A Deadly Brew

Chapter 5

For petrifying moments, Bartholomew was paralysed with fright. He could see nothing, and the sound of water thundering in his ears dominated his senses. Beneath him, the horse continued to struggle, but increasingly feebly. Then Bartholomew panicked, thrashing around in a hopeless attempt to tear himself free. But the stirrup leather held firm, dragging him deeper down into the black water.

He felt himself growing dizzy from lack of air and his lungs burned with the agony of suffocation. Knife! he thought. Use a knife! He forced his numb fingers to the belt at his waist where the dagger he wore for travelling was buckled. He tugged at the hilt, but he was growing weak, and for a moment he thought he would be unable to draw it. It came out in a rush and he gripped it hard, terrified lest he should drop it. He twisted down and began, laboriously, to hack at the strap, fighting the increasingly desperate urge to give way to panic and try to claw his way up to the air above.

As he sawed, he saw something white flash past his eyes, and thought it was the effects of slowly losing consciousness. But there was another and then a dull pain in his leg. Dimly, a part of his mind registered that the mercenaries must have followed him and were firing crossbows at the water where he had disappeared.

But it was almost to the point where it did not matter. Bartholomew’s movements were becoming slower and slower and he began to experience a strange light-headedness. The black water around him began to turn bright colours – reds and greens and blues – all swirling together. He made a final chop at the stirrup and felt the dagger slip from his nerveless hand.

And then he was floating upwards. The water turned from black to brown and he exploded from it into the air with a great gasp that hurt his throat. Instinctively, he kicked away from the deep water in the centre of the lode toward the shallows near the bank. His frozen fingers felt something solid and he grasped at it as he fought to regain his breath, caring nothing for the mercenaries who had been trying to kill him, and only for dragging in great lungfuls of air. Gradually, he came to his senses and began to take in his surroundings.

He was clinging for dear life to a tree that had partly fallen across the lode and that was shielded from sight by a line of the reeds that grew in the shallower parts of the marshes. As long as he had not made too much noise surfacing, it was possible the mercenaries had not seen him.

Soon he became aware of voices. Taking care not to relinquish his hold on the tree, he edged forward and peered through the fringe of sedge. The camouflage it offered turned out to be too scanty for comfort, and the soldiers were nearer than Bartholomew had imagined they would be. He tried to control his still ragged breathing.

‘He is dead,’ one was saying. ‘I saw him go down with the horse.’

‘But I heard something,’ insisted the mercenary with the northern accent. ‘I think he surfaced.’

‘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.

‘For me too,’ said Bartholomew, his eyes straying to the peaty water in the cup.

‘By the time I judged it safe to stop running, I was hopelessly lost,’ said Michael, taking up the story. ‘I took the saddle off the poor horse and discovered that someone had put burrs under it. Yours was probably the same, which accounts for their unruly behaviour. It was probably a ploy intended to exhaust us so that we would be less able to fight them when the time came. Anyway, I wandered aimlessly for the rest of the day until Cynric found me just before dusk. He brought us to the causeway and I suggested we claim sanctuary here at Denny. I knew the nuns would not refuse a monk in distress, even though they are usually wary of accepting unknown men inside their walls.’

‘At first light yesterday, I set off to look for Egil,’ continued Cynric. ‘I have no idea what happened to him. I was searching for clues when I found you.’

‘You were lucky, Matt,’ said Michael, stating the obvious. ‘You would not have survived much longer out there.’ He shuddered and drew the blankets up under his chin. ‘The Fens are a foul place to be in the winter. It is the one thing about my abbey at Ely that I do not miss.’

‘I wondered why Alan was so averse to having Cynric, Egil and Jurnet accompany us,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He knew it would be more difficult to murder five people than the two he had originally envisaged.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Yet even so, I would have expected experienced mercenaries to have put up a better show. It was seven against five. I was unarmed, you are useless in armed combat, yet they allowed three to escape.’

‘Two – they thought they saw him drown,’ said Cynric, indicating Bartholomew. ‘And I am sure they believed you and I would go the same way, lost and alone in the marshes.’

‘That is beside the point,’ said Michael. ‘The soldiers Oswald Stanmore employs to guard his cloth carts would not have been so incompetent.’

Cynric mused for a moment and then nodded slowly. ‘You are right – they were poor fighters. Perhaps they were not soldiers at all.’

‘I wonder if they were the outlaws the Sheriff has been chasing this winter,’ suggested Michael. ‘They could be, you know. He told me they use the Fens like a stronghold, disappearing down little-known pathways when his men close in on them. And Alan did seem to know his way around when he took that short cut.’

‘Perhaps they are, but what do we do now?’ asked Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace as he did when he was restless.

Michael watched him. ‘Nothing. It is late, and while you may have slept all day, we did not. I have been hearing the nuns’ confessions – and that was an eye-opener I can tell you; I should come here more often! – and Cynric has been searching for Egil. Go to sleep, Matt. We will talk again in the morning.’

He heaved his bulk onto its side and huddled down under the blankets as the wind rattled the shutters. Cynric did likewise, while Bartholomew lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He wondered what had happened to Egil, and dreaded telling Stanmore that his two men had been lost. Edith said that Egil was a Fenman. If by some remote chance he had not been killed by the mercenaries, he was one of the few people who might escape the treacherous marshes alive. There was thus a glimmer of hope, although Bartholomew suspected it was not a realistic one.

He listened to the patter of rain against the windows, watched the firelight flickering on the walls and felt a chill settle in his stomach. Stanmore’s men were murdered, Grene and Armel were dead from poisoned wine, Isaac was hanged and someone had been to some trouble to ensure he, Michael and Cynric died in the marshes. What vile plot was being hatched this time?

By the following day, the rain had abated and there were patches of blue sky among the grey clouds. Bartholomew rose at dawn, woken by the sound of the nuns’ chanting in the church. Michael opened a bleary eye, but grunted irritably and pulled the blankets up over his head to try to block out the noise. Bartholomew washed and shaved near the hearth, relishing the luxury of hot water and a warm room, and dressed in the clothes that Cynric had cleaned the day before. They were bone dry and crisp from being near the fire, something he had never experienced in Michaelhouse, even in the summer. He inspected the tear in his leggings, surprised, and not entirely pleased, to see that someone had repaired it using a patch of brilliant red.

‘I did that,’ said Cynric, not without pride. ‘One of those nuns wanted to do it, but I did not like to think of your clothes in their hands.’ He gave Bartholomew a meaningful look that the physician did not understand at all.

‘Why not?’ he asked, convinced that the nuns would have done a better job than Cynric, and most certainly would not have used a scarlet patch to mend the brown garment.

Cynric pursed his lips and would be drawn no further. Michael was listening from his bed and gave a sudden roar of laughter.

‘You are right to be cautious, Cynric my friend,’ he said, green eyes glittering with amusement. ‘And if you had heard their confessions, Matt, you would understand why!’

‘Michael, this is a convent,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the monk was simply trying to unnerve his prudish book-bearer. ‘What could nuns possibly do to pique your lecherous interests out here in the Fens?’

Michael laughed again, but whatever reply he had been about to make was forgotten at a knock on the door. He hauled the blankets around his chin primly, as Bartholomew admitted a lay sister who carried a tray bearing barley bread, some slivers of cheese and a jug of ale, and told them the Abbess wished to see them later that morning. When she had gone, Michael hauled himself reluctantly from his bed, and donned his habit, nodding approvingly at Cynric’s efforts to remove the black, clinging mud from it.

Bartholomew fretted while they waited for the Abbess’s summons. ‘I need to return to Michaelhouse,’ he said, pacing in front of the window. ‘We have wasted two days already with this miserable business, and I am worried about Gray’s disputation. We should go home.’

‘What do you plan to do?’ Cynric asked of Michael. Bartholomew’s steps faltered: it had not occurred to him that Michael would want to do anything other than return to College.

Michael mused. ‘I am undecided. It is tempting to continue to enjoy the Abbess’s hospitality, and a few days would give us the opportunity to think and to recover from our ordeal. But I would like to speak to the Bishop, and so am inclined to travel to Ely. Yet I also believe that the answer to this riddle we seem to have stumbled upon lies in Cambridge, and the sooner we return, the quicker we will have it resolved.’

‘I see no reason to go to Ely,’ objected Bartholomew nervously. ‘We know the Bishop’s summons was false.’ He hesitated. ‘At least, I suppose we can assume it was.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting?’

Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘Perhaps the Bishop really did summon you on Sunday – for reasons of his own.’

Michael met his gaze with unreadable eyes. ‘You suspect it has something to do with my rejecting the offer to be Master of Valence Marie?’ he asked eventually. He did not wait for an answer. ‘Believe me, Matt, the Bishop has his own perfectly good reasons for wishing me to refuse the Mastership. He would hardly encourage me to decline, and then arrange my demise. The reason he persuaded me to not to accept in the first place was so that I would be free to continue to act as his agent.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, although sometimes the convoluted logic of the power-brokers in University, town and Church eluded him completely.

‘So who do you think is responsible for luring us out here?’ he asked.

Michael sat on his bed and stretched his long legs out in front of him, ankles incongruously white next to his black habit. ‘It is someone with resources. It would not be cheap to hire six soldiers and Alan. Mercenaries are likely to demand a high price for premeditated murder.’

‘Who has such resources?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Other than the Bishop?’

‘Alan and his men were not mercenaries,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘We decided last night that they were too incompetent to be real soldiers.’

Michael ignored both of them. ‘The Chancellor could probably lay his hands on sufficient funds, and doubtless has the contacts to organise such an incident. But he has no motive and he is not even in Cambridge.’

‘De Wetherset lives near here,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, thinking of the previous holder of the Chancellorship, who had retired into the Fens when University politics became too much for him.

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael firmly. ‘By all accounts, de Wetherset is enjoying his seclusion and has no wish to re-enter University affairs.’

‘But he has never liked us,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He used us to do his dirty work, but he never really trusted us and he lied constantly.’

‘Who in the University does not lie?’ asked Michael glibly. ‘But you are on the wrong track altogether. De Wetherset has nothing to do with the University these days, and he certainly does not have the resources to hire Alan and his cronies. We need to look to Cambridge for our answer. Besides the Chancellor, there are a host of townspeople who could afford to have people killed – your brother-in-law to name but one.’

‘That is ridiculous!’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Oswald is not a murderer! And he has no reason to wish harm on us.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘But there is the mystery involving his apprentice and this bottle of wine. Father Philius has no reason to tell us untruths.’

‘And neither does Oswald!’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘There must be some misunderstanding. I will see Philius when we get back, and we will probably find out that it was Cheney’s apprentice he saw, or Deschalers’s or Mortimer’s. All four live next to each other on Milne Street and he may have mistaken one house for another.’

Michael regarded him sceptically. ‘Philius is not stupid, Matt, regardless of what you might think about his medical abilities. And, anyway, your students said they saw Oswald’s apprentice buy poisoned wine from Sacks in the Brazen George. Or were they mistaken, too?’

Bartholomew was racking his brain for an answer when the lay sister returned and said the Abbess awaited them in her solar. Still unsettled by Michael’s accusations, Bartholomew followed her down the stairs, Michael and Cynric in tow. Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw Michael patting his hair into place and making haste to brush a few crumples out of his habit. When the monk rubbed surreptitiously at his teeth with a corner of his sleeve, Bartholomew’s suspicions were aroused regarding Michael’s motives for tarrying at the convent.

There was only one entrance to the guesthall and that was through a small door to one side of the main gate. In this way, visitors were kept entirely apart from the nuns; a person wishing to enter the convent from the guesthall was forced to do so through the main gate like everyone else: men staying there could not inadvertently stray into the nuns’ living quarters, while the nuns themselves would see no one for whom they might be tempted to break their vows. It was doubtless only Michael’s vocation as a monk that prompted the Abbess to relax the rules and allow three men inside her hallowed walls.

As they walked across the cobbled yard towards the Abbess’s quarters, Bartholomew was aware of being watched with intense interest. He glanced upwards and saw several veiled heads eyeing him with undisguised curiosity from the unglazed windows of the dormitory, while others looked from the cloister that surrounded the yard. Voices whispered and giggled and, from the lewdness of the laughter, Bartholomew strongly suspected that the nuns were not discussing matters spiritual. He began to feel uncomfortable, although Michael did not appear to mind greatly. Cynric muttered that he would wait in the guesthall, and, before Bartholomew could stop him, he had scuttled back across the yard and was out through the main gate. Hoots of laughter followed him and Bartholomew was tempted to follow, unsettled by the nuns’ behaviour.

Finally, they were across the yard and were being led up the wide wooden staircase that led to the Abbess’s solar. The Countess of Pembroke’s money had provided the residents of Denny with sumptuous surroundings, despite the fact that Franciscan nuns were commonly called ‘Poor Clares’. Thick woollen rugs covered the floor and the walls were painted with vivid murals depicting scenes from classical mythology and local folklore. By comparison, the decorations in Constantine Mortimer’s elegant house appeared crass and tasteless. The rugs had been chosen to complement the dominant hues of the wall paintings, while even the bowls on the low table near the fire had been carefully selected to match the solar’s colour scheme.

The Abbess was waiting for them, her hands hidden demurely in the wide sleeves of her gown, and was flanked by two of her nuns. Bartholomew had last seen her at the high table next to Vice-Chancellor Harling at the installation at Valence Marie, and knew her reputation for learning and saintliness. She was tall for a woman, and her movements had a fluid elegance born of a grace that was innate. Her eyes were an arresting turquoise, accentuated by the plain grey of her habit, and her face was not yet blemished with the wrinkles of middle age.

The nuns at her side were chalk and cheese. One was an elderly lady whose hooked nose swooped down towards her prominent chin and whose skin was as wrinkled and brown as an old nut; the second was apparently a relative of the Abbess, for her eyes were a similar, although less vivid, blue-green colour.

The Abbess stepped forward, and Michael elbowed Bartholomew out of the way to take her hand and effect an elegant bow.

‘Brother Michael!’ said the Abbess courteously. ‘I am pleased to see you well again. And your companion.’ She looked at Bartholomew, who hastened to follow Michael’s example and bow.

‘My Lady Abbess, may I present to you my friend and colleague Doctor Bartholomew,’ said Michael, holding her hand for rather longer than was necessary. She looked uncomfortable and tried to free it, but Michael appeared not to notice and did not slacken his grip. ‘He is also a Fellow of Michaelhouse. We would like to thank you for your gracious hospitality.’

The Abbess finally succeeded in retrieving her hand and inclined her head politely. She indicated the nuns who stood at her side. ‘May I introduce Dame Pelagia, my cellarer, and my niece Julianna.’ The nuns curtseyed demurely, although Bartholomew was discomfited by Julianna’s somewhat brazen stare. This did not seem to bother Michael, who met her eyes boldly as he took her hand and bowed almost as deeply as he had done to the Abbess.

‘Are you quite recovered from your ordeal?’ enquired the Abbess, indicating that they should sit in the chairs that were arranged around the fireside, and selecting the one that was farthest from Michael for herself.

‘Almost,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply, ‘although you will notice that my colleague still limps from the near-fatal wound in his leg.’

The three nuns made sympathetic faces and Bartholomew shot Michael a look of embarrassment. By no stretch of the imagination could a graze be called ‘near-fatal’ and Bartholomew was certain he had not limped.

‘Then you should remain here until you are fully well,’ said the Abbess while, next to her, Julianna gave Bartholomew a smile that verged on being a leer.

‘We have imposed on your generosity quite long enough,’ he said firmly, before Michael could agree to a lengthy sojourn. ‘We will leave today and trouble you no further.’

‘But you are no trouble at all,’ said Julianna, smiling coquettishly at Bartholomew from under her thick eyelashes. ‘We would be honoured if you would stay longer.’ Her eyes travelled down his body to the patch on his leggings. ‘And perhaps there are little services we might perform for you.’

Bartholomew was unable to look at Michael, whose eyebrows shot up into his hair. Instead he gazed at Julianna, uncertain how to respond to her ambiguous suggestion.

‘Your servant clearly cannot count the mending of garments among his undoubted talents,’ said the Abbess, indicating the scarlet patch and smiling sweetly to relieve Bartholomew’s discomfiture.

‘He cannot, but I can,’ interposed Julianna eagerly. ‘And if you agree to stay longer, I will re-mend that hole for you. I could do it now, as we talk.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, more vehemently than he intended, but determined not to be divested in the Abbess’s private apartments. ‘It is perfectly functional as it is.’

‘And our Abbess is a far neater needlewoman than you anyway, Julianna,’ said Dame Pelagia, in the blunt manner of old ladies. ‘If the doctor’s leggings require attention, then she should do the honours if he is to receive the best the Abbey can offer.’

‘All this is quite unnecessary,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The leggings look perfectly good as they are. After all, us monastics should not be encouraging vanity among the laity.’ He folded his hands in his sleeves and assumed a saintly expression. Bartholomew eyed him in disbelief, recalling the amount of primping that had taken place as the monk had prepared himself for the installation ceremony.

‘But regardless of whether the leggings should be mended properly, you must both stay until you are fully recovered,’ said Julianna firmly, ‘however long that might take.’

‘Well …’ said Michael.

‘You would be most welcome,’ said the Abbess sincerely. ‘And with all these outlaws prowling the roads, it will be good for us to have the security of three men within our walls.’

‘But we are not fighters,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘I do not even have a weapon!’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Julianna comfortably. ‘I have a dagger you can borrow.’

Bartholomew regarded her with dismay. What kind of nun offered to lend people her dagger? He looked at the Abbess, who seemed as startled by Julianna’s offer as Bartholomew had been. Dame Pelagia merely sat back in her chair and raised her eyes heavenward, although a smile of amusement played about the corners of her lips.

Bartholomew had always known Michael was a man of culture and breeding – he was the younger son of an influential knight of King Edward’s court – but he had seldom been in a position to observe him in action. The monk skilfully manipulated the conversation to topics he sensed would interest and entertain the three nuns, ranging from issues of philosophy that had the Abbess eagerly inviting him to tell her more, to humorous anecdotes from the Bishop’s Palace that had Julianna enthralled and even the dry old Dame Pelagia chuckling in amusement. The physician marvelled at the transition from Michael the Senior Proctor to Michael the Courtier, and wondered whether he would ever know the monk well enough never to be surprised by his hidden talents and abilities.

After a while, as Julianna was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes at a story about the Bishop’s mother, and Bartholomew and the Abbess were kneeling solicitously at the side of Dame Pelagia – who had cackled so hard she had started to choke – the lay sister tapped on the door, and entered with a dish of small cakes and a jug of wine. Michael, apparently hungry after his display of courtliness, reached for the food almost before it had been set on the table.

‘What a splendid object,’ he said, taking the plate and inspecting it minutely. Several cakes slid from it into his lap and were suavely transferred to his mouth.

‘It is gold,’ said the Abbess, somewhat unnecessarily, given the way it gleamed in the pale light of the winter morning.

Dame Pelagia regarded it with interest, leaning forward to see more clearly. Even the Abbess’s cellarer, it seemed, was not privy to the full extent of the convent’s wealth.

‘It is very fine gold,’ said Michael, running his soft, white fingers across the delicately etched surface. ‘It is almost too fine for mere cakes.’

The Abbess reached out and removed the plate from Michael’s hands, firmly replacing it on the table. ‘It is the only serving plate we own. We do not often entertain in our humble home.’

Bartholomew and Michael looked around at the luxurious surroundings simultaneously. Perhaps they had been too long in the squalor of Michaelhouse, Bartholomew thought.

‘I understand the Countess of Pembroke stays here from time to time,’ he said, desperately trying to think of something to say in the silence that followed. Now that there was food to hand, Michael seemed to have passed the burden of conversation to Bartholomew, while he concentrated on fortifying himself for his next performance.

The Abbess smiled. ‘You understand correctly, Doctor,’ she replied. ‘But the Countess has her own apartments. She does not need to debase herself by using our plain rooms.’

Bartholomew’s already sumptuous vision of the Countess’s apartments escalated to the realms of the impossible. He wondered what the Abbess would make of Michaelhouse’s austere halls and stained pewter tableware.

‘When might the Countess next visit?’ asked Michael, licking sugar from his fingers. The cake plate, Bartholomew noticed, was empty, allowing Dame Pelagia to inspect it even more minutely.

‘She will be with us in a matter of days,’ said the Abbess. ‘King’s Hall celebrates its Foundation Day soon, and the Countess will visit us after she has attended the festivities there.’

Julianna suddenly started to cough in a way that, to Bartholomew, was clearly contrived, although it had her aunt jumping up to press a cup of wine into her hand. The Abbess hesitated, looking uncertainly at Bartholomew, but then seemed to make up her mind.

‘Since you are here, I wonder if I might impose on your good offices, Doctor. Julianna has been complaining of chest pains these last two days. It is doubtless the unhealthy vapours from the Fens, but I would appreciate your advice on the matter. She can provide you with the details necessary to calculate her stars.’

Julianna smiled at him, coughing forgotten, and Bartholomew found himself unaccountably flustered. ‘I cannot,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘I would need a set of astrological charts to calculate a horoscope, and mine were rendered useless when I fell in the river.’

‘Do not worry about that,’ said Julianna with a wide grin. ‘I have a set here that belongs to the Countess.’ She waved a scroll at him.

‘But I do not usually conduct astrological consultations,’ he objected. The more he practised medicine, the more he became convinced that the efficacy of his cures had nothing to do with the alignment of the celestial bodies. Because his personal beliefs did not exempt him from teaching his students how to do them, he performed the occasional horoscope just so he did not forget, but these were very few and far between, and he always resented the time he spent on them.

‘Rubbish!’ said Julianna, not to be deterred. ‘You are a physician, and all physicians read their patients’ stars. You saying you do not prepare horoscopes is like a merchant saying he does not like the feel of money!’

‘Well, I prefer doing other things,’ he said shortly. ‘I seldom calculate horoscopes.’

‘I would be grateful if you would make an exception,’ said the Abbess, laying a hand on her niece’s shoulder in motherly concern. ‘Julianna is very young to be suffering from chest pains, and I do not want to send her to Ely to see the infirmarian while there are outlaws at large on the causeway.’

‘Very well, then,’ he said reluctantly, realising it would be churlish to decline a request from the Abbess, given that they had availed themselves of her hospitality. He turned to Julianna, trying to become professional to hide his irritation. ‘Perhaps you can tell me when these pains started?’

‘Oh no!’ said Julianna with distaste. ‘Not here! There is a small chamber on the floor above that is far more private for you to ask your intimate questions.’ She looked pointedly at Michael.

‘I will not ask any intimate questions,’ said Bartholomew nervously. ‘I only have to know the letters in your name – each letter of the alphabet has a specific astrological number and I need to add them together – and a few pertinent dates–’

‘I want more than that!’ said Julianna indignantly. ‘I want a complete astrological prediction that will tell me whether I should be forced to remain among the dangerous miasmas of these marshes, or whether I should be allowed to move to somewhere more conducive to my health.’

So, thought Bartholomew, Julianna regarded him as her escape route from Denny to somewhere more lively. He could not blame her: the Fens were not his idea of paradise, either.

‘You will see that your consultation will enable me to make the correct decision regarding my niece’s future,’ said the Abbess, a worried frown marring her face. ‘I would truly appreciate any advice you could offer.’

‘Upstairs, then,’ said Julianna, standing and stretching out a hand to Bartholomew.

The physician swallowed hard. ‘It would be better if there were another nun present,’ he said quickly. A dozen would be preferable, he thought to himself. He saw a brief flash of anger in Julianna’s eyes, and his discomfort intensified.

‘I will chaperone Doctor Bartholomew and Julianna,’ said Dame Pelagia, heaving her ancient body from her fireside chair.

‘Let me think,’ said the Abbess, as Michael slipped quickly into the chair Dame Pelagia had vacated, thus placing himself considerably closer to her. She stood and moved away, clasping her hands. Bartholomew could see her dilemma. Should she risk the reputation of her wanton niece with the physician, or should she risk her own at the hands of Brother Michael, whose interests were clearly not monastic? To send for another nun to chaperone them might be construed as offensive and the Abbess was far too well mannered to insult her guests.

‘Doctor Bartholomew is a professional man,’ pouted Julianna, ‘and he is only going to ask me about my stars. Why would we need a chaperone?’

The Abbess eyed her niece suspiciously and came to a decision. She apparently trusted her own abilities to fend off manly attentions over those of Julianna, whose brazen gazes led Bartholomew to wonder whether the skill of repelling male attentions was ever a part of her education.

‘Dame Pelagia will go with Julianna,’ said the Abbess, ‘while Brother Michael will defend my virtue.’

She smiled lightly, as if she had made a joke, but her meaning was clear enough. Some of the glitter faded from Michael’s eyes, but he nodded politely.

Filled with trepidation, both for the Abbess and for himself, Bartholomew followed Julianna up a narrow flight of stairs to an attic above the solar. The room was as elegantly furnished as the rest of the building, and Bartholomew was impressed to see glass in the windows that was so fine and clear he could see right through them and out to the fields and Fens beyond. Dame Pelagia finally heaved herself up the stairs and stood wheezing in the doorway. Bartholomew helped her to a chair.

‘You seem more in need of a cure for chest pains than Julianna does,’ he said pointedly, as the old lady collapsed into the chair with evident relief. Julianna grinned at him, totally unabashed, and perched herself on a table where she sat swinging her legs.

Bartholomew started to ask her about her birth date and various other significant events in her life, to keep matters purely medical, and to prevent her from embarking on some tangential discussion of her own choosing. Dame Pelagia began to nod and doze in her chair, watched attentively by both Bartholomew and Julianna for entirely different reasons. Dame Pelagia’s head drooped and Bartholomew leapt noisily to his feet to pace the room. The old lady snapped awake, eyed him suspiciously and tried to pay attention to what was being said.

Several times he tried to bring the interview to an end, but Julianna knew as well as he did that ascertaining information to predict what would best favour a person’s future health with any degree of accuracy took time. She also seemed aware that he did not want to offend the Abbess by providing her niece with a less than accurate consultation. Wearily, he sat at a table, unrolled the charts and began to make his calculations.

Dame Pelagia’s head sank down onto her chest a second time and Bartholomew rapped the ink-well on the side of the table vigorously, pretending that its contents needed to be shaken. Pelagia looked up sleepily and resettled herself in the chair. But Bartholomew’s ploys could not keep the old lady from her midday doze indefinitely and it was not long before she was soundly asleep, her gentle snores whispering about the room.

‘Now,’ said Bartholomew as he sharpened a pen noisily, hoping to waken her yet again. ‘What phase was the moon in when you first experienced these pains?’

He pretended to drop the ink-well, sending it clattering to the floor, but Dame Pelagia did not even stir.

‘Now she is asleep, you will not waken her with your contrived racket,’ said Julianna, confident in her superior knowledge of the old lady’s habits. ‘We do not have long now you have successfully wasted so much time in keeping her awake. The bell for sext will ring at any moment and then our time alone together will be at an end.’ She advanced on him meaningfully.

Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, raising his hands to fend her off. ‘Sister Julianna! You are a nun – remember your vows!’

‘I am not a nun!’ said Julianna in disdain, her voice low. ‘And I have taken no vows. I am merely here in the care of my aunt until a suitable marriage can be arranged.’

Bartholomew glanced uneasily towards the door, assessing his chances of reaching it before Julianna blocked his way. He wondered whether being accused of seducing a nun was better or worse than being charged with ravishing the daughter of a nobleman. Julianna moved towards him and he edged away.

‘Keep still,’ Julianna whispered in sudden frustration. ‘I am risking my life by speaking to you, while all you do is back away from me like some old priest!’

‘Risking your life?’ This was worse than he had thought. Her family must be powerful indeed!

‘Yes. And I cannot say what I must too loudly, so come closer, near the window and away from the door.’ She waited impatiently and then raised her voice in exasperation. ‘I do not bite for heaven’s sake!’ She grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the window. ‘We must not be overheard.’

He was about to reply when the slightest of creaks from outside the door indicated that someone was there, listening.

‘Saturn was at its zenith,’ said Julianna loudly, her eyes wide with horror as she gazed at the door. Swallowing hard, she leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. ‘You must leave here today. You are in the gravest danger. Leave now – this afternoon – before it is too late!’