‘Hush!’ snapped Bartholomew.
‘I was pushed,’ Aynton breathed, his eyes full of anguish. ‘I … was on the bridge … a shove … and over I …’
Bartholomew regarded him in shock. Then he glanced up at the broken railings, and saw it was unlikely that Aynton had fallen through them by chance. The bridge would have been empty at that time of night, with no bad-tempered jostling as there was during the day, so the chances of him stumbling violently enough to snap them by accident were remote. Someone had done to the Chancellor what had been done to Baldok a few weeks before.
‘Who pushed you?’ Bartholomew demanded urgently.
Aynton’s grip tightened, but his voice dropped so low as to be all but inaudible. ‘… instaribam … litteratus … do … understand?’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘It was a learned person? You mean a scholar?’
A spasm of agony gripped the Chancellor, and his voice faded lower still. ‘… n litteratus … hoc…’
‘What is he saying?’ demanded Dickon, craning forward keenly. ‘Is it Latin?’
Aynton’s eyes closed. He took two more shuddering breaths and the life slipped out of him. For a moment, all that could be heard was Michael on the bridge above as he continued to murmur prayers of absolution. Then Dickon began to clamour questions.
‘Is he dead? What was he talking about? Did he tell you that a scholar killed him?’
‘I thought so at first, but then it sounded like non litteratus – someone without formal learning,’ replied Bartholomew, bemused. ‘So now I have no idea which he meant.’
It quickly transpired to be impossible to carry Aynton off the twisted ponticulus. Bartholomew and Dickon tried, but it tipped at such a precarious angle that they were forced to stop. Then Michael suggested a stretcher with a winch, and hurried away to see what could be organised, leaving the Sheriff to control the ever-expanding crowd of ghouls on the bridge and the nearby riverbanks.
Mayor Morys arrived while Michael was gone, and began dispensing loud, impractical and unwanted advice on how to deal with the situation. He was more concerned with preserving the ponticulus than the dignity of the victim, and when he suggested dropping Aynton into the river and retrieving him by boat, Bartholomew’s patience snapped.
‘He is our Chancellor, not a sack of grain.’
‘I stand corrected,’ said Morys with an unrepentant smirk. ‘Although, in my defence, I should remind you that he resigned, so technically, he is nothing at all.’
Bartholomew did not dignify that remark with a response. He was acutely uncomfortable, kneeling on the swaying ponticulus with Dickon. He had placed his tabard over Aynton’s upper body, but the jutting rail made it impossible to cover the rest, and the spectators were going nowhere as long as there was an impaled corpse to hold their attention. Time passed slowly, and he wished Michael would hurry up.
‘I hope Donwich wins the election tomorrow,’ he heard Morys announce to his cronies. ‘I could work with him – he is a man who understands the ways of the world.’
In other words, thought Bartholomew sourly, Morys believed Donwich to be more amenable to bribes. He glanced up at the Mayor, noting the sharp eyes, narrow face and expensive clothes. Morys was reputed to have quadrupled his wealth during his year in office, and Bartholomew was glad the man’s tenure would expire at the end of the month.
‘I could work with him, too,’ came a woman’s voice, and he saw the speaker was Morys’s wife Rohese. ‘I like the men from Clare Hall. They are all very fine specimens.’
She was twenty years her husband’s junior and full of sensual vitality. Her lips were painted scarlet, and she had a provocatively undulating gait. He recalled what Michael had said about her, and wondered how much Morys knew about her indiscretions.
‘Go home, Rohese,’ the Mayor ordered sharply. ‘This does not concern you.’
‘You said that when John Baldok was killed,’ pouted Rohese. ‘But he was a friend.’
Morys regarded her coolly. ‘This victim is Chancellor Aynton, and I am sure you do not include him in your circle of acquaintances.’
‘I do not,’ she conceded, then smiled. ‘Is that young Dickon? What are you doing down there, my lovely?’
‘Helping,’ replied Dickon proudly, and for the first time ever, Bartholomew saw him blush. ‘Because I am stronger than my father.’
‘You are a very fine lad,’ purred Rohese with a look so sultry that Dickon went redder than ever and, for once, could think of nothing to say.
With a final, smouldering glance that encompassed not only Dickon and Bartholomew, but – somewhat unsettlingly – Aynton, too, she turned and sashayed away.
‘She knows my name,’ said Dickon in a strangled whisper. ‘Did you hear? I did not think she knew me.’
Given his unsavoury reputation, Bartholomew thought it highly unlikely that anyone in Cambridge would be unaware of Dickon’s existence. He did not say so, though, because Dickon carried a sword, knives and probably other weapons as well, and might whip one out if he sensed an insult – and the ponticulus was far too unstable for a fracas.
When Rohese had gone, another head peered over the bridge. It belonged to a burly, bearded man in a dusty tunic, who carried himself with considerable authority. Bartholomew was about to order him away when he heard Michael’s voice.
‘You see the problem, Shardelowe? The ponticulus has torqued, so carrying Chancellor Aynton off it is impossible and–’
‘Ah, the King’s builder,’ interrupted Morys, nodding approvingly. ‘A man used to winching heavy objects hither and thither. It was a good idea to fetch him, Brother. However, whatever is done must not harm the ponticulus. It is too valuable.’
‘So is our Chancellor,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘Now move back so we can retrieve him, if you please.’
Shardelowe assessed the situation with a professional eye, then set about constructing a hoist. While he worked, Dickon whispered in Bartholomew’s ear.
‘The King sent Shardelowe to look at the bridge. His Majesty plans to come here next year, you see, and he wants to ride across it without being pitched in the river. He even gave us some money to help with the repairs, although my father says he was not very generous.’
Knowing His Majesty’s reputation for thrift, Bartholomew suspected he had parted with the barest minimum – enough to ensure the town was forced to do what was necessary, but not enough to make much of a dent in the final bill.
Eventually, the winch was ready, so Bartholomew yielded his place on the ponticulus to the builder, who deftly secured Aynton with ropes. Dickon remained where he was, watching with rapt attention. Bartholomew went to join Michael and Tulyet.
‘We are lucky this wretched bridge has not claimed more victims,’ said Tulyet unhappily. ‘Let us hope the council agrees to rebuild it in stone at the meeting on Friday, so that no one else will fall prey to the thing. Wood rots too easily.’
‘Aynton told me he was pushed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Deliberately.’
‘You mean murdered?’ breathed Michael, horrified and disbelieving in equal measure. ‘But who would do such a thing?’
‘He did not say. He was insistent, though.’
‘Was he pushed?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Can you tell?’
‘Not with certainty. However, I doubt he would have stumbled with enough force to have landed where he did. So I believe him – I think he was shoved.’