Access to the bailey was gained by crossing a rickety drawbridge and ducking under a portcullis that was rumoured to be hanging by a thread. It was not that Tulyet was careless about maintenance, but that he preferred to divert funds to more urgent causes than the upkeep of a castle with no serious enemies. Beyond them was the Gatehouse, an impressive structure bristling with arrow slits and machicolations. Bartholomew was waved through it with smiles and cheerful greetings from the guards, most of whom he had treated for the occasional bout of fever or minor injury sustained during training.
The Sheriff was in his office in the Great Tower. Clerks, not warriors, surrounded him, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves, almost invisible behind the piles of documents that awaited his attention. He beamed when he saw Bartholomew, and rose to his feet with obvious relief.
‘You cannot leave!’ objected one of the clerks, as Tulyet made for the door. Bartholomew was surprised to note it was Willelmus from the Carmelite Priory – the man who liked to draw chickens. ‘We have not finished the tax returns for–’
‘They can wait,’ said Tulyet crisply. ‘We have been labouring all morning, and I need a rest.’
‘I thought you were a White Friar,’ said Bartholomew to the scribe.
‘He is,’ replied Tulyet, as Willelmus squinted, trying to identify the physician from his voice. ‘And he would much rather be painting hens. But my own clerks are overwhelmed by the additional work the taxes represent, so Prior Etone lent him to me.’
Willelmus did look as though he would rather be in his scriptorium, especially when the man he was supposed to be helping abandoned his duties to pass the time of day with friends, leaving him to twiddle his thumbs. He sighed his exasperation as the Sheriff escaped, standing in such a way that one hand rested pointedly on a pile of documents. Clearly, there was still a lot to do.
‘He is so keen to get back to his real work that he is something of a slave-driver,’ confided Tulyet, clattering down the spiral staircase. ‘I am eager to finish, too, because the King hates his money to be delivered late. But I have my limits.’
When they reached the bailey, Tulyet stretched until his shoulders cracked. Then he turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes, breathing the fresh air with obvious relief. He had always hated sitting indoors, being a naturally energetic, active man.
‘If you are working on these levies, who is investigating Adam’s death?’ asked Bartholomew.
Tulyet opened his eyes. ‘I am, with every free moment I have. But the taxes are almost ready now. We have great crates of coins locked in the Great Tower, waiting to be taken to London.’
‘Perhaps you should post extra guards on the Gatehouse,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I imagine every robber in the county will be interested in “great crates of coins”.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘It would have to be a very bold thief who attempted to raid a royal castle. But what can I do for you today? Are you here to tell me what happened last night? Isnard said you would come.’
Bartholomew described the events of the previous evening in as much detail as he could, yet although Tulyet listened attentively, the physician was acutely aware that he had little of substance to relate. He could not describe the men, other than to say that they had worn armour, and he was unable to guess what they had been doing. His only real contribution was that the riverfolk considered them strangers, so they were probably not townsmen or scholars.
‘I sent one of my soldiers to inspect that strip of riverbank, but there was nothing to see,’ said Tulyet when he had finished. ‘Isnard had garnered a few more details from the riverfolk – for which I am grateful, because they would never have confided in me – but it all adds up to very little.’
‘I think they are the men who killed Adam,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One of them ordered his crony to cut my throat.’
‘You are almost certainly right. Moreover, I suspect they have claimed more than three victims. Several other folk have gone missing of late, and I cannot help but wonder whether they have had their throats cut, too, and their bodies hidden or tossed in the river. It is a bad state of affairs, and I would be hunting these villains now, were it not for these damned revenues.’
‘Can you not delegate those to someone else?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that catching killers was a lot more important than money, although he suspected the King would disagree.
‘I wish I could, but I have no wish to lose my post because a minion is careless with his arithmetic. The King takes his taxes seriously – it is expensive to keep the Prince of Wales campaigning in France. Did I tell you that we are ordered to provide a ribauldequin this year, too, as part of our payment? Still, it could have been worse – York had to make five hundred hauberks.’
Bartholomew, gazed at him, disgusted that the taxes his College was forced to pay – which always necessitated draconian economies and sacrifice – were being spent on such a wicked contraption. He was not stupid enough to say so to one of His Majesty’s most loyal officers, though, and floundered around for an innocuous response. ‘Are ribauldequins difficult to manufacture?’
‘Very. They require precision casting of high-quality metal. It is finished now, thank God. It took a while, because I had never seen one, and I had to find out what they entail.’
‘The King’s clerks did not provide specifications?’
‘They did, but we needed more detail. I would have asked you to help – you saw them in action at Poitiers – but I had a feeling you would refuse, like Northwood did.’
‘Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why would you ask him?’
‘Because he was also at Poitiers, as chaplain to one of the Prince’s generals. But he said that while he would be happy to destroy a ribauldequin, he would never assist in the making of one.’
‘I did not know he was at the battle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He never mentioned it.’
‘He claimed it was the nastiest experience he had ever had, and disliked talking about it. He confided in me only because we were friends.’
‘Holm was at Poitiers, too.’ Bartholomew felt like adding that the surgeon had sided with the French, but was not entirely sure how Tulyet would react, and although he disliked Holm, he did not want to be responsible for his arrest.
‘I doubt he did any fighting,’ said Tulyet disparagingly. ‘The man looks lean and fit, but there is no real strength in him. Women fall at his feet – and even my wife claims he has the body of a Greek god – but he is a feeble specimen in my view.’
‘It is a pity we spend money on fighting the French,’ said Bartholomew. He fully agreed with Tulyet, but was afraid that once he began to list the surgeon’s faults, he might not be able to stop. ‘There are much better causes.’
Tulyet nodded ruefully. ‘Like dredging the King’s Ditch, which is so full of silt that anyone can paddle across it after a dry spell, and it provides no kind of defence for the town at all.’
‘Or feeding the town’s poor,’ added Bartholomew.
Tulyet was not listening. ‘I had hoped the French would sue for peace after Poitiers. Their country is in a terrible state: their army is in disarray, their peasants are on the verge of rebellion; and their King is our prisoner but they cannot afford the ransom. Neither can a number of their nobles, including the Archbishop of Sens, the Count of Eu and the Sire de Rougé.’