‘Perhaps Oswald’s apprentices have some agenda of their own,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps they have not been entirely honest with him.’
Michael puffed out his cheeks. ‘It would be a brave apprentice who would attempt to best your brother-in-law, Matt. Although it is possible an exceptionally stupid one might try.’ He paused as his horse leapt about on the track. Bartholomew’s mount sensed the excitement of the other horse and began to buck so that it was some time before they were able to talk again.
‘This is impossible!’ grumbled Bartholomew, out of breath from his efforts to control the animal. ‘It would be easier to walk!’
Michael, an excellent horseman who loathed any kind of exercise, regarded him askance. Bartholomew ignored his reaction and continued with their discussion.
‘I meant to take a closer look at Armel’s body today,’ he said. ‘He will be buried by the time we return, and I wanted to look at his mouth.’
Michael gave a grimace of disgust. ‘You would have been too late anyway. I saw Father Yvo and the Franciscan novices from Bernard’s while you were messing about on your horse as we left the town. They were just returning from burying Armel in St Botolph’s churchyard.’
‘On a Sunday?’ queried Bartholomew. ‘Does that not seem rather hasty to you, Brother?’
Michael nodded. ‘My thoughts precisely. But you saw Bernard’s – it is tiny with only one chamber other than the kitchen. You would be the first to disapprove of living in the same room as a corpse. Harling heard of Father Yvo’s plight, and gave Bernard’s special dispensation to bury Armel this morning. Apparently, his friends demurred, saying that they wanted more time to pray over the body, but Harling and Yvo cited you as saying corpses carry diseases, and both insisted that Armel be buried immediately in the interests of the students’ health.’
‘I do not recall ever making such a grossly general statement,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘In the summer a corpse might be problematic, but Armel’s funeral could have waited until tomorrow. Or perhaps his body might have been moved to lie in the church.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Bernard’s is in the parish of St Botolph’s, and Grene’s corpse is already there. Apparently, there are a number of people who want to pay their last respects – undoubtedly a lot more than if he had died quietly in his sleep, as opposed to horribly and publicly at his rival’s installation feast. The rector of St Botolph’s said he could not take Armel as well, and so it is an act of great kindness on the part of Harling to go to the trouble of granting a dispensation for Armel’s early burial.’
‘I suspect Harling’s motive for granting the dispensation was so that Armel’s corpse could not become the focus of student unrest,’ said Bartholomew, cautiously relinquishing his iron grip on the horse’s reins to wipe away the rain that dripped into his eyes from his sodden hood.
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Really, Matt! You have become horribly sceptical of late. But you probably have a point. In which case, Harling is showing a good deal of common sense. I would not like to see the students rioting, as they did last summer, because they believe one of them has been murdered by a townsperson.’
Bartholomew nodded, hastily clutching at the reins again as the horse, detecting a degree of freedom, swung its head round and tried to bite his leg. ‘Damned brute,’ he muttered, ignoring Cynric’s soft laughter behind him.
‘Anyway, there is no suspicion that Armel and his friends were anything other than foolish for buying goods from a man they did not know in a tavern,’ said Michael, leaning across to position Bartholomew’s hands correctly. ‘We do not know for certain that Sacks intended Armel’s death to be a deliberate attack against the University.’
Their conversation was interrupted again, this time by a narrowing of the path. The route between Cambridge and Ely was called a road, but it was, in reality, little more than a trackway. In the summer it was pleasant – grassy and peaceful. In the winter the grass disintegrated into rutted mud and deep puddles and, after periods of extended rain, became a veritable morass. In parts some of the ditches that ran along the roadside were flooded, and water covered the path and surrounding land in an unbroken sheet. They were fortunate to have Jurnet with them, who knew the country well, and seemed to sense where the path went when all Bartholomew could see was bog.
The land on either side of the road comprised dense undergrowth that thrived on the dark, peaty soil, patches of which had been cleared for farming. At points, the road rose above the land, and Bartholomew could see the marshland rolling off in all directions, as flat and featureless as the face of the ocean. Isolated hamlets were dotted here and there, their few houses standing proud on the jungle of Fen that surrounded them.
Gradually, the small clearings grew scarcer, giving way more frequently to expanses of water. Here were the true Fens, an impenetrable tangle of reed and sedge, interspersed with tiny islands bearing alder and willow trees. The ancient track that had been built across them was more causeway than road, and constant repairs were required to prevent it from sinking below sea level. In places the causeway was well maintained, and stood proud of the surrounding bogs. In other areas neglect and the winter’s heavy rains had caused it to collapse, and Bartholomew was certain that, without the expert guidance of Jurnet, they would have wandered off the path and been lost forever in the marshes. Years before, when Bartholomew had been a child living with his sister, Stanmore had told him stories about the Fens to while away the long winter evenings. They were said to be haunted with the souls of men who had strayed from the causeway never to be seen again.
He leapt almost as violently as his horse, as a flock of ducks flapped noisily into the air, startled by the proximity of the riders. Then it was quiet again, soundless except for the squish of the horses’ hooves in the mud and the occasional clink of metal. Bartholomew began to shiver, despite his exertions to keep his horse under control. The silence of the Fens was totaclass="underline" no birds sang, there were no cracks or rustles in the undergrowth to betray the presence of animals, and not even the wind disturbed the bare twigs of stunted trees. Bartholomew stole a glance behind him, unnerved at the quiet and isolation, and recalled Stanmore’s man calling the Fens ‘sinister’.
The sound of Jurnet arguing with Alan came as a welcome respite to the stillness.
‘It is safer to keep to the main path,’ Jurnet was saying.
‘Not when only yesterday three men were killed on it,’ insisted Alan. ‘If you do not like it, you can go home.’
‘What is the problem?’ asked Michael, edging his horse forward.
‘I propose we avoid the section of the road on which the Chancellor’s party was attacked yesterday,’ said Alan. ‘We kept away from it on our outward journey.’
‘But it is dangerous to leave the causeway,’ protested Jurnet. ‘Other men have taken such routes and have never been seen again. I have lived in the Fens all my life, and I tell you it is not safe to leave the main road.’
‘But I know this other route,’ said Alan angrily. ‘And I knew the men who were killed trying to defend the Chancellor. Believe me, we are safer cutting to the east.’
Egil and Jurnet exchanged pained glances, but offered no further protest. They followed Alan wordlessly off the main path and along a smaller track. Bartholomew was next, with the mercenaries behind, and Michael and Cynric bringing up the rear.