kin among the lay sisters at the abbey. It was these men whom that silly Julianna heard in the kitchens last night. My grandmother knows the identities of some of them, and she wants me to pass their names to either the Bishop or the Sheriff. I was also hoping to learn something from the Abbess earlier today, but I could tell she is innocent and knows nothing of all this.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, thinking guiltily of his conviction that Michael’s intentions for the Abbess that afternoon had been rather different.
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Michael sardonically. ‘You assumed I was trying to seduce the woman. You have a nasty imagination, Matthew! My intention was only to discover whether she might have heard or seen anything odd without raising her suspicions, or telling her why I wanted to know. I had to be subtle: I did not want her to endanger herself by beginning an investigation of her own, and so needed to be careful not to let slip that her abbey is the scene of untoward happenings.’
‘The oranges!’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘And the lemons Deschalers sold Mortimer.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Michael testily.
‘Smuggled fruit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The oranges we ate earlier tonight were probably smuggled through this route across the Fens.’
Michael considered. ‘You are doubtless right. But, oranges aside, I feel that it is no longer safe for my grandmother to remain here. She has been asking questions in the kitchens all afternoon, so that she could provide me with information when we met tonight, and I am afraid her actions will have aroused the suspicions of the smugglers. I suppose your Julianna is equally vulnerable.’
‘Not
‘The Countess of Pembroke is a powerful lady,’ said Michael, apparently changing the subject, ‘and, like all ladies, she confides her secrets to her most trusted ladies in waiting. She is careful, but she often overlooks the presence of an old nun dozing on a bench, or doddering feebly around the cloisters. I have met my grandmother here, under this tree, many times since I undertook to act as the Bishop’s agent. She often has vital information, which I then pass to him. My grandmother and I know each other well enough to arrange to meet without speaking.’
Bartholomew shuddered, appalled at the implications of Michael’s words. The Bishop even had a spy in the Countess of Pembroke’s bedchamber, and was using a frail old lady to obtain information that would enable him to manipulate his domain and maintain political power. But then, if Dame Pelagia acted in the way Michael described, she was anything but a frail old lady: she was a cunning manipulator – just like Michael himself – except that she seemed to have years of experience behind her. He was suddenly absolutely certain that she had not been asleep when Julianna spoke to him in the attic, and that the younger woman’s intelligence of curious happenings might well have prompted her to go ferreting for further information to pass to Michael. He remembered the soft creak outside the attic door: someone else had heard what Julianna had to say, too.
A low hiss told him that Cynric was back. Dame Pelagia was with him, leaning on his arm, and Bartholomew wondered how Michael thought they were going to get her back to Cambridge. Behind them was Julianna, her face aglow with vindication.
‘I told you so!’ she whispered to Bartholomew, raising her eyebrows arrogantly. ‘It is a good thing you heeded my advice, or you might now be dead.’
Bartholomew did not say that he and Michael had discounted her advice, and that it had been by chance they were away from the guesthall when the attack was made. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a cloak? It will be a long, cold walk.’
‘Walk?’ exclaimed Julianna in disbelief. ‘I cannot walk! Where are your horses?’
‘His is at the bottom of a bog,’ said Michael archly, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘And so will you be if you cause us trouble. This is no jaunt we are undertaking, madam, but a flight for our lives.’
Julianna’s exuberance faded at Michael’s hostility and the prospect of a dismal walk, and Bartholomew thought she looked as though she was having serious second thoughts about the whole adventure. Although the rain had stopped, a chill wind cut across the Fens, blowing clouds over the moon and obscuring its dim light. It would not be an easy journey, nor a pleasant one.
‘Are you sure your uncle will take you in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if he refuses, we cannot take you to Michaelhouse. Women are not allowed in the Colleges.’
‘Are you monks then?’ asked Julianna in surprise.
‘Virtually,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour. He understood that it would not be wise to allow women to roam freely around the Colleges and hostels, but the rule was sometimes carried too far. If it were not for his patients and the occasional case with Michael, Bartholomew would not have met any women at all.
‘Listen,’ said Cynric, gathering the small group around him. ‘I will scout ahead and check all is clear. If something is amiss, I will make a sound like a nightjar – twice – and you should immediately take cover at the side of the road and stay there until I say it is safe to come out. You,’ he said, turning to Bartholomew, ‘should stay well behind and ensure we are not being followed, and Brother Michael can help the ladies in between.’
Without waiting for their agreement, he set off and almost instantly disappeared in the undergrowth. Julianna puffed out her cheeks in displeasure.
‘Am I to take orders from that grubby little man?’ she asked. ‘He cannot even sew!’
‘You do what he says or you can stay here,’ said Bartholomew coldly, angered at her attitude towards the man who was a loyal friend and whose judgement Bartholomew respected. He was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of taking Julianna with them. She was the Abbess’s niece, and would surely be secure under her care. But Julianna had seemed in genuine fear, and the more he came to know her, the more Bartholomew doubted her ability to look after herself. All he needed to do was to deposit her with Deschalers, and his responsibility would be at an end. If Deschalers thought Bartholomew had made a mistake, then he could return her to Denny with no harm done.
With Michael holding Dame Pelagia solicitously by the elbow and Julianna swaying along beside them, the small group set off. Bartholomew was about to drop behind, when Dame Pelagia caught his arm in a grip that was more powerful than he would have believed possible from someone who gave the appearance of being so frail.
‘That pickled eel and samphire,’ she whispered. ‘The dish was on the kitchen table when I went to collect my cloak. I tasted it, and I am almost certain it contained some soporific drug. Had you three been more adventurous in your tastes – or more alert to the fashions of court – you would have eaten the dish that is such a favourite of the King. And then nothing would have woken you when the fire broke out in the guesthall.’
Bartholomew felt vulnerable trailing behind the others. Their progress was painfully slow along the road, and he could see that this was largely because Julianna had put on the light shoes nuns wore in the abbey, which were wholly inadequate for the rutted, sticky mud of the road. Even from his position far behind, he could hear her shrill complaints ringing out across the Fens. After they had travelled about a mile, Michael stopped and waited for Bartholomew to catch up with him.
‘This is hopeless,’ he grumbled, casting a venomous look at Julianna. ‘We will never reach Cambridge if she is with us. She cannot walk and she will not be quiet.’
Julianna regarded him icily. ‘He is going too quickly, and my feet hurt.’
‘We must hurry, Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You said you were in fear of your life from these men, and you have good reason to be afraid. It is only a matter of time before they learn that we did not die in the fire – and they will guess where we are going, and will come after us. Do you want them to catch us?’
She shook her head miserably, and looked as though she was going to cry. Michael turned away in disgust and continued walking with his grandmother.
‘And he pays far more attention to that old crone than me,’ said Julianna bitterly.
So that was it, thought Bartholomew: spoiled Julianna resented not being the centre of attention.
‘Stay with me then,’ he said, reasoning that he might have better luck with her than Michael. ‘But no talking.’
She smiled at him in the darkness, and he took her hand and led her to the side of the road. He waited for a while, peering back along the track to ensure that no one was following, before walking briskly a short distance and repeating the process. When the moon was out, there was enough light to see the road quite clearly, but
