‘He is mad,’ explained Langelee. ‘He does not see things in the same light as you and I.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He wanted us here for a reason, and I will not leave until I know what it is. I am going to search the grounds. Will you come with me?’
‘No, I will go to tell Tulyet what has happened,’ said Langelee, beginning to move away. He called back over his shoulder. ‘If you do find Clippesby, do not let him escape again. We will send him to this hospital in Norfolk first thing tomorrow.’
When he had gone, Bartholomew led Michael through Merton Hall’s vegetable plots. They were still and silent, contrasting starkly with the colour and movement along the High Street. A blackbird suddenly flapped away from a patch of peas, squawking its agitation and making them jump in alarm. And then it was gone, leaving them grinning in rueful amusement at the way it had startled them so badly.
They were almost at the end of the garden, near the Bin Brook and the cistern, when they heard the first sound. It was a voice and a splash. Raising his hand to warn Michael to take care, Bartholomew inched forward, watching where he put his feet, so he did not step on a dead twig and warn Clippesby – or whoever was there – that he was coming. Michael was less cautious, and there was a loud crunch as he trod on a snail. It sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent garden, and Bartholomew turned to give the monk an agonised scowl.
‘That is far enough,’ said a soft voice. ‘Do not move, or it will be the last thing you do.’
Bartholomew looked around slowly, and was startled to see a woman standing there. She wore a white wimple, while a light veil covered her nose and mouth in a fashion that had been popular among ladies some ten years before. Bartholomew looked hard at her, and saw a fair curl that was redolent of Alyce Weasenham. Her long blue kirtle accentuated the attractive curves of her sensual figure, and he was not surprised Langelee had been lured by her charms. But, at that moment, he was more concerned by the fact that she held a bow, and that she handled it in a way that suggested she knew how to use it. Around her shoulders was a quiver containing more arrows, and from its position Bartholomew sensed she could whip out a second one even as the first sped towards its target.
‘Where is Clippesby?’ demanded Michael. He took a step forward, then stopped when a quarrel thudded into the ground at his feet. As Bartholomew had anticipated, she had nocked another missile into her bow before the astonished monk had looked up from the spent one. ‘There is no need for that,’ he objected.
‘Do as you are told,’ she snapped. ‘Or the next one will be through your heart.’
Her determined eyes, and the way her hands were absolutely steady on her weapon, convinced both scholars that she was in earnest.
‘Help!’ came a weak voice from the cistern. Bartholomew saw that the heavy lid preventing leaves and other debris from falling inside the well had been replaced since Tulyet’s dredging. All that was open was the square hatch, which allowed a bucket to be raised and lowered. And someone had evidently gone through it.
‘Who is it?’ he asked, taking a tentative step forward. The woman did not object, so he took another, and another, until he was able to see. What he saw shocked him.
Four white faces gazed at him. They belonged to Polmorva, Duraunt, Eu and Abergavenny. The water was not far from the top of the well, but the walls were still slick, preventing anyone from climbing out. The lid made matters worse: it was so heavy that no one would be able to raise it from within. He heard Michael’s horrified gasp as he recalled his own recent experiences.
‘That witch has blocked the outflow,’ called Polmorva desperately. ‘It is only a matter of time before enough water floods in to drown us. There is no escape and we are too far away for our cries to be heard.’
‘There is always that nosy child,’ said ‘the witch’. ‘Perhaps his mother will bring him home from the Archbishop’s parade early, but perhaps she will not. At least you have a chance of life down there. You will die for certain if I shoot you.’ She waved her bow to indicate that Bartholomew and Michael were to join the Oxford men.
‘No,’ said Michael. His voice was unsteady and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘I am not going in there again. Loose an arrow at me if you will, but I will not jump in the pit.’
‘I will not shoot you,’ she said softly, swinging her bow round to point at Bartholomew. ‘I will kill your friend. You do not want him to die because you decline to obey a simple instruction, do you?’
‘Why are you doing this, Alyce?’ asked Michael, desperately trying to buy time in the distant hope that Langelee might bring Tulyet to scour Merton Hall’s grounds for the missing Clippesby. But Bartholomew knew Tulyet and Langelee thought the killer intended to strike at the Archbishop, and would never abandon their duties protecting him to engage in a search a mile away from the Visitation. ‘Are you this wolf, who kills with metal teeth?’
‘How is it that you think you know my name?’ she demanded in her turn.
‘Your veil does not hide your eyes,’ replied Michael. ‘What are you hoping to achieve by condemning us to such a dreadful death? To run off with Langelee? I can tell you now that he will not go. He likes being Master of Michaelhouse, and has already annulled one marriage to ensure he can continue. You will never be more than something pleasant to occupy his spare time.’
‘Shut up and get in the well,’ she ordered, beginning to draw on her bow. Her aim was unwavering, and Bartholomew was under no illusions of survival once she had loosed the thing.
He glanced inside the cistern, and saw water lapping not far from the top. Abergavenny was struggling to hold Duraunt high enough for him to breathe, while Eu and Polmorva were gasping and retching. It was an ugly way to go, and he knew Polmorva was right: they could shout and scream all they liked, but no one would hear them, particularly on the day of the Visitation, where every soul was watching the ecclesiastical pageant and cheering at the top of his voice.
Michael edged towards the hatch, and threw Bartholomew an agonised glance. The monk swallowed hard, and Bartholomew saw he was shaking as he sat slowly on the well’s low wall.
‘Where is Wormynghalle?’ the monk asked, lifting one leg so it trailed in the water. He could not prevent a shudder as wetness lapped across his foot. ‘Has he escaped? If so, then he will raise the alarm. Give yourself up, before any more damage is done.’
‘Wormynghalle is fetching horses,’ said Polmorva, shivering partly from the cold, but mostly from fear. He also saw the advantage of talking, to keep the hatch open for as long as possible. ‘For their escape. They are in this together.’
‘Wormynghalle and her ?’ asked Michael in surprise.
Eu spat water from his mouth. ‘The tanner is too recently rich to be trustworthy. I should never have agreed to travel with such a man – such a killer.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, making no move to jump. ‘Are you saying Wormynghalle murdered Gonerby, Okehamptone and Hamecotes?’
‘I witnessed Gonerby’s death,’ said Polmorva, coughing as Abergavenny tried to find a better way to hold Duraunt, and the water was churned into waves that slopped into his face. ‘The killer was not Wormynghalle, because I would have recognised his shape. But it could have been that witch. The villain wore a cloak with a hood, but he was the right size and height to have been her.’
‘Then it is good you will not live to tell anyone about it,’ she said coldly. ‘But you knew little to put us at risk. My brother and I never had anything to fear from you.’
‘Your brother?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘You are Wormynghalle’s sister? But he is too fat and pig-like to be related to you.’