He skidded to a standstill, and one of his pursuers barrelled into him, sending him sprawling. He tried to stagger to his feet, but they forced him to the ground again. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Visions of Adam’s slit throat flooded his mind, and he fought as hard as he could. Then he was released abruptly, and all he could hear was retreating footsteps. He struggled to his knees, spinning around in alarm when he sensed a presence behind him.
‘Easy, Doctor. It is only us.’
The voice was familiar, but Bartholomew could not place it. He shot to his feet, and began to back away. His heart was pounding hard enough to hurt, and his stomach was churning. Where was Dame Pelagia when he needed her?
‘It is Torvin,’ came the voice again. ‘The riverman.’
Bartholomew peered at him. Torvin was one of his patients, a member of the silent, insular community who lived in the ramshackle hovels that lined this part of the river. They eked a meagre existence from fishing and scraps scavenged from the Market Square, and their womenfolk weaved baskets and mats from rushes, which were exchanged for bread.
‘I am here, too,’ came another voice, this one instantly recognisable. It was Isnard the bargeman, swinging along on his crutches – Bartholomew had amputated his leg after an accident some years before. ‘But you should not be. This is no place for a scholar after dark.’
‘Nowhere is, tonight,’ muttered Bartholomew. He looked around for his assailants, but all he could see were riverfolk, distinctive in their ill-assorted rags and reed hats. ‘Who were those men?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Isnard. ‘However, this is the rivermen’s domain, and they do not take kindly to strangers coming at night. They drove the trespassers off with a few well-placed arrows.’
‘We just frightened them,’ Torvin clarified hastily. ‘We are not killers, despite what is being brayed about us in the town.’
‘I know.’ Bartholomew smiled briefly at the silent throng. ‘But I suspect the rogues you just drove off are; I think they are the men who murdered Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman. Sheriff Tulyet has been trying to find them.’
‘Unfortunately, he will not succeed,’ said Torvin. ‘They are too clever for him.’
‘I thought you said they were strangers.’ Bartholomew’s voice was unsteady now the danger was over, and so were his legs. ‘So how do you know they are too clever?’
‘Because I have eyes,’ replied Torvin softly. ‘And I have watched them several times now. They move like water rats – silent, fast and deadly. The Sheriff is no match for them.’
‘Are they smugglers?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Maybe,’ said Isnard. ‘They certainly like to loiter around the town’s quieter waterways. Moreover, they are well-armed and ruthless, and you are right – it probably was them who killed Adam, the night-watchman and …’ He trailed off, and shot the rivermen an awkward glance.
‘And my nephew,’ finished Torvin. ‘But the Sheriff thinks he was a beggar.’
‘Do not tell Tulyet, though,’ said Isnard to Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘They cannot afford a priest or a grave-digger, but the Sheriff can, and he will see things decently done. The lad will gain more from being thought a vagrant, than from being named as one of them.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will have to report what happened. Tulyet needs to know that armed men are haunting his town.’
‘I will tell him, too,’ said Isnard. ‘First thing tomorrow. Thank you for betting five marks on our integrity, by the way. Holm is always saying vile things about me and the riverfolk, and we were touched by your faith.’
Wryly, Bartholomew supposed that if the five-mark wager had induced them to come to his rescue, then it was money very well spent.
The next day was cloudy, but still warm, and the breeze was from the south. It carried the scent of ripening crops, and Bartholomew inhaled deeply as he stood in Michaelhouse’s yard, waiting to walk to church. He stifled a sigh when William and Thelnetham began sniping over who was to preach that day. Suttone joined in, but the debate came to an abrupt end when Clippesby’s rat made an appearance. It shot towards Thelnetham, who shrieked girlishly, and pandemonium erupted, with the Gilbertine cowering, William guffawing and Suttone yelling at Clippesby to catch it.
‘Our Dominican is not as lunatic as he would have us believe,’ said Ayera, as he watched. ‘He released that thing deliberately, to quell the spat. And it worked, after a fashion.’
Langelee arrived, scowling when he saw his Fellows in such noisy disarray. Crossly, he whipped open the gate, and strode towards St Michael’s, leaving them to scramble to catch up with him. Ayera ran to his side, and a reluctant smile stole over the Master’s face when he heard what Clippesby had done. Bartholomew was next, with Michael slouching beside him; William, Suttone and Clippesby were on their heels; and Thelnetham was last, because it had taken him longer to regain his composure. He was still furious, although Bartholomew suspected it would be William, not Clippesby, who would bear the brunt of his ire.
‘What time did you come home last night?’ Bartholomew asked Michael, noting that the monk looked decidedly fragile.
‘I cannot recall, and I should not have stayed so late, because Holm is hardly congenial company. But I kept hoping that Dunning would let something slip about the men who died in the garden of the house he donated to the University.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Dunning is a suspect now?’
Michael put a hand to his head. ‘I cannot recall why I thought so now, although it made sense at the time. But it was a waste of effort – I learned nothing to help us. Other than that Dunning has a theory to explain why Coslaye was almost killed by Acton’s Questio Disputata.’
‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, when the monk paused.
‘That some scholar decided its binding was inferior, so elected to hurl it as far away from him as possible.’ Michael smiled. ‘I only wish it were true, because a bibliophile with those sorts of standards would be easy to identify.’
‘You still have not given up on that case? Everyone else has forgotten about it.’
‘Coslaye has not, and neither have his Batayl colleagues. Besides, as I have explained before, we cannot have scholars resorting to violence when ballots do not go the way they hope.’
‘I suppose not. What will you do today?’
‘Loiter in Cholles Lane and waylay passers-by to see whether anyone noticed anything odd on Tuesday night or early Wednesday. I shall question the Carmelites and the Batayl men again, too.’
‘Do you want me to help?’
‘I can manage, thank you. Terrorise your students into cramming more knowledge into their already overloaded minds today, and we shall resume our enquiries together tomorrow.’
Bartholomew took him at his word, and after church he staged a series of mock-disputations designed to hone his pupils’ debating skills. He drove them hard, but felt it was worthwhile, despite the fact that they reeled from the hall at the end of the morning complaining that their heads were spinning. He left them to their grumbles, and went to tell Tulyet what had happened the previous night.
Although Cambridge was mostly flat, it did have a hill, and it was on top of this that the Normans had raised a castle some three hundred years earlier. It had originally comprised a wooden structure atop a motte, but a lot of money had been spent on it since, and it was now a sizeable fortress. There was a spacious bailey, enclosed by curtain walls and ditches; at each corner was a sturdy drum tower, while the south-eastern wall boasted the huge, cylindrical Great Tower, the strongest and most formidable part of the complex.