Tulyet did not waste time berating him, and merely gestured that the rest of his unit was to advance. The streets were oddly deserted, and somewhere a dog barked frantically. Bartholomew saw a shadow in front of them, and tensed, but it was only Cynric.
‘Some are on the High Street,’ the Welshman whispered. ‘Thirty or so, all armed to the teeth.’
Tulyet broke into a trot, his warriors at his heels, so Bartholomew and Cynric followed. As they turned into the High Street, they saw shadows outside King’s Hall. They were fiddling with something below the gate, and it did not take a genius to see that they planned to set it alight.
Tulyet ducked out of sight, and issued a series of low-voiced instructions. Immediately, several of his men lit lanterns. The instant they were ready, he released a resounding whoop and tore towards the enemy, his men baying behind him. Bartholomew saw the robbers’ shock as they whipped around: clearly, they had not expected trouble from the castle. Several took flight, panicked by the shouting and sudden profusion of lights. Bartholomew grabbed Cynric’s arm.
‘Go to All Saints and ring the bell,’ he ordered urgently. ‘Quickly!’
Cynric hesitated, preferring to fight, but then ran to do as he was told. Bartholomew looked back to the affray, and saw Tulyet down on one knee while a raider prepared to make an end of him with a mace. He raced forward, and knocked the fellow off his feet with a punch that hurt his hand.
‘Use your sword,’ advised Tulyet, scrambling upright. ‘Fists have no place here.’
Bartholomew heard a sound behind him, and only just managed to parry the blow that was intended to decapitate him. His assailant was tall and bulky, and he could not help but wonder whether it might be Ayera or Langelee. The man advanced with deadly purpose, and Bartholomew saw he meant to kill. Panic made him inventive, and in a somewhat unorthodox move he lashed out with his left hand and caught his opponent a sharp jab on the chin. It sent the fellow’s helmet flying from his head and made the hood fall from his face.
‘Frevill!’
Furious at being recognised, the carpenter stabbed viciously. Bartholomew twisted away, but tripped over a dead skirmisher who was sprawled behind him. Frevill leapt forward to stand over him, raising his weapon above his head to deal the killing blow. The sword began to descend.
At that moment, the bell began to clang. It made Frevill start and spoiled his aim. Snarling in fury, he lifted the blade again, but suddenly pitched forward, a dagger protruding from his back. Bartholomew looked around wildly, and saw a shadow in a doorway. His first thought was that it was Dame Pelagia, but it was too large. Then another raider attacked, and all his attention was taken with trying to prevent himself from being skewered.
But Cynric’s alarm bell turned the tide of the skirmish, and the raiders retreated as townsmen and scholars poured from their homes to see what was happening. The withdrawal became a rout when arrows began to rain down from the walls of King’s Hall. Tulyet quickly regrouped his men, and set off in pursuit. Then Warden Shropham appeared, his Fellows at his heels. Those who were armed ran to help Tulyet, leaving those who were priests to tend to the dead and dying.
‘Were any of the raiders captured alive?’ Bartholomew asked of Cynric, as he struggled to save the life of a man with a severed arm. ‘Dick will want to question them.’
‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘The fighting was violent and bitter – the invaders could not afford to be taken prisoner, while the castle wanted to redress the humiliation of last time. But the robbers lost seven men, and we lost only two. We conducted ourselves more respectably this time.’
Cynric’s bell had filled the streets with indignant townsmen and scholars, all of whom had armed themselves with sticks, cudgels and even garden tools. They helped Tulyet hunt for the raiders in the dark lanes, and so did Michael’s beadles, although it was not long before the Sheriff returned to King’s Hall, his face dark with anger and disappointment as he reported that they had all managed to escape. Cynric offered to track the villains back to the marshes, but although Tulyet dispatched a unit of soldiers to accompany him, he did not look hopeful.
Dame Pelagia was among those who came to inspect the aftermath of the skirmish.
‘Have you seen Langelee?’ Bartholomew asked her. He was looking at the raiders’ bodies, relieved beyond measure when none were familiar. ‘Or Ayera?’
Pelagia shook her head, her expression unfathomable as always. ‘Why?’
‘Damn these villains!’ cried Tulyet, sparing Bartholomew the need to answer. ‘Who are they? And what did they want at King’s Hall?’
‘It is the best fortified of the Colleges,’ explained Shropham in his quiet, understated manner. ‘And there is a rumour that the taxes are hidden in the University. King’s Hall is certainly where I would look first, were I a thief intent on acquiring crates of money.’
‘Well, yes,’ mumbled Tulyet, not looking at Bartholomew. ‘There is a tale to that effect.’
‘You did well, Sheriff,’ said Pelagia with a sinister grin. ‘You saw through their sly plot to divert you, and taught them that Cambridge is a force to be reckoned with.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tulyet, although he was looking at his dead guards and did not smile back. He glanced up when someone hurried towards him.
‘We found the bombard, but it was abandoned,’ gasped Helbye. ‘They must have heard us coming and took flight. We tried to follow, but it was too dark.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Tulyet. Then resolve filled his face. ‘We shall gather every able man in the town and hunt them down the moment it is light enough to see.’
‘That would not be wise,’ said Pelagia softly. ‘You will not catch them, and your absence will leave the town vulnerable. They will launch another raid tomorrow, and you must be here to meet them.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them, madam,’ said Tulyet suspiciously.
‘I have been listening to rumours and questioning travellers. Stay here, and help my grandson defend the University when they strike again.’
‘Are you sure they will come?’ asked Shropham. ‘You do not think they have learned that we are no easy pickings? That they will leave us alone now?’
‘I do not,’ stated Pelagia firmly. ‘They will appear again tomorrow – during the celebrations, almost certainly, when everyone is distracted.’
‘Then we shall cancel the pageant,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘The Guild of Corpus Christi will have to listen to me now. And if they refuse, I shall declare a state of military law, one that will last until all these villains are safely inside in my gaol.’
‘These brigands are nothing if not patient,’ said Shropham, thinking like the soldier he had once been. ‘Look how long they have spent reconnoitring and planning. Ergo, I suspect that if you do cancel the festivities, they will simply wait for another occasion. And we cannot remain in a state of high alert indefinitely.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Tulyet angrily. ‘That we carry on as normal, and let them saunter in to take whatever they please?’
‘That we carry on as normal as a way to lure them here,’ replied Shropham. ‘And then launch an attack of our own, to ensure they do not “saunter” out again.’
‘It might work,’ said Pelagia. ‘But then again, it might not.’
While Pelagia, Shropham, Tulyet and Michael argued over tactics, Bartholomew set about carrying the dead to All Saints’ Church. There were too many of them, and even though most were raiders, he deplored the carnage.
‘I need a drink,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew had finished. ‘I know it is the middle of the night, but Landlord Lister will accommodate me, and we should discuss what has happened.’