‘It was horrible,’ agreed Valence. ‘I do not think I shall ever be warm again.’
‘I am all right,’ said Risleye smugly. ‘I have some strong wine in my saddlebag, and it served to banish the cold nicely. I would offer to share, but I might need more of it myself later.’
‘We should still ride with the main party,’ whispered Cynric to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘As I said yesterday, it is better to have them where we can see them. Them and their servants. Besides, it would look odd to abandon them here.’
As it transpired, their companions were waiting for them on the main road, all claiming they had slept poorly. Various reasons were offered – lousy beds, noisy wind and rain, saddle sores – and there was not a single traveller who did not seem weary and heavy eyed. It meant Bartholomew was unable to tell whether one – or more – was involved in the previous evening’s dark business.
They made good time once they were underway, and it was not long before they began the long, slow climb up the Gog Magog hills. Luneday gave a delighted yell when he reached the top, and reined in to admire the view.
The Fens were veiled by a pall of mist to the north, and Cambridge was a huddle of spires, towers and roofs amid a patchwork of brown fields and leafless hedges. But Bartholomew was more interested in the undergrowth surrounding the road, because he thought he had glimpsed movement there. The woods lay thick around that section of the track, and they were eerily silent. He could see the ramparts of the ancient fortress to his right, vast, mysterious and shrouded in weeds.
‘We are being followed,’ whispered Cynric.
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, twisting to look behind them. The manoeuvre almost unseated him, for his horse objected and he was not a good enough rider to control it when it bucked.
‘Shall we find out who it is?’ asked Cynric. ‘For some reason, we have fewer Suffolk servants in tow than yesterday. Perhaps they have been detailed to finish what was started last night. We can ride down this small path and come out behind them before they realise what is happening.’
‘There are fewer servants because Valence told Agnys and d’Audley that rooms are expensive in Cambridge,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘The dispensable retainers have been left in Babraham.’
Cynric shot him the kind of look that said he was a fool for believing such a tale. ‘Here is our chance to see whether we can learn who is behind these attacks. Are you ready?’
‘We are almost home.’ Bartholomew was still troubled by his failure to save Margery, and did not feel like a foray into the undergrowth that might prove dangerous. ‘And then it will not matter – Michaelhouse will keep us safe.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Cynric. ‘And it is always better to attack than defend. Come.’
‘Yes, but–’ Bartholomew swore under his breath when the book-bearer wheeled away, clearly expecting him to follow. He jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, but the beast snickered malevolently and immediately shot off in the opposite direction. He managed to turn it, then was obliged to cling on for dear life as it started to gallop.
‘Hush!’ hissed Cynric irritably, when he caught up. ‘I said we were going to spy on them, not stampede them.’
He dismounted, so Bartholomew did likewise. The horse clacked its teeth at the physician when he tied its reins to a tree, then lurched sideways and almost knocked him over. Irritably, he shoved it back, and it released a high-pitched whinny of annoyance. He glanced at Cynric and saw that the book bearer’s expression was one of weary disgust. Then the Welshman disappeared into the trees so abruptly that Bartholomew was not quite sure where he had gone. It took several moments to locate him, by which time Cynric was muttering testily about thinking his master had abandoned him.
‘That is not a good idea,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘It is too–’
But Cynric had slid off into the undergrowth again with all the stealth of a hunting cat. The physician followed rather more noisily, and was treated to several long-suffering glares when he trod on sticks that snapped underfoot or rustled the vegetation.
Eventually, they reached the clearing in the centre of the ancient earthworks. Osa Gosse stood there, hands on his hips. His sister was with him. They were both angry, and even from a distance Bartholomew was aware of the cold malevolence that emanated from them both.
Bartholomew’s first instinct was to back away and leave the pair well alone, but Cynric gestured that they should edge closer, to hear what was being said. With considerable reluctance, and no small degree of unease, the physician did as he was told.
‘How much longer do we wait?’ Idoma was demanding. Her fine clothes were rumpled and the veil that covered her jet-black hair was askew. The dark rings beneath her shark-fish eyes gave them a decidedly sinister cant, and her fury was palpable. She was sitting on a tree stump, rubbing her leg.
‘A few more moments,’ Gosse replied. ‘We cannot risk being seen and recognised. We had a narrow escape last night – that book-bearer almost unmasked us.’
‘And I was gashed, into the bargain.’ Idoma flexed her knee. ‘Damned villain!’
‘But Brother Michael lives to tell the tale,’ Gosse went on sourly. ‘The physician must have saved him, although I cannot imagine how. I struck hard and low, and the wound should have been–’
‘None of it would have happened if we had attacked when I said,’ Idoma snapped. ‘They would be quietly dead and we would have been back in Cambridge by now – unscathed.’
Gosse was struggling for patience. ‘We needed to wait until the book-bearer slept. He thwarted me in Withersfield with his vigilance, and he thwarted you on the road near Hadstock yesterday.’
‘He was not there when we had the monk and the physician pinned in the ditch, but they still escaped.’ Idoma’s voice was a low, angry growl. ‘Some demon is watching over them, keeping them safe. By rights, they should be in their graves.’
Bartholomew had heard enough. ‘It is not the Suffolk people trying to harm us,’ he whispered to Cynric. He took a deep breath, to summon his courage, and started to stand. ‘It is them – and it is time they answered for their crimes.’
Cynric yanked him down again, sharply. ‘We cannot tackle them alone.’
Bartholomew stared at him in surprise. Cynric was not usually a man to shrink from a fight. ‘Of course we can. They are two, and so are we.’
‘But Idoma is a witch,’ objected Cynric, pale-faced. ‘I do not mind spying on her, but we cannot fight her in open combat. She will summon denizens from Hell and then she and her brother will have what they want: us dead and Brother Michael unprotected.’
‘They murdered Kelyng.’ The disquiet Bartholomew had felt when he had first seen Gosse and his malevolent sibling in the clearing was giving way to anger. ‘And Margery, too.’
Urgently, Cynric indicated he should lower his voice. ‘They are talking again. Listen – see what can be learned.’
‘Will they still pay us?’ Idoma asked, continuing to rub her leg. ‘Even though the scholars live?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Gosse quietly. ‘They dare not break an agreement with Osa Gosse.’
Bartholomew had been in the process of shaking off Cynric’s hand and going to confront the pair on his own, but their words stopped him in his tracks. He sank down again, aware that Cynric was regarding him triumphantly.
‘See?’ the book-bearer murmured. ‘You would not have known they were only hired to kill you, if you had charged up to them with your blade whirling. In other words, they are only instruments, and someone else is behind the raids. I doubt they will be very forthcoming if you rush in demanding answers, so let them be, and see where they lead us.’