most of the time, our Fellows are a band of bigoted fanatics who would rather see someone die than one of our rules broken.’
‘Dame Pelagia will not die,’ said Michael, quietly firm. ‘Even if it means I have to take that loose-mouthed Julianna back to Denny to shut her up.’
‘Do not worry about Julianna,’ said Harling. ‘It is clear she knows nothing that can harm anyone, least of all your old nun. But why did you bring them to Cambridge in the first place?’
Michael scratched his chin. ‘I was forced to remove Dame Pelagia from Denny for her own safety. She knew too much for her own good about these smugglers.’
‘That was prudent of you,’ said Harling approvingly. ‘It would be unfortunate for the University if enquiries by one of its Proctors brought about the death of a nun. Do you have her in a safe place? If not, Physwick owns a small house in Trumpington that is seldom used. I can arrange for you to have it for a few days without the knowledge of my colleagues, should you need it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael with a grateful grin. ‘That may become necessary and I appreciate your kindness.’
‘However,’ continued Harling, ‘I am concerned about your close association with the Sheriff. If a dispute between canon and secular law arises – with the Chancellor on one side and the Sheriff on the other – your relationship with Tulyet might put you in a difficult position.’
Michael considered. ‘You are right,’ he said after a moment. ‘Thank you for your concern. Let us hope such a rift will not occur until this smuggling business is solved.’
Harling nodded. ‘I must not detain you.’ He paused uncertainly but then plunged on. ‘I appreciate what you have sacrificed in order to continue your duties as Senior Proctor, Brother. I would like you to know that I am not the only one to admire your loyalty and good service to the University, the town and the Bishop.’
Michael smiled, showing his small, yellow teeth. ‘Be assured, Master Harling, that Matt and I will do all in our power to bring this business to an acceptable end – acceptable for the University, and for us.’
Such declarations of loyalty and gratitude were too much for Bartholomew. Michael, he knew very well, would not hesitate to double-cross Harling if he felt he might gain something from it, while Harling probably had very good reasons for soliciting Michael’s allegiance and support. Perhaps Harling was planning to discredit the Chancellor – who was, by anyone’s standards, taking an inordinately long time enjoying the luxuries of the Bishop’s Palace at Ely – and was going to force another election. Bartholomew was also bothered by Michael’s promise to bring about an ‘acceptable end’ to the poisoned wine affair: it bespoke of corruption and secrecy.
Smiling politely, he made his farewells to Harling and Michael, and went to see Bulbeck, who was slowly mending. He found the student sitting up in bed and pestering Gray to fetch him something to eat. Bartholomew sent Gray for some watered oatmeal and, satisfied that his patient was on the way to recovery, relinquished him to the rough, but sincere attentions of his friends. Even before he left the room, Bartholomew’s mind began to mull over the symptoms of Bulbeck’s sickness. If Bulbeck had taken only a sip of water from the well, and had become ill so quickly, then the well must be tainted more heavily than he had imagined. He decided to postpone his teaching and to go to inspect it himself, thinking that he might be able to persuade the Mayor to have it boarded over until the river level began to fall again.
The well stood in Water Lane, a seedy alley of deeply rutted mud that ran between Milne Street and the wharves. Unstable looking houses clustered closely along both sides, and Bartholomew was certain that if one fell they would all collapse, like a group of drunks clinging to each other for support. The ground underfoot was soft with human and animal dung that had been deposited there over many years, and the sharp stench of urine, rotting vegetables and offal made his eyes water.
The lane opened out into a small square around the well. A group of children played there, thin legs and arms poking from brown rags, as they scampered after a mangy dog with a filthy red ribbon tied around its neck. When Bartholomew crossed the square, they abandoned their game and besieged him, tugging at his tabard with grimy fingers and chanting their demands for pennies in high-pitched monotones. He flung them a handful of coins and approached the well.
Above ground, it was a simple wooden structure with a stone wall that stood to waist height, and a thatched roof, so that people winching up the water could stand out of the rain; below ground it was a narrow stone tube that dropped into deep darkness. Bartholomew leaned his elbows on the wall and peered down into the blackness. He could see the silvery glint of water at its foot, but jolted his head back sharply as an unpleasant odour drifted up.
‘That is disgusting!’ he muttered.
‘Talking to yourself?’ came Tulyet’s voice at his elbow. The Sheriff perched on the wall’s rim and grinned at Bartholomew. The children closed in again, and Tulyet tossed a few half-pennies towards them, more to be rid of their clamouring than as an act of charity. ‘I had hopes you were a smuggler hiding his ill-gotten gains when I saw you here,’ he said to the physician.
‘This water must be foul indeed to emit such a stench,’ said Bartholomew, his mind on the well and not on the Sheriff’s banter. ‘No wonder people become sick when they drink it.’
The bucket for drawing water was usually secured on a hook to one side, but the last person to use it had left it down inside the well. Bartholomew began to pull it up, so that he could inspect the water more closely. It was stuck, and Tulyet helped him to heave it free, before sitting down again and relating a tale of how he had found an outlaw camp so recently abandoned that the fire still smouldered. Bartholomew’s mind was half on his task and half on Tulyet’s story.
‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, so violently that Tulyet jumped and almost toppled into the well himself. The Sheriff recovered his balance and twisted round to see the cause of Bartholomew’s shock, gasping in horror when he saw what had snagged on the metal handle of the bucket.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asked in a whisper, tearing his gaze from the grisly object to look at Bartholomew.
Bartholomew met his eyes. ‘It is a human ear,’ he said.
‘I think that is all,’ yelled Bartholomew from the depths of the well. His voice echoed eerily around the stone walls, muffled by the scarf he wore wound tightly round his mouth and nose. He glanced up, seeing the sky as a circle of bright white high above, broken by dark shapes as Tulyet and Michael peered down. He coughed, beginning to feel nauseated by the sulphurous stench of foul water and the still air that sat at the bottom of the shaft.
He poked around for the last time with the pole he held, and then felt the bucket in which he stood precariously begin to rise. His balance went and he all but fell into the fetid water. The bucket stopped moving.
‘Are you all right?’ came Tulyet’s voice.
Bartholomew tried to shout back, but he was becoming overwhelmed from inhaling the rank odour of bad water, and he was not certain that the sound he made had carried to Tulyet above. The bucket began to move again, more quickly this time, swinging to and fro, and bumping him against the sides of the well. He felt his cold hands begin to slip on the rope and forced himself to hold on tighter. He glanced upwards. The circle of white was still a long way off.
He closed his eyes tightly, and tried to concentrate on remaining upright in the swaying bucket. He should have tied himself in, he thought, wincing as the wooden container slammed against the stone shaft, sending booming echoes all around. The pole slipped from under his arm and clattered down to the black depths beneath him, entering the water with a dull splash. He opened his eyes and saw with relief that he was almost at the top. As his head drew level with the rim of the well wall, he gulped in mouthfuls of fresh air.
‘Take my arm,’ said Michael, leaning in.
Bartholomew released the rope with one hand and reached towards Michael, but his other hand was simply too cold and numb to support his weight on its own. With horror, Bartholomew felt it slide off the rope and the bucket tip sideways to pitch him back down the well. But his fall was jolted to a stop almost before it had begun, and he felt Michael grip his wrist, all but dislocating his shoulder as he hung suspended by one hand. Others reached down to grab him and he was hauled out of the well, to kneel gasping and choking for breath on the ground nearby.
‘That was close,’ said Michael shakily, wiping his forehead with a mucky rag. ‘You almost had me down
