Chapter 12
The room was silent except for Langelee’s heavy breathing and the receding footsteps of Harling and his associates as they made their way up the dark street with Dame Pelagia. Bartholomew glanced at Matilde, who was trying not to look frightened, and wished with all his heart that he had never had the idea of secreting the elderly nun with the woman he regarded as one of his most dear friends. Langelee kicked the door closed with one foot and tightened his grip on the long hunting knife.
‘Watch him,’ Langelee ordered the sergeant, gesturing with a flick of his head at Michael, who was clearly poised to lunge. Langelee’s attentions were fixed on Bartholomew.
In a movement that was lightning quick, Langelee had crossed the room and struck the sergeant a heavy blow on the side of the neck. The sergeant crumpled into a heap. Bartholomew gazed from the unconscious sergeant to Langelee in bewilderment, an expression mirrored in the faces of Michael and Matilde.
‘We do not have much time,’ said Langelee urgently. ‘We must help Tulyet. Then we must try to save Dame Pelagia.’
‘But what–?’ began Michael.
Langelee opened the door and peered out into the darkness. ‘No time for that,’ he said. ‘Suffice to say I am loyal to the King.’ He turned to Matilde. ‘Bind this man securely and lock your door when we have gone. Open it to no one but the Sheriff.’ He leaned down, kissed her fully on the lips and was gone, leaving Bartholomew and Michael in utter confusion. Matilde scrubbed at her mouth in distaste. ‘Hurry!’ came Langelee’s voice from the street.
Dazed, they followed him outside. Cynric emerged from the darkness, his face anxious.
‘What is happening?’ he whispered. ‘The Vice-Chancellor has escaped and the Sheriff is chasing shadows by the river.’
‘Bartholomew?’ called Langelee. ‘Follow Harling with Cynric. Michael, you go to the castle for reinforcements. I will head down to the river and see what might be done to help Tulyet.’
With serious misgivings about leaving Matilde alone with the unconscious sergeant, and even greater ones about pursuing Harling, Bartholomew followed Cynric to Bridge Street, Michael panting along behind. Ahead of them, moving shadows in the darkness showed where Harling and his accomplices were hurrying Dame Pelagia towards the Barnwell Gate, presumably aiming for the open Fens to the north of the town.
‘Matt, we will never find them if they escape that way,’ groaned Michael. ‘The Fens are a labyrinth of hidden channels and secret causeways. My grandmother!’
‘Go to the castle,’ said Bartholomew, giving the monk a shove to get him moving. ‘Tell Tulyet’s deputy to send someone after us before we all get lost in the marshes.’
‘How do we know we can trust Langelee?’ asked Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve. ‘He might be leading us into another trap.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Bartholomew, watching the dwindling shadows in the distance. ‘Had he meant us harm, we would be dead by now. And you had better ask Tulyet’s deputy to relieve him – assuming of course that the deputy is not one of these traitors among Tulyet’s garrison.’
He pushed Michael in the direction of the castle, and slipped away after Cynric towards the town gate. Distantly, there came the sound of men fighting, and Bartholomew hoped Michael’s message to the deputy would be in time to relieve the beleaguered Sheriff.
The Barnwell Gate was deserted, and Bartholomew assumed the guards were in Harling’s pay until he saw the dark outline of a body lying on the floor inside the hut. His physician’s instincts urged him to tend to the man, but Cynric dragged him on and out through the gate and into the open country beyond the town.
It was a cold night, with heavy clouds piling up against each other in readiness for yet another downpour. Here and there, however, patches of clear sky could be seen, with stars flickering against the blackness of space. At times, the moon was visible, sliding out to bathe the countryside is a soft, silvery light. The pathway was treacherous with thick mud from the rains of the afternoon, and Bartholomew skidded and slipped like a drunk, his fear of losing sight of the moving shadows ahead making him clumsy and incautious.
Near the town, small homesteads were scattered along the road, frail, vulnerable shacks with reed-thatched roofs and wattle-and-daub walls. Beyond them stretched their strips of fields, carefully hoed and lined with rows of winter vegetables. Doors opened slightly as they went past, and shadows could be seen moving behind the boarded windows as their occupants prepared to defend their kingdoms against those who would steal their meagre produce under cover of darkness.
Gradually, the houses became fewer, and then they died out altogether as the arable land gave way to the alder and willow tangle that marked the edge of the Fens. Once there were small trees to slink behind, and bushes that threw confused shadows across the pathway, Cynric increased the pace, attempting to close the gap between pursuer and pursued. The ground underfoot became waterlogged, rather than simply muddy, and the causeway rose above the surrounding land to cross the first of a series of bogs.
‘How many of them are there?’ Bartholomew asked Cynric as he trotted breathlessly behind.
‘Shh. Four and Dame Pelagia. We can take them.’ Cynric eased back into the shadows as one of the men ahead glanced back.
‘We cannot!’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘There is more to Harling than you think.’
‘But we will lose him once he reaches the marshes proper – and Dame Pelagia too,’ hissed Cynric. ‘Even if we manage to follow him, what do you imagine we can do? Which one of us will return for help? And how will he find his way to the other again?’
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. ‘I have no weapon, and even if I could manage Harling – which I do not think I could – that would still leave you with three others.’
‘You are too crude in your thinking, boy,’ said Cynric, drawing his long Welsh dagger. ‘We will slip up behind them and pick them off one by one.’
‘Will we now?’
Bartholomew and Cynric spun round at the sound of Harling’s voice so close to them.
‘This is becoming tiresome,’ said the Vice-Chancellor. He had drawn a knife from his belt, and Bartholomew saw it glint in the moonlight as it flicked towards him. The physician jerked backwards, skidding on the slippery ground as the weapon flashed past his face. There was a blur of movement and he saw Cynric dart forward with his own dagger drawn, but Harling’s reactions were too quick, even for Cynric, and he had leapt out of the range of the hunting knife before it could do more than catch his sleeve. While Harling was occupied with Cynric, Bartholomew rushed at him, snatching at the hand that held the weapon, but Harling simply stepped to one side, and a well-placed foot sent the physician sprawling to the ground, legs and arms becoming hopelessly entangled in his long cloak as he fell.
Harling, meanwhile, had seized a stout stick from the ground, and wielded it in his left hand. He feinted at Cynric with the dagger, and then hit out with his branch, sending the Welshman tumbling into the bushes. Harling turned his attention to Bartholomew. The physician struggled to free himself from the cloth as Harling advanced, but the more he squirmed, the tighter the folds seemed to envelop him. He managed to release one arm and shot out a hand to grasp Harling around the ankle, pulling hard so that the Vice-Chancellor fell heavily and his knife skittered from his hand.
‘I am here, boy!’ cried Cynric, emerging dishevelled from the undergrowth, as Harling took a firm hold on the stick and prepared to strike Bartholomew with it.