‘Marchpane,’ replied Langelee nonchalantly, struggling not to laugh. ‘It was one of Deynman’s jests. Do not eat it: it is salty.’
‘I am not in the habit of devouring scraps retrieved from the floor, Master,’ said William indignantly. He turned it over in his hand. ‘It seems familiar, although I do not know why. It is as if it is wearing a disguise, and the face is just beyond the reaches of my memory.’
‘It is a good thing he does not spend much time in front of a mirror,’ whispered Michael gleefully. ‘Or his memory might be more reliable. It still looks like him, even though it is crushed.’
‘It is the hair around the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is his most notable feature, and the thing I always imagine when his face appears in my mind.’
‘I try to avoid that,’ said Michael. ‘I would rather dwell on more pleasant images. Like Matilde. Or Yolande de Blaston. I tend not to contemplate the faces of men.’
‘I did not say I was swooning over him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And my point remains: most people have a distinctive feature that makes them unique. Take Suttone’s big hands, Clippesby’s mad eyes, Wynewyk’s nose and William’s hair as examples. This single feature can often be so distinctive that it masks all others. For example, do you know the colour of William’s eyes?’
‘Blue,’ said Michael immediately. ‘No, brown.’ He sighed. ‘I have no idea.’
‘That is because you see the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew, satisfied that he had proved his point. He was about to add more, but the door opened and Cynric entered.
‘I think you had better come,’ said the Welshman. ‘Ailred has been found.’
CHAPTER 12
From the tone of Cynric’s voice, Bartholomew assumed that Ailred was dead. The book-bearer would say nothing more, and Bartholomew and Michael hurried after him as he led the way. Everywhere, Cambridge dripped. Snow still dropped from roofs, gables and trees, while melting icicles added a new peril as they plummeted like lethal daggers to the ground below. Bartholomew had already attended two nasty accidents that week, and hoped the thaw would soon be over. He wondered if Ailred had died because an icicle had fallen and pierced his skull. He sensed it was only a matter of time before someone did.
But Ailred was not dead. He had fallen through the sheet of ice that covered the Mill Pool near the Small Bridges, and a head and two clawing hands were all that could be seen of him. The ice was grey-white near the centre of the pond, indicating that it was rotten, and Bartholomew could not imagine what had induced the friar to venture out so far on to a surface that was patently unsafe. Ailred was making a valiant effort to stay afloat, but the ice was thin enough for Bartholomew to see the current running swift and strong underneath it, made more powerful by the melted snow that had flooded the river. He knew that the friar would be swept away if he relinquished his tenuous hold even for a moment.
‘What happened?’ asked Michael, horrified when he saw Ailred’s predicament. A crowd of people had gathered, some to help and some to watch. Three of Stanmore’s apprentices were tying together a number of planks, so that they could be used to crawl across the treacherous surface and reach the stricken man. Bartholomew sensed they did not have much time. Ailred’s strength was being leached away by the cold water and the effort of clinging to the broken edges, and it would not be long before his frozen fingers failed him.
Godric was in the crowd, and hurried forward when he saw Michael. ‘We cannot believe he is guilty of the crimes you have charged him with.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘We know he is not a murderer, despite developing an uncharacteristic interest in riches over the last few weeks.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Michael kindly, squeezing his arm comfortingly, although Bartholomew was not so sure Ailred was the innocent Godric believed him to be. ‘Has he become more interested in money recently?’
Godric nodded miserably. ‘None of us understood it, because it was so unlike him. It was as if he had been seduced by something that had tainted him.’
Kenyngham had said the same thing, Bartholomew recalled. Access to large amounts of treasure brought a degree of power – the power to grant and refuse people things they craved. Perhaps it was that, rather than the gold itself, that had corrupted Ailred.
‘What was he doing here?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he return to Ovyng first?’
‘We have not seen him since he fled from you,’ said Godric. ‘But I was going to collect flour from the mill a short time ago, and I happened to glance over the bridge. Ailred was there, skating round and round in the centre of the pool. I shouted the ice was too thin, but he ignored me, or did not hear. Then there was a crack and he went down. He has been hanging there ever since.’
Bartholomew clambered over the bridge and slid down the river bank to join Stanmore’s apprentices, who were still working feverishly on their makeshift ladder.
‘It is almost finished,’ said the freckle-faced youngster called Harold. He sat back to assess his handiwork, and exchanged a nervous grimace with his fellows, to indicate it was not all they could have hoped for. He glanced up at Bartholomew. ‘Are you ready? We will hold this end and haul it back again when the ice starts to crack.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘You think I am going?’
Harold was surprised by the question. ‘Cynric said you would; it was why he fetched you. He says the friar may need medical attention, and that it would be dangerous to tug him out of the water any old way. He thinks Turke died because inexperienced hands snatched him clear, and we should not let the same thing happen to Father Ailred.’
Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows at his book-bearer.
Cynric was unabashed. ‘Turke might have lived if a physician had been on hand sooner. You said so yourself. Do not fret, boy. I will tie a rope around you and will not let you sink.’
‘This is very ironic,’ said Harold, squinting across the bright ice towards the trapped scholar. ‘Father Ailred was among the folk who rescued Turke from this very spot the day after Christmas.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred was not here when I came to examine Turke.’
‘It was Ailred who ordered us to let Turke rest before summoning other help,’ said Harold. ‘Or was it his friend – that Chepe Wait? Anyway, they both agreed we should wait until the ice formed on Turke’s clothes.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.
‘Of course,’ said Harold scornfully. ‘Well, I am not certain exactly who said what, but I know they told us it is best to let a man freeze after a dip in cold water. They said it is something to do with slowing the blood and preventing the heart from exploding.’
‘Who else was here, besides Ailred and Frith – the Wait?’ asked Bartholomew, his own heart pounding as he considered the implications of the boy’s statements. It sounded as though Turke had been deliberately allowed to freeze to death, and a physician summoned only when it was certain that nothing could be done to save him.
‘Just us,’ said Harold, indicating himself and two other boys. ‘When Frith and Ailred eventually decided that Turke might benefit from your services, they sent us to fetch Cynric.’
‘And all this took time,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I arrived, Turke was beyond saving.’
Harold exchanged a frightened glance with his friends. ‘You mean they were wrong, and we should have fetched you immediately? But I thought they were trying to help Turke.’
‘They were not,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘Quite the reverse. By waiting until his wet clothes turned to ice, they ensured he died. He was murdered, after all.’
‘They forced him to skate,’ said Harold miserably. ‘He said he did not want to, because the ice was too thin. But they promised him that if he could reach the other side of the Mill Pool, then he would be free of them for ever. We thought they were playing games, like we do – you know, daring each other to do dangerous things. Except that Turke was crying, because he said he was afraid.’