‘Lie still,’ ordered Barber Cook, the medicus who had nursed Dallingridge since the feast. ‘You will unbalance your humours if you twist around so, and then you will never recover.’
Dallingridge scowled at him, resenting the assumption that he was a fool who did not know that death was near. He would have preferred a physician to tend him, but Cook had been the first practitioner to offer his services, and Dallingridge had not been well enough to demand someone better. He studied the barber’s mean, sharp face and shifty eyes. Perhaps he was the culprit. He had, after all, earned a fortune for his ministrations over the last few weeks, and clearly expected to be rewarded further still once his patient was dead.
It was becoming difficult for Dallingridge to see the other eager, hopeful faces, but he knew who was there – friends and family from near and far, servants, neighbours and business associates. Had even one of them come out of affection for him, or were they all hoping to gain something from his imminent demise? And with that question came the knowledge of what he must do – not build a tomb, but donate his whole fortune to the University that was to have been his home. There would be no fine monument to remind future generations of what a great man he had been, but the scholar-priests would pray for his soul, which was all that really mattered.
His mind made up, he tried to call his clerk, but his tongue was suddenly thick and heavy, so all that emerged was an incoherent gurgle. As one, the horde surged forward to gabble more meaningless platitudes, jostling for space at his bedside. He looked at them in despair before his eyes grew too dim to see. Which one had condemned him to this terrible, lingering death? He supposed he would never know.
Cambridge, October 1359
When Sir John Moleyns and his train of guards arrived in Cambridge, it was a beautiful day, and the kindly weather showed the little Fen-edge settlement at its very best. The autumn sun shone gently, and leaves were beginning to be touched with red and gold. The town’s roads were little more than strips of mature and compacted rubbish, but they added a certain rustic charm that had been absent in Nottingham, while many of its churches were very handsome indeed.
By rights, the prisoner should have been delivered directly to the gaol, but Moleyns had wanted to see his new home first, and had persuaded the officer in charge to make a detour so that they arrived from the south. Sergeant Helbye had been quite happy to oblige. After all, who would not rather swap mundane duties in the castle for an afternoon of leisurely riding?
‘There is St Mary the Great,’ said Inge the lawyer, pointing to an enormous building near the Market Square, which thronged with scholars. He hailed from the Fens, so knew the area well. ‘Also called the University Church. You may recall the name, as it is where Sir John Dallingridge asked to be buried.’
Inge had thought long and hard about his future when Moleyns had been convicted. Should he settle for a dull but safe life as a rural judge, or should he stick with his biggest client, knowing that Moleyns would eventually be pardoned, as those generous to the royal coffers always were? In the end, he had decided that his best interests lay with the devious knight, so he had followed Moleyns to ‘prisons’ in Windsor, Nottingham and now Cambridge.
Unfortunately, he was beginning to think he might have made a mistake. It had been three years since the trial, and there was still no sign that a reprieve was in the offing. And with no income of his own, Inge was obliged to rely on Moleyns for every last penny, which was a position no man liked to be in. But Inge was unwilling to cut his losses just yet. The move to Cambridge showed that the King had not forgotten his favourite, and Moleyns was fun company when he was in a good mood – which was why His Majesty loved him, of course.
Moleyns was looking around approvingly. ‘Dallingridge was right to wax lyrical about this town, and I was right to request a transfer here. It will be much more comfortable than Nottingham, where the castle was draughty and its Sheriff a bore.’
At that moment, St Mary the Great’s bell began to chime, a toneless clunk that made him wince. His wife, who rode at his side, started to laugh.
‘Do the scholars keep a bucket in the tower?’ she chortled. ‘I expected a more tuneful sound from so glorious a building.’
Egidia and Moleyns had been married for nearly thirty years, and although it had been a union of convenience, both had done well out of the arrangement. She had brought him the plum manor that had won him a place at Court, and he had provided her with a steady supply of riches from his criminal schemes – at least, until his arrest had put an end to them.
‘It cracked earlier this year,’ explained Inge. ‘But replacements have already been cast, and will be hung soon. Three of them – a gift from a wealthy benefactor.’
He pointed out more landmarks as they and their guards rode along the High Street – pretty St Catherine’s Hostel, King’s Hall with its stalwart walls, and the Hospital of St John on the corner. Then they passed into Bridge Street, and caught their first glimpse of the castle.
It dominated the northern end of the town by squatting on a ridge – an unusual feature in an area that was almost uniformly flat. It was an imposing sight, a mass of grey walls and bristling towers with the mighty Great Keep rising from its middle.
‘Its function is more administrative than military these days,’ Inge chatted on, pleased to show off his local knowledge. ‘And the most dangerous task its Sheriff performs is collecting taxes from people who do not want to pay.’
‘And running a prison, presumably,’ remarked Egidia.
‘There are cells in the gatehouse,’ acknowledged Inge, ‘but those are for common felons. We will be housed in quarters that are commensurate with Moleyns’ status as a close friend of the King.’
‘I shall be very happy in this town,’ declared Moleyns, smiling contentedly. ‘I can tell. Did I mention that His Majesty has granted me even more privileges than I had in Nottingham? I shall go hunting and hawking, as well as enjoying all the usual feasts and revels that the Sheriff will have to provide. Nottingham had palled, and we all needed a change.’
‘Regardless, I hope you are pardoned soon,’ sighed Egidia. ‘I am tired of these grim fortresses, and I want to go home to Stoke Poges.’
‘Stoke Poges is not your home now,’ Inge reminded her. ‘It was confiscated by the courts when Moleyns was found guilty.’
‘It will be returned to me the moment I am pardoned,’ averred Moleyns confidently. ‘Which will not be long now. The King swore not to rest until the verdict of those stupid jurors was overturned.’
‘He did,’ acknowledged Inge. ‘But perhaps it is time for another letter reminding him of your plight. This is a pretty town, and I do not doubt that we shall enjoy ourselves here, but who would not rather be free?’
Moleyns wanted to dismount and inspect some of the interesting stalls on Bridge Street, but Helbye growled an order for the party to keep moving – taking the long way through the town was one thing, but going shopping in the shadow of the castle was another altogether. He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns and the Sheriff’s most trusted subordinate, so he was the natural choice to travel to Nottingham and bring the prisoner back. He had enjoyed the excursion immensely, despite the nagging aches in his ageing joints, and was not about to risk future jaunts by letting Moleyns defy his authority in a place where it would be noticed.