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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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the two felons to be pardoned and permitted to
return to the scene of his crimes. Like Thorpe, Mortimer had grown sturdier and stronger during the time he had been away.
Bartholomew remembered him as a dreamy lad, bullied by his domineering father, but there was no weakness in his face now.
It was cold, hard and determined, and Bartholomew saw the malleable youth had long gone.
Michael was puzzled as he looked from one felon to the other. ‘You two did not know each other before the King’s Bench ordered
you to abjure the realm – on the same day, but in separate trials – so why are you together now? Is it because no one else
will entertain your company?’
Thorpe’s eyes glittered at the insult, and Bartholomew suspected Michael had touched a raw nerve. Mortimer simply smiled.
‘I belong to a large and powerful family, Brother; they are always pleased when another Mortimer swells their ranks. My father,
uncles and cousins are thrilled to have me back.’
The jealous glance Thorpe shot his way confirmed to Bartholomew that the younger man’s kin had indeed been less than pleased
about
his
return. The physician understood why. Thorpe’s father was Master of a large and wealthy College, and would not want a murderous
son hovering in the background, spoiling his chances of promotion. For Mortimer it was different: his family was rich, influential
and not afraid to consort with those on the fringes of legality. Edward was doubtless telling the truth about his reception:
the Mortimers would be only too happy to swell their ranks with a seasoned criminal.
‘I have no wish to linger here,’ said Thorpe, affecting indifference to the discussion. He forced a grin at Mortimer. ‘I will
buy you an ale at the Lilypot.’
With a mock salute, he kicked hard at his horse’s sides. It reared, then cantered up St Michael’s Lane and turned towards
the Great Bridge, scattering pedestrians as it went. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Mortimer followed, and realised
his heart was pounding, not because he was afraid, but because the pair brought back memories of an adventure he would sooner
forget. He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Neither seemed reformed by exile; on the contrary, they appeared
to be nastier than ever.
‘The infamous Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Wynewyk, rubbing his hands together as though the encounter had chilled him. He pushed
his hood away from his face. ‘The town has been full of talk about their misdeeds ever since they arrived back. I looked up
their trial in the Castle’s records, and, as an expert on civil law, I can tell you there is no doubt at all that their conviction
was sound. The evidence against them was irrefutable.’
Michael nodded. ‘I cannot imagine how they managed to persuade the King’s clerks to review their sentences, or why a Pardon
was granted.’
‘I suppose money changed hands,’ said Wynewyk. ‘That is what usually happens in cases like this. But it is odd that they should
arrive in Cambridge just before Bosel the beggar – chief witness against Mortimer’s uncle – should be murdered. I doubt it
is coincidence.’
‘Dick Tulyet said they were both at a meeting of the town’s burgesses when Bosel died,’ said Michael, although his eyes were
troubled. ‘And I do not see why they would pick on Bosel anyway.’
‘Because he was poor and friendless, and no one will invest too much time or energy in hunting his killers,’ suggested Bartholomew.
‘It is entirely possible that Bosel was an experiment – to see what would happen when they committed their first new murder.
All their alibi from Tulyetdoes is tell us they were not present when Bosel actually ingested the poison.’
Michael sighed. ‘Dick thinks they may have persuaded that madwoman to give it to him, but I disagree. She seems too witless
to entrust with such a task.’
‘I have heard so many rumours about that pair that
return to the scene of his crimes. Like Thorpe, Mortimer had grown sturdier and stronger during the time he had been away.
Bartholomew remembered him as a dreamy lad, bullied by his domineering father, but there was no weakness in his face now.
It was cold, hard and determined, and Bartholomew saw the malleable youth had long gone.
Michael was puzzled as he looked from one felon to the other. ‘You two did not know each other before the King’s Bench ordered
you to abjure the realm – on the same day, but in separate trials – so why are you together now? Is it because no one else
will entertain your company?’
Thorpe’s eyes glittered at the insult, and Bartholomew suspected Michael had touched a raw nerve. Mortimer simply smiled.
‘I belong to a large and powerful family, Brother; they are always pleased when another Mortimer swells their ranks. My father,
uncles and cousins are thrilled to have me back.’
The jealous glance Thorpe shot his way confirmed to Bartholomew that the younger man’s kin had indeed been less than pleased
about
his
return. The physician understood why. Thorpe’s father was Master of a large and wealthy College, and would not want a murderous
son hovering in the background, spoiling his chances of promotion. For Mortimer it was different: his family was rich, influential
and not afraid to consort with those on the fringes of legality. Edward was doubtless telling the truth about his reception:
the Mortimers would be only too happy to swell their ranks with a seasoned criminal.
‘I have no wish to linger here,’ said Thorpe, affecting indifference to the discussion. He forced a grin at Mortimer. ‘I will
buy you an ale at the Lilypot.’
With a mock salute, he kicked hard at his horse’s sides. It reared, then cantered up St Michael’s Lane and turned towards
the Great Bridge, scattering pedestrians as it went. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Mortimer followed, and realised
his heart was pounding, not because he was afraid, but because the pair brought back memories of an adventure he would sooner
forget. He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Neither seemed reformed by exile; on the contrary, they appeared
to be nastier than ever.
‘The infamous Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Wynewyk, rubbing his hands together as though the encounter had chilled him. He pushed
his hood away from his face. ‘The town has been full of talk about their misdeeds ever since they arrived back. I looked up
their trial in the Castle’s records, and, as an expert on civil law, I can tell you there is no doubt at all that their conviction
was sound. The evidence against them was irrefutable.’
Michael nodded. ‘I cannot imagine how they managed to persuade the King’s clerks to review their sentences, or why a Pardon
was granted.’
‘I suppose money changed hands,’ said Wynewyk. ‘That is what usually happens in cases like this. But it is odd that they should
arrive in Cambridge just before Bosel the beggar – chief witness against Mortimer’s uncle – should be murdered. I doubt it
is coincidence.’
‘Dick Tulyet said they were both at a meeting of the town’s burgesses when Bosel died,’ said Michael, although his eyes were
troubled. ‘And I do not see why they would pick on Bosel anyway.’
‘Because he was poor and friendless, and no one will invest too much time or energy in hunting his killers,’ suggested Bartholomew.
‘It is entirely possible that Bosel was an experiment – to see what would happen when they committed their first new murder.
All their alibi from Tulyetdoes is tell us they were not present when Bosel actually ingested the poison.’
Michael sighed. ‘Dick thinks they may have persuaded that madwoman to give it to him, but I disagree. She seems too witless
to entrust with such a task.’
‘I have heard so many rumours about that pair that
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