‘You can stay, too,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Go back to the King’s Head and leave this to us. Here is a shilling for ale.’
It was a generous sum, and an excellent way to keep Isnard’s companions where they belonged. Eyes lit up, although the bargeman was dismayed.
‘But we want to watch them caught! We deserve it after all we have been through.’
‘If Miller’s report is accurate, you will see them when we bring them back in chains. If he is sending us on a fool’s mission, it will be you lot in my gaol. So, I ask you once more, Miller: are you sure about what you saw?’
‘Yes,’ replied Miller firmly. ‘Go to Quy manor, then take the track that runs by the lode. Shortly before the lode meets the river, you will find a great big warehouse. That is where the villains keep their loot.’
‘A warehouse?’ asked Tulyet, sceptical again. ‘All the way out there?’
‘It is a convenient spot for smugglers,’ said Miller, with the authority of one who knew. ‘There is a good road to Quy, and canals that run north and east.’
‘Let me lead the raid, sir,’ begged Helbye plaintively. ‘I know the area better than you. I was born up there.’
‘You are not well enough,’ said Bartholomew quickly, lest Tulyet weakened. ‘Let me see your arm. You seem to be–’
‘It itches,’ interrupted Helbye shortly, waving away his concern, ‘which means it is getting better. Cook said so.’
‘I hardly think we can trust his opinion,’ spat Tulyet in disgust. ‘Now go and pick me six good men, Will. We leave as soon as they are ready.’
Helbye limped away, shoulders slumped. However, when more snow floated down, Bartholomew suspected he was secretly glad to stay at home.
‘If we cannot come, we want him to represent our interests out there,’ said Isnard, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘To make sure everything is done properly.’
‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, although Bartholomew opened his mouth to protest. ‘There is always room for the hero of Poitiers.’
Bartholomew shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Take Cynric. He will be far more useful.’
‘He is needed to guard Suttone. God’s blood, man – do not give him that one!’ Tulyet’s last remark was directed at Robin, who was in the process of presenting Bartholomew with the reins of an enormous black stallion. ‘It will have him off before we leave the Barbican.’
With considerable trepidation, Bartholomew climbed atop a brown mare instead, hoping she would not buck and prance, as horses invariably did when he was on their backs. He winced when the wind whipped a flurry of snow into his face, and was grateful when Isnard removed his own cloak and handed it up to him – it was thick and warm, and far more suitable for a jaunt to the Fens than his threadbare academic one – along with a leather hat and a pair of fur-lined gloves.
‘Stay back if there is any skirmishing,’ instructed Isnard in a low voice. ‘I know what Cynric says about you, but you do not have the temperament to be a good warrior. Let the Sheriff do the killing.’
‘Hopefully, there will not be any,’ said Bartholomew, more unhappy than ever about being included in the venture.
‘I am afraid there will,’ said Isnard, ‘because Helbye has picked the castle’s fiercest warriors to go with you – men who would far rather fight than take prisoners.’
Bartholomew glanced towards them and saw what Isnard meant. Their leader was the loutish Norys, while the other five were hard-bitten soldiers in functional armour, all of whom sported a terrifying arsenal of well-honed weapons. Then he noticed there was a seventh – a young lad with an eager grin and a brand-new jerkin.
‘Not you, Harold,’ snapped Helbye. ‘Get off that horse at once.’
‘Let him come,’ countered Tulyet, when Harold’s face fell in dismay. ‘He needs the experience.’
And with that, he wheeled his mount around and set off, his troops streaming at his heels.
It was a miserable journey. Tulyet rode harder than Bartholomew thought was safe in the failing light, especially as the track was slick with ice. The occasional flurry of snow soon became a regular fall that drilled directly into their faces, making it even more difficult to see where they were going. Bartholomew was obliged to cling hard to the pommel of his saddle, and not for the first time wished he had paid more heed to the riding lessons he had been given as a child.
‘You do realise this is a waste of time?’ said Tulyet, coming to trot next to him. He was able to speak only because that part of the road was heavily rutted, forcing them to slow down. ‘There will be nothing to find at Quy.’
Bartholomew frowned in confusion. ‘I thought you believed Miller’s story.’
‘I am sure he saw thieves, but I doubt they are the ones who took Stanmore’s tomb, Dallingridge’s feet, the University’s bell, and the rest of it. And Miller’s rogues will not be at Quy now anyway. Not in this weather.’
‘Then why are we going?’ demanded Bartholomew crossly.
‘I am going because Helbye would not have countenanced me giving the command to anyone else. And you are going because you put me in that position by telling me that I can no longer use him as my second.’
‘I had not taken you for a petty man.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘The excursion will do you no harm, and will give you a fine tale to tell your colleagues at the election tomorrow. Besides, your inclusion placated Isnard – I suspect he would have followed if I had refused to let you come, and I do not want his “help”.’
‘But the weather …’
‘A bit of snow should not bother a seasoned old campaigner like you. It will not settle anyway – the wind will whisk it away.’
‘The wind will whisk it into drifts,’ argued Bartholomew.
‘We will be home long before then,’ said Tulyet dismissively. ‘I have reached Quy in less than an hour in the past. Granted, it was not in the dark …’
Eager to be done with the foolish mission as soon as possible, Bartholomew jabbed his heels into the mare’s sides. She snickered angrily, warning him not to do it again.
‘We must hurry,’ he said, when Tulyet regarded him enquiringly. ‘You saw for yourself that the University is uneasy tonight, and I may be needed. Moreover, Michael is expecting me to provide him with information about the murders – which have to be solved by the day after tomorrow, as that is when he leaves for Rochester.’
‘I imagine the killer is Kolvyle. Langelee locked him in a cellar earlier, to keep him out of mischief, but just before you came to the castle, I had word that he had escaped.’
Bartholomew regarded Tulyet in alarm. ‘Running is not the act of an innocent man.’
‘Quite.’
Bartholomew reined in. ‘Then I should go back and help Michael to–’
‘His beadles are more than capable of laying hold of that silly youth.’ Tulyet grabbed Bartholomew’s bridle and urged the mare into a trot. ‘Did I tell you that I am closing in on the woman in the cloak with the embroidered hem, by the way?’
‘No – that is good news.’
‘She was seen taking it off in a tavern shortly afterwards. The witness who saw her is away today, but will be back tomorrow, and I am confident that he can take us to her. Then she can tell us who murdered Moleyns – Kolvyle, in all probability.’
‘Surely you want to be there when all that happens – not chasing about in the Fens?’
‘I can do both. We will be home long before dawn.’
‘We had better be,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have to vote for Suttone at noon, because my colleagues will never forgive me if I miss it, and he loses by one.’