‘Do not move! I have a sharp knife, Bartholomew. You do what I say, or I will kill you.’ The knife jabbed again. ‘Do you understand?’
Bartholomew nodded, his heart pounding. Was this one of the men who had tried to kill him and Michael in the Fens, back for a second attempt? He started to turn again, but the knife pricked at his spine, harder this time.
‘Be still!’
The voice was no longer a hiss, and Bartholomew was able to recognise it.
‘Harling!’
‘Harling!’ the voice behind him mimicked. ‘Harling, indeed! Now, we are going to walk together through the churchyard and away from the road. If you shout out, or try to alert anyone, I will strike you dead. The guards are unlikely to venture from their lodge in this weather, but it pays to be cautious.’
The Vice-Chancellor took a firm hold on Bartholomew’s right arm with his left hand, while his right hand pushed the knife into Bartholomew’s side, just under the ribs. The physician inched away, repelled by the sickly odour of perfumed grease from Harling’s slicked hair, but Harling held him tightly, and forced him back into the tangle of bushes and trees that surrounded the church.
At first, the foliage became denser, and Bartholomew wondered whether Harling meant to murder him there, where his body might not be found for days. But then the tangle thinned and he found they were at the edge of Coe Fen, an area of common land between the King’s Mill and Peterhouse. The extended rains had flooded it, so it was no longer viable for grazing, and the meadows were deserted. Bartholomew moved his feet, hearing the squelch of sodden grass, and knew the chances of someone passing that way to help him were remote. Further downstream, the great King’s Mill wheel pounded the water of the mill race. With a distant part of his mind, Bartholomew wondered why the miller would risk using it when the Cam was in full spate – especially considering it was a Sunday, when work was forbidden.
Harling pushed him forwards until they stood near the edge of the swollen river, close to where it swirled past in a muddy brown torrent of eddies and waves. It had ripped small trees and branches from its banks further upstream, and these bobbed and dipped in its unsteady currents. Bartholomew was suddenly reminded of his near drowning in the Fens, and hoped that was not what Harling had in mind for him.
Cursing, Harling inadvertently glanced down at the ground as his leg sank into mud to the calf, and Bartholomew seized the opportunity to attempt to break away. He hurled himself to one side and tried to scramble out of Harling’s reach. But the ground was slippery with rain, and Harling’s reactions were much faster than he had anticipated. Harling had pounced on him and had the knife at his throat before he could take more than two or three steps away.
‘I may as well tell you now, to avoid any further efforts to escape, that I have your student Sam Gray hidden away in a safe place. If you do not want him found face-down in the King’s Ditch, you will do what I say. Do you understand?’
Bartholomew gazed at him in horror, and forced himself to nod. The Vice-Chancellor moved away from him, although the knife remained in his hand. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew clambered to his feet.
‘You see, I was anticipating meeting you here,’ Harling continued, glancing downstream to where the waterwheel pounded the flooded river into a brown froth. ‘I thought I might have to resort to trickery to entice you out of Michaelhouse in all this rain, but I underestimated your devotion to your patients – poor Mistress Pike. I could not have chosen a better place to ambush you than that jungle Peterhouse calls its churchyard.’
Bartholomew glanced down at the knife in Harling’s hand, and wondered whether the Vice-Chancellor would harm him with it. Harling followed his gaze and gave a nasty smile.
‘Do not fool yourself into believing that I will not use this,’ he said, brandishing it. ‘I fought for the King in France before I became a scholar, and killed more men than I care to remember. Run if you will, but I will get you.’
He sprang forwards suddenly and made a deft flick with his wrist. Bartholomew looked down, and saw that Harling had neatly severed the leather straps of the medical bag he always wore looped around his shoulder. As it fell to the ground, Bartholomew was left convinced that Harling’s prowess with the knife was no idle boast.
‘Father Philius had a more practical demonstration of my skills with sharp objects – he put up a fight when he realised my visit to his chamber was not to enquire after his health, but he died instantly once I decided he should. I was told it took you quite some time to discover what had happened to him.’
He smiled and Bartholomew felt sick. ‘You murdered Philius? That poor old friar only just out of his sickbed?’
‘He was asking too many questions,’ said Harling dismissively.
‘About the poisoned wine?’ asked Bartholomew, his bewildered mind trying to make sense of Harling’s revelations. ‘It was yours? But then why did Katherine Mortimer kill herself? I do not understand.’
‘That strong acidic poison was created in a small town in France where wolves are a particular problem. Its success has made it fairly well known to people interested in such things – I am sure one of Philius’s colleagues will have heard of it. That town in France happens to be where I spent quite some time in the service of the King – as many of my colleagues will know – and I did not want that particular association to be made. Now, do you believe I am as talented with blades as I say, or would you like yet another illustration?’
‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew numbly, his thoughts reeling. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Gray is in a safe place,’ said Harling. ‘And you will not find him, so do not bother to look. And in return for his life, I require something from you.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, when Harling paused.
‘You and Brother Michael mentioned you had occasion to spirit a nun away from Denny Abbey. This nun had been asking questions of some of my colleagues in the Fens and they, foolishly, gave her some answers, thinking her to be some dim-witted ancient. I suspect she is anything but. I want to know where you have secreted her.’
‘Why?’
Harling made a grimace of impatience. ‘Do not act the fool with me, Bartholomew. Why do you think? I want her before she can pass this information to the Sheriff.’
‘But the Sheriff already knows what she has to say,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Brother Michael has passed him the information already.’
‘Liar!’ spat Harling. ‘All Michael did, after you and he went to whine to your friend the Sheriff about how you had been so viciously ambushed in the Fens, was go into All Saints’ Hostel for a drink. He needed to recover from the attempt on his life that another of my employees had so badly botched. And the nun certainly is not hidden in All Saints’. I checked.’
‘Michael suspected someone might be watching him, and so he left through the rear door,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He returned the same way, so that anyone watching would think he had been in All Saints’ the whole time. So, you see, the nun will be useless to you now. Where is Gray?’
‘There is no back door at All Saints’,’ sneered Harling. ‘If Brother Michael told you that, he is not telling you the truth.’
‘Michael has no cause to lie to me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘The Sheriff knows all the nun has to tell.’
‘Then why does he sit uselessly in his castle, scratching his head like some stupid schoolboy?’ asked Harling. ‘Why is he not out with his men looking for me and my companions?’
‘He has been,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was out all of yesterday and the day before.’