‘What have you done?’ asked Bartholomew with considerable unease, knowing from experience that not all the bargeman’s surprises were pleasant ones.
‘We have been collecting supplies to mend Michaelhouse’s damaged pier,’ explained Isnard. ‘We know Master Langelee does not have the money to fix it up again, although he would sooner die than admit it, so the choir decided to help. It will be our gift, to thank the College for all that free bread and ale.’
‘But they had to sail a long way south to find a place where the odd bit of wood would not be missed,’ explained Cynric. ‘So it took them a lot of time.’
‘That Benedictine envoy followed us once,’ said Isnard, pursing his lips. ‘He automatically assumed we were up to no good, which was not very nice.’
Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that they had been up to no good – stealing was a crime, no matter what the culprits’ motive.
‘He aimed to embarrass you, Sheriff, by presenting you with the “thieves” himself,’ Isnard went on indignantly. ‘But he fell over and cut his leg, and had to beg us for help. We picked him up and offered to ferry him home – on condition that he did not tell.’
Bartholomew smiled wanly. ‘He kept his promise – he never breathed a word, even though he knew I did not believe his tale about falling down the stairs.’
‘Master Lyng was party to the secret as well,’ Isnard went on. ‘Because Gundrede let it slip during a confession. I think he and the envoy talked about it.’
They had, thought Bartholomew – a whispered conversation on which Richard Deynman had tried, unsuccessfully, to eavesdrop.
‘It is a pity you did not confide in me,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘It would have saved us all a lot of bother. I might even have given you supplies from the castle.’
Isnard grinned as he took hold of his pole again. ‘I shall come for them later then. If we work fast, we might have finished it before Brother Michael leaves, and then who knows? Perhaps he will stay when he sees what we have done for him.’
Tulyet started to say that it had been a hypothetical offer, but Isnard was not listening, concentrating instead on navigating the boat down a series of narrow, reed-infested channels. Then they emerged into a stretch of water that was too deep for punting and the wrong direction for wind.
‘Row,’ ordered Isnard. ‘One oar between two, and pull on my orders. Now!’
Soon, they were skimming along at an impressive lick, although it was impossible to maintain such a pace for long, and it soon slackened off. Seeing it, Bartholomew pulled harder, but the boat slewed to the left, and Isnard barked at him to match his speed to the other paddle.
‘There!’ shouted Tulyet, glancing behind him to where familiar towers and turrets loomed on the horizon. ‘We are nearly home. Heave!’
The barge veered to the right, forcing Bartholomew and Cynric to tug hard to correct it.
‘I can hear the Franciscans’ bells!’ cried Isnard in dismay. ‘They are chiming for sext, which means it is noon. We are too late!’
‘No!’ yelled Bartholomew, as the bargeman slumped in defeat. ‘They will hold the rite earlier today, because of the election. We still have a chance. Come on – hurry!’
Encouraged, the others bent to the task, and they raced towards the Great Bridge. It was strange to see it from water level, and Bartholomew disliked the sense of it looming over him as they scudded underneath. He adjusted his stroke, aiming to land at the nearest quay.
‘No – we want the Michaelhouse wharf,’ panted Isnard. ‘It will be quicker than battling through the town on foot, believe me.’
They rowed quickly past the backs of St John’s Hospital, Michaelhouse and Trinity Hall, until the little craft bumped alongside the pier’s blackened remains. Bartholomew almost took a dip when he trod on a plank that crumbled under his weight, and was only saved by a timely lunge from Cynric. Exhausted by his herculean efforts, Isnard collapsed backwards, indicating with a weak flap of his hand that the others were to go on without him.
Bartholomew, Tulyet and Cynric clambered ashore, and began to struggle towards Milne Street, quickly learning that Isnard had been right to keep them on the river for as long as possible – the snow was thigh-deep in places. There was not another scholar in sight, despite the fact that Water Lane was home to seven or eight hostels.
‘Oh, God!’ groaned Tulyet. ‘Have the bells already fallen, and everyone has gone to gawp? They must have done! Students cannot vote, so you would think some would be here.’
‘They will have gone to watch the election,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘It is not every day that a new Chancellor is voted in – they will want to watch history in the making.’
Then Cynric grabbed his arm. ‘There is Nicholas!’
The secretary was limping through St John Zachary’s churchyard with Vicar Frisby at his side. They were an odd pair – one small, neat and prim, the other hulking and dissipated.
‘He does not look like a man who has just committed murder,’ remarked Tulyet, watching him intently. ‘Perhaps he has yet to strike.’
Bartholomew wanted to believe it, but could not help recalling that Nicholas had stabbed the Chancellor and Moleyns while half the town looked on. He was a man with iron nerves.
‘Cynric and I will tackle him,’ determined Tulyet. ‘You go to St Mary the Great, Matt. If the bells are still in the tower, clear the building. If they are down … well, you will be of more use there than us.’
He and Cynric clambered over the churchyard wall – the gate was too deep in snow to be opened – and plodded towards the porch. Bartholomew turned left and began to plough along Milne Street, the wind buffeting his back. It was snowing again, a thick swirl that made it impossible to see very far ahead. However, when he reached Trinity Hall, he encountered a major problem.
Snow had drifted against the rubble, and the clearing through the middle was obliterated – all that remained was a solid cliff of white. Stomach churning, he lurched forward to see if he could scale it, but it quickly became obvious that such a feat was impossible. Cursing himself for not remembering it was there, he turned and retraced his steps. He would have to go back past St John Zachary and up Piron Lane instead.
It was difficult to move with snow beating into his face, and he felt sick with tension at the time he had lost. He reached St John Zachary, hoping to see Cynric and Tulyet emerge with prisoners, but there was only Nicholas, standing in the porch as he gazed idly up at the swirling flakes.
Bartholomew gaped at him. Why was he still free? Surely Cynric and Tulyet could defeat a little clerk, even if Frisby had lurched to his kinsman’s assistance with a weapon? Or was he wrong to underestimate the man who had murdered Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng, and the Sheriff and book-bearer were lying inside with spikes in their hearts?
He hesitated, full of panicky indecision. Should he go to St Mary the Great, or see what had happened to Cynric and Tulyet? Then Nicholas turned and strolled confidently back inside, at which point Bartholomew thought he heard Tulyet cry out. Without conscious thought, he was over the churchyard wall and aiming for the door.
He stepped into the porch and listened intently. Nicholas and Frisby were talking in the chancel. He eased forward, stopping en route to grab a heavy pewter jug – the only thing lying around that would be of remote use as a weapon.
Nicholas was by Stanmore’s vault, talking in an undertone. Bartholomew advanced stealthily, aiming to disable him with a tap to the head before looking for Cynric and Tulyet. He was just raising the jug when he heard a sound from behind him. It was Frisby, who was not listening to his kinsman, but lying in ambush, while Nicholas only pretended to engage him in conversation. Bartholomew ducked in time to avoid the crossbow bolt that whipped past his ear, but fell heavily. Frisby tossed the weapon aside, grabbed a cudgel, and advanced with murder in his eyes.