The track was fringed by a line of scrubby trees, intended to act as a windbreak from the flat, boggy Fens on the other side. Unfortunately, it was badly positioned for when the wind blew from the north, and Bartholomew grumbled under his breath about the Sheriff’s reckless assumptions regarding drifts – snow was already beginning to pile up against the hedge, and he hoped they would not reach the end of the path, only to find they could not get back again.
They walked for some time, and just when he was beginning to fear that Miller had spun them a yarn after all, a building loomed out of the darkness. Tulyet squeezed through the hedge, and led his troops through the marshes, so as to approach it from behind. They edged closer cautiously.
The ‘warehouse’ was huge for the middle of nowhere, and had been carefully constructed so that its roof was lower than the surrounding trees, thus ensuring that it could not be seen from the road. It was unusually sturdy, and had clearly been built for one purpose and one purpose only: to store goods ready for smuggling through the Fens.
‘It has clearly been here for years,’ whispered Tulyet, peering at it through the swirling snow. ‘Inge must have remembered it from his youth, and decided to put it to good use.’
‘Regardless, it is abandoned now,’ said Norys, his voice shockingly loud in the silence of the night. ‘Miller was lying, just like we thought. We should leave and go home before—’
He flinched when Tulyet whipped around with a glare, warning him to keep quiet. Then the Sheriff indicated that everyone was to stay hidden while he crept forward to reconnoitre by himself. He was gone for a long time, and Bartholomew grew increasingly concerned. Eventually, he could stand it no longer.
‘Something is wrong,’ he whispered. ‘He should have been back by—’
He stopped speaking abruptly when Norys removed a cudgel from his belt. The last thing he heard before all went black was a shriek of pain from Harold.
CHAPTER 16
Bartholomew opened his eyes to darkness, and for a moment, he could not remember where he was or why he was so cold. His head pounded, but he could not raise a hand to rub it because both were tied behind his back. Gradually, his wits and his memory returned. He blinked to clear his vision, and saw the faint outline of the warehouse to his left.
No one was with him except Harold, whose hands were also bound. Unfortunately, either by design or accident, the lad was lying with his face in a half-frozen puddle. Bartholomew struggled frantically against his bonds, surprised when they came loose almost immediately – he could only assume that whoever had tied him up had not had the benefit of fur-lined gloves.
He crawled to Harold and hauled him over, but the young soldier was already dead. He sat back on his heels, shock and confusion washing over him. What was going on? Where was Tulyet? He stood on unsteady legs and began to search. Then he heard voices. He lurched into the undergrowth, to hide until he could determine whether they belonged to friend or foe, but no one appeared, and he realised the sound had come from inside the shed. Norys and the others were laughing together.
He rubbed his aching head, trying to marshal his thoughts. What should he do? Run back to the horses and ride to Cambridge for help? But the guard Tulyet had left with the animals might be in cahoots with Norys, and even if Bartholomew could overpower a professional warrior, how was he to gallop all the way home, on his own and in the dark?
Then what about the manor? He slumped in defeat. That was no good either. Tulyet had drawn attention to the fact that no one had come to investigate the sound of travellers in the middle of the night, meaning they were either involved in whatever was happening, or had been paid to ignore anything suspicious.
Norys laughed again, and there came the sound of metal goblets clinking together. Bartholomew took a deep, unsteady breath and began to inch forward, to see what might be learned from eavesdropping.
He crept all the way around the warehouse, expecting at any moment to meet a guard, but everyone was inside. Other than the door, there was only one opening – a tiny window at the back, presumably for ventilation. His medical bag was gone – lost somewhere behind the hedge – but he still had the small knife he carried on his belt. Working with infinite care, and aware that even a tiny scrape might give him away, he bored a hole in a place where the wood was rotten, twisting the blade this way and that until he had created a gap big enough to look through.
The first thing he saw was Tulyet, bound hand and foot, and with a sack over his head; his sword lay on a pile of oiled sheets nearby. There were seven men with him – the six surviving soldiers, including the one who had been left to mind the horses. And Inge.
With resignation, Bartholomew recalled Norys’s previous foray to the Fens – to investigate a sighting of the lawyer five miles east. At Quy, in other words. Bartholomew was disgusted, both with himself and with Tulyet, for failing to make the connection.
Other than people and the heap of tarpaulins, the building was empty except for a few sticks of furniture, presumably for the use of those guarding whatever was stored there, and a pair of elegantly sculpted feet. Bartholomew immediately recognised them as from the Dallingridge tomb.
He stared at the men as answers began to flood into his mind. No wonder the thieves had evaded capture for so long – they were soldiers on the very patrols that Tulyet had sent to snag them! And as the likes of Norys would be unequal to organising such an audacious scheme, Inge was the sly mastermind behind it, just as he had surmised.
The pile of oiled sheets told their own story, too: they were the kind that were thrown over carts, to protect their cargoes from inclement weather – clearly, these had covered the stolen goods during the first stage of their journey from the town, discarded now they were no longer needed. The size of the heap revealed that any number of wagons had rolled into the Fens, laden down with wares that would fetch high prices in London’s illicit markets, every one of them waved through the town gates with a nod and a wink from Norys and his associates.
He froze in alarm at a sudden rattle of footsteps on the towpath, then sagged in relief. It was Helbye. The old warrior had not been content to sit at home while his Sheriff led a potentially dangerous expedition, and had come to help. Bartholomew was about to run forward and warn him when alarm bells jangled in his mind. He sank back into the shadows, heart pounding.
Helbye had chosen the six soldiers himself, after insisting that he should lead the raid. He had also objected to Harold, who now lay dead. Then there were the patrols to catch the thieves – all unsuccessful, and all briefed by the sergeant. And who claimed to have chased a boat travelling south – a totally different direction from the one the real thieves would have taken, not to mention a different mode of transport?
Bartholomew closed his eyes in disgust as more evidence of Helbye’s perfidy crashed into his mind. First, there was Inge’s escape from the Griffin – the lawyer would have been caught with ease if Helbye had not waded into the fray, trailing bandages. Second, Helbye had mounted a foolish and noisy raid on the King’s Head at the exact time that Holty’s pinnacles had gone missing – clearly, it had been a diversion. And third, Helbye had been at pains to accuse Isnard and Gundrede of the crimes: of course he had – it took eyes away from the real culprits.
But why had Helbye turned traitor? Bartholomew knew the answer to that question, too: for money, because retirement on half-pay would be bleak, and it was clear that the sergeant was about to be put out to pasture. Bartholomew also knew how Helbye had been recruited: he had escorted Moleyns – and Inge – to Cambridge from Nottingham, which had allowed the lawyer plenty of time to befriend a bitter and anxious old man.
Voices drew Bartholomew back to the hole he had drilled. Helbye had entered the hut and was stamping snow from his boots. A second man was with him, but he was so deeply huddled inside his cloak that Bartholomew could not see his face.
‘I offered to come out here instead,’ Helbye told Inge; Tulyet’s head snapped around at the sound of his serg
eant’s voice. ‘But he would not let me. Where are Harold and Bartholomew?’
‘Out back,’ replied Norys. ‘They know enough to hang us, so they will have to die. So will he.’ He nodded towards Tulyet.
‘Good,’ muttered the man in the cloak. There was something familiar about his voice, but Bartholomew needed more than a single word to place it. The fellow went to sit near the window, in a place where nothing could be seen of him but his legs.
Helbye’s face was cold and hard, and Bartholomew saw the battle-honed warrior who had claimed countless lives during his long military career. There was no kindness in it, and no remorse that he had betrayed a man who had offered him friendship and trust. Then he swayed slightly, one hand to his arm, and Bartholomew noticed again the signs of fever. Unless he had medical help soon, he would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his deceit.
Bartholomew moved away from the warehouse and took cover in the undergrowth, his mind racing with questions, solutions and worries. The snow was falling in earnest now, a thin white veil that was blown almost horizontal by the wind. He peered along the towpath, and saw that Helbye had brought two more soldiers with him – they were standing a short distance away, blocking the route to the horses.
Bartholomew was close to despair. How could he rescue Tulyet from eight soldiers, Helbye, Inge and the man in the cloak? The only good thing about his situation was that he had not tried to make his way back to Cambridge, and so had avoided running directly into Helbye – he had the strong sense that he would not have survived such an encounter.
That thought gave him an idea. The Quy side of the towpath was obstructed by Helbye’s guards, but what about the side that ran deeper into the Fens? He knew that the Roman engineers, who had constructed the many canals and dykes in the region, had arranged them in a grid pattern to facilitate ease of transport. Many had paths running along them, so perhaps he would be able to take three right turns, and rejoin the main road.
But what about Tulyet? He could hardly leave him, knowing what the thieves planned to do. He put his eye to the hole again. Helbye was dozing fitfully in a corner, the soldiers were dicing, and the cloaked man was still invisible except for his legs. Tulyet sat motionless with the sack over his head, although his tense posture suggested he was awake and alert.
Bartholomew leaned his forehead against the wall, struggling to think. He hated the notion of abandoning his friend, but challenging eleven men would help no one. Nor would continuing to lurk uselessly behind the building. There was only one real option open to him – he had to run home as fast as he could, and fetch help in the form of Michael and his beadles.
With a heavy heart, he left the warehouse, and eased through the undergrowth until he was sure he would not be seen. Then he scrambled up to the towpath and began to trot along it, heading deeper into the Fens. There were already footsteps in the snow, which told him two things: first, that the ones he was leaving would not give him away; and second, that someone had had a good reason to walk in that direction, which gave him hope that there might be something there that he could use to his advantage.
He did not have far to go before the lode met a much wider waterway, which stretched away to his left and right until it disappeared into the darkness. Reeds grew at its ice-encrusted edges, but he knew instinctively that its middle was deep. A sturdy pier ran along the bank, and tethered to it was a barge – a sea-going one, as Isnard had predicted. It had two masts and its deck was covered in oilskins. It was low in the water, suggesting a heavy cargo.
Bartholomew crept towards it, glad of the light cast by the lamp hanging from the foremast, which allowed him to see that no one was outside on watch. The only sounds were the wind hissing in the reeds and snoring – the crew were fast asleep in the cabin at the stern. With infinite care, Bartholomew climbed aboard, and lifted the nearest tarpaulin, although he already knew from the domed shape what lay beneath it. The bell gave a muffled ding as he covered it again.
He lifted another sheet to see a slab of pink stone. There was a partially obliterated horned serpent in one corner, which told him that it was part of Oswald’s tomb. He stared at it, recalling Edith’s distress when it had gone. Gradually, the numb despair that had dogged him since he had woken next to Harold’s body began to give way to a dark, cold anger. Perhaps the thieves would escape with their ill-gotten gains, but he was damned if he was going to make it easy for them.
But what could he do? The boat was clearly ready to leave at first light, and that would be that. Then he had an idea.
He jumped back on the pier, glad the crew was slovenly and had only used one mooring rope. He struggled to unhitch it with fingers that were clumsy with tension. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a slit of black water appeared between boat and wharf. The gap grew larger as the current caught the barge and tugged it away from the bank. Yes, the crew could sail it back again, but not without inconvenience. It was revenge of sorts.
Unfortunately, Bartholomew’s hopes of finding an alternative route home were quickly dashed. There was no towpath to his right, and he was on the wrong side of the lode to take the one to his left. The only way to reach it would be to swim, which would be suicide in such weather – he would freeze to death long before he reached the road.
Reluctantly, he returned to the warehouse. Perhaps the two guards would have gone inside with their cronies, and he could sneak past them unseen. But both were still out, vigilant and with weapons at the ready. Cursing softly, he ducked back into the undergrowth and crawled through it until he reached the window again.
Helbye was awake, shivering and clearly in pain. Inge was watching the soldiers dice, while Tulyet was as he had been earlier – stiff, alert and angry, but alive. Bartholomew shifted positions to look at the last man, and saw that the fellow had made himself comfortable by loosening his cloak. Underneath, he wore an aqua tunic – the same colour as the thread from the murdered Peres’ fingernail.
‘Tulyet has never afforded me the respect I deserved,’ Inge was saying sourly to no one in particular. ‘He forgets that I am a lawyer, not a criminal.’
‘I thought they were one and the same,’ quipped Norys. His cronies guffawed.
Inge ignored them. ‘And he failed to protect Moleyns. It is his fault that my only client is dead. Moleyns would have repaid my loyalty tenfold when the King pardoned him, and Tulyet’s incompetence has deprived me of a comfortable future.’
Helbye frowned. ‘I thought you killed him. You were right next to him when he died, and you had good reason – you dutifully shared his imprisonment, but he treated you like dirt. Besides, I thought our business here was to earn you enough money to ditch the man.’
‘It was so I would not have to rely on him for life’s little luxuries,’ corrected Inge. ‘But leaving him was never part of the plan – not after investing three years of my life in him. We would have done great things together once he was free.’
‘So who did kill him then?’ pressed Helbye. ‘Egidia? There was no love lost between them, and I was under the impression that she preferred you.’
‘She does,’ said Inge smugly, ‘but neither of us wanted him dead. I suppose the culprit was one of the crowd that gathered when he fell.’
‘Aye, but which?’ mused Helbye. Then his expression hardened. ‘You should have told me that Yevele let him out to steal. Not knowing made me look stupid – got the lads thinking that I am too old for my duties.’
Norys and his ruffians exchanged the kind of glances that suggested they still did.
‘You do understand why he did it, do you not?’ asked Inge. ‘To punish Tulyet for denying him his rights and privileges when we first arrived. When he was back at Court, he was going to tell everyone that Cambridge Castle’s security is a joke.’
Bartholomew could see Tulyet’s hands clenched tightly behind his back.
‘The witness in the embroidered cloak will tell me who killed Moleyns,’ said Helbye. ‘Then I will stick a knife in the bastard�
�s gizzard for you.’
‘Speaking of killing, when shall I dispatch the prisoners?’ asked the man in the aqua tunic, strolling towards the pile of sheets and picking up Tulyet’s sword.
Bartholomew did not know whether to be gratified, angry or sorry when he saw it was Cook, although he was certainly not surprised. With hindsight, evidence of the barber’s involvement shone out like a beacon. First, Helbye had almost certainly injured his arm doing something criminal – not chasing a suspicious barge, as he had claimed – and Cook had rushed to tend him lest he blurted something incriminating. And second, Cook had also joined the fray at the Griffin, which had allowed Inge to escape. As if on cue, the barber began to brag.
‘You would all be hanged by now, were it not for me,’ he said, swishing the sword from side to side, although so clumsily that Bartholomew could tell he was no warrior. ‘Lucas had guessed the truth, and was going to sell it to the Senior Proctor, while that ridiculous Reames would certainly have betrayed us if the Sheriff had questioned him a second time.’
‘He nearly betrayed us the first,’ said Inge with a shudder, and ran his fingers lightly over Dallingridge’s feet, no doubt anticipating the price they would fetch. ‘The fool went to the castle with lead stains all over his hands! I was sure Tulyet would put two and two together.’
‘I dashed out Reames’ brains to keep you safe,’ boasted Cook. ‘And I stabbed Peres, because he caught me prising Cew’s brass off the wall. Do you hear that, Sheriff? I killed them, and you had no idea! You are stupid, and I shall be glad to leave your nasty little town. I am only sorry that you and Bartholomew will not be alive to tell everyone how I bested you.’
‘You do not like Cambridge?’ asked Helbye, surprised. ‘I would have thought it was the perfect place for you, with no other barber-surgeon to compete for business.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 37