He moved closer to the well and glanced inside it. Michael was not there. Then he saw a scrap of the monk’s habit floating in one corner, and his stomach lurched in horror.
‘Dickon!’ he yelled, all thoughts of his own safety gone. ‘Call your father! Hurry! Go now!’
‘Pow! I kill him dead!’ yelled Dickon, but obligingly disappeared from the wall. Bartholomew only hoped he would not encounter something more interesting before he summoned assistance – and that Tulyet would take the boy seriously and not put his story down to childish imagination.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew himself was faced with an agonising decision. If he jumped inside the cistern, he would not be able to climb out unaided – and if Dickon did not manage to raise the alarm, he would eventually drown. But Michael was already unconscious, and would die for certain if he took the time to fetch help himself. He glanced at the pulley, wondering whether he could use it to haul them both to safety, but Eudo had dismantled it to the point where it was useless. There was only one thing to do if he was to save Michael.
Taking a deep breath, he sat on the wall and launched himself forward. The water was agonisingly cold, and he felt himself descend for some time before he was able to kick his way to the surface. He blinked algae from his eyes and looked for the floating material he had seen in one corner. It was not there: Michael had sunk.
Trying to quell his alarm, Bartholomew dived. The water was cloudy and no sunlight penetrated the pool, which meant it was impossible to see. He flailed around in increasingly desperate circles, searching for anything grabbable. The tips of his fingers encountered something waving near the side of the pit, and he moved towards it, his lungs almost ready to burst. He located an arm and seized it, kicking towards the surface and surprised at how heavy Michael had become.
He dropped his prize in horror: the face that emerged was not the monk’s, nor was it anyone he could save. Whoever else was in the well was long past earthly help, and there was a deep, gashing wound in the throat that looked as if someone had hacked it with stunning ferocity. Bartholomew had a fleeting image of a moss-coloured liripipe and a youngish face before he released the corpse and dived again, concentrating on the area where he had seen Michael’s habit.
He felt something bulky that moved when he touched it, and struck out for the surface yet again, dragging the body with him and praying it was Michael and not another cadaver, because time was running out. He was relieved when he recognised the thin, brown hair and beefy features, and pressed his ear against his friend’s chest. A faint hammering told him the monk was alive. He opened Michael’s mouth and breathed hard into it, as he had been taught to do by his Arab master in Paris. Immediately, Michael gagged. His eyes fluttered open and he began to flail, strong arms made even more powerful by panic.
‘Keep still,’ Bartholomew ordered, ducking to avoid being hit. Michael was weighty, even when buoyed up by water, and his struggles would make keeping him afloat difficult. ‘Or you will have us both under.’
‘I cannot swim!’ shrieked Michael, grabbing him around the throat.
Bartholomew went under, desperately trying to dislodge the monk’s vicelike grip. They both started to sink, and one of Michael’s knees struck him under the chin. He kicked his way free and surfaced some distance away. This time, he approached the monk from behind and hauled him up backwards, so he would not be able to drag them down a second time. Michael struggled frantically, and Bartholomew was hard-pressed to maintain his hold.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, when he could speak without water slopping into his mouth. ‘You are not going to drown. I have you. But you must trust me. Relax.’
‘Relax?’ screeched Michael. ‘What an inane thing to say to a drowning man!’
‘Well, try,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And stop making so much noise or you will have Eudo and Boltone back. We are sitting ducks inside this thing.’ He coughed, and the rhythm of his treading water was momentarily broken.
‘We are sinking!’ howled Michael, at once embarking on a new bout of struggles. ‘Water is going up my nose. I cannot breathe!’
‘Then stop splashing and making waves,’ gasped Bartholomew. ‘I will not let you go, I promise.’
Michael went rigid, every muscle in his body straining with the effort of keeping still. His breath came in short, shallow hisses, and he screwed his eyes tightly closed, so he would not be able to see the slick green walls and the rectangle of sky above him. Bartholomew admired his self-control, not sure he could have complied so readily, if the situation had been reversed.
‘No,’ whispered Michael after a few moments. ‘This will not work. You are not strong enough to keep us both afloat. Let me go.’
‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘As soon as I release you, you will grab me and we will drown together.’ He paddled towards one of the walls, hoping to find a handhold that Michael could take, and ease some of the weight. There was nothing.
Michael retched as he scrabbled at the stones, trying in vain to hold himself up. ‘My feet are nowhere near the bottom,’ he squeaked. ‘And the sides are as slippery and as smooth as ice.’
‘Help is on its way,’ said Bartholomew, to calm him. ‘We do not have long to wait.’
Michael twisted around to look at him. ‘Who? Not Eudo and Boltone. They want us dead.’
‘Dickon. He is fetching his father as we speak.’
Michael was appalled. ‘Dickon? But he would love to see me perish. Indeed, I am surprised he is not here to watch. I suppose the garden wall is too high for him to scale.’
Bartholomew said nothing. His legs were already beginning to ache from the effort of swimming, and he dared not ease his hold around the monk’s neck, for the instant he did so Michael would panic again.
‘Drowned in a latrine pit!’ muttered Michael, making a valiant attempt to control his hysteria by talking. ‘I can just imagine what my adversaries at the University will make of that.’
‘This is not a latrine pit,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the other corpse that lurked under the murky surface, but deciding it was not a good time to mention it. In an attempt to ensure it did not slip out inadvertently, he changed the subject, then winced when he ended up saying something equally inappropriate. ‘If Dickon neglects to call his father, your enemies will never know what happened to you anyway. You will just fail to return home tonight, and that will be that.’
‘A mystery,’ said Michael weakly, spitting and fixing one meaty hand around Bartholomew’s arm. It was a grip of tremendous strength, and Bartholomew felt his own begin to slacken. He struggled to maintain it. ‘I have always hated water. Swim harder, Matt – we are sinking again.’
‘You are heavy,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, aware that already his burning muscles were not obeying him as they should. ‘Try to float.’
‘A man of my girth does not float,’ stated Michael, with a trace of his habitual hauteur. He was silent for a moment. ‘What if help does not come?’
‘It will,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound confident, and deciding not to point out that a three-year-old child could hardly be expected to understand the importance of what he had been asked to do. Dickon’s attention span was short and, even if he did go directly to his father and tell him the improbable story that the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were in his neighbour’s cistern, there was a good chance that Tulyet would not believe him.
‘Save yourself,’ said Michael, after what felt like an age. ‘Let me go and climb out. You are fit and strong. You will make it. Then come back for me later, being sure to present my corpse in its best light for mourners. All I ask is that you never tell anyone what really happened.’
‘What did happen?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at the sky, and strained his ears, but could hear or see nothing to indicate rescue was on its way. Michael slipped a little, and gagged as water slapped into his mouth. Bartholomew made a monumental effort to heave him up, and was horrified when he found he was barely able to do it. Without relinquishing his hold, he decided to see if they would fare better by swimming, than treading water. He leaned backwards and began to move. Michael screeched in horror.