‘But how did you know I would visit Gonville?’ asked Bartholomew, easing himself up slightly when Langelee’s attentions seemed to be more on considering Edward’s association with Julianna than on Harling’s revelations, ‘Did Colton tell you he had summoned me?’
Harling sighed. ‘Think, man! I had just killed Philius. Who was Master Colton going to call to help him under such circumstances? All I had to do was wait, because I knew either you or Michael would come. And I was right.’
‘I see why the Abbess did not object when I suggested we might stay longer at Denny,’ said Michael. ‘She, of course, knows all about what you are doing and was perfectly happy to see us roasted alive in her guesthall. She even used Julianna’s wiles to keep us there instead of reprimanding her lewd behavior as any good Abbess would have done. I was very wrong about her – I thought she was noble and saintly.’
‘What lewd behaviour?’ demanded Langelee, removing his hefty foot from Bartholomew and moving towards Michael. Bartholomew scrambled to his feet. ‘You slander that fine woman’s name, Brother.’
Michael stood his ground. ‘She offered to perform “little services” if we remained at Denny. It is possible that her intentions were innocent, but they certainly would not sound so to a worldly ear.’
‘But you are a monk!’ exploded Langelee. ‘You are not supposed to possess a worldly ear!’
‘I was referring to the Abbess,’ said Michael primly. ‘Master Harling’s partner in crime. She was your accomplice, I assume.’
‘Naturally,’ said Harling. ‘I needed someone of intelligence and integrity whom I could trust in all this. She has proved herself superb. Who would ever guess she was involved? You did not – until now, and now it is too late to do anything about it.’
‘And where is Deynman?’ demanded Bartholomew, suddenly weary of Harling’s boasting.
‘Deynman? You mean Gray? I never had him. You were right when you said I was bluffing – he is probably in some tavern. But enough of this. Langelee, you volunteered to dispatch them for me. Do so, and then return to Michaelhouse to await payment. You will forgive me if I do not stay. But do not take long over it – all this must be completed before any more of the night is lost.’
He turned and strode out of the room, followed by Edward and the lay sister who held Dame Pelagia by her arm. Langelee drew a long hunting knife and turned towards Bartholomew.
Chapter 12
The room was silent except for Langelee’s heavy breathing and the receding footsteps of Harling and his associates as they made their way up the dark street with Dame Pelagia. Bartholomew glanced at Matilde, who was trying not to look frightened, and wished with all his heart that he had never had the idea of secreting the elderly nun with the woman he regarded as one of his most dear friends. Langelee kicked the door closed with one foot and tightened his grip on the long hunting knife.
‘Watch him,’ Langelee ordered the sergeant, gesturing with a flick of his head at Michael, who was clearly poised to lunge. Langelee’s attentions were fixed on Bartholomew.
In a movement that was lightning quick, Langelee had crossed the room and struck the sergeant a heavy blow on the side of the neck. The sergeant crumpled into a heap. Bartholomew gazed from the unconscious sergeant to Langelee in bewilderment, an expression mirrored in the faces of Michael and Matilde.
‘We do not have much time,’ said Langelee urgently. ‘We must help Tulyet. Then we must try to save Dame Pelagia.’
‘But what–?’ began Michael.
Langelee opened the door and peered out into the darkness. ‘No time for that,’ he said. ‘Suffice to say I am loyal to the King.’ He turned to Matilde. ‘Bind this man securely and lock your door when we have gone. Open it to no one but the Sheriff.’ He leaned down, kissed her fully on the lips and was gone, leaving Bartholomew and Michael in utter confusion. Matilde scrubbed at her mouth in distaste. ‘Hurry!’ came Langelee’s voice from the street.
Dazed, they followed him outside. Cynric emerged from the darkness, his face anxious.
‘What is happening?’ he whispered. ‘The Vice-Chancellor has escaped and the Sheriff is chasing shadows by the river.’
‘Bartholomew?’ called Langelee. ‘Follow Harling with Cynric. Michael, you go to the castle for reinforcements. I will head down to the river and see what might be done to help Tulyet.’
With serious misgivings about leaving Matilde alone with the unconscious sergeant, and even greater ones about pursuing Harling, Bartholomew followed Cynric to Bridge Street, Michael panting along behind. Ahead of them, moving shadows in the darkness showed where Harling and his accomplices were hurrying Dame Pelagia towards the Barnwell Gate, presumably aiming for the open Fens to the north of the town.
‘Matt, we will never find them if they escape that way,’ groaned Michael. ‘The Fens are a labyrinth of hidden channels and secret causeways. My grandmother!’
‘Go to the castle,’ said Bartholomew, giving the monk a shove to get him moving. ‘Tell Tulyet’s deputy to send someone after us before we all get lost in the marshes.’
‘How do we know we can trust Langelee?’ asked Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve. ‘He might be leading us into another trap.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Bartholomew, watching the dwindling shadows in the distance. ‘Had he meant us harm, we would be dead by now. And you had better ask Tulyet’s deputy to relieve him – assuming of course that the deputy is not one of these traitors among Tulyet’s garrison.’
He pushed Michael in the direction of the castle, and slipped away after Cynric towards the town gate. Distantly, there came the sound of men fighting, and Bartholomew hoped Michael’s message to the deputy would be in time to relieve the beleaguered Sheriff.
The Barnwell Gate was deserted, and Bartholomew assumed the guards were in Harling’s pay until he saw the dark outline of a body lying on the floor inside the hut. His physician’s instincts urged him to tend to the man, but Cynric dragged him on and out through the gate and into the open country beyond the town.
It was a cold night, with heavy clouds piling up against each other in readiness for yet another downpour. Here and there, however, patches of clear sky could be seen, with stars flickering against the blackness of space. At times, the moon was visible, sliding out to bathe the countryside is a soft, silvery light. The pathway was treacherous with thick mud from the rains of the afternoon, and Bartholomew skidded and slipped like a drunk, his fear of losing sight of the moving shadows ahead making him clumsy and incautious.
Near the town, small homesteads were scattered along the road, frail, vulnerable shacks with reed-thatched roofs and wattle-and-daub walls. Beyond them stretched their strips of fields, carefully hoed and lined with rows of winter vegetables. Doors opened slightly as they went past, and shadows could be seen moving behind the boarded windows as their occupants prepared to defend their kingdoms against those who would steal their meagre produce under cover of darkness.
Gradually, the houses became fewer, and then they died out altogether as the arable land gave way to the alder and willow tangle that marked the edge of the Fens. Once there were small trees to slink behind, and bushes that threw confused shadows across the pathway, Cynric increased the pace, attempting to close the gap between pursuer and pursued. The ground underfoot became waterlogged, rather than simply muddy, and the causeway rose above the surrounding land to cross the first of a series of bogs.
‘How many of them are there?’ Bartholomew asked Cynric as he trotted breathlessly behind.
‘Shh. Four and Dame Pelagia. We can take them.’ Cynric eased back into the shadows as one of the men ahead glanced back.
‘We cannot!’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘There is more to Harling than you think.’
‘But we will lose him once he reaches the marshes proper – and Dame Pelagia too,’ hissed Cynric. ‘Even if we manage to follow him, what do you imagine we can do? Which one of us will return for help? And how will he find his way to t
he other again?’
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. ‘I have no weapon, and even if I could manage Harling – which I do not think I could – that would still leave you with three others.’
‘You are too crude in your thinking, boy,’ said Cynric, drawing his long Welsh dagger. ‘We will slip up behind them and pick them off one by one.’
‘Will we now?’
Bartholomew and Cynric spun round at the sound of Harling’s voice so close to them.
‘This is becoming tiresome,’ said the Vice-Chancellor. He had drawn a knife from his belt, and Bartholomew saw it glint in the moonlight as it flicked towards him. The physician jerked backwards, skidding on the slippery ground as the weapon flashed past his face. There was a blur of movement and he saw Cynric dart forward with his own dagger drawn, but Harling’s reactions were too quick, even for Cynric, and he had leapt out of the range of the hunting knife before it could do more than catch his sleeve. While Harling was occupied with Cynric, Bartholomew rushed at him, snatching at the hand that held the weapon, but Harling simply stepped to one side, and a well-placed foot sent the physician sprawling to the ground, legs and arms becoming hopelessly entangled in his long cloak as he fell.
Harling, meanwhile, had seized a stout stick from the ground, and wielded it in his left hand. He feinted at Cynric with the dagger, and then hit out with his branch, sending the Welshman tumbling into the bushes. Harling turned his attention to Bartholomew. The physician struggled to free himself from the cloth as Harling advanced, but the more he squirmed, the tighter the folds seemed to envelop him. He managed to release one arm and shot out a hand to grasp Harling around the ankle, pulling hard so that the Vice-Chancellor fell heavily and his knife skittered from his hand.
‘I am here, boy!’ cried Cynric, emerging dishevelled from the undergrowth, as Harling took a firm hold on the stick and prepared to strike Bartholomew with it.
Cursing, Harling abandoned the branch, scrambled to his feet and raced forward, bowling into Cynric so that they both fell over the edge of the causeway and disappeared from view. Bartholomew crawled cautiously towards it, and peered down. At that moment, the moon came out from behind a cloud, bathing the Fens in an eerie light and illuminating the spot where Harling was trying to force Cynric’s head into a marshy puddle. Cynric was struggling valiantly, but Harling was bigger, stronger and had both knees pressed into Cynric’s back, making it difficult for the Welshman to move to defend himself.
With a yell of fury, Bartholomew launched himself at the Vice-Chancellor, who abandoned his attempt to drown Cynric and backed away quickly.
‘Your friend will die unless you help him out of the bog,’ said Harling, gesturing to where Cynric was trying to extricate himself from the clinging mud. He took a step towards the causeway.
‘I will not!’ yelled Cynric, floundering helplessly in the marsh.
‘Keep still, Cynric,’ called Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will sink faster if you struggle.’
‘Fight him, boy!’ the Welshman howled. ‘You can do it! He is a coward when he has no weapons.’
‘He will slip below the surface, and you will never see him again,’ said Harling. He reached the bottom of the causeway bank and began to inch up it. ‘He will be sucked down to the bowels of the Earth – to the very mouth of hell.’
‘I can get out of this,’ gasped Cynric, his voice carrying less conviction than a few moments before. He fell to one side, so that not only were both his legs caught to knee-height in the thick, cloying mud, but one arm, too. ‘Watch him or he will escape!’
‘Cynric, lie still!’ Bartholomew’s gaze went from the trapped book-bearer to Harling as he began to climb the bank.
‘Look at him,’ said the Vice-Chancellor, eyeing Cynric pityingly. ‘Help him now, Bartholomew, or say your farewells while he can still hear you.’
Bartholomew did not answer and began to move towards Harling, determined that he should not evade justice yet again. An involuntary gasp from Cynric, as mud oozed into his mouth, made him falter and he glanced quickly at the Welshman. When he looked back to Harling, the Vice-Chancellor had clambered over the edge of the causeway and was lost from sight.
‘After him, boy!’ shouted Cynric furiously, pointing to where he had disappeared ‘Do not let him escape!’
But by the time Bartholomew had scrambled onto the causeway, the road was deserted and he could see nothing moving in either direction. He ran a few steps one way and then the other, peering desperately into the darkness, and trying to detect the slightest of movements that might tell him which way Harling had gone. There was nothing. He stopped and closed his eyes, listening intently for footsteps or the crack of a twig, but all he could hear was Cynric’s agitated flapping as he fought to free himself from the marsh. It was hopeless! Bartholomew knew he could never hope to track Harling without Cynric’s help, and, reluctantly, he slithered back down the bank and picked his way towards his book-bearer.
‘Give me your hand,’ said Bartholomew, reaching towards him. Immediately, his own feet began to sink. He stepped backwards to the relative safety of a mat of dead reeds.
‘Throw me your cloak!’ said Cynric. He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Not the whole thing, boy! Keep hold of one end so you can tug me free.’
Bartholomew heaved as hard as he could, his feet sliding in the slick mud, but he felt himself being dragged towards Cynric, rather than the other way round. After several abortive attempts, it occurred to him to wrap the cloak round a tree trunk and use it as a kind of pulley.
‘It is working!’ called Cynric triumphantly, as one knee emerged from the sucking slime. ‘Pull, boy! I have no wish to enter hell through a bog.’
‘Harling was lying,’ gasped Bartholomew, hauling with all his might. ‘The marshes near the town are not bottomless. Those are further north. He was just trying to distract me to give himself time to escape.’
‘Well, he succeeded,’ muttered Cynric, not without disapproval. ‘He used me to prevent you from following him. You should not have listened to his treacherous words.’
Cynric’s feet came free of the mud with a foul plopping sound, and he was able to reach Bartholomew’s hand. Together, they stumbled from the bog, and climbed the slippery bank to the causeway.
‘Where did he go?’ Cynric demanded urgently, looking one way and then the other. ‘Which direction did he take? We might catch him yet!’
‘You are soaked,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should return to the town before you take a chill.’
‘And leave you here alone?’ asked Cynric, in the tone of voice that suggested it was not an option worth considering. ‘I am fine, boy. But what of Harling? Did he head east or west?’
Bartholomew was forced to admit that he did not know. Cynric gave him a look of appalled disgust, and wordlessly began to search for clues. In desperation, Bartholomew ran up the road until he was forced to stop and catch his breath, but, apart from the sound of his own laboured gasps, the marshes were as silent as the grave. He doubled back again, panting heavily, and hating to think he had allowed Harling to outwit him so easily.
‘It is too dark,’ muttered Cynric, slashing viciously at the undergrowth with his dagger. ‘I cannot see well enough to track him, even when the moon is out.’
‘Please try, Cynric!’ cried Bartholomew, crashing around uncertainly in the dense shrubs at the side of the causeway, searching for some hidden path that Harling might have taken. ‘He will kill Dame Pelagia for certain if you lose him!’
Cynric’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I cannot, boy,’ he said softly. ‘He has given us the slip and I can do nothing about it until daylight.’
‘Daylight?’ echoed Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that may be too late! Dame Pelagia might be dead by then!’
Cynric nodded slowly, but turned his attention back to the task he knew was hopeless.
While Cynric continued to hunt in vain for som
e clue as to the direction Harling might have taken, Bartholomew lumbered about in the bushes near where Harling had attacked them. The task was impossible, but they continued relentlessly until the first threads of dawn began to lighten the sky in the east. Out of the semi-darkness, they heard the thud of hooves, and Cynric dragged Bartholomew into the bushes until he recognised the horsemen: Michael, Langelee, and Tulyet with some of his men. Bartholomew could not meet Michael’s eyes when he told him how they had lost Harling and Dame Pelagia, and turned away when Michael sank down at the side of the road and put his head in his hands.
Tulyet had sustained a cut over one eye in the skirmish near the river, and he told Bartholomew that reinforcements from his deputy had arrived in the nick of time. Langelee had apparently fought like the Devil, and it was only with his help that Tulyet and those soldiers who had remained loyal had managed to hold off the ambushers. The deputy’s force had tipped the balance, and those of Harling’s men who had not been killed in the fighting were now safely in the castle prison – among them Alan of Norwich and his mercenaries.
As Tulyet gave Bartholomew and Cynric this information, one of the soldiers said he knew where there was a track that led to the village of Fen Ditton through the marshes. He led the way a short distance to the north, and gestured at the undergrowth, but Bartholomew could see nothing that remotely resembled a path. Nevertheless, he followed the soldier through the tangle of vegetation with the others trailing behind, Cynric pointing out broken leaves and footprints that indicated someone had passed that way, although whether it was Harling and Dame Pelagia was impossible to tell.
‘So who are you?’ asked Bartholomew of Langelee as they walked together. The big philosopher looked pleased with himself, basking in the glory of having saved the Sheriff and his garrison from certain annihilation. ‘An agent of the King?’
A Deadly Brew Page 40
