After Kenyngham had ended the meal by reading grace, Bartholomew rounded up his students, and marched them off to the conclave for some additional lessons, abandoning his own plans to work on his treatise on fevers that afternoon. He taught until the light faded and the young men were no more than dark shapes with voices that were hoarse with tiredness, and then he continued until he became aware that at least two of them were asleep, exhaustion and the dark taking their toll. Reluctantly, he released them and went to his room, feeling far more anxious about their impending examinations than they were. He sat at his table and lit a vile-smelling tallow candle, intending to write a paragraph or two about contagion before he retired to bed.
He heard one of Michael’s room-mates snoring in the chamber above him, and the slap of sandals on the wooden floor as someone moved around. Agatha’s favourite cockerel crowed once in the darkness, and somewhere in the town a group of people was singing at the tops of their voices. Firelight flickered temptingly from the kitchen, and Agatha’s raucous laughter wafted across the yard as she sat chatting with the other servants. And then it was silent. He wrote three sentences and promptly dozed off, waking abruptly when he almost set his hair alight as his head nodded towards the candle. With a sigh, he doused the flame, and groped his way over to the bed, wrapping himself in his blanket and shivering until he fell asleep.
He awoke the following morning feeling refreshed and far more hopeful about his students’ chances of passing their disputations than he had been the day before. He went with Father Paul to prepare the church for the morning service, ate a hearty breakfast of warmish oatmeal and grey, grainy bread, and set about his teaching with renewed enthusiasm. By the time the bell rang to announce the end of the day’s lessons, he was pleased with the progress his students had made, and felt that all but Deynman should do his hard work justice – Deynman’s was a case beyond all earthly help.
He visited three patients with a recurrence of the winter fever that he was certain was caused by drinking from the well in Water Lane. Because it was easier and quicker to use the Water Lane well than the one in the Market Square, people were still becoming ill and, short of sealing it up, Bartholomew did not know how to stop them: claiming that invisible substances were seeping into it from the river was not a sufficiently convincing reason to make them change the habits of a lifetime.
When he had finished with the winter-fever patients, Bartholomew then went to St John’s Hospital to tend a man with a palsy. On the way back, he met Michael, who had been investigating a burglary in nearby St Clement’s Hostel – the outlaws had struck again.
Since they were close, Bartholomew persuaded Michael to walk up Castle Hill to see Sheriff Tulyet and describe to him, first hand, their experiences with the outlaws on the Cambridge to Ely causeway. Michael regarded the hill with apprehensive eyes, but agreed that it would be courteous to visit the beleaguered Sheriff, to see if their personal account of the ambush in the Fens might help him to catch the men who were terrorising the public highways and attacking property in the town.
They walked towards the Great Bridge, and paid the toll to be allowed to cross it. They trod carefully, wary of the rotten timbers that had crumbled away to reveal the swollen, stinking river below, and of the low sides, where the stone had been plundered to repair buildings in the town. Carts creaked across it, horses picking their way cautiously and stumbling as their hooves turned on the uneven surface. Their owners yelled, cajoled and urged, making almost as much noise as they did when they sold their wares at the market. Beyond the bridge, the road rose in a muddy trail to the churches of St Giles and St Peter, standing almost opposite each other, and then to the mighty castle beyond.
Michael complained bitterly about the exercise, although the hill was neither steep nor tall, and by the time they reached the top, the fat monk’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat and his scanty supply of patience had evaporated. When a pardoner sidled up to them and invited them to look at his goods, Michael’s face assumed such an expression of anger that the man scuttled away as fast as his legs would carry him.
‘That was unnecessary, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly, watching the pardoner run. ‘He needs to make a living and life is not easy for itinerants in the winter.’
‘He should know monks do not buy pardons,’ retorted Michael, unrepentant. ‘And anyway, I have sworn a vow of poverty and have no money to spend on such foolishness.’
‘That is not what you told Walter,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What of these silver candlesticks from the Holy Land and your illustrated manuscripts?’
‘I possess no such things!’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Really, Matt! Do you believe everything I say? What I do have, however, is important documents and writs. I cannot have that good-for-nothing porter not bothering to protect my room because he thinks I own nothing of value. Now he believes I own a veritable treasure trove, he will be more careful.’
That was probably true, thought Bartholomew. Walter would not wish to risk being held responsible for the loss of Michael’s fictitious treasures – although he would care nothing for scrolls – and would doubtless make more of an effort to ensure the monk’s chamber was secure from now on.
The castle, dominating the town from its hill, was a collection of squat, grey buildings surrounded by a sturdy curtain wall. The curtain enclosed a wide expanse of muddy ground that was nearly always active with some kind of military training, and was overlooked by the great round keep at the far end. Tulyet’s office was on the first floor of this austere Norman tower, the jagged crenellations of which pierced the white winter sky like blackened teeth.
Unusually, the bailey was almost deserted. There was a sergeant at the gate, and one or two archers lounged around the wall-walk, but the bulk of the garrison was out, attempting to hunt down the outlaws. It was an almost impossible task: the daylight hours were few, and the Fenlands to the north and the great forests to the south provided excellent cover for thieves and robbers. The sergeant, who had admitted Michael to the castle on many occasions, let them in and left them to find their own way to the Sheriff’s office. Hearing their voices as they climbed the newel stair, Richard Tulyet came to greet them.
‘Cynric told me about your experience with these outlaws,’ he said without preamble, waving them to seats on a bench that ran the length of two of the walls. ‘He was able to give me an excellent description of them, which will be useful, but I am concerned that they so shamelessly strutted into the town and had a drink at the Brazen George before leaving on their murderous mission.’
Bartholomew sat on the bench nearest the fire. Michael might be hot and sweaty from his exertions, but the physician was frozen to the bone. ‘They were confident,’ he agreed. ‘And well-organised.’
‘So Cynric said,’ said Tulyet, sitting at his desk and leaning back in the chair. ‘I have a strong suspicion that the outlaws I have been hunting this winter and the men who attacked you are one and the same. It is unlikely that there are two well-run criminal bands operating in the same area. At least, I hope not!’
‘Did you know about the smuggling that takes place in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And I know it has become far more prevalent this year because the mild winter has kept the waterways open.’