causeway, searching for some hidden path that Harling might have taken. ‘He will kill Dame Pelagia for certain if you lose him!’
Cynric’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I cannot, boy,’ he said softly. ‘He has given us the slip and I can do nothing about it until daylight.’
‘Daylight?’ echoed Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that may be too late! Dame Pelagia might be dead by then!’
Cynric nodded slowly, but turned his attention back to the task he knew was hopeless.
While Cynric continued to hunt in vain for some clue as to the direction Harling might have taken, Bartholomew lumbered about in the bushes near where Harling had attacked them. The task was impossible, but they continued relentlessly until the first threads of dawn began to lighten the sky in the east. Out of the semi- darkness, they heard the thud of hooves, and Cynric dragged Bartholomew into the bushes until he recognised the horsemen: Michael, Langelee, and Tulyet with some of his men. Bartholomew could not meet Michael’s eyes when he told him how they had lost Harling and Dame Pelagia, and turned away when Michael sank down at the side of the road and put his head in his hands.
Tulyet had sustained a cut over one eye in the skirmish near the river, and he told Bartholomew that reinforcements from his deputy had arrived in the nick of time. Langelee had apparently fought like the Devil, and it was only with his help that Tulyet and those soldiers who had remained loyal had managed to hold off the ambushers. The deputy’s force had tipped the balance, and those of Harling’s men who had not been killed in the fighting were now safely in the castle prison – among them Alan of Norwich and his mercenaries.
As Tulyet gave Bartholomew and Cynric this information, one of the soldiers said he knew where there was a track that led to the village of Fen Ditton through the marshes. He led the way a short distance to the north, and gestured at the undergrowth, but Bartholomew could see nothing that remotely resembled a path. Nevertheless, he followed the soldier through the tangle of vegetation with the others trailing behind, Cynric pointing out broken leaves and footprints that indicated someone had passed that way, although whether it was Harling and Dame Pelagia was impossible to tell.
‘So who
‘Of sorts,’ said Langelee. ‘I work for the Archbishop of York. There is a grammar school master there by the name of Thorpe, who passed the Archbishop some disturbing information.’
‘Thorpe?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Robert Thorpe, the disgraced Master of Valence Marie? What could he know about this? He had gone from Cambridge long before winter started.’
‘He left in October. But do not interrupt if you want your questions answered,’ said Langelee importantly. ‘While Thorpe was travelling from Cambridge to take up his new position in York, he had occasion to seek refuge at Denny Abbey during a sudden storm. As he waited for it to pass, a nun told him of a conversation she had overheard between the Abbess and some unidentified University man, during which they discussed plans to bring treasure from sacked Brittany abbeys and convents into England.’
‘And I suppose this nun was Dame Pelagia,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Michael said she was spying there.’
‘This nun charged Thorpe to report the matter to the Archbishop when he reached York,’ continued Langelee, ignoring him. ‘Thorpe was only too pleased to oblige – thinking it might go some way to placing him more favourably in the King’s eyes after the mess he made of the Mastership of Valence Marie. He passed the message to the Archbishop as soon as he arrived in York. The Archbishop informed the King, and it was arranged that I should take a position within the University, so that I could work myself into this scholar’s confidences to uncover the identities of all his accomplices and recover this treasure.’
‘Yet another spy,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I am the only person at the University whose purpose is to teach.’
‘I have rather enjoyed teaching,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps I will leave the Archbishop’s service and stay at Michaelhouse. It is far more interesting – and exciting – than life as an agent.’
This Bartholomew could well believe. ‘But how did you know it was Harling that Thorpe overheard plotting with the Abbess? He was very careful to leave no such clues behind him.’
‘He told me himself,’ said Langelee with a casual shrug. ‘I arrived at the University, and put it about that I was not above being asked to perform certain duties in addition to my scholarly ones. Within weeks Harling asked me if I would be interested in a little extra-curricular activity involving trips into the Fens.’
‘How fortunate for you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And what would you have done if Harling had not been recruiting for his smuggling operation?’
Langelee gave a superior smile. ‘Since he was, that question is an irrelevancy. He has a number of clerks from St Mary’s Church, and even a couple of Fellows, in his pay. Including the outlaws he has hired, he probably has about fifty people working for him.’
‘Fifty!’ gasped Michael. ‘My God! His operation is vast.’
Langelee nodded. ‘And so are his profits, believe me. In fact, the whole organisation is remarkable. He only started this after you lot failed to elect him as Chancellor last year, and he has been extraordinarily successful. You scholars made a grave mistake by not using his talents to further the interests of the University. By now, Cambridge might have been rich beyond its wildest dreams – and even been in a position to take steps to suppress your rival University at Oxford!’
‘Most of us would rather not have a contrabander as Chancellor,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘We generally prefer academics.’
‘Then you are bigger fools that I thought,’ said Langelee earnestly. ‘Harling is a brilliant man. Not only did he have this huge operation up and running within a few weeks, but he knew when to stop. Had I not wormed my way into his confidences, he would never have been caught.’
‘And I suppose our little roles in all this count for nothing?’ asked Michael scathingly.
‘Precisely!’ said Langelee, with a superior grin. ‘And you would not even be alive now, if it were not for me.’ He beamed at them, oblivious of Michael’s indignation.
The air was still, damp and cold, and Bartholomew was painfully reminded of the last time they had ventured into the secret, mysterious world of the Fens. Somewhere a bird pipped and hooted and was answered by another in the distance, but otherwise the only sounds were their feet trampling through the undergrowth. A low mist was rising in the early dawn, sending ghostly fingers of white to ooze across brackish water and around the squat trunks of stunted alder trees.
Bartholomew shivered, realising for the first time that he had left his cloak wrapped around the branch of the tree where Cynric had been caught in the mud. Within the space of a day, he had managed to lose his new cloak and new gloves, and facing the rest of the winter without them was a bleak prospect. He felt drained, cold and miserable, acutely aware that Harling had bested him at every turn. His boots were full of icy water, his tabard was filthy with black mud and he was so tired he could barely walk. No such discomfort seemed to assail Langelee, who strode along buoyantly, as though he were on some pleasant countryside jaunt, thoroughly enjoying relating his tale to the dejected scholars who trailed beside him.
‘So, after Harling recruited me into his service, I made myself indispensable to him. Then, when you two started investigating the poisoned wine, Harling realised he needed to prevent you from looking into it any further, and so he arranged for you to be ambushed in the Fens. When that failed, he decided he had made enough money and that it was time to stop before he was caught. Obviously, I wanted to get
‘Did Tulyet know of your role in all this from the beginning?’ asked Bartholomew faintly, hoping that the Sheriff could not be numbered in the list of people who had lied to him or deceived him over the past few weeks.
‘No one knew except Master Kenyngham,’ said Langelee airily. ‘And he had been sworn to secrecy by the King himself. What I was doing was potentially very dangerous, and I did not want anyone to be aware of my real business at the University except the Master of my College.’
So Kenyngham had been instructed to hire Langelee as Master of Philosophy by no less than the King himself, thought Bartholomew. Michael had been right in his supposition that Langelee had a powerful sponsor.
