.’
‘Me?’ asked the captain in alarm. ‘Why? The first I heard about it was when Master Aurifabro ordered us to look for Robert and Pyk the following day – when we found nothing.’
Michael smiled wolfishly, more than happy to hone his interrogative skills on the goldsmith’s men. He plumped himself down on a bench, and beckoned the captain towards him. The man advanced warily.
‘I shall have a bit of a scout around, boy,’ whispered Cynric in the physician’s ear. ‘But you will have to distract the servants who are watching us from the kitchen window.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ asked Bartholomew, turning to see at least twenty faces looking at them with undisguised curiosity.
‘With free medical consultations,’ replied Cynric promptly.
Bartholomew baulked, feeling it was underhand, but Cynric was already striding towards the house and had made the offer before he could be stopped. The physician was about to withdraw it when he noticed that one of the servants had an interesting case of rhagades. Telling himself that the deception was defensible if he learned something about the condition to help others, he allowed himself to be led into a large, pleasant room that was spotlessly clean and smelled of fresh bread. He was a little disconcerted when two dozen retainers crowded in behind him with the clear intention of watching him work.
‘Perhaps I might use the scullery?’ he suggested, not liking the notion of an audience while people described what might be embarrassing ailments. It would be unfortunate if he prescribed the wrong treatment because half the symptoms had been deliberately omitted.
‘Why?’ asked the steward, a thickset man named Sylle, who had already mentioned that he had been cousin to the formidable Joan. He sounded bemused. ‘We will be crushed in there, and those at the back may not be able to see.’
‘He seeks to spare our blushes,’ explained an old woman called Mother Udela. She was small and frail, but the others treated her with a reverence verging on awe, not least because she had once travelled to Suffolk, a journey deep into the unknown as far as they were concerned. Bartholomew supposed she was the witch that Cynric had mentioned, and made a mental note to stay away from any discussions of religion.
‘There is no need for sculleries, Doctor,’ said Sylle. ‘We all know each other’s secrets.’