'Matt! Come on, we must catch them!' said Michael, leaning down and grabbing at Bartholomew's tabard.
Bartholomew climbed unsteadily to his feet and handed the baby to Rachel.
'Take him to Richard Tulyet's wife,' he said. 'You must tell her to feed him immediately. He is unharmed, but weak.'
'Matt, come on, or we will lose them!' cried Stanmore, already mounted.
'Tell her if she cannot feed him herself she must find a wet-nurse at once,' Bartholomew continued, glancing at Stanmore irritably.
Rachel nodded and wrapped the baby more warmly in her own cloak.
'Matt!' yelled Michael, wheeling round on his impatient horse.
'He is to be fed in small amounts. Too much at once and he will get colic. Master Buckley, will you go to the Sheriff? If you are too weak, call at Michaelhouse and they will send a student.' He gave one last look at the baby, and ran to the horse Stanmore was holding for him.
He climbed clumsily into the saddle, and closed his eyes as the ground appeared to tip and sway beneath him. The feeling passed, and he grabbed at the horse's reins in an attempt to stop it from skittering.
'They took the Trumpington Road,' said Stanmore.
"I heard them.'
Bartholomew jabbed his heels into the horse's side and followed the others as they clattered out of the yard, along Milne Street, and towards the High Street. They slowed as they neared the Trumpington Gate, and he saw the guards milling around. One of them was sitting on the ground holding a hand to his head.
'They ran him down!' the sergeant from the Castle shouted indignantly to Stanmore. 'There were two of them. Rufus stood to stop them and they just ran him down.'
Bartholomew moved to dismount to attend to the man, but the sergeant stopped him. 'Rufus will be fine, Doctor. They took the Trumpington Road, probably off to London. Go after them and bring them back to me. I will send to the Castle.'
'If Tulyet does not know yet, tell him his baby is safe,'
Bartholomew yelled back at him as his horse, fired with the chase in the night, began to gallop after the others with no encouragement from him. 'You will find him more than willing to take action this time.'
The night was cloudy and dark. The new moon was not due for two nights and so there was nothing to light their way. They were forced to reduce their speed for fear of being thrown, since the Trumpington Road was, as usual, deeply rutted with cart tracks and pot-holes so deep that Bartholomew had seen a drowned sheep in one during the spring.
They reached Trumpington and Stanmore slowed, yelling at the top of his voice. Several people emerged from their dark cottages and told him that other horses had passed moments earlier and had taken the path to Saffron Walden.
'Good thing we stopped,' Michael muttered, turning his horse down the smaller of the two roads. "I would have bet my dinner they would make for London.'
'Wait for the Sheriffs men,' Stanmore shouted to the villagers. 'Tell them which way we have gone.'
He wheeled his horse round and started off down the Saffron Walden road, the others streaming behind him. Another piece of the jigsaw clicked into place in Bartholomew's mind. Saffron Walden. He thoughtabout the two people he had seen in the roof of All Saints': one small and sure-footed, the other larger and less adept, but stronger. Janetta and Hesselwell, the high priest's assistants, throwing the birds and bats down into the church to frighten the congregation, with Hesselwell not knowing the identity of the other.
His horse stumbled, and Bartholomew was forced to abandon his analysis and concentrate on riding. He was not a good horseman, and was finding it difficult to stay in the saddle, let alone direct the horse. He was grateful Stanmore had thought to give him one that seemed able to look after itself. Michael was an excellent rider, having learned on the fine mounts kept in the Bishop's stables, while Cynric was inelegant, but efficient.
He strained his eyes, trying to see if he could detect any movement that they were drawing closer to their quarry, but could see nothing. He swore as a dangling twig clawed at his face, and leaned further down against his horse's neck. The beast was beginning to glisten with sweat and Bartholomew could see foam oozing from its mouth. Behind him, he heard Michael curse loudly as his own mount staggered, and only his skill kept him in the saddle.
'Slow down!' Michael yelled to Stanmore. 'You will ruin the horses!'
The pace dropped, and then was forced to drop further still when the road degenerated into a morass of thick cloying mud and great puddles. Spray flew and Bartholomew blinked muddy water from his eyes.
'There!' he yelled, glimpsing two shadowy figures far ahead, silhouetted against the skyline.
Stanmore stood in his stirrups and peered forward.
He began to urge his huge piebald forward again, faster than before. Bartholomew clung on for dear life, feeling his legs begin to ache, and hoped they would catch de Belem soon. Saffron Walden was perhaps fifteen miles on the winding track from Cambridge, and they had travelled at least two thirds of that already. The track became better as they neared the small settlement at Great Chesterford and they thundered forward. Janetta and de Belem had also made good time through the village, and when they emerged at the other end, they were out of sight.
The road split again after Great Chesterford. A man materialised out of the darkness and pointed to the right fork.
'Horsemen went that way,' he said. 'The road is a better and faster route to London than the road from Trumpington at the moment.'
'No! They went left,' cried Bartholomew, clinging on to his horse as it skittered restlessly.
Stanmore hesitated, so Bartholomew urged his mount down the road on the left to lead the way. The horses were beginning to tire, and as soon as the track degenerated again, they were forced to slow to a trot. Michael swore and muttered, leaning forward to squint into the darkness to see if he could spot de Belem again. At a wider part, he drew level with Bartholomew, while Stanmore pushed past them.
"I do not understand this,' he said breathlessly. 'Why Saffron Walden? Why not London where they could easily disappear?'
'De Belem is a dyer,' said Bartholomew.
Michael looked blankly at him. 'So?'
'Saffron Walden is where crocuses are grown for saffron.'
Bartholomew was surprised at Michael's slowness.
'Saffron is used for dye. De Belem is a dyer. He probably owns fields there. The plague left land vacant all over the country, and I am sure that the crocus fields could be bought relatively cheaply. I cannot imagine that an astute merchant like de Belem would miss an opportunity for that kind of business investment.'
'Stanmore's carts!' said Michael, urging his horse round a deep puddle. 'They were attacked at Saffron Walden, and Will was killed near there!'
'And de Belem was planning to marry Frances to some lord of the manor there,' said Bartholomew.
The track became narrow again, and Bartholomew was forced to drop back so Michael could ride ahead.
Stanmore, now in the lead, saw a flash of movement ahead and urged them on.
'What do they think will happen when they reach Saffron Walden?' Michael yelled. 'We are still in pursuit.'
'They must have somewhere to hide,' Stanmore yelled back.
Bartholomew thought about Buckley's information.
Fifteen mercenaries elsewhere. De Belem and Janetta would not ride so wildly just to be taken at Saffron Walden, hiding place or no. They must have had a plan! 'Stop!' he shouted. 'Wait!'
But Michael and Stanmore did not hear him. He kicked at his horse to try to catch up with them. As they reached the brow of a hill, he could see the dark regular shapes of buildings in the hollow below. They were almost there.
'Michael!' he yelled at the top of his voice, but the monk did not hear.