‘Never mind them!’ William raved on. ‘If the gates give way under the pressure, a great wall of water will race down the river, destroying everything in its path, including our pier! Most of our revenue comes from that, and if we lose it, we shall be destitute again.’
‘William is right,’ said Zoone soberly. ‘Our pier will be smashed beyond repair when the gates burst – and I say when, not if, because they will certainly tear apart unless either they are opened or the river stops rising. And as we are set for forty days of rain …’
Michael was pale. ‘There must be something we can do to save it.’
Zoone considered. ‘I suppose we could build a breakwater next to it, to absorb the brunt of the impact. It will not be easy, but–’
‘Do it,’ ordered Michael. ‘We cannot lose our best source of income.’
Zoone nodded briskly. ‘Then I shall need sacks filled with sand, a boat, a large net, and as many willing hands as we can muster.’
There was an immediate clamour as all those listening volunteered their services. The students were ordered to dig sand, Walter was told to find a net, the Fellows and Agatha were ordered to collect sacks, Cynric offered to locate a boat, and Clippesby was given the task of taking all the College’s animals and birds to the stables, where they would be safe.
Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. He could not help Zoone if he was to catch Aynton’s killer in the next few hours, but nor could he disappear and leave his colleagues to do all the work. Michael was similarly torn.
‘My College or a murderer,’ he muttered, taut with indecision. ‘You hunt for him, Matt. I will remain here with Zoone.’
But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The case needs fresh eyes. You go; I will stay.’
The monk was not happy, but he hurried away into the town.
The rest of the day was simultaneously wretched and anxious for the Michaelhouse men. The rain belted down harder than ever, making their task more difficult and dangerous with every passing hour. Water poured off the fields upstream and gushed into the Cam, threatening to wash them away as they struggled to follow Zoone’s anxious instructions.
Heavy rain was not normally a problem for the town – the dams controlled the flow of the river, and excess water could be diverted into a series of channels and bogs to the west. But now that the East and Middle sluices were locked, and the West Dam was only open just enough to drive Morys’s mill, the land to the south was beginning to flood.
At noon, Cynric arrived with the alarming news that still no one had been able to work out what Morys had done to the gates, and that all three dams, along with the road bridges that ran across the top of them, were now in serious danger of being washed away as more and more water backed up behind them.
Zoone and his helpers laboured on with their breakwater, and Bartholomew was sure he had never been so physically exhausted. Every bone and muscle ached, but he dared not stop, because it was now obvious even to a non-engineer that the pier would be swept away unless the breakwater was finished.
Disturbing news arrived throughout the afternoon: the Gilbertine Priory, built on a rise, had become an island, accessible only by boat; Coe Fen was submerged completely; the Hall of Valence Marie had been evacuated; and Peterhouse was moments away from inundation. On a more positive note, every book from both Colleges had been safely stored in the tower of St Mary the Less.
‘And the Spital is lost,’ gasped Meadowman, who had come to find Michael. ‘The only building you can see is the chapel, and everyone who lives there is sitting on its roof.’
‘I told you so,’ shouted William to anyone who would listen. ‘I said the blocked sluices would cause problems, but did anyone believe me and do something about it? No! You all thought I was deranged.’
‘He is deranged,’ muttered Zoone. ‘Unfortunately, he is also right. I do not know what Morys thought he was doing, but it will spell disaster for the town – one from which it may never recover. What a pity after all Michael has done for us this week.’
‘We have had heavy rains and floods before,’ gasped Bartholomew, struggling with a long piece of wood. ‘We will survive.’
‘That was when the sluices were working,’ said Zoone grimly. ‘But now they are not.’
It was dusk by the time the engineer finally declared that the breakwater should be strong enough to protect the pier from the imminent surge, at which point Bartholomew was not the only one who reeled with fatigue. Every Fellow, student and servant had given his all, and there was a concerted sigh of relief at Zoone’s announcement.
‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely.
‘We wait,’ replied Zoone tersely. ‘Ah, here is the Master.’
He hurried forward to make his report to Michael, while Bartholomew tended to an assortment of cuts, scratches and bruises on those who had worked with more haste than care. The moment he had finished, he ran to hear how Michael had fared with their investigation.
‘Nothing,’ spat Michael, all his earlier jubilation leached away. ‘I spent an age in Peterhouse, asking all manner of desperate questions about Martyn, and I searched every inch of his room in the Cardinal’s Cap, but I learned nothing.’
Bartholomew was not surprised. ‘Did you speak to Narboro?’
‘No, because he was out, and no one knows where he had gone. He did tell Gayton that he would be home by nightfall, though.’
‘It is almost dark now,’ said Bartholomew. All he wanted to do was pull off his dirty, wet clothes and lie down, but he knew he would not rest easy if he did. ‘We could go and see if he is back.’
‘We could, but what can he tell us that you have not already asked?’
‘Probably nothing,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But I imagine Aynton, Huntyngdon and Martyn would want us to try anyway.’
Bartholomew forced himself into a brisk walk, Michael puffing at his side. People were everywhere, running and shouting. Tulyet had ordered the evacuation of all the houses along the river and the King’s Ditch. Some residents refused to go, afraid of looters. Others darted back and forth with their precious belongings – pots, pans, furniture, animals, bedding, clothes. The rain pounded down harder than ever.
Dickon was everywhere, and Bartholomew wondered if his spell in gaol had imbued him with greater authority, because there was no question of anyone disobeying his orders. He set soldiers to stand guard over the refugees’ possessions, commandeered St Bene’t’s Church as an emergency shelter, and meticulously cleared the alleys that led to the river, which were predicted to flood at any moment.
The Trumpington Gate was above water, but the roads that ran to its east and west were submerged and impassable. The Mill Pond lapped at the tops of the Small Bridges, while the banks of the King’s Ditch had collapsed near the Barnwell Gate, allowing it to spew its vile contents into the grounds of the Franciscan Priory and the Round Church’s cemetery.
Once past the harried sentries, Bartholomew and Michael hastened to Peterhouse. Its scholars were in a clamouring cluster around the gate, some carrying travelling packs.
‘They want permission to leave, Brother,’ explained Gayton. ‘It is not only Cambridge that will flood if it rains like this for the next forty days, and they are anxious to get home before the weather traps them here all summer.’
‘They aim to go now?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘In the dark?’
‘Some live many miles away,’ explained Stantone. ‘So every hour counts.’
Michael made his decision. ‘All those who have more than a day’s ride may leave now. The rest will remain until tomorrow, although I shall bring the graduation ceremony forward to dawn and announce the end of term immediately afterwards.’