meagre produce under cover of darkness.
Gradually, the houses became fewer, and then they died out altogether as the arable land gave way to the alder and willow tangle that marked the edge of the Fens. Once there were small trees to slink behind, and bushes that threw confused shadows across the pathway, Cynric increased the pace, attempting to close the gap between pursuer and pursued. The ground underfoot became waterlogged, rather than simply muddy, and the causeway rose above the surrounding land to cross the first of a series of bogs.
‘How many of them are there?’ Bartholomew asked Cynric as he trotted breathlessly behind.
‘Shh. Four and Dame Pelagia. We can take them.’ Cynric eased back into the shadows as one of the men ahead glanced back.
‘We cannot!’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘There is more to Harling than you think.’
‘But we will lose him once he reaches the marshes proper – and Dame Pelagia too,’ hissed Cynric. ‘Even if we manage to follow him, what do you imagine we can do? Which one of us will return for help? And how will he find his way to the other again?’
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. ‘I have no weapon, and even if I could manage Harling – which I do not think I could – that would still leave you with three others.’
‘You are too crude in your thinking, boy,’ said Cynric, drawing his long Welsh dagger. ‘We will slip up behind them and pick them off one by one.’
‘Will we now?’
Bartholomew and Cynric spun round at the sound of Harling’s voice so close to them.
‘This is becoming tiresome,’ said the Vice-Chancellor. He had drawn a knife from his belt, and Bartholomew saw it glint in the moonlight as it flicked towards him. The physician jerked backwards, skidding on the slippery ground as the weapon flashed past his face. There was a blur of movement and he saw Cynric dart forward with his own dagger drawn, but Harling’s reactions were too quick, even for Cynric, and he had leapt out of the range of the hunting knife before it could do more than catch his sleeve. While Harling was occupied with Cynric, Bartholomew rushed at him, snatching at the hand that held the weapon, but Harling simply stepped to one side, and a well-placed foot sent the physician sprawling to the ground, legs and arms becoming hopelessly entangled in his long cloak as he fell.
Harling, meanwhile, had seized a stout stick from the ground, and wielded it in his left hand. He feinted at Cynric with the dagger, and then hit out with his branch, sending the Welshman tumbling into the bushes. Harling turned his attention to Bartholomew. The physician struggled to free himself from the cloth as Harling advanced, but the more he squirmed, the tighter the folds seemed to envelop him. He managed to release one arm and shot out a hand to grasp Harling around the ankle, pulling hard so that the Vice-Chancellor fell heavily and his knife skittered from his hand.
‘I am here, boy!’ cried Cynric, emerging dishevelled from the undergrowth, as Harling took a firm hold on the stick and prepared to strike Bartholomew with it.
Cursing, Harling abandoned the branch, scrambled to his feet and raced forward, bowling into Cynric so that they both fell over the edge of the causeway and disappeared from view. Bartholomew crawled cautiously towards it, and peered down. At that moment, the moon came out from behind a cloud, bathing the Fens in an eerie light and illuminating the spot where Harling was trying to force Cynric’s head into a marshy puddle. Cynric was struggling valiantly, but Harling was bigger, stronger and had both knees pressed into Cynric’s back, making it difficult for the Welshman to move to defend himself.
With a yell of fury, Bartholomew launched himself at the Vice-Chancellor, who abandoned his attempt to drown Cynric and backed away quickly.
‘Your friend will die unless you help him out of the bog,’ said Harling, gesturing to where Cynric was trying to extricate himself from the clinging mud. He took a step towards the causeway.
‘I will not!’ yelled Cynric, floundering helplessly in the marsh.
‘Keep still, Cynric,’ called Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will sink faster if you struggle.’
‘Fight him, boy!’ the Welshman howled. ‘You can do it! He is a coward when he has no weapons.’
‘He will slip below the surface, and you will never see him again,’ said Harling. He reached the bottom of the causeway bank and began to inch up it. ‘He will be sucked down to the bowels of the Earth – to the very mouth of hell.’
‘I can get out of this,’ gasped Cynric, his voice carrying less conviction than a few moments before. He fell to one side, so that not only were both his legs caught to knee-height in the thick, cloying mud, but one arm, too. ‘Watch him or he will escape!’
‘Cynric, lie still!’ Bartholomew’s gaze went from the trapped book-bearer to Harling as he began to climb the bank.
‘Look at him,’ said the Vice-Chancellor, eyeing Cynric pityingly. ‘Help him now, Bartholomew, or say your farewells while he can still hear you.’
Bartholomew did not answer and began to move towards Harling, determined that he should not evade justice yet again. An involuntary gasp from Cynric, as mud oozed into his mouth, made him falter and he glanced quickly at the Welshman. When he looked back to Harling, the Vice-Chancellor had clambered over the edge of the causeway and was lost from sight.
‘After him, boy!’ shouted Cynric furiously, pointing to where he had disappeared ‘Do not let him escape!’
But by the time Bartholomew had scrambled onto the causeway, the road was deserted and he could see nothing moving in either direction. He ran a few steps one way and then the other, peering desperately into the darkness, and trying to detect the slightest of movements that might tell him which way Harling had gone. There was nothing. He stopped and closed his eyes, listening intently for footsteps or the crack of a twig, but all he could hear was Cynric’s agitated flapping as he fought to free himself from the marsh. It was hopeless! Bartholomew knew he could never hope to track Harling without Cynric’s help, and, reluctantly, he slithered back down the bank and picked his way towards his book-bearer.
‘Give me your hand,’ said Bartholomew, reaching towards him. Immediately, his own feet began to sink. He stepped backwards to the relative safety of a mat of dead reeds.
‘Throw me your cloak!’ said Cynric. He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Not the whole thing, boy! Keep hold of one end so you can tug me free.’
Bartholomew heaved as hard as he could, his feet sliding in the slick mud, but he felt himself being dragged towards Cynric, rather than the other way round. After several abortive attempts, it occurred to him to wrap the cloak round a tree trunk and use it as a kind of pulley.
‘It is working!’ called Cynric triumphantly, as one knee emerged from the sucking slime. ‘Pull, boy! I have no wish to enter hell through a bog.’
‘Harling was lying,’ gasped Bartholomew, hauling with all his might. ‘The marshes near the town are not bottomless. Those are further north. He was just trying to distract me to give himself time to escape.’
‘Well, he succeeded,’ muttered Cynric, not without disapproval. ‘He used me to prevent you from following him. You should not have listened to his treacherous words.’
Cynric’s feet came free of the mud with a foul plopping sound, and he was able to reach Bartholomew’s hand. Together, they stumbled from the bog, and climbed the slippery bank to the causeway.
‘Where did he go?’ Cynric demanded urgently, looking one way and then the other. ‘Which direction did he take? We might catch him yet!’
‘You are soaked,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should return to the town before you take a chill.’
‘And leave you here alone?’ asked Cynric, in the tone of voice that suggested it was not an option worth considering. ‘I am fine, boy. But what of Harling? Did he head east or west?’
Bartholomew was forced to admit that he did not know. Cynric gave him a look of appalled disgust, and wordlessly began to search for clues. In desperation, Bartholomew ran up the road until he was forced to stop and catch his breath, but, apart from the sound of his own laboured gasps, the marshes were as silent as the grave. He doubled back again, panting heavily, and hating to think he had allowed Harling to outwit him so easily.
‘It is too dark,’ muttered Cynric, slashing viciously at the undergrowth with his dagger. ‘I cannot see well enough to track him, even when the moon is out.’
‘Please try, Cynric!’ cried Bartholomew, crashing around uncertainly in the dense shrubs at the side of the
