But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘No one rides into the Fens when the sun is about to set. He is almost certainly going to meet the raiders.’
‘Raiders?’ pounced Weasenham. ‘Frevill is one of them? I heard Coslaye had joined–’
‘You are mistaken, Doctor,’ cried Bonabes, horrified. ‘Frevill is a good man – kind and hard-working. He is not the sort of fellow to join assaults on the King’s taxes.’
‘I agree,’ said Ruth. Then she frowned. ‘Although he said one strange thing … He was talking to another customer in the shop, and I heard him say that the University was about to learn its lesson. I thought it was an odd remark, but perhaps with hindsight …’
‘He must have meant learn them in the library,’ explained Walkelate patiently. ‘It is a place of education, after all.’
‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘There was something in his voice that was rather more … more menacing.’
‘Damn Tulyet and his ruse!’ muttered Michael. ‘It has worked – the raiders have decided to attack the University now that they believe that the King’s taxes are no longer in the castle!’
‘But that would be impossible,’ said Walkelate dismissively. ‘The University is a scattered entity, with no identifiable centre. And the greater part of it comprises poverty-stricken hostels.’
‘What about the library?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That might be seen as a secure building in which to hide large chests of coins. It has thick walls and a sturdy door, after all.’
Walkelate shook his head. ‘You are panicking over nothing. There will be no raid.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Michael. ‘And I intend to warn every College, convent and hostel in our studium generale to be on their guard.’
It was dark when they left Weasenham’s shop, and even in the short time that they had been inside, the streets had emptied considerably. Bartholomew detected an uneasiness among those who were still out, and the town felt dangerous and uninviting.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Michael, when he set off towards the Great Bridge. ‘We need to ensure that every scholar in the University knows what might happen tomorrow.’
‘To tell Dick Tulyet what Ruth just said about Frevill.’
‘Very well.’ Michael sketched a quick benediction, then began to hurry in the direction of St Mary the Great, calling over his shoulder, ‘But watch out for ambushers.’
Bartholomew kept to the shadows. It was an unsettling journey. He jumped every time there was an odd sound – and the night was full of them: whimpering dogs, the creak of the sign above the Griffin tavern, the squawk of a startled bird, a slithering sound made by a fox among some rubbish. He was relieved when he reached the castle, although as he approached it he felt he was being watched by dozens of hidden eyes. It was not a comfortable feeling.
‘You should not be wandering about alone,’ Tulyet admonished Bartholomew, who had stated his purpose to at least four guards before being allowed inside. The Sheriff wore full armour, and his broadsword was strapped to his waist. He appeared calm and confident, although Bartholomew detected the tension within him. ‘It is asking to be attacked again.’
‘Frevill the carpenter is one of the raiders,’ explained Bartholomew tersely. ‘And there is reason to believe that they will attack the University next. Your trick worked well, it seems.’
Tulyet winced. ‘Then Michael will have his hands full tomorrow. There will be trouble at the library ceremony anyway, and if the raiders attack while your scholars are skirmishing …’
‘Will you help him?’
‘I shall do what I can, but I must bear in mind that this intelligence may be a canard, to draw me out of the castle, thus leaving it vulnerable. And the King’s taxes are still in the Great Tower.’
Bartholomew’s stomach churned; he was sure that the beadles and academics would be all but powerless against the professional warriors who had so efficiently stormed the bailey.
‘Have you learned any more about the raiders?’ he asked.
Tulyet shook his head. ‘But they have picked a good time to invade. Normally, we could repel them by putting reinforcements on the town gates, but the dry weather of the last few days means that the river and the King’s Ditch are low – shallow enough to wade across without recourse to–’
He was interrupted by an echoing boom, and there was a flicker of red over the eastern wall. For a moment, nothing happened, then there was a curious whooshing sound, and something plummeted into the bailey, flinging up a great spray of earth that made both him and Bartholomew dive for cover. Pebbles and soil pattered all around them. When it stopped, they scrambled to their feet to see a small lump of rock, half buried in the hole it had made.
‘What in God’s name …’ began Tulyet.
‘Artillery!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘I saw it used at Poitiers. I imagine that missile came from a bombard.’
‘God’s tears!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘Who are these men?’
Tulyet began to yell orders to his guards, who were gazing in open-mouthed shock at the spectacle. Then there was a second boom, and a stone hit the wall outside with an almighty crack. The sound jolted the garrison into action and they raced to carry out Tulyet’s commands. Within moments, the castle was alive with activity. Some soldiers were detailed to draw buckets of water to douse fires, others were moving horses to a safer place, while others still were breaking out weapons from the armoury. Bartholomew felt a sword thrust into his hand.
‘No!’ he exclaimed in alarm, trying to pass it back.
‘You do not want to be unarmed tonight, believe me,’ said Sergeant Helbye tartly. ‘You may need to defend yourself.’
After a while, another projectile slammed into the eastern wall. It made a terrible noise, but Tulyet’s engineers peered over the parapet and shouted that there was no appreciable harm.
‘What are they trying to do, Matt?’ demanded Tulyet. ‘You have seen these infernal machines in action. Do they intend to shatter my walls, then pour through the breach?’
‘Not unless they plan to be here a while. Bombards do not have the power of trebuchets, or the ability to cause widespread injuries like ribauldequins.’
‘Then why bother?’ asked Tulyet, white-faced.
‘To unsettle you, probably. You have not seen artillery deployed before, and they anticipate that you will not know how to react.’
Tulyet scowled. ‘Then they will discover that I am not as easily dismayed as the French.’
‘Unless …’ Bartholomew regarded Tulyet in alarm. ‘Do you think this is a ruse, to keep you inside while the real attack is elsewhere? It does not take many men to handle one of those devices, leaving the bulk of the robbers free to do as they please.’
Tulyet stared back. ‘In other words, I shall later be accused of cowering inside my stronghold, while the town and its University is razed to the ground.’
He whipped around to issue more orders, and Bartholomew found himself included in the party that was to venture outside. He was grateful, no more keen to skulk in the castle than the Sheriff. He followed Tulyet through the Gatehouse, and was certain his suspicions were right when they met no resistance. Sergeant Helbye led a small group east, to work their way behind where they thought the bombard was set. The rest followed Tulyet down the hill, towards the Great Bridge.
‘The watchman!’ cried Bartholomew, hurrying over to a dark shape on the ground. The fellow was dead, and his companions were in their shelter, too frightened to come out.
‘There was a whole army of them, sir!’ cried one, when he looked through the window and recognised Tulyet. ‘They were on us before we could react, so we decided to stay here …’ He hung his head, aware that he had not behaved honourably.