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had a right to the blade, and as
     a scholar, he was as expert with it as the next; the students were a squalling, brawling lot, very likely to summarize disputations
     with blood, and when one was not defending one’s self against some such ‘argument’, there were the burghers of Oxford to be
     on guard against – there had been four outright riots between the scholars and the townsmen in Roger’s time, in two of which
     he had had to slash his way out without wasting an instant on ethical or moral niceties.
    It certainly would not do to get killed now, with such great prospects a-dangle in the near future like the grapes of Tantalus,
     though rather more indefinite. Miraculously, Robert Grosseteste had cleaved to his life – or had been so cleaving still when
     Roger had left the Great Hall. He was still gravely ill, to be sure, and unable to see anyone except his physicians, and Adam
     Marsh his confessor, but the crisis seemed to be over, and Adam had estimated cautiously that three months of pottages, gruels
     and broths would restore him to something like his old strength. The death seemed to be generally on the wane; lectures had
     been resumed at the University, and trade in town was almost back to normal. The burghers buried their dead and agreed solemnly
     that ithad not been a pestilence after all, but only a narrow escape from one.
    The party to the south was moving down the hill toward Roger now, and with every moment seemed to be growing larger; following
     the three leading horses came a train of pack-animals, heavily laden, two by two over the brow of the hill. Suddenly Roger
     realized what it was that he was seeing, and with a sigh of relief allowed his sword to settle again.
    The big man was obviously a wool merchant, his two companions prentices, chivvying a purchase of fells and hides over the
     downs. And in fact Roger knew the man; had he not been now close enough to recognize, the hawk should have given him the clue,
     for there was only one such merchant customarily buying in Dorset and Somersetshire who went about with a peregrine falcon
     on his wrist: William Busshe. The falcon’s name was Madge, and Roger even knew that the horse was called Bucephalus after
     the legendary animal of Alexander the Great, but was always addressed as ‘Bayard’; for he had watched this same man bargaining
     for the spring clip and the fall hides for ten years before leaving Oxford, haggling solemnly with his father until Christopher’s
     death, and thereafter, first with Robert and then with Harold.
    Busshe recognized Roger simultaneously and pulled to a second time, his shaggy eyebrows rising almost into his Flemish-style
     beaver hat. Wearing that expression, he looked almost like a sheep himself, despite his forked brown beard and the fact that
     his face was, of course, not black. His vaircollared cloak spread like Madge’s wings as he put his hands on his hips. Feeling
     the reins on his neck, the big bay promptly began to graze, and Roger had to hold John Blund’s head up sharply to keep him
     from following Bayard’s example.
    ‘How now, young Roger,’ Busshe said in his heavy, deliberate voice. ‘Little I expected to encounter thee on this dreary moor,
     and in sooth, I wis not whether’t be well met or ill with us.’
    ‘No more wis I,’ Roger said, with some return of hisuneasiness. ‘Meseemeth ‘tis early for thee to be faring north with sealed bales, this being but Martinmas. Someone hath slaughtered
     early, and I greatly fear that ‘tis Yeo Manse hath done it.’
    ‘Thou Wert ever a gimlet-eyed youngster,’ Busshe said. ‘Thou hast seen to the heart of the matter. There’s a knight of the
     justiciar sitteth as lord in thy cot, hath ordered the slaughter a week ere we had arrived, would sell me the fells at half
     the prices I’d contracted for with Franklin Harold these eighteen months gone. And so much and no more did I pay him, seeing
     that the slaughtering had been