They battled along, desperately struggling to see against the swirling flakes. The wind was bitter, and made their heads ache, while the muscles in their legs burned from their exertions.
‘Matt!’ yelled Tulyet suddenly, dropping to his knees and beginning to scoop away handfuls of snow from one drift. ‘Help me.’
‘What are you doing?’ cried Bartholomew in agitation. ‘We do not have time–’
He faltered when he saw the frozen face that Tulyet had exposed.
‘Helbye,’ said Tulyet in a choked voice.
Bartholomew swept away more snow. The sergeant had dispensed with his cloak and jerkin, and his shirt was awry, as if he had tried to remove that, too.
‘Cook’s handiwork,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Helbye was burning with fever from his festering wound, so he loosened his clothes to cool off. Then he sat down, thinking to rest for a moment, but closed his eyes and fell asleep. The cold did the rest.’
‘At least he will be spared the shame of …’ Tulyet could not finish.
They continued again, every step an agony of effort, which meant neither had the breath to talk. Bartholomew was acutely aware that it was now fully light, and that time was ticking past far too quickly. Then the path ended, and he saw with horror that the horses had gone.
‘We will walk,’ said Tulyet with quiet determination. ‘If we keep up a steady pace–’
He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly, and hauled him into the undergrowth. There were voices, some very near. With despair, they heard the sounds of people searching, converging on them from at least three separate directions.
‘The villagers,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘The ones who are almost certainly in league with the thieves, and who will fight us if we are found.’
‘Then spin them a yarn,’ urged Bartholomew, heart pounding with tension. ‘Convince them that we are involved, too.’
‘That will not work – they know me. We must hide until they have gone. I am not sure we would have reached Cambridge in time now anyway, not in this weather. But if we are alive, we can at least ensure that Nicholas pays for what he has done.’
‘No!’ hissed Bartholomew fiercely. ‘I am not giving up. I will distract them while you run for the town. I will keep them busy for as long as I can. Go!’
He leapt up and began to plough towards the road before Tulyet could stop him. There was an immediate chorus of yells as he was spotted. The searchers howled for him to stop, but he ignored them, wading through ever deeper drifts and sincerely hoping that he was managing to draw their pursuers after him so that Tulyet could escape. Then he heard a familiar voice.
‘Doctor, wait! You are going the wrong way.’
It was Isnard. Bartholomew whipped around in confusion, then sagged with relief when he saw who was with him.
‘Cynric!’
Chapter 18
‘I told you he would be more than a match for thieves,’ said the book-bearer proudly, coming to grip the physician’s shoulder in a comradely gesture of affection. He turned to the men who were with him – Isnard and Gundrede, along with Robin and several soldiers from the castle. ‘He has killed every last one of them, and was coming to tell us what happened.’
‘Then why was he running towards the Fens?’ asked Gundrede doubtfully.
‘He got disoriented at the last moment,’ explained Cynric, and gestured at the uniform whiteness around him. ‘You can see why – it is a different world out here today.’
‘Is it true, Doctor?’ Isnard was agog. ‘All the thieves are dead?’
‘Probably – by now,’ replied Bartholomew shakily. ‘But we did not–’
‘The hero of Poitiers,’ interrupted Cynric with satisfaction. ‘Where is the Sheriff, boy? Did he help or did you manage alone?’
‘I helped,’ drawled Tulyet, ploughing forward to join them. ‘But only a little.’
‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘Where are the horses? We need to get to Cambridge.’
‘Horses are no good,’ said Cynric disdainfully. ‘The drifts are too high. Yours are safe though. We took them to–’
‘Michael is in danger,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘We have to warn him.’
‘What sort of danger?’ demanded Isnard, protective of the man who ran his choir.
Tulyet explained in a few terse words, then asked, ‘How did you get here if the roads are blocked?’
‘By the only proper mode of transport,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘Barge. Now come with me. I do not know if we can reach the town by noon, but we shall certainly try.’
He swung off down a track, remarkably surefooted on the treacherous surface. It was not far to the river, where several vessels were moored. He chose the smallest. Bartholomew, Tulyet and Cynric scrambled in after him, but he raised a hand to stop the others.
‘The lighter we are, the faster we shall move.’
‘We will put our time here to good use by rooting out the guilty villagers,’ said Robin, helping the bargeman to cast off. ‘Two have already confessed to turning a blind eye to mysterious comings and goings.’
The boat eased away from the bank, slowly at first, then faster as Isnard deployed a combination of pole and sail. He adapted constantly to the shifting wind and currents, and for the first time, Bartholomew began to appreciate the true extent of his skill.
‘You should have taken me with you last night, boy,’ said Cynric accusingly. ‘You know I like an adventure, and it was cruel to leave me out.’
‘You were guarding Suttone.’ Bartholomew glanced at him in alarm. ‘Is he–’
‘Mallet and Islaye are with him,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘Do not worry.’
Isnard explained how they had come to be there, taking a respite from his exertions when a lucky breeze set them skimming along a wide stretch of open water.
‘I was uneasy from the start about being sent home, and I said as much to Cynric. So we decided on a foray of our own. Then we met Robin. He insisted on coming with us, because Helbye was missing and he was worried.’
‘Then thank God for your suspicious minds,’ murmured Tulyet.
It was an agonising journey for the occupants of the little boat, through a landscape that was unrecognisable under a thick blanket of white. Isnard was soon scarlet-faced with effort – the others had been allowed one turn at the pole, but he had snatched it back furiously when they had failed to reach what he considered an acceptable speed.
‘I will not see Brother Michael dead, just because you cannot punt,’ he gasped. ‘How much longer do we have before the ceremony?’
Bartholomew squinted up at the sky. ‘More than three hours, but less than four. Probably.’
‘Then it will be tight,’ panted Isnard, and turned all his attention to his labours.
Sitting immobile in a wind that still carried the occasional icy flurry was unpleasant, and Bartholomew wondered if he, Tulyet and Cynric would be capable of movement when they arrived. The boat slid silently across the glassy water, and the whole country seemed dead and still. Trees were weighted down with great clods of snow, while bushes and shrubs were mere humps in an undulating white sea. No birds sang, and the only sounds were the rhythmic splash of Isnard’s pole and his ragged breathing.
‘So tell me, Isnard,’ said Tulyet, during a spell in which the bargeman was able to use the sails again, ‘where did you go when you disappeared with your barge? I know it was not to help Inge with his stolen goods.’
‘It is all right, boy,’ said Cynric, when Isnard looked as if he would refuse to answer. ‘These two can keep a secret.’
Isnard sighed. ‘Very well, but they had better not blab, or I shall be cross, because it will ruin the surprise.’