Bartholomew closed his eyes in disgust as more evidence of Helbye’s perfidy crashed into his mind. First, there was Inge’s escape from the Griffin – the lawyer would have been caught with ease if Helbye had not waded into the fray, trailing bandages. Second, Helbye had mounted a foolish and noisy raid on the King’s Head at the exact time that Holty’s pinnacles had gone missing – clearly, it had been a diversion. And third, Helbye had been at pains to accuse Isnard and Gundrede of the crimes: of course he had – it took eyes away from the real culprits.
But why had Helbye turned traitor? Bartholomew knew the answer to that question, too: for money, because retirement on half-pay would be bleak, and it was clear that the sergeant was about to be put out to pasture. Bartholomew also knew how Helbye had been recruited: he had escorted Moleyns – and Inge – to Cambridge from Nottingham, which had allowed the lawyer plenty of time to befriend a bitter and anxious old man.
Voices drew Bartholomew back to the hole he had drilled. Helbye had entered the hut and was stamping snow from his boots. A second man was with him, but he was so deeply huddled inside his cloak that Bartholomew could not see his face.
‘I offered to come out here instead,’ Helbye told Inge; Tulyet’s head snapped around at the sound of his sergeant’s voice. ‘But he would not let me. Where are Harold and Bartholomew?’
‘Out back,’ replied Norys. ‘They know enough to hang us, so they will have to die. So will he.’ He nodded towards Tulyet.
‘Good,’ muttered the man in the cloak. There was something familiar about his voice, but Bartholomew needed more than a single word to place it. The fellow went to sit near the window, in a place where nothing could be seen of him but his legs.
Helbye’s face was cold and hard, and Bartholomew saw the battle-honed warrior who had claimed countless lives during his long military career. There was no kindness in it, and no remorse that he had betrayed a man who had offered him friendship and trust. Then he swayed slightly, one hand to his arm, and Bartholomew noticed again the signs of fever. Unless he had medical help soon, he would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his deceit.
Bartholomew moved away from the warehouse and took cover in the undergrowth, his mind racing with questions, solutions and worries. The snow was falling in earnest now, a thin white veil that was blown almost horizontal by the wind. He peered along the towpath, and saw that Helbye had brought two more soldiers with him – they were standing a short distance away, blocking the route to the horses.
Bartholomew was close to despair. How could he rescue Tulyet from eight soldiers, Helbye, Inge and the man in the cloak? The only good thing about his situation was that he had not tried to make his way back to Cambridge, and so had avoided running directly into Helbye – he had the strong sense that he would not have survived such an encounter.
That thought gave him an idea. The Quy side of the towpath was obstructed by Helbye’s guards, but what about the side that ran deeper into the Fens? He knew that the Roman engineers, who had constructed the many canals and dykes in the region, had arranged them in a grid pattern to facilitate ease of transport. Many had paths running along them, so perhaps he would be able to take three right turns, and rejoin the main road.
But what about Tulyet? He could hardly leave him, knowing what the thieves planned to do. He put his eye to the hole again. Helbye was dozing fitfully in a corner, the soldiers were dicing, and the cloaked man was still invisible except for his legs. Tulyet sat motionless with the sack over his head, although his tense posture suggested he was awake and alert.
Bartholomew leaned his forehead against the wall, struggling to think. He hated the notion of abandoning his friend, but challenging eleven men would help no one. Nor would continuing to lurk uselessly behind the building. There was only one real option open to him – he had to run home as fast as he could, and fetch help in the form of Michael and his beadles.
With a heavy heart, he left the warehouse, and eased through the undergrowth until he was sure he would not be seen. Then he scrambled up to the towpath and began to trot along it, heading deeper into the Fens. There were already footsteps in the snow, which told him two things: first, that the ones he was leaving would not give him away; and second, that someone had had a good reason to walk in that direction, which gave him hope that there might be something there that he could use to his advantage.
He did not have far to go before the lode met a much wider waterway, which stretched away to his left and right until it disappeared into the darkness. Reeds grew at its ice-encrusted edges, but he knew instinctively that its middle was deep. A sturdy pier ran along the bank, and tethered to it was a barge – a sea-going one, as Isnard had predicted. It had two masts and its deck was covered in oilskins. It was low in the water, suggesting a heavy cargo.
Bartholomew crept towards it, glad of the light cast by the lamp hanging from the foremast, which allowed him to see that no one was outside on watch. The only sounds were the wind hissing in the reeds and snoring – the crew were fast asleep in the cabin at the stern. With infinite care, Bartholomew climbed aboard, and lifted the nearest tarpaulin, although he already knew from the domed shape what lay beneath it. The bell gave a muffled ding as he covered it again.
He lifted another sheet to see a slab of pink stone. There was a partially obliterated horned serpent in one corner, which told him that it was part of Oswald’s tomb. He stared at it, recalling Edith’s distress when it had gone. Gradually, the numb despair that had dogged him since he had woken next to Harold’s body began to give way to a dark, cold anger. Perhaps the thieves would escape with their ill-gotten gains, but he was damned if he was going to make it easy for them.
But what could he do? The boat was clearly ready to leave at first light, and that would be that. Then he had an idea.
He jumped back on the pier, glad the crew was slovenly and had only used one mooring rope. He struggled to unhitch it with fingers that were clumsy with tension. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a slit of black water appeared between boat and wharf. The gap grew larger as the current caught the barge and tugged it away from the bank. Yes, the crew could sail it back again, but not without inconvenience. It was revenge of sorts.
Unfortunately, Bartholomew’s hopes of finding an alternative route home were quickly dashed. There was no towpath to his right, and he was on the wrong side of the lode to take the one to his left. The only way to reach it would be to swim, which would be suicide in such weather – he would freeze to death long before he reached the road.
Reluctantly, he returned to the warehouse. Perhaps the two guards would have gone inside with their cronies, and he could sneak past them unseen. But both were still out, vigilant and with weapons at the ready. Cursing softly, he ducked back into the undergrowth and crawled through it until he reached the window again.
Helbye was awake, shivering and clearly in pain. Inge was watching the soldiers dice, while Tulyet was as he had been earlier – stiff, alert and angry, but alive. Bartholomew shifted positions to look at the last man, and saw that the fellow had made himself comfortable by loosening his cloak. Underneath, he wore an aqua tunic – the same colour as the thread from the murdered Peres’ fingernail.
‘Tulyet has never afforded me the respect I deserved,’ Inge was saying sourly to no one in particular. ‘He forgets that I am a lawyer, not a criminal.’
‘I thought they were one and the same,’ quipped Norys. His cronies guffawed.