‘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.’
