A Deadly Brew

Chapter 4

Bartholomew stared at the messenger in horror. While the road from Cambridge to London was dangerous, the one between Cambridge and Ely had always been comparatively safe from outlaws. The Bishop of Ely was a powerful man, and usually ensured the routes between his Abbey and the towns and villages with which he needed to communicate were well patrolled.

‘How many have been injured? How badly hurt?’ he asked.

The messenger shrugged. He was a young man and, judging from his rough clothes and casual manner, not someone regularly employed by the Bishop – the Bishop set great store by appearances and his staff usually wore liveries.

‘I was told only that three were dead and several injured, including the Chancellor,’ he said impatiently. ‘But I must find Brother Michael.’

Bartholomew hailed Cynric, watching curiously from where he was feeding the chickens outside the hall, and sent him to find Michael. Cynric knew exactly where Michael would be, and within moments the fat monk was puffing across the yard to greet the messenger. He received the news with the same shock as had Bartholomew.

‘But the Bishop keeps a regular patrol on the Ely to Cambridge road. How could such a thing happen?’

The messenger shrugged again. ‘I am telling you only what I know. The Bishop said that you are to go to Ely immediately, and that you are to bring Doctor Bartholomew for the injured.’

‘But Brother Peter at Ely is a fine physician,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why does the Bishop want me?’

The messenger was becoming exasperated at their questions. ‘I do not know! Perhaps the Chancellor asked for you specifically.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘The Chancellor is highly suspicious of Matt’s dedication to cleanliness. Given his own aversion to bathing, I suppose that is not surprising.’

‘We should not waste time,’ said the messenger, squinting up at the sky. ‘We do not want to be caught on the open road tonight, and the riding is hard after all this rain. The Bishop has provided an escort for you – I left them taking refreshments at the Brazen George. By your leave, I will give the Bishop’s message to Master Harling and wait for you in the tavern.’

Michael waved him away and turned to Bartholomew. ‘This is a bad business, but if the Bishop has commanded us to go, we have little choice in the matter. We will miss teaching for a few days. I will inform Master Kenyngham.

‘A few days?’ exclaimed Bartholomew in horror. ‘I cannot leave my students that long! I am already behind with the third years and Gray looks set to fail his disputation–’

‘Then they will just need to work harder when you get back,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Your students are a worthless rabble anyway. None of them will make decent physicians, despite all the attention you have lavished on them.’

‘Bulbeck will,’ said Bartholomew, stung, but Michael was already striding away. Cynric, eyes alight with excitement, offered to pack what they would need and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman intended to accompany them, invited or not.

As he turned to hunt down Gray and Bulbeck, who would need to supervise the other students while he was away, Father Paul stopped him.

‘This has an odd ring to it,’ he said. ‘How could a large party – for the Chancellor never travels without his clerkly retinue – be attacked on the Ely road? And three dead? It sounds excessive!’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘Do you think the messenger is lying?’

Paul pushed out his lower lip. ‘I could not say,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘But I think he is not telling you the whole truth. And why would the Chancellor suddenly ask for you when he has never requested that you attend him before?’

Bartholomew watched Cynric disappear through the door to his room to collect what they would require for the journey. ‘Are you suggesting we should not go?’

Paul shook his head. ‘I am only reiterating what I said to you earlier. Be careful.’ He sketched a benediction in the air above Bartholomew’s head, and took his leave. Bartholomew watched him walk away and then thrust the warning from his mind. He knew from long experience that men brought low by sickness and injury often did or said things out of character, so perhaps Tynkell’s request was not so curious after all. Perhaps he simply wanted a physician from his own University over the Benedictine infirmarian at Ely Abbey.

He found Gray and Bulbeck, his two senior students, playing dice in the room of one of his younger pupils, Rob Deynman. The substantial payments Deynman’s wealthy father made for the training of his barely literate son kept Michaelhouse in bread for at least half the year, and so Bartholomew was stuck with him, despite the fact that Deynman would never pass his disputations. In time, bribes would have to be made, but, in the interim Bartholomew intended to shield the unsuspecting public from the lad’s dubious medical skills for as long as possible.

He told the three students that he had been summoned to Ely and that they would need to supervise the other students’ classes until he returned. He handed Paul’s gold coins to Bulbeck, and issued instructions about the food and medicines for the poor.

‘Are you going to answer the charges of heresy brought against you for your theories about river water?’ asked Deynman, his eyes wide with interest. Gray was unable to prevent a muffled explosion of mirth at Deynman’s bluntness.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is about another matter.’

‘Not the business of Armel and the poison?’ asked Gray.

‘What do you know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Gray glanced furtively at his friends. ‘Nothing much. We heard that Xavier dragged you away from the feast and that Armel was poisoned. The story was all over the Brazen George last night.’

‘Was it now?’ said Bartholomew, eyebrows raised. ‘And how do you know? Surely you did not break College rules and slip out to visit a tavern while all the Fellows were at the installation?’

Gray flushed red and Bulbeck shuffled his feet around in the rushes.

‘Oh no!’ said Deynman, grinning cheerfully. ‘We went out long before that.’ The others gave him crushing looks. ‘What?’ Deynman demanded of them, oblivious of the implications of his reply. He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘We saw old Sacks selling Armel the wine, though.’

‘What?’ said Bartholomew, looking from one student to the other, confused. ‘Old Sacks?’

‘Sacks claims to be a Crécy veteran,’ said Gray reluctantly, still glaring at Deynman. ‘He is called Sacks because that is what he does – he makes sacks for flour and suchlike. He is often in the George, selling bits and pieces.’

‘Often?’ enquired Bartholomew casually.

Gray winced, caught out a second time.

Bulbeck gave Gray a withering glance and continued. ‘Sometimes he sells ribbons and laces, such as a chapman might have. Sometimes pots and pans. But recently he has had wine.’

‘My brother once bought a lute from him,’ said Deynman, eager to take part in the conversation, ‘but another student told him it had been stolen from Master Colton of Gonville Hall. We took it round to Gonville and the Master identified it as his, although all he did to reward us for our honesty was threaten to tell you that we had been drinking in the town’s taverns. So we never buy anything from Sacks because whatever he sells is bound to be stolen.’

‘Of course, Armel and his friends were not to know that,’ said Gray in a superior tone. ‘That bunch of nuns never break the University rules. They came to the George yesterday for the first time ever – can you believe it when the tavern is only next door to their hostel? – and fell for Sacks’s patter.’

‘Then why did you not warn them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it was uncharitable to allow them to buy potentially stolen goods?’

‘They are from Bernard’s,’ said Deynman with high indignation. ‘A hostel! Had they been Michaelhouse students, it would have been different.’

‘And it was only wine,’ said Gray, grinning at Deynman. He sobered suddenly as he thought about it. ‘Except it was not, was it?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘It was not. What of Sacks? Has he a grudge against students?’

The three looked at each other, mystified. ‘I would say not,’ said Gray. ‘Students provide him with much of his trade. He has been operating in the George for years.’

So, it would seem that Armel had not been sold the poisoned wine intentionally – at least not by Sacks. But there was always the possibility that someone had given it to Sacks to peddle knowing exactly what was in it.

‘Where does Sacks live?’ asked Bartholomew.

Gray shrugged. ‘No one really knows. He has cheated so many people that it is safer for him to keep his lodgings secret. I think he has some kind of dwelling to the north, up in the Fens. He certainly does not live in Cambridge.’

‘Two more questions,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and then we will say no more about these illicit visits to taverns. First, how many bottles did Sacks have yesterday?’

‘Four,’ said Gray promptly. ‘And they looked like the same ones he had tried to sell last month – thin bottles of a smoky-brown colour.’

‘And second, to whom did he sell the other bottle?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We know Armel bought three.’

The students looked at each other, frowning in concentration.

Deynman suddenly brightened. ‘One of fat old Stanmore’s apprentices bought one when Sacks first tried to sell the stuff a month or so ago. I do not know his name.’

‘One of Oswald Stanmore’s lads?’ asked Bartholomew.

Deynman blushed, embarrassed. He had forgotten Stanmore was his teacher’s brother-in-law.

‘That was … four weeks last Saturday,’ said Bulbeck hurriedly, before Deynman could dig himself into a deeper trench of indiscretion. ‘Perhaps Sacks still has the last bottle. He said he had half a dozen when he first tried to sell them, and he had four last night. So, if he had only sold two bottles in a month, he could not have been doing too well with them.’

Gray and Deynman agreed and looked at Bartholomew warily, not certain what he would do with the knowledge that they had been regularly and flagrantly flouting the University’s rules about inns.

‘We only went out because Sam has been depressed,’ said Deynman. He looked at Gray, who gnawed anxiously at his lower lip. ‘He has been sad since Eleanor Tyler left town last year. He was fond of her and we only wanted to cheer him up.’

Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘That was months ago and you had not known her for long.’

‘But it was love at first sight,’ protested Deynman, rallying to his friend’s defence. ‘They adored each other and he misses her terribly.’

Bartholomew sighed. Unconvinced as he was by Gray’s lovesick state – he seriously doubted that anyone could penetrate the thick skin of self-interest that was one of the less attractive aspects of Gray’s personality – he often felt the University’s regulations were too restrictive for young men with high spirits. Trying to ban them from taverns was as hopeless as emptying a well with a sieve. But he was fond of these three students nevertheless, and the thought that one of them might go the same way as Armel filled him with horror.

‘While I am gone, and until this business is over, I want you to promise me you will stay away from taverns and eat only in Michaelhouse. Do I have your word?’ He looked at them one by one.

‘But you might be gone for ages,’ protested Gray. ‘We will starve if we eat only Michaelhouse food.’ He looked sly. ‘And I need to build myself up for my disputation.’

Bartholomew could not help smiling. ‘Then you must attempt to ingratiate yourself with Agatha. She feeds Michael well enough.’

Gray could not argue that the obese Michael was anything but well fed. He nodded with ill grace. ‘I suppose, since you seem so concerned for our welfare, that we will humour you and suffer on Michaelhouse fare until you return.’

‘I am more concerned that years of my hard work should not be brought to an untimely end by a single sip of wine,’ said Bartholomew. He was gratified to see Gray look indignant. Gray had twice saved Bartholomew’s life and both times had claimed his sole motive was that if he lost his teacher it would interfere with his plans to become a wealthy and successful physician. Bartholomew felt somewhat avenged.

When he had wrung similar promises from the other two, he took his leave. Cynric was waiting for him, holding Bartholomew’s cloak over his arm and with spare shirt and hose packed in a bag. Michael joined them.

‘I need to talk to Harling before we leave for Ely. I must tell him what we have reasoned about Grene’s death.’

‘We should also speak to Oswald about the apprentice that Philius said he visited a month ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one who died of symptoms similar to those suffered by Armel and Grene.’

‘Should we?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘And here was I under the impression that you wanted to have nothing to do with my investigation. Silly me!’

‘I do not,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘I only want to ensure the safety of Oswald and his apprentices. And I promised to check on Philius this morning. It will not take long.’

Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘We must leave enough time to reach Ely by nightfall and we will need longer than usual if the riding is rough. Especially with you along,’ he added rudely, referring to Bartholomew’s notorious lack of skill on horseback.

Leaving Cynric to take their bags to the Brazen George, Bartholomew and Michael went first to Gonville Hall. Michael talked with Master Colton while Bartholomew went to see his patient.

Philius was sitting up in his bed eating oatmeal cooked with milk. He was pale and ate carefully so as not to hurt his burned mouth, but at least he was well enough to eat at all.

‘I hear I need to thank you twice – once for delivering me from the poison that was eating away at my innards, and once for quenching a fire that would have burned me to a cinder.’ He gestured for Bartholomew to sit on one of the stools near the bed. ‘Now, as to the matter of payment …’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Who knows? I might need your services one day.’

Philius smiled. ‘So be it. Although I was always under the impression that you regard my traditional approach to medicine with more than a degree of scepticism.’

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. He shrugged. ‘I just experiment more than you do.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Philius. ‘Isaac told me …’ He trailed off and the events of the previous night hung in the air uncomfortably between them. Philius swallowed hard and continued. ‘Isaac told me that you had treated a case of the bloody flux with nothing more than boiled water.’

‘It worked,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘And I used infusions of cumin and anise as well, not to mention a specially devised diet for afterwards–’

‘I know, I know,’ said Philius, raising one hand to quiet him. ‘I was not criticising you, merely repeating what I had been told. I was going to suggest we might learn something if we could be a little more patient with each other’s ideas. I hear you are writing a treatise on fevers. I have always been interested in fevers and would very much like to read it when it is completed.’

‘That will not be for some time,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘There are too many distractions – teaching, my patients and now this summons to Ely.’

He told Philius about the attack on the Chancellor. The Franciscan shook his head. ‘Cambridge is becoming a dangerous place. I am seriously thinking of leaving and returning to Italy. There are brigands there, too, of course, but at least it does not rain all the time.’

He toyed with his food and then looked at Bartholomew, his eyes anxious. ‘It is a bad business with Isaac. I was uncertain whether you understood what I was trying to say. Isaac was always looking to make money, although I usually turned a blind eye. Anyway, I attended Stanmore’s house late on a Saturday night – more than a month ago now – where one of the apprentices had been struck down with some kind of seizure. He was already dead when I arrived and, since there was nothing I could do, I left almost immediately. But I noticed the symptoms you mentioned last night – blistering of the lips and signs of suffocation.’

He paused, gazing at the logs crackling merrily in the hearth. The charred rugs had already been replaced with newer, finer ones, and large bowls of dried flowers added their pungent scent to the underlying acrid stench of burning. Philius continued.

‘Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Isaac slip something into his bag, although I was not certain what it was. When I heard you question him about the wine he used in my purge, I realised exactly what had happened. I take a purge each Saturday morning to maintain the balance of my humours and Isaac makes it up for me once a month. The poisoned bottle must have sat harmlessly for four weeks before Isaac used it. I was lucky you guessed the cause of my ailment or I might be dead.’

‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You might have recovered on your own.’

‘Perhaps. But I would have taken the purge again next week – not knowing it was the cause of my illness – and then I would have died for certain. It is due to you that I am alive today and I thank you for it most sincerely.’

Bartholomew rose to leave, embarrassed by the Franciscan’s profuse gratitude. ‘I am glad the treatment worked, Philius. I admit I was uncertain that it would.’

‘So was I, given that you had not consulted any astrological charts to see what my stars suggested, or even bled me.’

Bartholomew raised his hands, not wishing to become embroiled in a debate over the efficacy of the methods Philius employed while Michael waited for him. ‘I imagine you had bled all too much as a result of the burning nature of the poison.’

Philius held out his hand to Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you are right. Meanwhile, when I am well I will make some inquiries among some of my brethren who have experience with poisons, and if I discover the nature of the potion that struck me down, I will let you know.’

Bartholomew thanked him politely, declining to ask how Philius’s Franciscan brethren had acquired their ‘experience with poisons’. Philius had completed his medical training at the University of Salerno in Italy, and Bartholomew had been told that Italians were very skilled in the uses of toxic substances. Philius probably knew far more about them than did Bartholomew.

‘You said Grene died from drinking this poison, as well as the young student from Bernard’s?’ asked Philius as Bartholomew reached the door. ‘Perhaps it was as well. Poor man.’

Bartholomew gazed at him uncertainly, the hand that had been stretching out to the handle arrested in mid-air.

‘Around Christmas I diagnosed a wasting sickness in Grene,’ Philius continued. ‘You and I have seen many such cases before – there is no cure and the demise is long and painful. I estimated that he had a few months to live at most. At least he was spared a lingering death.’

Bartholomew nodded slowly and took his leave of Philius. Grene must have been told of his illness after he had lost the election to Bingham. No wonder he was bitter. Bartholomew considered Eligius’s story – that Grene had claimed to be in fear of his life. Were they the ramblings of a man already fatally ill and perhaps weak in his wits? Or was there some truth to his fears? Or was the whole thing a fabrication and had Eligius’s disregard for both Grene and Bingham driven him to use the death of one to rid Valence Marie of the other?

He told Michael what Philius had said as they walked the short distance from Gonville Hall to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, but the monk had no answers either. Engrossed in thoughts of Eligius and Grene, he was almost crushed by a brewer’s wagon as it thundered down the lane at a speed that was far from safe, and was saved only by a timely shove from the more alert Michael. The brewer was not in the least apologetic, announcing in a ringing voice that scholars had no right to wander all over the roads with total disregard for other users.

Several onlookers exchanged amused grins, gratified to see a townsman berating members of the detested University. Immediately, two friars and three undergraduates in black tabards came to stand next to Bartholomew, clearly itching to punish the brewer’s impudence with a show of violence. Michael ordered them about their business, nodded curtly to the brewer, and the unpleasant atmosphere dissipated. Bartholomew glanced around him uneasily, sensing it would take very little to spark off a fight between scholars and townsmen; and a rumour that poisoned wine sold by a town thief to a young student would be more than enough.

The house of Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, was one of the grandest on Milne Street, although Stanmore himself elected to live on his manor at the nearby village of Trumpington, away from the noise and the noxious smell of the river. Stanmore’s business was cloth and, as Bartholomew strode through the gates into the cobbled yard with Michael, he saw evidence of it wherever he looked. The doors to the storehouses stood open, revealing bales of wool that were stacked to the ceiling, while piles of the wooden cones on which the cloth was wound occupied one corner, ready to be re-used. Scraps of material left from cutting were strewn across the yard in a kaleidoscope of colours, and fluttered here and there where they were caught on doors or timbers.

Because it was Sunday, Bartholomew had expected Stanmore to be in Trumpington and had intended to speak with his steward. He was pleased to find that not only was Stanmore in Cambridge, but that Edith was with him. She ran forward to greet her brother in delight.

‘Matt! What a lovely surprise! I saw you at that dull installation yesterday, but every time I tried to make my way over to you, that boring Prior of Barnwell would start yet another tedious tale to keep me at his side. And after that dreadful scene with Grene, Oswald decided it was time to leave.’

Bartholomew hugged her, swinging her off her feet. She was ten years older than him, but she had retained the youthful exuberance he remembered from his earliest days. Her hair, like his, was black, although wisps of silver were beginning to appear here and there, and her dark eyes sparkled with humour. Stanmore placed an affectionate arm across Bartholomew’s shoulder, and invited him and Michael for breakfast. Bartholomew shook his head, although Michael was clearly tempted.

‘We cannot stay. We have been summoned to Ely by the Bishop.’

The laughter in Edith’s face was gone in an instant. ‘Why? What does he want with you?’ She looked at Michael anxiously, wondering in what murky subterfuge the fat monk was embroiling her brother this time.

Bartholomew put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Nothing to concern you. The Chancellor and a group of scholars attending the installation were attacked on the Cambridge to Ely road. I have been asked to tend to the injured.’

‘How can you say such a thing does not concern me?’ said Edith, knocking his hand away angrily. ‘If the Chancellor was attacked, how can the Bishop be sure you will be safe?’

‘He has sent an escort,’ said Michael. ‘And Cynric is going with us.’

‘Cynric will look after you,’ said Edith grudgingly. ‘But I am not happy about this. Tell the Bishop you cannot go. Tell him you are needed here. What will your patients do while you are gone – poor Mistress Pike took a turn for the worse last night.’

‘Edith is right,’ said Stanmore when she paused for breath. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘The Bishop’s summons is unreasonable. He has his own physicians at Ely.’ He called to his steward, who lounged against a wall watching two apprentices racing woodlice. ‘Hugh! You travelled the Ely road yesterday. Did you see any signs of trouble?’

Hugh shrugged laconically. ‘A cart had broken down near Stretham, but that was all.’

‘Any signs of outlaws on the roads?’

Hugh shook his head, his eyes not moving from the apprentices’ game. ‘Quiet as the grave. Sinister place, the Fens.’

‘Oh, Matt, please do not go,’ begged Edith. ‘The Sheriff told Oswald at the installation last night that three houses actually inside the town have been attacked by robbers. It is safe nowhere!’

‘If the robbers have turned their attention to the town itself, then I am probably safer away from it,’ said Bartholomew. He raised his hands to quell her angry objections. ‘I cannot refuse a summons from the Bishop – you know that. He has a good deal of influence over the Chancellor and I have no wish to lose my Fellowship.’

‘Take a couple of my men, then,’ said Stanmore. ‘Egil is from the Fens and Jurnet has a wife in Ely. They can go with you.’

‘That is not necessary,’ protested Bartholomew, but Stanmore had already moved away and was shouting instructions to Hugh. He turned to Edith. ‘I might be away a week and Oswald will need them before then.’

‘He will manage,’ she said. ‘And Egil and Jurnet will enjoy a few days away. Now. Why did you come? You know we are usually in Trumpington on Sundays, so you cannot have expected to see us here. Did you need something? To borrow a horse or a better cloak? Those are nice gloves you are wearing. They look new, although I see you have already torn the thumb. How long have you had them?’

Bartholomew smiled at her and evaded her question, not wanting her to know that he had managed to rip them in less than a day. ‘I came to ask about the apprentice that died here a month last Saturday. The one Father Philius was called to attend.’

Edith looked at him blankly. ‘What apprentice?’

‘The one that died a month ago,’ repeated Bartholomew. He wondered whether Stanmore might have kept it from her. He was apt to be over-protective of his family at times, as his insistence that Bartholomew took extra henchmen indicated. But Edith was probably more robust than her husband, and had no need of such coddling.

‘But none of our apprentices has died,’ said Edith, bewildered. She grabbed her husband’s arm as he walked past. ‘Tell him, Oswald.’

‘Philius said he had attended one of your apprentices four weeks ago on a Saturday night,’ explained Bartholomew again, trying to curb his impatience. ‘He arrived too late and the apprentice died.’

‘Not one of mine,’ said Stanmore. ‘They are all alive and kicking, believe me.’

‘Then perhaps Philius was mistaken in thinking it was an apprentice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he said he came here to tend a young lad who had been stricken with some kind of seizure.’

‘I repeat,’ said Stanmore, ‘not one of mine. I usually work late on Saturdays and Philius definitely did not come. And why would I call him? If one of my lads were sick, I would call you.’

Bartholomew had wondered about that at the time. Stanmore was well aware that Bartholomew and Philius did not see eye to eye on medical matters, and Bartholomew had been surprised to learn that Philius had been summoned to Stanmore’s house in his place.

‘But Philius seemed certain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His book-bearer, Isaac, stole a bottle of wine from you – the wine that probably killed the apprentice although Isaac did not know that – and then it nearly killed poor Philius, too. Isaac was murdered last night–’

‘Just a moment!’ protested Stanmore, raising a hand to slow Bartholomew down. ‘What are you involved in this time? I would have thought you had seen enough murder and mayhem to last you a lifetime! Now you say this man Isaac, who was supposed to have stolen from me, was murdered?’

Bartholomew saw the horror in his family’s faces and regretted his decision to try to find out about the apprentice. Now they would worry about him until he returned, and he had learned nothing new from his questions. He knew that Stanmore discouraged drinking among his apprentices and discharged frequent offenders from his service. Perhaps they had kept the incident secret from Stanmore, so as not to incur his wrath. He suggested as much to the merchant, who dismissed the notion disdainfully.

‘How could that be possible? Do you imagine I would not miss an apprentice if he disappeared?’

Bartholomew could think of no answer to the problem and was nonplussed. Philius had no reason to lie about a visit to Stanmore’s house, and his own students – Gray, Bulbeck and Deynman – had said that they had seen one of Stanmore’s apprentices buying the same kind of wine from Sacks in the Brazen George that had killed Armel. But Stanmore had no reason to lie either, and yet they all could not be right.

A nudge from Michael brought his attention back to the present. Time was passing and he had no desire to be out on the road after dark. With two heavily built labourers – clearly delighted by the unexpected excursion – in tow, he made his farewells, and he and Michael made their way back along Milne Street. Michael sighed in exasperation as Katherine Mortimer hurried from her house to waylay them. Behind her were the merchants Cheney and Deschalers, and her son Edward.

‘Doctor!’ she said breathlessly. ‘Edward and I wanted to thank you once again for coming to Constantine yesterday, especially since it meant missing part of Master Bingham’s installation.’

Edward nodded his agreement. He still wore his sober brown tunic, looking like a drab little wren when compared to the colourful spectacle presented by the two older merchants.

‘How is Master Mortimer?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s impatient huffing at his elbow. ‘I hope he is feeling better.’

She smiled. ‘He must be: he is sitting in the solar demanding his breakfast. Masters Cheney and Deschalers came to visit him.’

Bartholomew nodded a greeting to the two merchants and then turned back to Katherine. ‘You must not let him overeat,’ he warned. ‘His stomach will not yet take kindly to the kind of repast your husband seems to enjoy.’

Katherine laughed. ‘That is why I am so grateful to Masters Cheney and Deschalers – they took his mind off his food for a while at least. Constantine is not an easy man to advise – especially in matters concerning his stomach.’

There was a brief silence as Bartholomew, Michael and the merchants reflected that Mortimer was not an easy man in any sense of the word. He was unpleasant when he was fit and well, but being deprived of what seemed to be his main love in life would render him unbearable.

‘We were telling him about that dreadful affair with Grene last night,’ said Cheney, changing the subject and leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘That should be a warning to us all. Grene was so sour and bitter during the celebrations that God struck him down for the deadly sin of envy.’

He looked unpleasantly smug, and Bartholomew was tempted to point out that malice and pride were just as likely to catch God’s attention as envy.

‘There are stories that he died in the service of Valence Marie’s relic,’ said Deschalers, regarding them questioningly. ‘The one that some scholars tried to discredit last year.’

‘That is arrant nonsense!’ said Michael brusquely. ‘Poor Grene’s death had nothing to do with that hand – and I can assure you, Master Deschalers, that those damned bones are no more saintly relics than is that dead dog I can see on the top of that pile of rubbish!’

‘But his demise was a shocking incident, nevertheless,’ said Deschalers, looking anything but shocked. ‘Perhaps he should have taken some lemon juice to soothe his choleric humour.’

‘Those lemons of yours are an unusual sight in Cambridge in winter,’ said Bartholomew, more to prevent them speculating about the Valence Marie relic than to learn about groceries.

Deschalers nodded proudly. ‘Indeed they are. But I have developed a system for keeping them in the cool of my basement. They do not perish there as they do in the warmer storerooms above ground. Thus I can provide my customers with goods not normally seen in wintertime, and they pay most handsomely for the service. It is a pity you cannot do the same with bread, eh, Edward?’ He gave the young man a poke in the ribs with his elbow.

Edward’s attention had clearly been elsewhere. ‘Of course not,’ he said hastily, and smiled nervously. Deschalers looked piqued.

‘Pay attention, Edward,’ he said testily. ‘You will never be a good merchant if you do not listen.’

Bartholomew had the distinct impression that a good merchant was the last thing Edward wanted to be. But he was the eldest son of one of the most powerful traders in the town and his fate was already sealed: Edward would inherit the business whether he liked it or not.

Michael tugged impatiently at Bartholomew’s sleeve. They bade the Mortimers, Cheney and Deschalers farewell, and hastened to St Mary’s Church on the High Street, where the Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor and their clerks administrated the University’s complicated business dealings.

Harling was waiting for them, sitting behind the desk in his small office behind the church. He wore a neat, black gown and his short hair was, as usual, neatly slicked into a smooth cap with generous dabs of scented animal grease.

‘There you are,’ he said when they knocked at his door. ‘You have heard what has happened?’

Michael nodded. ‘Three dead and a number of people injured, including the Chancellor.’

‘This is dreadful,’ said Harling, his face pale and his hands unsteady. Bartholomew was surprised, imagining that Harling would relish the prospect of a little longer in his position of power. But, almost as soon as the thought had entered his head, he saw it was a foolish one: why would Harling wish to continue as Tynkell’s representative when the University was facing such dire difficulties – Grene’s death at a public occasion; the murders of Isaac and Armel on University property; and now a violent assault on the Chancellor himself?

‘There has not been trouble on the Cambridge to Ely road for years,’ Harling continued, gnawing on his lower lip. ‘It is outrageous – a direct attack on the University! And so is this affair concerning Grene and the Bernard’s novice!’

‘The ambush of the Chancellor may have been random,’ reasoned Bartholomew, to calm him. ‘Tulyet said raids are becoming more frequent, and even houses inside the town have been burgled.’

‘But this is the Ely causeway!’ insisted Harling. ‘Hitherto one of the safest highways in the kingdom.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I profess I am uncertain how to proceed – while I am keen for you to discover all you can about this foul affair, I am loathe to allow you to travel on the same road.’

‘The Bishop has sent an escort,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘We will be safe enough.’

Harling looked doubtful. ‘Brother Michael, you have provided – are providing – a vital service to the University. I have come to respect your opinions and judgement, and so I am considering sending a Junior Proctor in your place. You are, quite simply, too valuable to risk. Perhaps we can appoint that Father William from Michaelhouse – he has been pestering me to make him Junior Proctor for weeks. He can go to Ely with Bartholomew.’

‘I am touched,’ said Michael, his face expressionless. ‘But it is unlikely these outlaws will strike twice in the same place. I will be perfectly safe, and anyway I cannot refuse a summons from the Bishop. As a humble Benedictine monk, I am duty-bound to obey my spiritual master.’

Bartholomew thought Michael looked anything but humble, basking smugly in the urgency of the summons from the Bishop, and the praise and open admiration of the Vice-Chancellor.

Harling raised a hand in a submissive gesture and regarded Michael sombrely. ‘I suppose you are right,’ he said, clearly reluctant. ‘But I have already given my word that Bartholomew should be allowed to tend his patients without being hampered by University matters, and now he has been ordered to Ely!’

‘He cannot refuse a summons from the Bishop, any more than I can,’ said Michael.

‘Although I appreciate the fact that you tried to keep me out of it,’ Bartholomew added.

Harling gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I suppose going to Ely will mean that at least you are free from this vile business of the poisoned wine. And speaking of that, have you made any headway?’

Briefly, Michael outlined Bartholomew’s findings on the deaths of Grene and Armel, and related what had passed in Gonville Hall the previous night. Harling paled and put his head in his hands with a groan.

‘I will investigate all this as soon as I have returned from Ely,’ said Michael comfortingly.

‘Have you uncovered any clues the beadles might follow up in your absence?’ asked Harling, lifting his haggard face from his arms.

Michael nodded vaguely. ‘There is a man named Sacks they are trying to hunt down. He might be able to shed some light on the matter.’

Harling closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. Bartholomew felt sorry for him. His few days of power while Tynkell was away had turned into a nightmare and he looked ill from worry.

Harling’s eyes snapped open. ‘Do you think he did it?’ he asked.

‘Who did what?’ asked Michael, startled.

Harling sighed impatiently and patted his greased hair in an agitated gesture. ‘Do you think Bingham murdered Grene? Father Eligius came to tell me of his suspicions this morning.’

‘I have reservations about that,’ said Michael, rubbing the whiskers on his chin and filling the room with a scraping sound. ‘To kill a rival in full view of so many people would be very rash.’

‘Bingham is a man given to rashness,’ said Harling. ‘Perhaps someone gave him this poisoned wine and he decided to use it on the spur of the moment.’

‘But why would someone provide him with such a thing?’ said Michael. ‘It is not the kind of gift one usually presents at an installation.’

Harling gave him a curious look and Bartholomew wondered whether he, like the former Chancellor, de Wetherset, had been involved in University politics too long and had become paranoid in his suspicions. The University might be full of rumour and intrigue, but its scholars did not usually resort to killing their rivals. The students fought with the townspeople and with each other – hostel against hostel and hostel against College – but the masters usually managed to steer clear of physical violence, and generally employed more intellectual forms of vengeance.

Harling sighed and gazed out of the window. ‘What a mess,’ he whispered. ‘My poor University, assailed from all sides by evil men.’

‘Hardly that, Master Harling,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Just one or two minor mysteries that will easily be unravelled and eliminated. Do not fear. Matt and I will sort all this out before you know it.’

Bartholomew gazed at him aghast, uncertain whether he was more horrified at Michael’s overconfident bragging, or the fact that he was being dragged into the murky world of University plotting and scheming.

‘Just a moment–’ he began.

Michael overrode his protestation with a wave of a flabby hand. ‘If your help is needed to solve this mystery, Matt, then I know you will give it freely and without question to express your loyalty to the University. But time is passing and we should go. We should not be on the road after dark.’

‘Very well,’ said Harling wearily. ‘Go if you must. But please return as soon as you can. We cannot be having scholars murdered with poisoned wine. And whatever you do, be cautious – both of you. I wish you God’s speed.’

‘Poor Harling,’ said Michael, as they walked towards the Brazen George to meet Cynric and the Bishop’s escort. ‘He is beginning to crack under the strain. It is just as well he was not elected Chancellor.’

Bartholomew sighed, still angry at the way the monk had volunteered his services in such a cavalier manner. But by the time they had returned from Ely, the mystery surrounding the wine might well have been solved by Michael’s beadles and he did not want to begin an argument over something that might transpire to be irrelevant. He thought about the state of the Vice-Chancellor. ‘I would have expected Harling to be more poised. I did not imagine him to be a man given to panic.’

‘He is always far more suave in the afternoons and evenings,’ said Michael. ‘I suspect he drinks, and is less controlled in the mornings before the alcohol has taken effect.’

It was an interesting concept, especially when Bartholomew recalled that Harling was well known for making all his appointments in the afternoons, maintaining that he liked to leave the mornings free for clerical duties. The Vice-Chancellor had been well in control of the situation with the Fellows in St Botolph’s Church the day before, but that had been at night and the wine had been plentiful. During mass, at dawn, he had been pale and his hands had been shaking.

‘I am sceptical of his concern, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has never expressed any particular fondness for either of us before.’

‘You do the man an injustice,’ said Michael reproachfully. ‘He is wholly loyal to the University and knows we serve it well. He is probably reluctant to let us leave Cambridge when he knows he will need our brains to solve the affair of the poisoned wine. If Tynkell dies of his injuries, Harling will need to find Grene’s murderer if he is to prove to the voting masters that he is competent to accede as Chancellor. He will stand no chance of winning an election if that remains a mystery.’

They made their way quickly along the High Street to the Brazen George, where Cynric and the messenger waited. The messenger paced back and forth, glancing up at the sky as if he imagined dusk might settle at any moment, despite the fact that it was barely mid-morning.

‘You are late,’ he said irritably. He looked at Stanmore’s men who walked behind them, holding the reins of sturdy nags with eager anticipation of the expedition through the Fens. They were large men, both with dark, almost swarthy, complexions. Cynric stood with them, holding the bridle of a fat pony from Stanmore’s stables that he liked to ride. Its saddlebags were already packed and Cynric, basically a man of action who chafed at the sedentary life of a book-bearer, was as keen to take part in the unexpected journey as were the two Fenmen.

‘The Bishop seems to have done us proud,’ said Michael, motioning to where their escort waited: six men wearing the boiled leather tunics and helmets of the mercenary.

‘Who are they?’ demanded the messenger, regarding Cynric, Egil and Jurnet with suspicion when he realised they were to form part of the group.

‘Men whom I trust,’ replied Bartholomew, resenting the hostility in the messenger’s voice.

‘They cannot come with us,’ said the messenger, turning away. ‘Send them home.’

‘What is your name?’ Bartholomew asked. Surprised, the messenger turned to face him.

‘Alan of Norwich,’ he answered. ‘Why?’

‘Well, Alan of Norwich, your career as a messenger will be short-lived if you dictate to your customers so,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘Now, you have two choices. Either these men come with us, or you return to the Bishop without me. Which is it to be?’

Alan eyed Bartholomew with dislike, but before he could reply, one of the mercenaries intervened, laying a callused hand on Alan’s leather-clad shoulder.

‘They will be no trouble,’ he said in the rough accent of a northerner. ‘Let them come.’

Alan pursed his lips but said no more. Michael and Cynric were already mounted, and Egil and Jurnet sprung lightly into the saddles of their small ponies. With a malicious glower, Alan handed Bartholomew the reins of a great snorting stallion that Bartholomew regarded with trepidation.

‘I cannot ride this,’ he called to Michael nervously.

Michael’s horse, however, seemed even more skittish than Bartholomew’s, and he reconsidered asking if they could change. With difficulty, and watched with undisguised amusement by Alan and the mercenaries, Bartholomew managed to clamber onto the beast’s back. It immediately began to buck, and by the time he had gained some measure of control over it, the others had already set off and he had to force it into a canter to catch them up.

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 the 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.