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‘Come.’
    Supposing he would have to prevaricate if not immediately overwhelmed by the shrine’s holiness, Bartholomew followed him across
     the yard to a wooden hut. It was well made, and had been nicely painted, but it was still a hut.
    ‘Is this it?’ he asked uneasily, not sure he could feign suitably convincing reverence over something that looked as though
     it belonged at the bottom of a garden.
    Without speaking, Etone pushed open the door. Inside was a tiny altar with a brass cross, two candlesticks and an ornate,
     jewel-studded chest, which he unlocked with a key that hung around his neck. Then he stood aside, so the physician could inspect
     its contents. Bartholomew did so, and saw a piece of cloth. It was old, dirty and of indeterminate colour. He studied it for
     a moment, then looked blankly at Etone, wondering what he was supposed to say.
    ‘It is a piece of the scapular Our Lady presented to St Simon Stock,’ averred Etone reverently, crossing himself. ‘So, you
     see, this is not just a sacred place because of the vision that occurred here, but because we have this important relic.’
    Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, itching to ask how he had come by it: according to the legend, Simon Stock, as per the
     instructions given in his dream, was said to have worn the garment for the rest of his life and thenhad been buried in it. Etone did not look like a tomb robber.
    ‘It is a disgrace!’ came a sudden, furious shout from outside. ‘We are pilgrims, and you think people would respect that.’
    ‘It is a bad winter and the poor are desperate.’ Michael’s voice was soothing and calm. ‘I doubt he knew what he was taking.
     He just saw the glint of metal, and assumed it was a brooch.’
    ‘It was a badge from the Holy Land,’ came the agitated voice. ‘
Not
a brooch.’
    Bartholomew followed Etone outside, relieved to be spared the awkwardness of pretending that he had been touched by what he
     had been shown, when the reality was that he had felt nothing at all. Perhaps God did consider him a disciple of Satan, he
     thought uneasily, and his constant flying in the face of all that was orthodox had finally been too much. It was not a comfortable
     notion.
    Michael was standing in the yard with the four pilgrims they had seen earlier – two men and two nuns. All looked angry.
    ‘What is the matter?’ demanded Etone, hobbling towards them. ‘What has happened?’
    ‘Brazen robbery,’ declared one of the pilgrims, turning to face him. He was a thickset man with an unhealthy complexion that
     said he was probably ill. His hat and cloak bore more pilgrim insignia than Bartholomew had ever seen on a single person,
     and he imagined the fellow must have spent half his life visiting shrines, because besides the distinctive ampoules of Canterbury
     and St Peter’s keys from Rome, at least two suggested he had been to Jerusalem, as well.
    ‘Robbery?’ repeated Etone uneasily. ‘Not in my priory, Master Poynton.’
    ‘Yes, here!’ declared Poynton heatedly. ‘One of my badges has been stolen. It was pinned to my saddlebag, and now it has gone.’
    ‘I saw it happen,’ added one of the nuns. ‘I saw the
signaculum
snatched with my own eyes.’
    ‘So did I,’ added the second nun. ‘The villain aimed straight for it, and ripped it away. He did not even look at our purses.’
    ‘
Signacula
are extremely valuable,’ snapped Poynton. ‘Especially that one. It was gold – a cross from the Holy Land, no less.’
    ‘What was it doing on your saddlebag, then?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself. But it was a fair question:
     an item of such worth should have been treated with more care.
    ‘Because there is no more room on my clothes,’ snarled Poynton, rounding on him. ‘And these items are meant to be seen, so
     everyone will know of the great journeys I have undertaken for the sake of my body and my soul. Who are you, anyway?’
    While Bartholomew thought