‘Did Frith or Ailred see you watching them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Harold gave the ghost of a smile. ‘We were hiding under the bridge, because it is sheltered from the wind. They did not see us until we came to help – after Turke fell in.’
‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that the apprentices might well have been forced to do some skating on thin ice themselves had Ailred and Frith known their murderous fun had been observed. He stared at the floundering figure in the distance, and thought about what Ailred had forced Turke to do. ‘It looks as if he offered Turke a chance of life – saying that if he reached the other side, he would be free of their vengeance.’
‘Turke did not have a hope wearing those skates,’ determined Harold, the proud expert. ‘They were not even tied properly.’
Michael had said that, Bartholomew recalled. But it had been decided that the inexpert tying of thongs was not significant, whereas in reality it had been a vital clue to the cruel game Frith and Ailred had played with Turke. They had offered him a chance, but had actually ensured he would never reach safety. And then they had deliberately let him freeze to death.
‘Why did you not mention this before?’ he asked.
Harold looked aggrieved. ‘I tried! Twice! But no one would listen to me. I was sent off to warm myself by the fire like a small child. No one would even let me speak.’
That was true, Bartholomew remembered. Harold had tried to say something, but Stanmore had noticed the boy’s blue hands, and had dispatched him home; his protectiveness had resulted in valuable information going untold. Another mistake had been made: Turke’s murder had been deemed an accident, because there had been no marks of violence on the body. They had assumed – wrongly – that no coercion had taken place.
‘Philippa was not here, too, was she?’ he asked, wondering whether Stanmore’s suspicions had been justified all along.
‘No,’ said the boy, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, painful pinch and pointed across the water. ‘The friar is slipping! You had better see if you can save him, before it is too late.’
Cynric stepped forward and tied a rope around Bartholomew’s waist, handing the other end to Michael, who wrapped it around his shoulders, like someone preparing to climb a mountain. The book-bearer gave Bartholomew a second length of twine, which he said he should throw to Ailred when he was close enough. The notion was that Ailred would either tie it around himself or hold it, and Michael would haul them both to safety. Bartholomew gazed at the ice with trepidation, not at all sure their plan would work.
Ailred had chosen the exact centre of the Mill Pool through which to crash, and was not easy to reach. Bartholomew had misgivings immediately, when he knelt on the planks and there was an ominous crack beneath him. He lay on his stomach, and began to inch his way along, trying to spread his weight over as wide an area as possible. Slowly, wincing at every groan and creak, he eased towards the friar.
‘We have been looking for you,’ he called, mostly to assess whether Ailred was still able to think rationally or whether the cold had deprived him of his wits.
‘I have been staying with Robin,’ replied Ailred softly. ‘For two pennies a day, he offers a blanket near his fire, the company of a pig and no questions asked.’
‘You lied to us,’ said Bartholomew, as he crawled. ‘And you made your students lie, too. Why did you say you were at Ovyng the night the church was broken into, when you were out?’
Ailred gave a gentle sigh. ‘Because I went to make a loan to Harysone at the King’s Head, and wanted to keep the matter quiet. After that I went to Dunstan the riverman. I waited until Matilde left, then slipped in to sit with him. He died in his sleep, quite peacefully, but I did not like to think of him waking to find himself alone in his last moments.’
‘Why did you not tell us that?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is not a crime to be kind to a dying man, and it would have saved us – and Godric – a good deal of worry.’
‘I did not want anyone to know what I did for Dunstan,’ said Ailred, ‘partly because folk would assume I had continued to use Dympna illegally after Kenyngham told me not to, and partly because I believe charity should be practised quietly, so it does not become an act performed for the giver’s sake. That was what Dympna was about – secret charity. I am sorry it entailed a lie, and I am sorry I distressed Godric by putting him in an awkward position.’
‘This explains why you kept your vigil with Dunstan a secret,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it does not explain why you refused to tell us about the business with Harysone.’
‘Kenyngham forbade me to make any more loans.’ Ailred grimaced in anguish. ‘But it was the only way I could think of to recoup the losses before Tulyet learned what I had done. I was at my wits’ end, and did not know what else to do.’
When Bartholomew was about two-thirds of the way across, he noticed that there was blood on the friar’s hands, torn as he had scrabbled at the sharp ice in order to stop himself from sinking. The wounds were in a criss-cross pattern that was curiously familiar, and Bartholomew realised he had seen such cuts elsewhere. Turke’s legs, he thought. The marks were identical, and must also have been caused by ice. He paused for a moment, thinking about other things he had learned. Harold had said Turke had wept when his killers had forced him to skate, saying he was terrified. The physician also recalled the extremes to which William had gone to avoid leaving the College while the worst storms raged, and realised the Franciscan was not the only one who had a morbid fear of ice: Turke had been afraid of it, too. The pilgrimage undertaken during the winter was more of an ordeal than anyone had realised.
‘Turke was frightened of ice,’ he said to himself. ‘He did not like the scars on his legs to be seen, because answering curious questions about them forced him to remember how they were caused. And that memory was painful for him.’
‘You have done well to reason that,’ said Ailred, nodding approval. ‘It was why I chose the river as a means to kill the man.’
‘You killed Turke?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Godric maintains that you are innocent, and will be disappointed when he learns he is wrong. We all thought Turke’s death was an accident.’
‘Godric will understand when he learns my reasons,’ said Ailred. ‘So you must tell him. Turke murdered Isabella, you see, during the plague.’
‘Isabella,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Turke’s first wife.’ Clues suddenly slotted together in his mind. Turke had married John Fiscurtune’s – and therefore Ailred’s – sister, and Philippa said she had died during the pestilence. Bartholomew had made the erroneous assumption that dying during the plague was the same as dying from the plague, which had apparently not been the case. ‘Why did Turke kill her?’
‘They both went skating on the Thames, to take their minds from the Death that raged in the city. The ice cracked.’ Ailred gave a grim smile and indicated his own predicament. ‘They were both left clinging to the edge of a hole.’
‘And Turke saved himself, but could not rescue her?’
‘He used her as a ladder to haul himself to safety,’ corrected Ailred. ‘John and I saw it all from a nearby bridge. Then he did nothing to help as she slowly lost her grip and was swept to a horrible death. That is how he came by his scarred legs. She gripped his feet in terror, but he kicked her off. As he did so, the ice cut into him. He was ashamed of those scars, and always avoided going near frozen water.’
‘So, that was why Turke and Fiscurtune were such bitter enemies, and why they did all they could to harm each other’s businesses. Turke did not kill Fiscurtune in a fit of sudden rage, but after years of seething resentment and guilt.’