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of Zouche’s executors. Why did no one inform me?’
    ‘Because hiring messengers to ride all the way to Cambridge is expensive,’ replied Anketil. ‘Besides, Sir William wrote when Myton died, and you never replied. Naturally, we all assumed you were engrossed in your new life, and the old one no longer held any interest for you.’
    Langelee glared at him. ‘I was so stricken with sorrow that responding must have slipped my mind. But never mind this – what happened to Stiendby?’
    ‘He died last year, of spotted liver.’ Abbot Multone shuddered. ‘God deliver us all from such a vile affliction! It took Neville, too – another executor – although that was five years ago now.’
    ‘What is spotted liver?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, while Langelee’s jaw dropped with the realisation that events in York had moved on without him during the time he had been absent.
    ‘A terrible disease,’ replied Multone bleakly. ‘Best not ask.’
    The Abbot turned his attention to the document Chozaico produced and began to scan through it, although he shoved it rather furtively up his sleeve when Oustwyk appeared with yet another guest. There was immediate disquiet among those already there, and it was obvious that none of them appreciated being thrust into the company of the latest arrival.
    Dalfeld was a tall man with a mop of black curly hair and restless eyes. There was nothing to identify him as a member of the Franciscan Order, because he wore a green belted tunic called a gipon, and fine calfskin boots. However, although both were of excellent quality, they were sadly stained with mud and one sleeve had been ripped. He was also wet, and wore no hat or cloak.
    ‘I have just been robbed,’ he raged, stamping into the room and making directly for the fire. He jostled Alice as he went, and only a timely lunge by Chozaico prevented her from falling. ‘Me, a poor friar!’
    ‘Robbed?’ asked Abbot Multone in astonishment. ‘By whom?’
    ‘If I knew that, the villain would be kicking on a gibbet by now,’ fumed Dalfeld viciously. ‘He knocked me into the filth of the street, and then stole my purse, my new hat and my favourite cloak. And although there were a dozen witnesses, not one admitted to seeing anything.’
    ‘Fleeced of your belongings,’ said Alice flatly. ‘Now you know how your victims feel.’
    ‘I do not
fleece
people,’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘I merely apply the law.’
    ‘It invariably amounts to the same thing with you,’ said Chozaico quietly. ‘And a little conscience would not go amiss. What you do is rarely just, and your religious vows—’
    ‘How dare you lecture me!’ snarled Dalfeld. ‘You are a damned French spy.’
    ‘I hardly think—’ began Multone, shocked, while the colour drained from Chozaico’s face.
    ‘I know why you asked me here,’ interrupted Dalfeld curtly. ‘But the answer is no: I wrote no document giving Huntington to Michaelhouse.
Ergo
, the vicars will win this case. But that was a foregone conclusion when they went out and hired the best lawyer available to represent them: me.’
    ‘You are not the only notary-public in York,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘Zouche may have asked someone else to produce the codicil.’
    ‘He may,’ acknowledged Dalfeld. ‘But if you do discover one, you will have to prove it is not a forgery – especially as I imagine Oustwyk has already offered to introduce youto men skilled at producing fraudulent writs. However, I am not easily deceived, so you may as well save your money and go home now. You stand as much chance of besting me as you do of flying to Venus.’
    Before the scholars could react to Dalfeld’s remarks, Oustwyk appeared with yet another visitor. Exasperated, the Abbot hauled his steward into a corner, whispering fierce admonitions, but although Oustwyk nodded understanding, he did not seem contrite.
    The newcomer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the number of people the Abbot was entertaining, but he