“And anyway, I am much better at this sort of thing than you are.’ Bartholomew had to acknowledge that he was right, but he did not feel comfortable with the notion of dragging Cynric into anything unsavoury or dangerous. He stared out into the mist in the direction in which the woman had gone. The fog thinned slightly for a few moments, and Bartholomew could see the King’s Head opposite. As he watched, a figure emerged. Bartholomew tensed. It looked like Oswald Stanmore. He blinked, and the fig...ure had gone. He shook himself. He was imagining things. Stanmore would be tucked up safe and warm in his bed in Trumpington by now, and would never be seen frequenting a disreputable place like the King’s Head. Bartholomew was obviously tired and prone to an overactive imagination. He took hold of Cynric’s sleeve and tugged, indicating the way back down the High Street towards home. Cynric was already making plans for entering Bene’t’s yard the next night, and Bartholomew, seeing his eyes gleam with excitement, did not have the heart to tell him he could not go.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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