An Unholy Alliance (38 page)

It was de Belem! He must have wanted to discourage me from sending cloth elsewhere to be dyed, and so he arranged to steal it from my carts! He must have killed Will, too!’

‘To buy more time, I pretended to stumble and knock some bales down,’ explained Michael. ‘Hidden behind them was Oswald’s stolen cloth. While we were witless with surprise, he dashed out and locked us in.’

‘They have fled,’ said Bartholomew, his voice jangling in his aching head. ‘They took horses and left.’

Stanmore looked at the open gates. ‘We might still catch them,’ he said. ‘Michael, Cynric! Help me with the horses!’

As they ran from the yard, Bartholomew turned to Buckley.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

Buckley shook his head, his face grey with strain. ‘They cut my arm when they came for me in the middle of the night. But that is healing. And they took my medicine.

But that was perhaps as well since I did not want to sleep too deeply with de Belem and that woman prowling around. And there was that poor whimpering child that needed me.’

So that explained the blood they had seen on the ground outside his window at King’s Hall. ‘What happened?’

Bartholomew asked.

‘A noise awoke me one night, and the next thing I knew was that de Belem was in my room with some of his hired thugs. They made me climb out of the window and wait in a cart while they took everything from my room. I later assumed he meant he wanted it to look as if I had done something dreadful and fled with all my belongings.’

The baby gave a strangled cry, and Bartholomew

rocked it.

Buckley swallowed hard. ‘Will the child live? I have been trying to look after him, but he was becoming weaker. They told me he is Richard Tulyet’s child, and that Tulyet would never come to rescue me as long as the baby was here. They were going to kill him if Tulyet so much as set foot in the yard.’

“I think he will recover once he is fed properly. Is there anything you can tell us that might help us catch de Belem and Janetta?’ Bartholomew asked.

Buckley shook his head slowly. ‘Only that the woman is here rarely, and that de Belem’s men are mercenaries who are beginning to waver in their loyalties. I heard a savage argument last night between de Belem and one of the sergeants. Some have already gone. He had about thirty, half were garrisoned in Primrose Alley and half are elsewhere. Of the ones in Primrose Alley, he probably has fewer than five left. There are other things, too, but they are supposition, and I have little to substantiate them.’

He continued talking quickly, while Bartholomew

listened, pieces of the puzzle falling into place with the scraps of information he had already gathered. He was still sitting on the ground, holding the baby, and listening to Buckley, when Michael and Stanmore returned with Cynric and two of Stanmore’s men, all mounted and armed. Behind Cynric were Rachel Atkin and Sybilla.

‘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.

The track narrowed further so that trees slapped past the horses on both sides. Bartholomew’s horse reared suddenly, panicked by some shadow that flicked across the path. Bartholomew fought to control it, drawing the reins tight and clinging with his knees to prevent himself from falling off. Branches tore at him, forcing him to raise one arm to protect his face against being blinded.

His horse snorted with fear and thrashed with its hooves, and Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide off.

Stanmore’s men, who had been behind, were past him before he could stop them, further panicking his horse. It turned and tried to bolt, but stumbled in the rutted track.

Horse and rider fell together into the undergrowth. The horse staggered to its feet and was away, crashing blindly along the path the way it had come. Bartholomew heard its hooves drumming off into the distance and then there was silence.

The thick undergrowth had broken his fall, and

Bartholomew was unharmed. Cautiously he began

to inch his way along the track towards the small settlement of Saffron Walden. He became aware of shouts ahead and slowed, wishing he could move as silently as Cynric. Peering through the undergrowth, he watched in horror as he saw Stanmore and Michael engaged in a violent skirmish with several rough-looking men wearing boiled-leather jerkins. Bartholomew had seen men dressed like this before: twice, when he had spoken to Janetta. These were the other half of de Belem’s mercenaries, men who had fought with the King at the glorious victory at Crecy, but came back to roam restlessly around the country waiting for another war and selling their services to the highest bidder.

The highest bidder was apparently de Belem, who

advanced as the skirmish ended, watching Stanmore and the others drop their weapons in surrender.

Bartholomew was furious at himself. It had been

obvious that de Belem was riding at such a pace for a reason, and they had fallen right into his trap.

‘The Sheriffs men will be here soon,’ said Stanmore boldly. ‘You will only make matters worse for yourself if you do not surrender.’

De Belem laughed and his menjoined in. ‘The Sheriffs men will find nothing here,’ he said. ‘They will be told you must have taken the London road at Great Chesterford, for no horsemen came this way tonight.’

‘You did not fool us. Why would you fool them?’ asked Michael:

‘My man at Great Chesterford will do a better job next time,’ said de Belem. ‘Because he knows what will happen to him if he does not’

‘Tulyet will hunt you down now that you no longer have his child,’ said Michael.

De Belem sighed. ‘There are many ways to skin a cat; I will think of something else.’

He motioned with his hand that they were to dismount and rounded them into a small group to be escorted into the village. Janetta suddenly appeared.

‘Where is Bartholomew?’ she said, looking around.

‘Search for him,’ she ordered two of the mercenaries.

‘He stayed with the baby,’ said Michael. ‘We came without him.’

‘Search for him,’ saidjanetta again, casting a disdainful look at Michael. ‘Do not let him escape.’

Bartholomew fought down panic as the two mercenaries began to move towards him. He ducked back into