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gipon – over which was thrown a shoulder-cape
     fastened with a gold pin. His hose were soled, rendering shoes unnecessary, and his hood turban was one of the most elaborately
     decorated Bartholomew had ever seen. It comprised a triangle of scarlet worsted with a hole for the head, andthe two ends fell elegantly over his shoulders in the fashion currently popular at the King’s Court.
    ‘I have been meaning to pay you a visit, monk,’ said Thorpe insolently. The smile that played around his full, red lips did
     not reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to Bartholomew, and he bowed his head in a gesture that was more insulting than polite.
     ‘And you, too, Bartholomew, although I did not think you would still be here.’
    ‘Where else would I be?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised by the statement.
    ‘I thought you would have been burned at the stake for using unorthodox and dangerous remedies,’ Thorpe replied nastily. ‘But
     perhaps people are more forgiving these days. Times change, I suppose.’ The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.
    ‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael curtly. ‘You must know you are not welcome in Cambridge. You were found guilty of several
     vicious murders, and you are fortunate you were not hanged. You are not the kind of man we want in our town.’
    ‘I have come to visit old friends,’ replied Thorpe, unruffled by the monk’s hostility. His eyes were spiteful as he addressed
     the physician. ‘I intend to pay my respects to
your
family soon – your sister Edith and her husband Oswald Stanmore. I am sure they will be delighted to see me after all these
     years.’
    ‘“All these years”?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘It has only been twenty-six months.’
    Bartholomew knew delight would be the last thing on his family’s mind if they were visited by Thorpe. Stanmore was a wealthy
     clothier, and Thorpe had been one of his apprentices. He and Edith had taken the lad into their house and treated him like
     a much-loved son. Their sense of betrayal when they discovered they had nurtured a killer was still not forgotten.
    ‘You will have to wait for that pleasure,’ said Bartholomew, relieved that they were away and did not plan to return to Cambridge
     for some weeks. With luck Thorpe would be gone by then. ‘They are not here.’
    Thorpe shrugged, although Bartholomew sensed he was disappointed. ‘It does not matter. I have been waiting for a long time
     to reacquaint myself with my old master and his wife, so a few more days are nothing. When did you say they will return?’
    ‘I did not,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘But Hunting-don is a long way from here, so I doubt it will be very soon.’
    ‘Huntingdon is
not
far,’ flashed Thorpe with sudden anger. ‘
France
is a long way from here – and that is where
I
was condemned to go. No one would speak for me at my trial – not my father, not the Stanmores, and not you scholars. I will
     repay you all for that.’
    Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘No one spoke for you, because you were guilty – by your own admission. You cannot blame others
     because you were caught and punished. You are a man now, so act like one, and accept responsibility for what you did.’
    Thorpe became smug. ‘But my case has now been reviewed by His Majesty’s best law-clerks. I have been granted a King’s Pardon
     – which means no one can hold those crimes against me ever again.’
    Michael was unimpressed. ‘I shall hold crimes against whomever I like. However, I do not want to talk to you when I have important
     matters to attend. Move that miserable nag out of my way and let me past.’
    They all looked around as a second horseman arrived, also riding too fast for the small lane. Bartholomew’s heart sank when
     he recognised him, too, and Wynewyk huddled even deeper into his cloak.
    ‘Edward Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew, taking in thesober clothing and soft features of the exiled baker’s son – the second of