pacing again. ‘He told me his interests extended beyond smuggling clothes and fruit. God knows what he is bringing into the country. Weapons, perhaps. Or livestock?’
‘I have seen Master Harling out after curfew,’ said Cynric, looking up from his sewing, ‘visiting Mortimer’s house.’
‘The room in which I tended Mortimer when he was sick was very masculine,’ pondered Bartholomew. ‘I wonder whether Katherine had her own chamber, and whether Harling was visiting her as his mistress.’
Michael regarded him sceptically. ‘That is something of a stab in the dark. Why could Harling not have been visiting Mortimer? We know the baker was involved in smuggling because he gave you those gloves.’
And one of the gloves was with Harling at that very moment, thought Bartholomew with a shudder, probably clutched in his dead hand. ‘Because we know Harling imported the poisoned wine, and that Katherine and Edward stored it for him in Mortimer’s cellars. That is the connection between them.’
‘But it would be a little risky, would you not say?’ said Michael, slowly drinking his wine. ‘Making a cuckold of Mortimer in his own house?’
‘Well, what else would Harling be doing there in the depths of the night?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Counting the bottles of poisoned wine stored in the cellars?’ suggested Michael. ‘Discussing plans as to how they were to retrieve them after they were stolen by Sacks?’
‘Well, it is irrelevant, anyway, since Katherine is dead,’ said Bartholomew, looking for his cloak. He felt a twinge of guilt when he saw the clods of mud adhering to it, and determined to pay Paul for it next time they met. ‘But now, we must do all we can to ensure the safety of Matilde and Dame Pelagia. As long as Harling’s companions are at large, they will not be secure. And, since you say we can not help Deynman until a smuggler reveals where he is hidden, I am going to the castle to tell Dick Tulyet about Harling.’
He and Michael, with Cynric moving in and out of the shadows behind them, set off in the darkness towards the castle. Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force, and they were challenged three times before they reached their goal. Cynric muttered that he thought there was someone following them, but said he could not be sure. Bartholomew peered back down the dark street, but it appeared deserted and he could see nothing amiss.
He jumped as a soft slithering sound came from behind him, anticipating an attack, but it was only an old dog scavenging in a pile of offal that was blocking the drains in a dark runnel off the main road. There were other shadows around the offal, too, beggars trying to scrape together enough to make a stew over their fire in the shelter of the Great Bridge.
For the first time since the riots of the previous summer, the portcullis was down on the castle barbican. With a good deal of clanking and rattling, the guards raised it part way so that Bartholomew, Cynric and Michael could duck under it, which they did quickly, not trusting the strength of the ancient mechanism. It was common knowledge in the town that the chains that raised the portcullis were unreliable – chains were one of many items unavailable since the plague – and that every time it was used was potentially the last. It was also well known that Tulyet was so doubtful about the safety of the mechanism that he always used the sally-port at the rear of the castle when the portcullis was down.
Bartholomew and Michael walked through the barbican towards the castle’s main gate, and were challenged by two more guards whose crossbows were wound and ready. After some intense questioning, the wicket-gate was unbarred and a torch thrust into their faces so the sergeant could be certain they were who they claimed. He escorted them across the bailey to the black mass of the keep.
Lights burned in Tulyet’s office and they found him deep in discussion with several of his sergeants. While the sergeants listened, grimly satisfied to hear that the University was responsible for the outlaws, Bartholomew told him about his encounter with Harling.
‘Damn it, Matt!’ said the Sheriff irritably. ‘It would have been useful to have him alive.’
‘I am sorry!’ retorted Bartholomew, indignant. ‘I will try to do better next time.’
With a sigh, Tulyet relented. ‘My apologies. But this is a frustrating business – every time I think I have a lead, it fizzles out to nothing. But I have an idea. I will have these outlaws yet – the merchants and Fenmen are nothing. I want the third group of villains – the burglars, highwaymen and peddlers of poisoned wine. I might have known the University was behind all this!’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Michael. ‘Just because Harling had turned sour, it does not prove that the rest of the University is rotten.’
‘Does it not? That is not how it appears to me,’ said Tulyet hotly, his frustration and exhaustion making him uncharacteristically argumentative. ‘During the last few days I have seen a Fellow arranging his suicide so that his rival is blamed, using a youngster with a pathetic notion of vengeance to fulfil his plot. And I have seen supposedly upright scholars – some of them friars and monks – indulging in the evasion of the King’s taxes. And now I am informed that the Vice-Chancellor himself tried to throw a colleague into the mill race. Your place of learning is a den of corruption, Brother.’
‘No more so than your town,’ retorted Michael angrily. ‘And all the cases you mention are incidences of people acting independently of the University. Grene’s fatal illness must have unbalanced his mind; Rob Thorpe was not a member of the University; the scholars indulging in smuggling – as you observed yourself – were doing so for selfless reasons and gave the money to the sick and poor or to effect much-needed repairs on crumbling buildings; and Harling …’ He hesitated uncertainly.
‘And Harling?’ queried Tulyet, raising his eyebrows. ‘I suppose he tried to murder Matt to protect the population from his heretical medicine? Or to save them from the unpleasant experience of being examined by his notoriously cold hands?’
‘Harling was another matter,’ said Michael, shaking his jowls impatiently. ‘If you want lies and deceit, look to the merchants. Oswald Stanmore–’
‘We have no time to waste on this,’ interrupted Bartholomew quickly, before the row could develop any further in that direction. ‘We need to help Deynman.’
Tulyet took a deep breath and closed his eyes to bring his temper under control. ‘I can think of something we could try to move matters on a little.’
Bartholomew detected a distinct lack of conviction in his voice, and sensed that whatever Tulyet was about to suggest would be something he would not like. ‘Will it help Deynman?’
‘It might,’ said Tulyet. ‘If it works.’
‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Out with it.’
‘You could go to visit this informant of yours, the elderly nun,’ said Tulyet. ‘Harling said his companions would discover her whereabouts, so they are doubtless watching you to see where you go. So visit her. Go furtively – take Cynric, he will know what to do. When Harling’s men come for the old lady, we will be waiting for them.’
‘You mean use Dame Pelagia as bait?’ asked Michael, shocked.
‘Do you have a better idea?’ asked Tulyet.
Tulyet needed time to organise his men into the correct positions, and instructed that Bartholomew and Michael should wait in his office until he gave the order that they might leave. Bartholomew paced restlessly, his thoughts leaping between fear for Deynman and concern for Matilde. Michael was silent, and Bartholomew suspected he was as anxious for his grandmother as Bartholomew was for his student and friend. While they waited, Cynric brought a message from Michael’s beadles saying that Harling’s body was nowhere to be found.
Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘He escaped,’ he whispered in horror. ‘He still roams free.’
‘It is unlikely that he escaped the mill race in full flood,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘He is probably crushed under the wheel and his corpse has not yet surfaced.’
‘I will look at first light,’ said Cynric. ‘If his body is there, I will find it.’
‘You will not find it, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He escaped – I am sure of it.’
‘Well, it does not matter if he did,’ said Michael practically. ‘My beadles will track him down, and he is scarcely in a position to do us any more harm now that we know how he spends his spare time, and all his attention will be focused on leaving Cambridge with his ill-gotten gains.’
‘I do not like this plan, Michael,’ said Bartholomew yet again. ‘What if something goes wrong? Matilde might come to harm.’
‘So might my grandmother,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘But we have no choice. Dick Tulyet and his men will be on hand the instant these men make their appearance. And, as I see it, it is the only way you will get Deynman
