The distance to the Isle of Ely from Cambridge was about seventeen miles. In places the road wound tortuously, while in others it ran as straight as an arrow, and was said to have been built hundreds of years before. Almost as soon as they left Cambridge via the Barnwell Gate, the rain that had been threatening all day began to fall, at first just a haze of drizzle, but then in earnest. Bartholomew’s threadbare woollen cloak had been treated with some kind of grease to repel water, but it was old and the wet found its way through the parts where the oil had rubbed away. Soon it was sodden and heavy, while drips trickled through his hood and down the back of his neck. It was not long before the only dry parts of him were his hands in his fine new gloves.
The rain, however, was the least of his problems. More immediate was the high-spirited black horse. It was still rearing sporadically, and showed no sign of settling into an easy pace as he imagined it would do once they started the journey. By the time they were through the little village of Chesterton, only two miles on, he was exhausted from fighting to control it, and even welcomed the rain to cool him from his exertions. He considered asking Egil or Jurnet if they would like to switch, but they rode almost as badly as he did, and would not have been any better able to manage the thing. He edged his way up the track until he was level with Michael, battling with the horse every inch of the way as it pranced and cavorted.
‘I cannot control this wretched thing,’ he gasped.
The fat monk shot him a sideways glance. ‘Mine is no better – it is an undisciplined brute. A few months in the Bishop’s stables would calm its spirits.’
‘I thought these were the Bishop’s horses,’ said Bartholomew, hauling on the reins as the horse danced off to one side of the track.
‘You need to keep the reins tighter,’ said Michael, observing him critically. ‘And hold your hands lower. The Bishop must have ordered Alan to hire fresh mounts for us in Cambridge.’
The advice rendered handling the horse a little easier and the animal slowed to a walk, enabling Bartholomew to talk to Michael.
‘I find these contradictions over the allegedly dead apprentice very curious,’ said the monk, still watching Bartholomew’s handling of the horse in a way that suggested he was far from impressed. ‘Philius has no reason to lie, and Gray and his cronies claim they saw one of Oswald’s apprentices buying wine from Sacks.’
‘Oswald would not be untruthful with me,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He is a powerful merchant, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Business is not what it was before the Death, and many, just like him, are forced to use devious means to maintain their profit levels. You are well aware of the network of spies he has all over the town.’ He jerked his head towards Egil and Jurnet, who were riding ahead with the mercenaries. ‘For all we know, one of those two has been sent with us specifically to learn what he can from an opportune visit to the Bishop’s Palace.’
Bartholomew drew breath to deny Michael’s accusations but he knew them to be at least partly true. Stanmore did have an extensive organisation of spies, and he was always well-informed of all manner of occurrences in Cambridge, ranging from the world of trade to the University and even the Church. Yet Bartholomew was reluctant to believe his brother-in-law was deceiving him. They had been through an episode of mistrust once before, and it had proved an unpleasant experience for both of them. Bartholomew could not believe that Stanmore would risk offending Edith by lying to the brother on whom she still doted.
‘Perhaps Oswald’s apprentices have some agenda of their own,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps they have not been entirely honest with him.’
Michael puffed out his cheeks. ‘It would be a brave apprentice who would attempt to best your brother-in-law, Matt. Although it is possible an exceptionally stupid one might try.’ He paused as his horse leapt about on the track. Bartholomew’s mount sensed the excitement of the other horse and began to buck so that it was some time before they were able to talk again.
‘This is impossible!’ grumbled Bartholomew, out of breath from his efforts to control the animal. ‘It would be easier to walk!’
Michael, an excellent horseman who loathed any kind of exercise, regarded him askance. Bartholomew ignored his reaction and continued with their discussion.
‘I meant to take a closer look at Armel’s body today,’ he said. ‘He will be buried by the time we return, and I wanted to look at his mouth.’
Michael gave a grimace of disgust. ‘You would have been too late anyway. I saw Father Yvo and the Franciscan novices from Bernard’s while you were messing about on your horse as we left the town. They were just returning from burying Armel in St Botolph’s churchyard.’
‘On a Sunday?’ queried Bartholomew. ‘Does that not seem rather hasty to you, Brother?’
Michael nodded. ‘My thoughts precisely. But you saw Bernard’s – it is tiny with only one chamber other than the kitchen. You would be the first to disapprove of living in the same room as a corpse. Harling heard of Father Yvo’s plight, and gave Bernard’s special dispensation to bury Armel this morning. Apparently, his friends demurred, saying that they wanted more time to pray over the body, but Harling and Yvo cited you as saying corpses carry diseases, and both insisted that Armel be buried immediately in the interests of the students’ health.’
‘I do not recall ever making such a grossly general statement,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘In the summer a corpse might be problematic, but Armel’s funeral could have waited until tomorrow. Or perhaps his body might have been moved to lie in the church.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Bernard’s is in the parish of St Botolph’s, and Grene’s corpse is already there. Apparently, there are a number of people who want to pay their last respects – undoubtedly a lot more than if he had died quietly in his sleep, as opposed to horribly and publicly at his rival’s installation feast. The rector of St Botolph’s said he could not take Armel as well, and so it is an act of great kindness on the part of Harling to go to the trouble of granting a dispensation for Armel’s early burial.’
‘I suspect Harling’s motive for granting the dispensation was so that Armel’s corpse could not become the focus of student unrest,’ said Bartholomew, cautiously relinquishing his iron grip on the horse’s reins to wipe away the rain that dripped into his eyes from his sodden hood.
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Really, Matt! You have become horribly sceptical of late. But you probably have a point. In which case, Harling is showing a good deal of common sense. I would not like to see the students rioting, as they did last summer, because they believe one of them has been murdered by a townsperson.’
Bartholomew nodded, hastily clutching at the reins again as the horse, detecting a degree of freedom, swung its head round and tried to bite his leg. ‘Damned brute,’ he muttered, ignoring Cynric’s soft laughter behind him.
‘Anyway, there is no suspicion that Armel and his friends were anything other than foolish for buying goods from a man they did not know in a tavern,’ said Michael, leaning across to position Bartholomew’s hands correctly. ‘We do not know for certain that Sacks intended Armel’s death to be a deliberate attack against the University.’
Their conversation was interrupted again, this time by a narrowing of the path. The route between Cambridge and Ely was called a road, but it was, in reality, little more than a trackway. In the summer it was pleasant – grassy and peaceful. In the winter the grass disintegrated into rutted mud and deep puddles and, after periods of extended rain, became a veritable morass. In parts some of the ditches that ran along the roadside were flooded, and water covered the path and surrounding land in an unbroken sheet. They were fortunate to have Jurnet with them, who knew the country well, and seemed to sense where the path went when all Bartholomew could see was bog.
The land on either side of the road comprised dense undergrowth that thrived on the dark, peaty soil, patches of which had been cleared for farming. At points, the road rose above the land, and Bartholomew could see t
he marshland rolling off in all directions, as flat and featureless as the face of the ocean. Isolated hamlets were dotted here and there, their few houses standing proud on the jungle of Fen that surrounded them.
Gradually, the small clearings grew scarcer, giving way more frequently to expanses of water. Here were the true Fens, an impenetrable tangle of reed and sedge, interspersed with tiny islands bearing alder and willow trees. The ancient track that had been built across them was more causeway than road, and constant repairs were required to prevent it from sinking below sea level. In places the causeway was well maintained, and stood proud of the surrounding bogs. In other areas neglect and the winter’s heavy rains had caused it to collapse, and Bartholomew was certain that, without the expert guidance of Jurnet, they would have wandered off the path and been lost forever in the marshes. Years before, when Bartholomew had been a child living with his sister, Stanmore had told him stories about the Fens to while away the long winter evenings. They were said to be haunted with the souls of men who had strayed from the causeway never to be seen again.
He leapt almost as violently as his horse, as a flock of ducks flapped noisily into the air, startled by the proximity of the riders. Then it was quiet again, soundless except for the squish of the horses’ hooves in the mud and the occasional clink of metal. Bartholomew began to shiver, despite his exertions to keep his horse under control. The silence of the Fens was total: no birds sang, there were no cracks or rustles in the undergrowth to betray the presence of animals, and not even the wind disturbed the bare twigs of stunted trees. Bartholomew stole a glance behind him, unnerved at the quiet and isolation, and recalled Stanmore’s man calling the Fens ‘sinister’.
The sound of Jurnet arguing with Alan came as a welcome respite to the stillness.
‘It is safer to keep to the main path,’ Jurnet was saying.
‘Not when only yesterday three men were killed on it,’ insisted Alan. ‘If you do not like it, you can go home.’
‘What is the problem?’ asked Michael, edging his horse forward.
‘I propose we avoid the section of the road on which the Chancellor’s party was attacked yesterday,’ said Alan. ‘We kept away from it on our outward journey.’
‘But it is dangerous to leave the causeway,’ protested Jurnet. ‘Other men have taken such routes and have never been seen again. I have lived in the Fens all my life, and I tell you it is not safe to leave the main road.’
‘But I know this other route,’ said Alan angrily. ‘And I knew the men who were killed trying to defend the Chancellor. Believe me, we are safer cutting to the east.’
Egil and Jurnet exchanged pained glances, but offered no further protest. They followed Alan wordlessly off the main path and along a smaller track. Bartholomew was next, with the mercenaries behind, and Michael and Cynric bringing up the rear.
At first, the track seemed no different from the main road, and cut through the Fens in a reasonably straight line. Then Alan began to lead them in a series of twists and turns that had Bartholomew totally disoriented. The path became so narrow that the shrubs brushed past him on either side, showering his already saturated cloak with droplets of water from their leafless branches. Bartholomew’s horse was unnerved at the proximity of the trees, and began cavorting again, so that he was forced to concentrate all his attention on preventing the animal from rearing and thrashing around with its forelegs.
The track then widened, but degenerated into a morass. The riders could do little more than guide the mounts around the edge of it, and hope that the sloppy mud was not deeper than it appeared. One of Stanmore’s stories had been about bogs that could swallow a man and his horse without trace, and Bartholomew had often heard Fenland farmers complaining that they had lost sheep, goats and even cattle to the black, suffocating mud of the marshes. He began to doubt the sagacity of Alan’s decision to cut east.
Once round the morass, they were faced with a brackish waterway that was too wide to jump, and looked too deep to wade across. Bartholomew leaned forward in his saddle, and saw the swathe of water disappear as far as he could see in either direction. It was fringed with reeds, and was as still as glass.
‘You are lost!’ said Jurnet accusingly. ‘I told you–’
What happened next was a blur. Jurnet toppled from his saddle, and Bartholomew saw the tip of Alan’s sword stained red. The injured man gave a high-pitched screech that rent the air like a whistle. Alan ignored it, and spurred his mount towards Bartholomew. Bartholomew’s horse, however, startled by the sudden howl of pain and terror, went wild. Bartholomew hauled desperately at the reins in an attempt to control it, but, with a piercing scream of its own, it was off, bolting wildly and blindly through the undergrowth to the left of the track. Bartholomew caught a glimpse of glittering steel, and saw Cynric engaged in a furious battle with one of the mercenaries, and that was all.
‘After him!’ came Alan’s enraged yell.
But Bartholomew had no time to assess what was happening behind him as the flailing branches ripped and tore at his face. He pulled on the reins as hard as he could, but the horse seemed oblivious to him. He could hear nothing except the thud of its hooves and the sound of branches cracking and tearing as it smashed through them. He imagined that at least one of the mercenaries was following him, an easy task given the trail of destruction the animal must have been leaving behind it.
Then the undergrowth gave way to another span of water, similar to the one that had caused Jurnet to accuse Alan of being lost. Bartholomew closed his eyes as the horse decided it could jump to the other side, but at the last moment realised it could not and faltered. The result was that horse and rider landed squarely in the middle with a great splash that drove spray high into the air. For a moment, Bartholomew was aware of nothing but a searing cold and gurgling water in his ears, and then he came to his senses.
He struggled to free himself of the thrashing horse, but his foot was entangled in the stirrup. He tried to reach down to release it, but his fingers were clumsy with shock, and the task proved impossible with water surging and frothing all around him. The horse kicked and tried to swim its way to the other side, but its flailing legs became hopelessly entangled in the weeds and sucking mud that choked the bottom of the waterway. It began to sink. Panic-stricken it reared its head and kicked even harder, but it was fighting a losing battle. Bartholomew watched the water rise up its neck, and then cover its head, although for an instant he could see its terrified, rolling eyes under the surface. And then the water began to creep up his own chest towards his shoulders. He struggled and squirmed as hard as he could, but the stirrup held fast. Then the brown water was up to his chin and the horse underneath him was still sinking. And then it closed over his own head, plunging him into a world of dirty brown bubbles and the roar of water.
Chapter 5
For petrifying moments, Bartholomew was paralysed with fright. He could see nothing, and the sound of water thundering in his ears dominated his senses. Beneath him, the horse continued to struggle, but increasingly feebly. Then Bartholomew panicked, thrashing around in a hopeless attempt to tear himself free. But the stirrup leather held firm, dragging him deeper down into the black water.
He felt himself growing dizzy from lack of air and his lungs burned with the agony of suffocation. Knife! he thought. Use a knife! He forced his numb fingers to the belt at his waist where the dagger he wore for travelling was buckled. He tugged at the hilt, but he was growing weak, and for a moment he thought he would be unable to draw it. It came out in a rush and he gripped it hard, terrified lest he should drop it. He twisted down and began, laboriously, to hack at the strap, fighting the increasingly desperate urge to give way to panic and try to claw his way up to the air above.
As he sawed, he saw something white flash past his eyes, and thought it was the effects of slowly losing consciousness. But there was another and then a dull pain in his leg. Dimly, a part of his mind registered that the mercenaries must have followed him and w
ere firing crossbows at the water where he had disappeared.
But it was almost to the point where it did not matter. Bartholomew’s movements were becoming slower and slower and he began to experience a strange light-headedness. The black water around him began to turn bright colours – reds and greens and blues – all swirling together. He made a final chop at the stirrup and felt the dagger slip from his nerveless hand.
And then he was floating upwards. The water turned from black to brown and he exploded from it into the air with a great gasp that hurt his throat. Instinctively, he kicked away from the deep water in the centre of the lode toward the shallows near the bank. His frozen fingers felt something solid and he grasped at it as he fought to regain his breath, caring nothing for the mercenaries who had been trying to kill him, and only for dragging in great lungfuls of air. Gradually, he came to his senses and began to take in his surroundings.
He was clinging for dear life to a tree that had partly fallen across the lode and that was shielded from sight by a line of the reeds that grew in the shallower parts of the marshes. As long as he had not made too much noise surfacing, it was possible the mercenaries had not seen him.
Soon he became aware of voices. Taking care not to relinquish his hold on the tree, he edged forward and peered through the fringe of sedge. The camouflage it offered turned out to be too scanty for comfort, and the soldiers were nearer than Bartholomew had imagined they would be. He tried to control his still ragged breathing.
‘He is dead,’ one was saying. ‘I saw him go down with the horse.’
‘But I heard something,’ insisted the mercenary with the northern accent. ‘I think he surfaced.’
A Deadly Brew Page 14
