Now they have gone the stories, too, will melt away to nothing. This incident will not be recorded in the University history and in fifty years or so no one will know the name of Simon d'Ambrey.'
'Talking to you is sometimes most disheartening,' said Bartholomew. 'Everything is to be forgotten, buried in the mists of time, covered up. Unwanted people are sent to places where they will never be heard of again. Events of which the University does not approve do not get written in the University history. What will people think of us in the future when they come to read this great history?
That there was no crime, no underhand dealings, no deceits?'
'Not unless human nature undergoes a radical change,' said Michael blithely. 'They will have their own crimes, underhand dealings and deceits, and they will understand that the silence and blanks in our history say as much as the words.'
'That is not particularly encouraging,' said Bartholomew.
He remembered Wilson's tomb and compared it to the vanishing pile of earth that marked Norbert's small grave. 'What will people think when they see Wilson's black monstrosity? Will they think that here lies a man that Michaelhouse loved and revered? Or will they know he paid for his own memorial? That vile man will be remembered long after poor Norbert is forgotten. It does not seem fair.'
Michael did not reply, and screwed up his eyes as the wind blew needles of rain into his face. 'Summer is on its way out,' he said. 'I complained about the heat and now I can complain about the cold.'
Bartholomew smiled reluctantly, but then froze as he heard shouting from ahead. A figure darted from one of the carts and disappeared into the thick undergrowth at the side of the road.
'That was d'Ambrey,' he said in a whisper. 'Escaped!'
Tulyet's men tore after him but Bartholomew knew that their chances of finding him were slim. There were so many ditches and dense bushes in which to hide, that all d'Ambrey needed to do was to wait until dark and slip away. Even dogs could not follow a scent through the myriad of waterways at the edge of the Fens.
A ragged cheer rose from d'Ambrey's supporters and Dominica made as if to follow while the soldiers' attention was engaged. She slithered out of the cart and began to run after him. She slumped suddenly and the howls of encouragement from her friends petered away.
'Good shot,' said Michael admiringly to Heppel. The Junior Proctor looked at the small pebbles in his hands in astonishment. Luck, not skill, had guided the missile that had felled Simon d'Ambrey's daughter.
Heppel grasped at Michael for support. 'Oh, Lord! I have just damaged my shoulder with that throw! I should not have tried to embark on heroics.'
'It is a pity you could not have struck d'Ambrey down too,' said Michael, unsympathetic. 'Now this business might end very messily.'
'Especially for Dominica and her associates,' said Bartholomew, looking to where she was being helped back into the cart. She saw Heppel and her eyes glittered with hatred.
'I grabbed these pebbles to hurl at d'Ambrey if he tried to harm me,' said Heppel shakily. 'I can assure you, I had no intention of trying to do the Sheriffs job for him. I was just carried away with the excitement of the moment when I aimed them at Dominica. It most certainly will not happen again. I shall suffer agonies from this shoulder injury for weeks and all because the Sheriff hires poorly trained guards! The King shall hear of this!'
Tulyet had ordered half his men to escort the remaining prisoners to the castle and the other half to search for d'Ambrey. His face was dark with anger and his temper was not improved by Heppel's accusations of incompetence.
'That gentle nature of d'Ambrey's beguiled my men,' he said in a voice that was tight with fury. 'He looks and acts like a friar and he made them feel as though they were escorting their grandfather! He fooled them into relaxing their guard and was gone in an instant!'
'I doubt that you will get him back,' said Bartholomew.
'It is not the first time he has escaped from the jaws of death in this area. History repeats itself.'
'He will be old indeed if he tries again in another twenty-five years,' said Michael.
'But, if there is a next time, he will not fail,' said Bartholomew.
EPILOGUE
Brown leaves rustled on the ground of the churchyard as they were stirred by the breeze. It was already dusk, even though the day's teaching was barely done, and there was an unmistakeable chill of winter in the air. St Michael's Church afforded some protection from the wind, but was damp and cold, and Bartholomew stamped his feet to try to keep them warm.
The mason added a few final taps and stood back to admire his work. The black tomb was in its place in the choir, stark and dismal against the painted wall. In place of the effigy stipulated by Master Wilson was a neat cross, carved into the polished marble with simple but elegant swirls and knots. Bartholomew nodded his satisfaction and the mason left, warning him not to touch the mortar, which was not yet set.
From the vestry, Michael's rich baritone rose as he sang while preparing for compline. Bartholomew went to find him.
'Is it done? Have you atoned for being sick on his grave?' Michael asked, raising a humorous eyebrow. He began thumbing his way through the gospels to find the correct reading for the day.
Bartholomew winced. 'It is done,' he said, sitting on one of the wall benches in the cramped room.
'You have done Michaelhouse a great service — dallying so that Master Wilson's smug face will not sneer for eternity on our scholars from his effigy,' said Michael, peering at the open text in front of him.
Bartholomew was inclined to agree. 'Norbert's will, though.'
Michael regarded him uncertainly.
'I sold d'Ambrey's Galen to Father Philius, the physician at Gonville Hall. Then I gave the money to that mason, so he will carve Norbert's likeness on one of the sculpted heads that will be in St Mary's new chancel.
He says he remembers Norbert from the tithe barn incident.'
'You do have a strange sense of justice,' said Michael, amused. 'Still, I suppose Norbert has as much right to his immortality as Wilson.'
He sniffed suddenly. 'I can smell perfume, Matt. Is it you? I thought you had given up on women after your deplorable lack of success with them.'
'Master Kenyngham told me I would find you here.'
Bartholomew and Michael started violently at the sound of Guy Heppel's breathy voice at the door of the vestry.
As Heppel moved towards them, the fragrant smell grew stronger and Michael sneezed.
'Are you still in Cambridge?' said the monk, not entirely amiably. 'I thought you had returned to Westminster.'
Heppel smiled, his white face appearing even more unhealthy than usual in the gloom of the late-autumn dusk. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his gown, as if there was something on them he found distasteful.
'I had one or two loose ends to tie up first and I thought I would come to bid you farewell before I left.'
Michael nodded, but Bartholomew eyed him suspiciously.
Once d'Ambrey's followers had been dispatched to London, Heppel had dropped all pretence at being the Junior Proctor and had announced himself to be one of the King's most trusted agents. Since then, he had been negotiating with the Sheriff as to how the King's peace might be maintained, trying to balance the King's opportunistic demand for extra taxes to pay for his continuing wars with the French, with the welfare of the people. A compromise had finally been struck, which left the people poorer than before, but less so than they would have been had d'Ambrey's plans come to fruition.
'Farewell, then,' said Michael, turning his attention back to his work. 'You should not tarry too long in this cold church, Master Heppel, or your cough will become worse.'
'My cough?' asked Heppel. He smiled suddenly. 'Oh, that does not bother me any more. Since you have been so busy, Matthew, I availed myself of the services of Father Philius. Once my stars had been consulted, my cough healed most miraculously. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know my stars are favourable.'
'You mean Father Philius cured you?' asked Bartholomew incredulously.
