Tossing away the knife had been premature, however. While Dark Cloak argued with the killer, Norbert struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the agonising ache in his back that made it difficult to breathe, and started to run. But his legs were heavy and unresponsive, as though he were moving through a vat of treacle. Terror drove him to put one foot in front of the other, forcing him along the towpath. He was aware that his attacker was coming up behind him, but pushed the knowledge from his mind, obeying some deep-rooted instinct that urged him to reach Ovyng Hostel. He passed the huts where he had watched Bartholomew tend the sick man just moments before, and felt the fish slip from his numb fingers. He glanced at it with regret as he staggered on, sorry to abandon it when it would have fetched a few pennies. But he no longer had the strength to carry it. He turned up Henney Lane, his breath coming in painful, laboured gasps, irrationally reasoning that his attacker would leave him alone now that he was no longer on the towpath.
He was wrong. The bearded man was behind him, watching dispassionately as Norbert’s movements became increasingly erratic. Since he no longer had a dagger, he picked up a heavy stone. He hoped he would not have to use it: braining someone would be a messy business, and he did not want any more damage to his fine clothes.
Meanwhile, Dark Cloak had been startled by the speed and brutality with which his companion had reacted to Norbert. He was relieved that Norbert would not live to relate the incident to the Sheriff, but a murder was bound to spark off an investigation, and he had enough to worry about without being obliged to dodge one of those. He began to follow them. He watched his companion turn into Henney Lane after his victim, and supposed he should not have been surprised that the man had met the drunken challenge with instant and unhesitating violence. After all, he had done so before.
As Norbert’s panicky gasps disrupted the silence of the night, the door to Athelbald’s hut opened and the old fellow stepped out, pulling the physician with him. Cursing under his breath, Dark Cloak ducked quickly under cover and stood still and silent, while Bartholomew peered down the path in both directions, urged on by Athelbald, whose eyesight was poor.
‘I heard breathing,’ Athelbald insisted, shaking the physician’s arm, as if that would give more credence to his claim. ‘Heavy breathing.’
‘Well, there is no one here now,’ Bartholomew replied, looking down the moon-shadowed path, from which Norbert and his assailant had already turned.
‘What is that?’ demanded Athelbald, poking at the sack-covered fish with his foot. The wrapping parted and the faint gleam of scales could be seen within.
‘A fish,’ said Bartholomew, sounding amused as he bent to inspect it. ‘Tench, by the look of it. Salted.’
‘For us?’ asked Athelbald eagerly. ‘Someone has left us a gift of salted fish?’
Bartholomew bent to inspect it. ‘Not unless you like it rotten. It must have been thrown away, and a cat dragged it here. But there is nothing to see out here. Come back inside.’
The night was bitterly cold, and the old man willingly obliged, although Bartholomew continued to gaze around uncertainly, as if he sensed something was wrong. Dark Cloak held his breath, willing the physician to go back to his patient and mind his own business.
Eventually, Bartholomew turned to re-enter the hovel. Plenty of rats inhabited the river bank; perhaps one of them had made the noises that had disturbed the old man. Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek cut through the air, and the physician took a step back outside. To Dark Cloak, the sound had been unmistakably human, but he hoped with all his heart that Bartholomew would assume it was just an owl hunting among the rubbish.
The physician listened hard, looking around him carefully. Then he gazed directly at Dark Cloak. Dark Cloak had no idea whether Bartholomew could see him, but decided he had better act while he still had the element of surprise. With a screech of his own, he exploded from the shadows and pushed Bartholomew with all his might, sending the physician crashing backward. With an easy, sinuous movement, he grabbed the fish before darting along the towpath in the opposite direction to the one Norbert had taken. He zigzagged through the cemetery surrounding the church of St John Zachary and made his escape, confident that Bartholomew would never recognise him, moonlight or not.
Bartholomew fell into the hut with such force that, for a moment, he was afraid the whole thing would come tumbling down, leaving the two old men homeless. Dunstan coughed in protest, while his brother made his way unsteadily through the door to see what was going on.
‘Slipped on the ice, did you?’ he asked with a cackle of amusement when he saw the physician sprawled on his back. ‘I told you to watch your footing.’
‘Someone pushed me,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, scrambling to his feet. He knew there was no point in giving chase: his assailant could be hiding anywhere by now. It was cold and dark anyway, and the physician had no desire to be out longer than was absolutely necessary.
‘He must have wanted his fish,’ said Athelbald, a little resentfully when he saw the package had gone. ‘You told me it was no good for eating.’
‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, I would not have eaten it.’
‘Not everyone can afford fastidious tastes like yours,’ grumbled Athelbald. ‘It would probably have been all right with a few fish guts begged from the eel catchers and a good long boil in water from the river.’
Bartholomew felt faintly queasy.
‘Come inside,’ said Athelbald, taking the physician’s arm to guide him back into the hut. ‘Whoever it was meant you no harm, or he would have used a knife and not his fists. We would do well to mind our own affairs, and ignore whatever happened here tonight.’
Bartholomew conceded that he was right, and returned to his duties with the old man’s ailing brother.
Meanwhile, Norbert had headed for Ovyng’s door, hoping that once he reached it he would be safe. Already he had tried screaming for help, but few folk were rash enough to respond to howls in the night, and all that had happened was that he had wasted valuable energy. He gained the door and grasped the latch, praying that the officious friars had not locked it after he had been careful to leave it open. He never found out. No sooner had his fingers touched the metal than there was a crushing pain in his head that all but blinded him.
The bearded man watched Norbert crumple into the snow. Dispassionately, he saw his victim’s eyes close, and a few moments later, heard his breathing stop. Norbert was dead. He dropped the stone and wiped his hand in the snow. It was too dark in the shadows of the lane to see whether the skull-shattering blow had stained his clothes, but he was fairly certain that it had not. He knew from experience that the first strike was relatively clean. He straightened his cloak, dried his wet hand on his jerkin, and made his way towards the High Street, thinking grimly about the unfinished business he still had to resolve with his dark-cloaked companion.
CHAPTER 1
22 December 1354,
Cambridge
Matthew Bartholomew studied the man brother Michael pointed out to him. The fellow’s narrow face was framed by long grey hair that glistened with a generous coating of grease, and his unevenly bushy beard was dappled with white. He had moist hazel eyes and a set of enormous horse-like teeth, so large that his lips would never cover them without considerable effort and concentration from their owner. His clothes, however, were well-cut and elaborate, and he carried himself with a self-satisfied swagger, indicating that he considered himself to be the height of sartorial elegance and dashing good looks, even if the reality was somewhat different.