Bartholomew walked on, unimpressed to recognise two more scholars who had defied Michael by lingering: Stasy and Hawick. They were with a pair of Fellows from Clare Hall, and he experienced a lurch of alarm. There was no love lost between these two foundations, and he was afraid they might be about to quarrel. If they did, others would join in, and there would be an all-out brawl.
‘Go home,’ he told his students curtly – he had no authority over Clare Hall. ‘You should not be out at this time of night. You know it is against the rules.’
‘We came to see if you needed help,’ said Stasy smoothly, although Bartholomew did not believe him, because they had never done it before.
‘Go home,’ he repeated, and glared until they slouched away. The Clare Hall men started to follow, but Bartholomew contrived to stand in their way, which was enough to make sure they went off in the opposite direction. When they had gone, he resumed his hunt for the Sheriff and found him at the edge of the bridge.
Richard Tulyet was a small man with an elfin face and a wispy beard, although his delicate features disguised a bold warrior and an iron will. He was honest, shrewd and efficient, and was willing to work with the University, which meant there was none of the jurisdictional sparring that afflicted most other shires with powerful academic or religious foundations in their midst. Bartholomew liked him enormously, and considered him a friend.
The same was not true of his son Dickon, a strapping lad who was already bulkier than his sire and would tower over him when fully grown. Dickon’s voice had dropped an octave in the last year, and he was growing a moustache that promised to be a lot lusher than his father’s. He carried himself like a soldier, despite the fact that his knightly training had been cut short on account of his overly aggressive behaviour. There was a rumour that the Devil had sired him, and most people who knew him were ready to believe it. A collective murmur of approval had echoed all across the town when Tulyet had recently announced that he was sending Dickon to join the King’s army in France.
‘Your Chancellor has had an accident,’ the boy announced before his father could speak. He smirked gleefully. ‘One with lots of blood. He has fallen on the ponticulus.’
The Great Bridge had wooden railings to prevent people from toppling off it, but these were so rotten that they could no longer be trusted. As a temporary solution for pedestrians, a rope bridge had been provided, which hung off the west side of the main one. Everyone called it the ponticulus – the ‘little bridge’.
Bartholomew hurried forward and saw the Chancellor had evidently been walking over the main bridge when he had crashed through the railings to the ponticulus below. He had landed in such a way that one of the posts had speared him through the middle. Unfortunately, it had not yet killed him, and his chest rose and fell as he struggled to breathe. He was alone, although dozens of people peered down at him from the bridge above.
‘Where are the other medici?’ demanded Bartholomew, shocked that nothing had been done to help the wounded man. ‘All live closer than me – one should have come at once.’
‘Two are away,’ explained Tulyet, watching Bartholomew begin to climb down, ‘while Rougham and the surgeon are at a feast in Clare Hall. You are the only one left.’
‘Donwich invited them there, to celebrate the victory he thinks he will win in tomorrow’s election,’ put in Dickon, and smirked again. ‘They will both be drunk by now.’
‘When do you go to France?’ asked Bartholomew coolly, feeling that the sooner the lad was out of the country, the better. Even Tulyet was beginning to acknowledge that Dickon was not all that could be desired in a son, while his mother openly admitted that he frightened her.
‘Next month,’ replied Dickon happily. ‘I shall find something interesting to do there, even if tormenting peasants and burning villages is no longer allowed.’
‘If you are to win your spurs and become a knight, you must remember the chivalric code,’ lectured Tulyet. ‘To protect the weak and–’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Dickon impatiently. ‘Although the weak would not be weak if they learned how to fight, so they only have themselves to blame.’
It was not easy for Bartholomew to reach the dying Chancellor, as his fall had caused the ponticulus to twist dangerously. He managed eventually, moving with care lest a sudden jolt should pitch them both into the river below. He was not pleased when he felt a thump at his side and saw that Dickon had followed him. He was about to order the boy away when Tulyet called out.
‘He is stronger than me and lighter than Michael. He will be of more use to you than either of us, if you need help.’
Bartholomew knelt next to Aynton and told Dickon to hold a lamp so he could see. The post had entered the Chancellor’s side and emerged through his back, rupturing vital organs as it went. There was nothing Bartholomew could do to save him, and he was glad that Aynton had lost his senses, so knew nothing of what was happening.
‘Shall I haul the rail out?’ offered Dickon eagerly. ‘I am not afraid of blood.’
‘I am sure you are not,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him in distaste. ‘But neither of us will be doing any hauling. We are going to let him die peacefully and with dignity.’
‘You mean you will leave that thing inside him?’ asked Dickon, bemused.
Bartholomew nodded, aware that Michael had heard his assessment of the Chancellor’s condition, and was already murmuring last rites. Although not a priest, the monk had been given special dispensation to grant absolution during the plague and had continued the practice since. Tulyet began to order the spectators away, to give Aynton privacy in his final moments.
Dickon remained nonplussed. ‘So we just kneel here until he stops breathing?’
Bartholomew nodded again. ‘So stay back and keep quiet.’
Dickon retreated obediently, although not so far that he could not see what was happening. Then Aynton opened his eyes. Sorry for it, Bartholomew rummaged in his bag for the powerful poppy juice syrup he kept for those in extremis, aiming to make him sleep again. The Chancellor guessed what he was going to do and raised a bloodstained hand to stop him.
‘I cannot … feel anything,’ he gasped. ‘Am I … dying?’
‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew, knowing Aynton would not thank him for a lie. ‘Michael is giving you absolution. Can you hear him?’
‘He is a … good man,’ whispered Aynton, and shifted, causing a welling of blood. ‘He … make a fine chancellor … The task … beyond me … I did my best … never enough.’
‘It does not matter now. Lie still and listen to his prayers.’
But Aynton grabbed Bartholomew’s hand to pull him closer. ‘Hear … confession. You … not a priest … God will not mind … unburden my soul … I have … grave sins.’
Bartholomew seriously doubted it. ‘Michael!’ he called urgently. ‘Come down.’
‘One stains … my conscience … especially,’ Aynton went on, so softly that Bartholomew could barely hear him. ‘I must tell–’
There was a loud crack when the monk stepped on the unstable parapet, and Dickon yelped as a lump of wood fell and hit him on the shoulder. Tulyet yanked Michael back before he did any more damage, and Bartholomew saw there would be no confessor coming.
‘I … brought death … on the innocent,’ Aynton continued; his grip on Bartholomew’s fingers was weak and clammy. ‘I sent Huntyngdon … to deliver a letter.’ He shifted again and more blood gushed. ‘To Narboro.’
‘He must be babbling,’ declared Dickon, who had inched forward to listen. ‘Dying men do, apparently, although I have not seen many yet. Look at all that blood! Why is it–’