Julianna’s exuberance faded at Michael’s hostility and the prospect of a dismal walk, and Bartholomew thought she looked as though she was having serious second thoughts about the whole adventure. Although the rain had stopped, a chill wind cut across the Fens, blowing clouds over the moon and obscuring its dim light. It would not be an easy journey, nor a pleasant one.
‘Are you sure your uncle will take you in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if he refuses, we cannot take you to Michaelhouse. Women are not allowed in the Colleges.’
‘Are you monks then?’ asked Julianna in surprise.
‘Virtually,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour. He understood that it would not be wise to allow women to roam freely around the Colleges and hostels, but the rule was sometimes carried too far. If it were not for his patients and the occasional case with Michael, Bartholomew would not have met any women at all.
‘Listen,’ said Cynric, gathering the small group around him. ‘I will scout ahead and check all is clear. If something is amiss, I will make a sound like a nightjar – twice – and you should immediately take cover at the side of the road and stay there until I say it is safe to come out. You,’ he said, turning to Bartholomew, ‘should stay well behind and ensure we are not being followed, and Brother Michael can help the ladies in between.’
Without waiting for their agreement, he set off and almost instantly disappeared in the undergrowth. Julianna puffed out her cheeks in displeasure.
‘Am I to take orders from that grubby little man?’ she asked. ‘He cannot even sew!’
‘You do what he says or you can stay here,’ said Bartholomew coldly, angered at her attitude towards the man who was a loyal friend and whose judgement Bartholomew respected. He was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of taking Julianna with them. She was the Abbess’s niece, and would surely be secure under her care. But Julianna had seemed in genuine fear, and the more he came to know her, the more Bartholomew doubted her ability to look after herself. All he needed to do was to deposit her with Deschalers, and his responsibility would be at an end. If Deschalers thought Bartholomew had made a mistake, then he could return her to Denny with no harm done.
With Michael holding Dame Pelagia solicitously by the elbow and Julianna swaying along beside them, the small group set off. Bartholomew was about to drop behind, when Dame Pelagia caught his arm in a grip that was more powerful than he would have believed possible from someone who gave the appearance of being so frail.
‘That pickled eel and samphire,’ she whispered. ‘The dish was on the kitchen table when I went to collect my cloak. I tasted it, and I am almost certain it contained some soporific drug. Had you three been more adventurous in your tastes – or more alert to the fashions of court – you would have eaten the dish that is such a favourite of the King. And then nothing would have woken you when the fire broke out in the guesthall.’
Bartholomew felt vulnerable trailing behind the others. Their progress was painfully slow along the road, and he could see that this was largely because Julianna had put on the light shoes nuns wore in the abbey, which were wholly inadequate for the rutted, sticky mud of the road. Even from his position far behind, he could hear her shrill complaints ringing out across the Fens. After they had travelled about a mile, Michael stopped and waited for Bartholomew to catch up with him.
‘This is hopeless,’ he grumbled, casting a venomous look at Julianna. ‘We will never reach Cambridge if she is with us. She cannot walk and she will not be quiet.’
Julianna regarded him icily. ‘He is going too quickly, and my feet hurt.’
‘We must hurry, Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You said you were in fear of your life from these men, and you have good reason to be afraid. It is only a matter of time before they learn that we did not die in the fire – and they will guess where we are going, and will come after us. Do you want them to catch us?’
She shook her head miserably, and looked as though she was going to cry. Michael turned away in disgust and continued walking with his grandmother.
‘And he pays far more attention to that old crone than me,’ said Julianna bitterly.
So that was it, thought Bartholomew: spoiled Julianna resented not being the centre of attention.
‘Stay with me then,’ he said, reasoning that he might have better luck with her than Michael. ‘But no talking.’
She smiled at him in the darkness, and he took her hand and led her to the side of the road. He waited for a while, peering back along the track to ensure that no one was following, before walking briskly a short distance and repeating the process. When the moon was out, there was enough light to see the road quite clearly, but when it went behind a cloud, the darkness was all but impenetrable. To make matters worse, strips of ghostly white mist trailed across the causeway, sheathing the undergrowth in a murky veil that made Bartholomew’s task almost impossible.
It was not long before Julianna was bored, complaining that her wet feet became chilled during the periods of enforced stillness. She had opened her mouth to let off yet another litany of grumbles, when there was a sharp snap from the undergrowth, and she and Bartholomew froze into silence. At the same time, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and they were plunged into inky blackness.
Just when Bartholomew was beginning to think the noise had been made by an animal, and that it was safe to move on, he saw a shadow emerge from the bushes nearby and slip down the road after Michael.
‘What do we do?’ said Julianna, her voice high pitched with excitement. ‘Will you kill him?’
Bartholomew regarded her askance. For a woman who had spent her life with nuns, she had a curiously vicious trait in her personality. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move until I come back for you; you will be quite all right if you do what I say.’
‘And what happens if you are slain?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘Do I just wait here in this foul place for ever?’
Bartholomew gave her another look of disbelief, and left, creeping along the side of the road after the figure with as much stealth as he could muster. Ahead of him, the man kept to the middle of the road, but then was lost to sight as a wisp of Fen mist curled across the path and enveloped him. Intent on watching him, Bartholomew did not pay as much attention to where he was treading as he might, and he stumbled into a pothole. Through the shifting fog, Bartholomew saw the man dart into the undergrowth in alarm.
Bartholomew picked himself up, found a spot where he would be well shielded by bushes, and prepared to wait. He shivered. It was cold without a cloak, and his hiding place had ankle-deep icy water that seeped through his boots.
One thing his years of friendship with Cynric had taught Bartholomew was that in situations like the one in which he now found himself, the safest option was to wait and see what happened next. Cynric had often told him that the art of travelling at night without being seen was merely a matter of patience and practice. Bartholomew had been given more opportunities to practise than he would have liked over the previous five years, while his work as a physician had forced him to learn patience. He knew that, eventually, the person ahead of him would grow tired of waiting, or would come to believe he had imagined the sound that had startled him, and would emerge from his hiding place.
With horror, Bartholomew saw another figure glide past him and make its way down the road. Julianna! The moon emerged from the clouds and she was clearly visible. To make matters worse, every so often, she would stop and call out his name. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. Stupid girl! He was deliberating whether to go after her and haul her to safety, or let her go and hope the man hiding further along the road would allow her to pass unmolested, when the matter was decided for him.