‘I saw him go down and I did not see him come up,’ insisted the first soldier irritably. ‘I tell you, he has drowned.’
‘It takes longer than this for a man to drown,’ said the northerner. ‘Go and check over there.’
Footsteps came closer, dead reeds and undergrowth cracking noisily as the soldier made his way around the edge of the water. Bartholomew fought to quieten his gasping, certain they would hear him in the silent Fens. He sank further down into the water, so that only his head was above the surface. The mercenary began slashing at the reeds with his sword, his sweeps coming ever nearer. Bartholomew looked around him in despair. What should he do? He could not outrun them, and in the water he was a sitting duck for their crossbows. The reeds near to his head quivered as the sword hissed past them, and Bartholomew thought he could see the dark, wet leather of a boot.
A great bubble of water suddenly billowed out onto the surface of the water as the horse, presumably, breathed its last. The northerner gave a sigh of relief.
‘Now he is dead,’ he called. ‘We can go back to the others.’
Their voices receded into the undergrowth as they left, but Bartholomew made no move to leave the water. Shock and cold were eating away at his reactions, and it seemed easier to stay where he was in case the soldiers returned. The rational part of his brain urged him to climb out, because if he stayed where he was he would die. With a supreme effort of will he dragged his body towards the bank, and struggled to stand upright. Immediately, black mud began to suck at his feet and he felt himself sinking. He grabbed the tree again, and crawled along it until he was able to roll off onto solid ground. For a while, all he could do was lie on his back and gaze up at the slowly moving slate-grey clouds above him. Then he realised that, far from his strength returning, it was ebbing from him, leached away by the cold. He forced himself to sit up, and then stand.
A dull ache above his knee caused him look down, and he saw a rent in the rough, loose material of his hose where the crossbow bolt had ripped it. He leaned against a tree, inspected his leg, but saw there was nothing more than a shallow graze. He had been fortunate, for a serious leg injury in the Fens, so far from the road, might have meant his death simply because he would have been unable to walk away. He looked at the tear in his leggings, noting that it was too large for Agatha to mend without a patch. He felt a sudden, irrational surge of fury towards Alan and his men: clothes had been expensive since the plague and a replacement pair would cost him most of the money he had been saving to purchase a scroll he wanted. His anger did a good deal to restore him to his senses.
He removed his clothes, wrung them out as best he could and then put them back on again. He almost abandoned his cloak, but suspected that, even though it was wet, it would help to protect him from the chilling effect of the wind. Reluctantly, he donned it. Contrary to common sense, his medicine bag was still looped over his shoulder. It was heavy, and he realised he was lucky it had not drowned him. He sorted through it, abandoning soggy bandages and ruined packets of powders, and keeping those bottles and phials he considered to be watertight. And then he was ready.
But ready for what? For the first time, the full implications of his predicament dawned on him. He was alone, wet and cold in some remote part of the Fens. Michael and Cynric were almost certainly dead, and the only people he would be likely to encounter would be those who wanted to murder him. He leaned against the tree as a wave of hopelessness washed over him. Why had Alan wanted to kill them? Was he from the Bishop as he claimed? Was this something to do with Michael’s declining of the post of Master at Valence Marie? He thought about Father Paul’s warning, and Stanmore’s and Edith’s misgivings about the unexpected summons, all of which he had blithely ignored. Hugh, Stanmore’s man, had come from Ely and had heard no rumours of an attack against the Chancellor – and news of that kind usually travelled fast.
With a sudden, horrible clarity, he was certain that the attack on the Chancellor, quite simply, had never happened. Tynkell must have decided not to make the long journey in the rain to attend an installation ceremony that would be tedious and lengthy, and was probably even now sitting in front of a roaring fire in the Bishop’s sumptuous palace. And Alan of Norwich had been remarkably cocky for a simple messenger – not the kind of man the Bishop would hire at all. Bartholomew cursed himself for a fool for having ignored the warnings of his friends and his own common sense.
He found he was shivering uncontrollably and fought to pull himself together. He had two choices: either he could stay and perish in the marshes, or he could attempt to find his way to the main road and then to Ely or Cambridge, whichever was closer. He remembered the blundering path his poor horse had taken from the first river. It should be easy to follow that. And he had watched Cynric tracking often enough, so that he might be able to retrace the route Alan had taken when he had left the causeway – if he were lucky.
Slowly, and with infinite caution, he began to make his way up the trail forged by his horse. Every two or three steps, he stopped to listen, but there was nothing. The silence was as absolute now as it had been before they had ventured off the road, when he had been so unnerved by the sudden flapping of ducks. The only sounds were those of his own laboured progress along the path.
Contrary to his reasoning, it was not easy to follow the route back to the first lode. Branches had swung back into place, water covered any hoof-prints that might have been left and the horse’s long legs had made lighter going of the journey than could Bartholomew. The effort of walking, however, brought a degree of warmth back into his body, and the dead chill began to recede. He glanced up at the sky and saw that it was already late afternoon, which meant that there was little chance that he would reach the causeway that night. Tracking would be difficult anyway, but it would be impossible in anything other than full daylight; he would have to spend the night in the Fens.
He forced that unpleasant prospect from his mind and concentrated on walking. He was beginning to think he must have made a mistake and followed the wrong path, when he glimpsed Alan’s river lying parallel to his path. Within moments, he had reached the place from which the horse had bolted.
He stood still, hidden by the undergrowth, and listened intently. It would be ironic to have survived the manic ride, the near drowning and the crossbow bolts only to die because he had blundered into Alan. But there was nothing to hear and nothing to see. After a while, the silence became so oppressive that Bartholomew coughed just to prove to himself that he was not deaf.
Cautiously, he inched his way forward, alert for any sign of Alan and his men, but the small clearing was devoid of life. Jurnet was there, a great ragged slash across his chest, and his eyes gazing sightlessly at the sky. With trepidation, Bartholomew wondered about Michael, Cynric and Egil, and his steps faltered with the knowledge of what he might find ahead.
A search of the area, however, revealed nothing to tell him what had happened to the others. There were signs of a violent skirmish, where the ground had been churned underfoot by horses’ hooves, but there were no bodies. Bartholomew wondered whether Alan had taken them to the Bishop in order to claim they had been murdered by outlaws on the dangerous Cambridge to Ely road – perhaps he imagined the Bishop might reward him for bringing the slain corpse of a monk home to the abbey.
The daylight was beginning to fade and dusk was early because of the low clouds. The last place Bartholomew wanted to spend the night was in the very spot where two of his dearest friends had been slaughtered, but it would be foolish to attempt to find his way through the Fens in the dark. He looked around him helplessly.
Lighting a fire was out of the question. He did not have a flint, and even if he had, he would be unlikely to coax a flame out of any of the sodden undergrowth that surrounded him. And anyway, he would not want smoke or flames to attract the attention of Alan and his mercenaries, although, he thought disconsolately, by now they would be on the road home, and would be spending the night in a tavern somewhere with a blazing
fire and hot food. With the onset of dusk, a light drizzle began to fall, and he knew he had a long night ahead of him.
He forced himself to concentrate on finding a place to spend the night that would be out of the wind and not too wet. He settled for the rotten bole of an old oak tree. Although its crumbling sides oozed dampness, it faced away from the wind, and, wedged into it and wrapped in his dark cloak, he felt as though he was more or less invisible to the casual observer should Alan return. This gave him a measure of comfort – although not much.
He did not think he would sleep, but he was exhausted and dozed almost immediately. When he woke several hours later, he was freezing and the inside of the tree was dripping with the heavy rain that pattered down on the dead leaves that littered the ground. He peered out of the bole. It was pitch black, and all he could see were the faint silhouettes of trees waving in the wind against the sky. He tried to sleep again, but he was far too cold and his grazed leg throbbed. He considered taking a draught of the opium syrup he carried in his medicines bag, but was afraid that if he slept too deeply he might never wake. He leaned back in the tree, shivering and listening to the gentle hiss of rain on the ground, and waited for dawn.
Bartholomew was awoken from yet another restless, dream-filled drowse by a sharp crack. He lifted his head from his knees, and listened intently. Dawn had arrived, but the clouds allowed no streaks of colour to seep through them from the sun: the sky had merely changed from dark grey to a lighter grey. Bartholomew thought he must have imagined the sound – it would not have been the first time he had done so through the seemingly endless night. He lowered his head onto his knees again and closed his eyes. Although it was growing light, it was still far too dark to try to find his way out of the Fens. Cynric might have managed, but Bartholomew knew he certainly could not.
His head snapped up again as he heard a rustle among the dead leaves. Someone or something was moving around nearby! He felt his heart begin to pound. It might be a wolf – he had heard they had been seen in the Fens since the plague. Or a wild boar. Either animal might prove dangerous, and Bartholomew knew bare hands would fare poorly against fangs or tusks. But perhaps it was only a person. He considered: that might be even worse! All he could hope was that his hiding-place was adequate to keep him concealed. He was far too cold and stiff to run, and he had no weapon with which to fight – not that it would have done him much good against a mercenary anyway. He pulled his dark cloak further over his head, and looked out, scarcely daring to breathe.
A man swathed in an over-large tunic was systematically searching the clearing by the river. Bartholomew felt his heart sink – the man was being very thorough, and it would only be a matter of time before Bartholomew was discovered. The physician closed his eyes and listened hard, trying to detect whether the man was the only one, or whether others aided him in his search. After a few moments, he decided the man was probably alone. He reviewed his options carefully and decided the most sensible course of action was to try to slip away into the tangle of undergrowth. It might even be possible for him to double back, and eventually follow the man to the main road when he had finished his rooting about.
With infinite care Bartholomew stood, forcing his numb legs to bear his weight. He swayed unsteadily, and for a moment thought he might be unable to move at all, let alone disappear silently into the undergrowth. He gritted his teeth against the ache of cramped muscles, and took a step forward. His knees wobbled dangerously and he had to hold the tree for support. The man in the cloak was near the lode, doing something to Jurnet’s body – probably stripping it of clothes and belongings. Bartholomew took another step, and then another. And then he trod on a rotten branch that gave way under his weight with a soggy crunch.
Bartholomew saw the man spin round in a crouch and face him. Without waiting to see what he would do, Bartholomew was off, stumbling through the undergrowth as blindly as the horse had done the previous day. Branches of leafless trees scratched and tore at him as he ran, and the blood pounded in his ears at the sudden exertion. A yell from behind told him that the man was following. Bartholomew ran harder, but it was like the nightmare he had occasionally where he was being chased, but could move only in slow motion. His legs simply would not obey him and move faster. The man behind was catching up!
The breath went out of him as he went sprawling over the exposed root of a tree. Desperately he scrambled to his feet and stumbled on. The man behind him was gaining ground, and Bartholomew could hear him coming closer and closer. Breath coming in ragged gasps, he forced himself forward, raising his hands to protect his face from the clawing branches. But then he fell a second time, tumbling into a morass of thick, sticky mud.
The man was on him in an instant, pinning him to the ground. Bartholomew fought back with every ounce of his failing strength, but the man was too strong for him. Eventually, seeing the situation was hopeless, he stopped struggling and looked up into the face of his captor.
‘Cynric!’
Bartholomew awoke to warmth, and a gentle crackling sound and moving yellow lights on the ceiling told him there was a fire in the room. He raised himself on one elbow and looked around. He recalled little of the journey back through the Fens that morning, only trudging behind Cynric along a tortuous path that meandered past the dank pools and endless reed and sedge beds that characterised this mysterious, forbidding part of the country. Cynric had explained what had happened when they had been attacked, but Bartholomew remembered none of it, except that the wily Welshman had escaped and had later found Michael.
Nearby was the convent at Denny, an ancient building that had once belonged to the secretive Knights Templar. Now it was in the hands of a community of Franciscan nuns, endowed by the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, who had also founded the Hall of Valence Marie. Bartholomew had vague memories of being given hot broth and shedding his wet clothes, but was asleep as soon as he lay on the bed provided for him in the guesthall.
He sat up and peered into the darkness. The shutters were drawn and the room was unlit except for the flickering fire. It was night, and he had evidently slept away the entire day. A gust of wind hurled splatters of rain against the windows, and Bartholomew hauled the blanket round his shoulders gratefully as he recalled the bitter chill of the previous day in the Fens. On the bed next to him was the unmistakable bulk of Michael, stomach rising majestically ceilingward. Cynric slept near the door, fully clothed, and with his long Welsh hunting dagger unsheathed near his hand.
The guesthall was a long, spacious room on the upper floor over what had been the Templars’ church. There was a garde-robe set in the thickness of the wall at one end, and a great fireplace at the other. A table stood under one of the windows, laden with blankets, a bowl of water and some bread covered with a cloth, while a pile of straw mattresses lay heaped in a corner in readiness for more visitors. Bartholomew was impressed at the degree of luxury for a foundation located in the inhospitable Fens, but recalled that the Countess of Pembroke was said to spend a considerable amount of time in the convent, and had even had her own set of apartments built. When she came, her household would also need to be accommodated, hence the sumptuous guesthall.
Bartholomew’s throat was dry and he needed a drink. As he eased himself out of bed, Michael woke immediately and sat up.
‘What is wrong?’ he demanded loudly. ‘Where are you going?’
On the other side of the room, Cynric’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he watched.
‘Thirsty,’ said Bartholomew. He padded across the hall in his bare feet to the water jug, filled a cup and took it back to bed with him. As he sipped it, he looked at the fat monk. ‘Tell me again what happened to you,’ he said.
‘What now?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘It is the middle of the night; Cynric and I have already told you all there is to tell.’
‘I cannot remember what you said,’ replied Bartholomew sheepishly. He took another sip of the water. It tasted peaty and brackish, like the stuff in the lode
in which he had almost drowned, and he put it aside with distaste.
‘You have not told us your story yet,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric heard the mercenaries tell Alan they had seen you drown. How did you come to rise from the dead?’
Briefly Bartholomew told them, sparing much of the detail, not because he thought they would not be interested, but because it was a memory that would need to fade before he would feel comfortable recounting it for others. ‘What about you?’ he asked when he had finished.
Cynric left his bed and came to sit near the fire. His face took on a dreamy expression, and Bartholomew was reminded of the times that Cynric had entertained him by reciting ancient tales of Welsh heroes and great battles when he had been an undergraduate at Oxford – before he had gone to Paris to study with the Arab Ibn Ibrahim – and Cynric had first become his book-bearer.
‘I was riding last in the line, and the path was narrow,’ Cynric began. ‘I had my suspicions about the expedition from the start – there were things that did not seem right, but mainly the timing. If the Chancellor had been attacked on Saturday on his way to the installation, then there would not have been time for the news to have been carried back to the Bishop and the Bishop to dispatch messengers to arrive in Cambridge so early on Sunday morning. And others used the Cambridge to Ely road to attend the installation, but none reported the attack on the Chancellor.’
‘Why did that not occur to me?’ asked Michael, putting his large arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. ‘It is obvious now that you mention it.’
‘When I heard Jurnet scream,’ continued Cynric, ‘I guessed exactly what was happening. Fortunately, I was able to engage one man in a fight, which blocked the way for the others.’
‘Cynric is too modest to tell you, so I will,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He knew I was unarmed, and so he engaged this soldier long enough to allow me to escape. He saved my life.’
Cynric flushed with embarrassment and resumed his tale. ‘When I thought I had allowed Michael sufficient time to flee, I killed the mercenary and ran away myself. There were another five soldiers and Alan, and I knew I would not be able to fight them all. I set my horse to lay a false trail and doubled back to see what I could do for you. That was when I heard the northerner tell Alan you had drowned. It was a terrible moment, boy,’ he added, falling silent.
A Deadly Brew Page 15
