Murder by the Book (50 page)

‘The King’s taxes are more than enough to cover all
our needs,’ said Dunning comfortably. ‘The rest of Bonabes’s men are securing them for us as we speak.’

‘If they can find them,’ goaded Langelee. ‘Tulyet has hidden them, and not even his most trusted warriors know where. You will never have them. He has concealed his ribauldequin, too.’

Bonabes regarded Dunning in alarm, and there was consternation among the mercenaries, too. ‘Is this true? Our arrangement stipulates that I am to have both weapons.’

‘Langelee is lying,’ said Dunning coldly. ‘And I want to hear no more of his tales. Kill them.’

There was nothing Bartholomew, Michael or Langelee could do as they were forced to kneel in a line. One mercenary stood behind them, executioner style, and drew his sword. His cool proficiency indicated it was a task he had performed before.

‘Wait!’ shouted Michael. ‘You have not killed anyone, Walkelate. It is not too late to turn back.’

‘But I do not want to turn back,’ said Walkelate, grabbing a handful of kindling from the hearth. ‘I have learned a lot from my experiments, and I can make a significant contribution to the alchemical sciences now. And what is more important than the advancement of knowledge?’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Dunning, watching the architect in bemusement.

‘He
has
killed, Michael,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘He poisoned his helpmeets. You just heard him admit that he hid their bodies in the pond.’

‘It was an accident,’ objected Walkelate, casting an uneasy glance at Bonabes, whose eyes had narrowed. ‘How was I to know that red lead is toxic when heated?’

‘Of course you did,’ said Bartholomew scornfully. ‘It is basic alchemy. You knew exactly what would happen, and
you even persuaded Holm to hire singers to drown the sounds of their final agonies. You condemned them to horrible deaths with calculated and ruthless efficiency. And Northwood and the London brothers were men Bonabes was fond of.’

But his effort to cause friction failed: Bonabes was too determined to have his weapons to allow himself to be distracted by the mere murder of friends.

‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped to the executioner. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Jorz was no accident, though,’ said Bartholomew, twisting to one side, and thus spoiling the man’s aim. Impatiently, he was tugged upright again.

‘He grew suspicious of me,’ explained Walkelate. ‘So I had no choice. But I did it in such a way that everyone assumed he had a seizure. No one will ever know what I did.’

‘You will never clean our blood away in time for your grand opening,’ said Michael quickly, watching the executioner grab Bartholomew’s hair. ‘It will stain your beautiful floorboards.’

‘He has a point,’ said Dunning worriedly. ‘Nothing can be allowed to spoil my ceremony.’

‘I will borrow some rugs from King’s Hall,’ replied Walkelate, his attention on the kindling.

‘Setting the castle alight will ruin the library’s grand opening,’ shouted Michael, desperation in his voice as the mercenary prepared to deliver the fatal blow. ‘All eyes will be on that, and no one will care about your generous donation.’

But Dunning was not listening: he was looking at Walkelate. ‘What are you doing?’

‘He plans to set a fire,’ yelled Michael, toppling sideways and knocking Bartholomew out of the executioner’s grasp with his bulk. ‘Your foundation will be reduced to ashes.’

‘What?’ demanded Dunning. ‘There will be no fires here!’

‘Just a small one,’ said Walkelate calmly. ‘To eliminate evidence of our activities. We cannot have Dame Pelagia poking around and discovering clues we have overlooked. Bartholomew has drawn conclusions from stray metal filings, and it might prove fatal if she does the same.’

‘No!’ cried Dunning. ‘I forbid it!’

But Walkelate had already touched a flame to his sticks, and there was a low roar as they ignited. The resulting blaze was evidently fiercer than he had anticipated, as he flinched away in alarm. Dunning’s jaw dropped in horror.

‘It is the wood oil,’ gasped Bartholomew, fighting back as the executioner tried to manoeuvre him into position again. ‘Kente used buckets of the stuff, and it is highly combustible. Your library will burn to the ground.’

‘No!’ howled Dunning, hauling off his cloak and beginning to beat at the flames. It served to make them burn more ferociously. ‘Bonabes! Help me!’

The heat was so intense that the executioner raised his hand to protect his face. His momentary distraction allowed Bartholomew to lurch forward and punch the pot from Bonabes’s hand. It fell into the fire. With a screech of fury, Bonabes tried to grab it back, but the flames were too powerful.

‘Oh, God!’ shrieked Walkelate, when he saw what had happened. ‘Run!’

‘No one is going anywhere!’ Dunning blocked the door. ‘You will stay here and put out this blaze. The library is my path to immortality, and I am not prepared to lose it.’

But the executioner had had enough, and so had his cronies. They began to advance on the door, swords at the ready, and it was clear that they were not going to let
Dunning stop them. Immediately, Langelee surged to his feet and snatched up the blade Ayera had dropped. At the same time, thick, black smoke began to pour from the wildfire pot, and everyone near it started to cough.

‘Damn you!’ cried Bonabes, racing towards Bartholomew with murder in his eyes. ‘You do not know what you have done!’

Langelee leapt forward to deflect the brutal thrust, and the two blades slid down each other with a tearing scream that drew sparks.

‘On the contrary,’ said Dame Pelagia. She was standing behind Dunning, who whipped around in alarm. ‘He knows exactly what he has done.’

Bartholomew slumped in relief as Tulyet and his soldiers poured into the room. There were several brief skirmishes, but the mercenaries knew when they were outmatched, and soon threw down their weapons, claiming they were only hired hands and knew nothing of importance. Then he saw that the pot containing the wildfire was glowing, and his blood ran cold.

‘It is going to explode!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Get away from it! Now!’

But his warning came too late. There was a dull thump, and suddenly burning wildfire was everywhere. It landed mostly on the mercenaries, who had happened to be closest. Then all was confusion, noise and choking smoke. Bartholomew saw Michael’s habit smouldering, and hurried to slash off the smoking material with a knife. He flung it to the far side of the room, where it burst into flames. Michael looked from his ravaged habit to the little inferno in horror.

Bartholomew ran to Ayera, and tried to drag his body to the door, loath to leave him to be incinerated, but the
geometrician was heavy and the room was filling with dark, acrid fumes.

‘Leave him,’ gasped Michael, sleeve over his mouth. ‘Outside! Quickly!’

Bartholomew staggered after him, stopping only to haul Langelee away from a skirmish with a defiant mercenary. Tulyet yelled the order for his own men to retreat, and they joined a tight pack who pushed and jostled in their desperation to escape. Coughing hard, his eyes stinging so badly he could barely see, Bartholomew reeled gratefully into the fresh air.

It was a chaotic scene. Several of Tulyet’s soldiers had been injured in the fracas, while the Sheriff himself was hastily divesting himself of armour that smoked ominously. Michael reached out to grab Bartholomew’s arm when the physician turned back towards the door.

‘What are you doing? You cannot go back in there!’

‘Dunning and Walkelate,’ gasped Bartholomew, appalled by the speed with which the fire had taken hold. We cannot leave them in there.’

‘Dunning is dead,’ said Langelee, wiping his dagger on some grass.

‘But Walkelate and the mercenaries!’ Bartholomew tried to struggle free.

‘Most were sprayed with wildfire,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘Even if you do manage to pull them to safety, all you will do is sentence them to a lingering death. It was on their skin, not their clothes.’

‘But Walkelate is—’

At that moment, a window was flung open, and the architect appeared. He was alight, and his mouth opened in a scream that Bartholomew could not hear over the roaring of the flames.

‘It is too late,’ said Langelee, looking away. ‘The fire
will never be extinguished now. Walkelate was a fool to think he could control a blaze with all that oily wood around. And he dared call himself an alchemist!’

‘The castle,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘The mercenaries intend to attack it—’

‘I guessed they might try,’ said Tulyet, ‘so I counter-attacked at dawn. The leaders are in my dungeons, and Helbye is rounding up the rest as we speak.’

‘Did Holm tell you to come here?’ asked Bartholomew, sagging in relief.

The Sheriff frowned his bemusement at the question. ‘No. Dame Pelagia chose a better place to eavesdrop than you – one where she would not be taken prisoner by the men she was trying to thwart. She sent word with a fleet-footed beadle.’

‘There will be no fire-arrows now,’ she said, patting Bartholomew’s arm kindly. ‘The good people of Cambridge can enjoy their pageant and never know how close they came to losing their castle.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Michael. ‘Although our scholars are going to be disappointed when they see what has happened to their library.’

‘Only half of them,’ said Langelee. ‘The rest of us will be glad to see it gone.’

Bartholomew stood for a long time after the others had left, watching the flames consume the building that should have been one of the University’s finest achievements. He wondered whether anyone would ever be brave enough to found another.

Two weeks later

It rained when Julitta married Holm in St Mary the Great. For the first time in more than two weeks, the sky was heavy with clouds, and the scent of dampness was in the air. It was cold too, and a chill breeze sliced in from the east.

‘I suppose that is summer over,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew waited for the ceremony to begin. ‘Two weeks of sunshine followed by three months of wind and drizzle.’

The gloomy weather suited Bartholomew’s mood. Julitta was beautiful in her wedding gown, and his heart sank when he thought of how unhappy her new husband was going to make her.

‘Holm failed to tell Dick about Walkelate, you know,’ he said, watching the surgeon with bitter dislike. ‘It was your grandmother’s message that brought him to our rescue. So why did you not make good on your threat, and regale Julitta with the truth about him?’

‘Because it was not Holm’s fault that he failed,’ replied Michael. ‘He really did run straight to the castle, but Dick’s low opinion of him meant the guards refused to let him in.’

‘Did Holm tell you this tale?’ Bartholomew was disinclined to believe it.

‘No, Dick did.’ The monk shrugged. ‘So, as Holm did not renege on our agreement, I had no just cause to tattle to Julitta.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew flatly.

‘Still, at least you are five marks richer,’ said Michael, to cheer him up. ‘Dick gave a written statement saying that Isnard and the rivermen are model citizens. Julitta will ensure you have your money.’

‘I do not want it. As it turns out, Isnard and his friends
have
been smuggling. They were lying when they said they had not, and Holm was right to call them criminals.’

‘Take the five marks and spend it on medicine for the poor,’ advised Michael. ‘If you do not, Holm will use it to buy yet more new clothes for himself.’

Bartholomew glanced at the surgeon at the altar. Holm was wearing a fabulously embroidered gipon that must have cost a fortune, while his boots and gloves were the finest money could buy. He had adopted a casually arrogant posture, one hand on his hip, specifically to show off the silken lining of his cloak.

‘Your grandmother was clever, not racing into a situation she could not handle,’ Bartholomew said, turning away and taking refuge in discussing what had happened in Newe Inn. ‘I thought she was falling behind us because she was old, but she was just exercising caution.’

‘Well, she has had many years of experience at that sort of thing,’ said Michael. ‘The King was right to ask her to foil Bonabes, Sire de Rougé et de Derval, or whatever he called himself.’

‘I cannot imagine how he escaped from the inferno. Still, I suppose if anyone can track him down and return him to the Tower of London, it is her. I am sorry she will have to do it without Ayera. He was a decent man.’

‘He made an error of judgement when he recruited Langelee to help, though,’ said Michael, still hurt that he had not been taken into Pelagia’s confidence. ‘He would have done better with you and me. We would not have let the plot go as far as it did.’

‘I assumed Pelagia was lying when she said she was here to hunt a French spy, but it was true – she was tracking Bonabes, escaped from prison. I thought she would never tell us her real agenda, because …’ Bartholomew waved his hand, not sure how to say that he had never met a more artful woman than Michael’s grandam.

‘It has been difficult to separate truth from lies,’ sighed Michael. ‘A number of people used false rumours to achieve their objectives, and they muddied the waters. Walkelate and Dunning spread tales that the raiders would not attack at Corpus Christi; Browne said libraries were dangerous places; Tulyet said the King’s taxes were hidden in the University—’

‘He is sorry for that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much longer will you hold it against him?’

‘Until I need a favour,’ said Michael comfortably. He continued with his list. ‘And my grandmother circulated tales that an attack
would
take place at Corpus Christi, as she hoped the festivities would be cancelled, and everyone would concentrate on laying hold of the invaders.’

‘Prior Etone was telling the truth when he said Dunning had promised him Newe Inn, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Julitta found documents to say so. She has taken to reading like a duck to water, and is already skilled enough to trawl through her father’s affairs.’

Michael saw Bartholomew’s expression darken when his eyes were drawn back to the couple at the altar, and changed the subject.