me at all. Brother Michael has leached away any powers the Vice-Chancellor might have had, and it is not me Tynkell calls upon when there are important matters to discuss – it is that fat monk. So, when the opportunity came to indulge in something a little different, I decided to take advantage of it, and it has made me a wealthy man. As soon as I have Dame Pelagia, I am leaving Cambridge. And there will be an end to it. Now, where have you hidden her?’
Bartholomew gazed desperately at the swirling brown water. He guessed that as soon as Harling had what he wanted, he would show Bartholomew precisely how skilled he was with his weapon – as he had done with poor Philius. He wondered if he should jump in the river to avoid answering Harling and betraying the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia. But then what would happen to Gray? He rubbed a hand through his hair and met Harling’s glittering black eyes.
‘I cannot tell you,’ he said unsteadily. ‘She is an old lady.’ And Matilde was with her, he thought. Matilde should not be exposed to any more danger just because she had been kind enough to hide Dame Pelagia at his request.
‘Then Gray will die,’ said Harling with a shrug. ‘And I will find Dame Pelagia in the end – Brother Michael is sure to visit her at some point. Your telling me will just save us some time. Hurry up, Bartholomew. Or do you want Gray’s death to be on your head – for nothing?’
‘How do I know you will not kill him anyway?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How can I trust you to let him go?’
‘You cannot,’ said Harling. ‘But you are not in a position to negotiate.’
‘How do I know you even have him at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You might be bluffing.’
‘I might be,’ said Harling, ‘but are you prepared to take that risk?’
Bartholomew thought of Matilde and her long silky hair. She was an innocent in all this, just like Gray. The only reason they were involved was because they were unfortunate enough to be acquainted with Bartholomew. He should never have suggested to Michael that they use Matilde’s house to hide Dame Pelagia, and he had no doubt that once he had told Harling where to look, Matilde would be sacrificed to ensure her silence, just as would Dame Pelagia. And Gray? Harling could well be making the whole thing up: Gray would not be an easy person to take hostage because he was quick-witted, resourceful and ruthless.
‘I am sorry for Gray,’ said Bartholomew, coming to a decision and meeting Harling’s eyes. ‘But I will not tell you what you want to know.’
For a moment, Harling and Bartholomew regarded each other without moving. And then both moved suddenly. As Harling lunged at Bartholomew with the knife, Bartholomew dived under its blade, grabbed Harling around the knees and twisted to one side. The two men tumbled to the ground, spray flying high as they hit the sodden grass. Harling’s dagger glinted once in the dull light of the late afternoon and then plunged downwards.
Chapter 11
Bartholomew saw Harling’s knife flash above his head, and twisted sideways so that it plunged harmlessly into the mud. He grabbed Harling’s wrist as the Vice-Chancellor raised his arm to try again, flinching away when he saw the knife begin to descend a second time, inching inexorably towards him as Harling leaned all of his weight behind it. Bartholomew suddenly pulled downwards and to one side, so that Harling was thrown off balance and the weapon went cartwheeling away to land somewhere out of sight.
Immediately, Harling leapt at him again, hands clawing at his clothes as he tried to haul the physician towards the churning river. Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Bartholomew could do little more than fend off the blows, trying to prevent the enraged Vice-Chancellor from gaining a good hand-hold. His feet skidded in the thick, cloying mud near the water’s edge as he felt himself being dragged towards it. Not far away, the great mill wheel pounded and thumped through the racing river, the hiss of the fast-flowing current almost drowned out by the creak and groan of the protesting wood. And then Bartholomew realised exactly what Harling intended to do with him.
He knew the miller would not run the wheel while the river was flooded, and could think only that Harling had managed to start it before he had captured his prey in the churchyard outside Peterhouse: even if Bartholomew were stabbed, the wheel would destroy any evidence that his death was anything other than an appalling accident.
They were at the water’s edge, so close that Bartholomew could feel the breeze of it passing almost underneath his head. Another few inches and he would be under, helpless while Harling held him below the surface until he drowned. With a strength made great by fear, he struggled with all his might, succeeding in partly dislodging Harling’s grip on his cloak so that he was able to rise to his feet. Harling reacted quickly, hooking a foot behind Bartholomew’s legs, so that the physician fell flat on his back. Before he could move, Harling had pounced, and sat astride him, seizing two handfuls of his hair to force his head down towards the water.
Bartholomew felt icy fingers of river touch the back of his scalp and struggled for all he was worth. But Harling was strong, and Bartholomew felt himself beginning to weaken. Above him, he could see the grin of tense concentration on Harling’s face as he leaned forward, intending to use the weight of his body to press Bartholomew under the water. With all his remaining strength, the physician brought both knees up as hard as he could, at the same time grabbing Harling’s tabard and pulling on it. With a yelp of surprise, Harling, his balance already precarious, sailed clean over Bartholomew’s head and landed with a splash in the river.
For a moment, Bartholomew could do nothing but stare up at the dirty grey clouds that gathered overhead, but then he forced himself to sit up. At first, he thought the Vice-Chancellor must have already been swept away to be crushed under the great wheel, but then he glimpsed something white, and he saw Harling gripping the long grass at the side of the river, looking up at Bartholomew in a mute appeal for help. Revolted, Bartholomew gazed back at the man who had admitted to killing poor, helpless Philius, and who had unleashed the vile substance on the town that had provoked such bitter accusations and treachery.
‘For God’s sake!’ Harling cried piteously, his teeth chattering with cold and fear. ‘Help me!’
‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew, edging nearer, aware that their struggles had weakened the bank, and that it might collapse at any moment and send them both away down the river towards the waterwheel and certain death.
‘Help me and I will tell you,’ pleaded Harling. ‘Please hurry!’ Terrified, he stretched one hand towards Bartholomew, clinging to the grass with the other.
Bartholomew stared at it. ‘Where is Gray?’ he demanded again, aware that Harling’s left hand was sliding slowly, but inexorably, down the stems as the river tugged at him.
‘I will tell you when I am out,’ Harling shouted desperately. ‘If you do not help me, you will never find him, and he will die. Hurry, for God’s sake!’
Moving closer to the edge, Bartholomew crouched down and reached out until Harling could grip his outstretched hand. And then the Vice-Chancellor pulled as hard as he could. Tumbling forwards, Bartholomew snatched at the weeds on the bank, trying to tear his arm from Harling’s murderous hold. He grabbed a fistful of stalks, but heard them tearing from the ground as Harling braced both feet against the bank and yanked as hard as he could on Bartholomew’s hand.
And then Bartholomew’s glove began to slip loose. He saw Harling’s look of horror, as first one finger, and then another, came free. Then the rest flew off with a rush, and Bartholomew caught a fleeting glimpse of Harling’s disbelieving face before the Vice-Chancellor was swept away by the current. Bartholomew fell backwards onto the bank, trying to shut out the sound of the thumping waterwheel, and hoping he imagined the slight change in its tempo and pitch at about the time Harling would have reached it.
Shaking almost uncontrollably, he sat up and scanned the river for Harling, but the Vice-Chancellor was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew did not feel able to look for the body he knew he would find squashed and battered further downstream: it would not be the first time he had seen a corpse crushed by the waterwheel, and he knew it would not be a pleasant sight. In sudden disgust, he tore off his other glove, and threw that in the river, too.
Thinking of nothing but of finding Gray, he snatched up his damaged bag, and began to run along the river
